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

carved out of an old tree trunk. I hear birdsong, the gentle warbling reminding me of Michael’s fascination with a family of house martins that had nested in the eaves outside his bedroom window every year. Adam had grown impatient with not being able to clean out the guttering, but I still have the series of black-and-white photos Michael had taken of each generation as they hatched and flew to freedom. I can hear Grace breathing and feel the steady rise and fall of her shoulders next to mine.

‘Are you all right, Grace?’

Reaching into her handbag, Grace retrieves a small packet of menthol cigarettes. ‘I know I said I was going to quit.’ She looks as if she is sitting in shadow, even though the sun is bright. Something in her tone makes me look closer. Her expression – eyes narrowed, mouth in a firm, hard line – is one that I recall from years ago when we were both children and she was hankering after a fight.

‘Better give me one,’ I say, reaching for the packet. ‘I’m not going to let you go astray on your own.’ I feel her relax; her deep exhalation seems to swirl the leaves at our feet. She lights our cigarettes, the stone in her engagement ring catching the afternoon sun and splitting it into infinite splinters of light.

‘Be honest with me, Kat,’ she says, taking a long drag. ‘Will she be able to return home? Live on her own, I mean?’

I shrug, relishing the sensation of nicotine seeping through my lungs. ‘Depends,’ I reply. ‘Mobility will be a problem of course. I’m not sure how she’ll get up those narrow stairs.’

‘Should we be having the conversation?’ I feel my throat tighten. Over the years, as our mother has grown older and increasingly frail, we have both skirted around the question of residential care. The fact that I haven’t seen my mother in nearly six months has made it seem all the worse. Grace has kept in touch, even if it has only been by phone and the occasional visit. I’ve only been sporadically engaged.

‘When it comes time,’ Grace lays her hand on mine, ‘I’ll make the decision. You’ve had enough crap from the old bat to last you a lifetime.’

‘Maybe I should have visited more often.’

‘Are you kidding?’ Grace flicks her cigarette into the distance, the glowing end creating a crimson arc through the air. ‘After her little pièce de résistance at Michael’s funeral?’

‘But—’

‘I know she must have loved us once,’ says Grace, her voice flat. ‘Maybe when we were very little. Whether she blamed us for Dad leaving, or for her being cast out …’

‘That was my fault not yours.’

‘I did plenty.’ Grace gives a little chuckle and I wonder if she’s remembering the time when she was collected, drunk and bedraggled, from the quayside, or the Sunday when she refused to attend a Brethren assembly and locked herself in the bathroom. We finally arrived nearly half an hour late to the soft tutting of the elders, with Grace, chin held high, sporting a vibrant purple bruise on her cheek.

‘But you didn’t have a baby out of wedlock.’

‘That was next on my list,’ says Grace, squeezing my hand tightly.

9

I follow Grace back to her hotel, and I’m surprised to see her heading straight for the bar.

‘I need a drink,’ she says, ordering a Jack Daniels for herself and wine for me. She downs hers in one and orders another. ‘It’s going to take a lot more than one drink to deaden what I’ve just seen. You?’

‘Just the one,’ I say. ‘I need to ring Adam and then I’ll be driving back to Calstock.’

‘You’re not still at Mum’s, are you?’

‘Yes, why not?’

‘It’s just that …’

‘Well, someone needs to watch the house.’ I’m coming across as a little belligerent; not a good thing. I need Grace on my side. I smile and reset. ‘It’s easier on my own. And there’s the cat to think about.’

‘Ah yes, the cat.’ Grace is clearly not convinced. She swirls a piece of ice around her glass.

‘Why don’t we have something to eat?’ I suggest, hoping to change the subject. I slide a menu her way. We order game pie and mash, which neither of us finish, and a bottle of wine, before finally winding our way back to Grace’s room.

‘There’s no way you’ll be able to drive home now,’ she says, collapsing onto the double bed and kicking off her heels.

‘Maybe I should book a room.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Grace glances through the room service wine list. ‘Stay here with me. I’ve even got a spare t-shirt you can wear.’ She grins mischievously. I shake my head and smile, reminded of the transgressions Grace had enticed me into as a child.

‘Ah well,’ I say, forcing myself to join in on the fun. ‘You know me …’ Reaching into my shoulder bag, I remove a travel toothbrush and spare pair of pants. ‘Always prepared.’

Holding up the white cotton briefs for my sister to see, I watch as something drops from amongst the delicate folds of lace and spirals its way to the carpet. Bending down, I find it’s the last remnants of the lilies I’d taken to the lake only a few days before. The pale gossamer petals are browning around the edges and the membrane is almost translucent in its decay. The faint scent of rot lifts to my nostrils and in an instant, I am transported back to the day Michael’s remains were lowered into the ground; the release of handfuls of earth into the gaping black hole, and the agonising desire to throw myself in after it; a demented Alice tumbling into darkness.

‘And a bottle of the Sauvignon Blanc please.’ I look over to the bed where Grace, legs dangling in the air, has the telephone pressed to her ear. On seeing my expression, she adds: ‘Actually, you’d better make it two.’

I’m having trouble focusing on the numbers on my mobile phone. I’ve forgotten to