The Lake by Louise Sharland (best ereader for pc txt) 📕

Gran is waiting for us by the front door, a grey cardigan wrapped around her like a shroud. They face each other, my mother and grandmother, hostility lying between them. I slide past and into the house.

Later, I hear strained small talk from the kitchen. Not much has changed since I lived here with Mum after I was born. I hear Mum’s voice rise and watch as she marches out of the kitchen. She mutters something about checking her tyres – lamest excuse ever. I go into the kitchen. Gran slides a cup of tea my way and asks me about Edgecombe; how I feel about going to a ‘heathen school.’ The criticism in her voice is clear. I tell her that I’m not Brethren and never have been. I can go to whatever school I want. I also tell her that she’s not Brethren either and hasn’t been for a long time. Her face closes, just like one of those frilly plants that curl in on themselves when you touch them. I’ve seen her do this to Mum so many times, but never to me. I guess I deserve it. After all, it’s my fault that Gran was rejected. It was the birth of me that caused all the problems. I’ve known it since I’ve been old enough to know anything. Sometimes I can ignore it – but sometimes it sits like a stone in my stomach.

I tell Gran that I’d better get going because I want to make it in to Edgecombe in time for the welcome barbecue and disco. Her eyes widen in horror and the words kinda fall away. It’s like the oxygen is being sucked out of the room. My head starts to hurt. How did I get this so wrong? I lean over to give her a kiss and feel her arms fold around me. ‘You be careful my boy,’ she whispers. ‘It’s a grim world out there.’

I am halfway through the second bottle of red and am having trouble focusing. My cheeks are damp with tears and my head is pounding. I stumble to the bathroom, drink water from cupped hands and try to avoid my reflection in the mirror. Staggering back, I collapse onto the bed, the diary clutched against my chest.

I wake to the sound of seagulls: piercing squeals that slice their way into my brain. I turn over and rub my eyes. My mouth feels like flannel and tastes worse. I sit up, struggling with the nausea that partners my headache. I force myself to my feet and open the window for some fresh air, but I find myself assaulted by the bright morning light. I step back, my foot slips, and I hear the crack of leather. The diary is lying face down on the carpet, pages splayed, spine splintered. I take an involuntary breath – an inverse sigh – and, lifting it from the floor, cradle it against my chest as if it were an injured child.

As I go to set it down again, I notice that two of the end pages are stuck together.

I slip my thumbnail into the tiny gap and ease it open. Concealed between the thin sheets of pasted paper is a lock of short, brown hair. It’s not Michael’s. I stare at it in disbelief. With trembling fingers, I pick it up and lift it to my face. It smells of nothing. I hold it up to the window and sunlight glints on highlighted flecks of copper. Who are you?

After a moment I slip it back between the pages and close the book tightly. How long I sit on the bed with the diary on my lap I couldn’t say, but when I finally look up, the sun has shifted and the sound of people going about their morning business drifts in through the open window: a car starting; a dog barking; the whirr of a lawnmower. I feel warm rays of sunlight stroke my face. I close my eyes to relax, but the diary calls to me, and I find myself returning to the pale pages.

15 September 2014 – Arriving at Edgecombe

It’s nearly four by the time we get to Edgecombe. The light seems to bounce off every surface. We park up next to the ‘elite swimmers’ residence’, a shitty looking prefab – but still mine, all mine. While Mum faffs about in the boot, I wander off. There’s a small green at the back of the halls where two girls are playing Frisbee. A disc comes flying my way. One of the girls – blonde, fit, wearing cut-off shorts and a Radiohead t-shirt – looks at me and smiles. I am tempted to throw the Frisbee back, but instead I wait for her to come closer. Her skin is pale, and her cheeks are dotted with freckles. She smiles as I hand her the Frisbee, tells me her name – Shivie (what kind of name is that?) – and asks if I’m going to the barbecue. Her friend spots me and almost waves. She’s taller, with mousey brown hair and a sulky expression that puts me right off.

When I make it back to the residence, Mum has already unloaded the car and stacked the suitcases and boxes in a pile next to the door. She raises an eyebrow and smiles. I like it when it’s like this – easy, casual. We spend the next hour moving my stuff into the tiny closet that will be my room for the next few years, and then I make us a cup of tea in the shared kitchen.

We sit opposite each other. I try not to look too impatient. Mum sighs and says she’d better be heading back. We get up and she gives me a hug. When she steps back, I can see there are tears in her eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mother look so sad or so pretty. I know it’s not easy