old-fashioned holiday town. The wide stretch of the beach sat between two rocky outcrops over which the tide flung itself in exuberant sprays; and the newly refurbished pier stretched off towards the horizon like a walkway to the great beyond.
Erica never went to the top of the hill, or to the end of the pier.
Her sore, grey eyes remained blank as they tracked a pair of swallows swooping in and out of the garage attached to the house. They’d built a nest inside and were making a mess all over her car. It didn’t matter, she never used it anyway, and Brian usually kept his parked in front, on the drive.
The skin stretched over the fine bones of her face was pallid and lined, seeming to add ten years to the mere thirty she had lived. She didn’t feel alive any more, or not often. Sometimes, after she’d taken her medication, she felt as vibrant and free as the butterflies skittering and settling amongst the wild roses, verbena and milkweed. There was a time when the butterflies had inspired her to write a melody, but she didn’t have a piano to play it on any more, or the will to try. She’d been able to name the butterflies then, and probably still could if she tried – orange sulphur, comma ... She didn’t really want to. It would mean engaging with them and she couldn’t allow herself to do that, even though her mind was like one of them, hovering over thoughts and vistas, noting them but never allowing anything to reach into the gnarled and shadowy depths of her feelings.
The postman had dropped some mail through the door a while ago. He was one of the few who came, along with other deliverymen with her online orders, and a local councillor canvassing for an election. They used to have quite a flow of visitors, mainly children coming to learn the piano, but that was when they’d lived in their other house, the one they’d bought just after Jonathan was born. It was miles from here, way up north close to the Scottish border. She’d had friends then, just a few, who’d carried on coming after Jonathan’s death, but she’d found it too hard to pretend that life could go on the way it had before. She’d had to ask the parents of her pupils to make alternative arrangements, and then she’d withdrawn from her friends too. And before long the only person she was seeing in a day was her husband, Brian.
She didn’t include Ottilie because Ottilie was only three. She might be four soon, Erica couldn’t be sure because she had no idea of the day or month.
She wished she didn’t have to see Ottilie at all; everything would be so much easier if she didn’t.
She could sense the child’s eyes on her now; they were making her feel jumpy and sick. Her heart was starting to jerk; the swallows were soaring inside her head; her eyes were full of butterflies. Ottilie was watching her from the open door at the far side of the room, waiting for her to turn around. Sweat trickled down her back. What did she think was going to happen? Did she think at all? Of course she did, but it was hard to know what went through her mind since she barely spoke. Her eyes were the colour of beech bark, her hair as soft as cashmere, wavy and as dark as the earth. It wasn’t often that Erica looked at her daughter. It was too confusing, and she, Erica, was too weak, too broken and afraid of what she might do if she touched her.
Get away from me. Get away from me. GET AWAY FROM ME YOU FILTHY LITTLE BITCH .
Was it her voice that had spoken, or one of those inside her head?
Ottilie had never known her brother; she hadn’t been born by the time he’d died. She’d come along a few months later like some sort of compensation, or maybe she was a punishment. That was how it felt, like a life sentence for what she, Erica, had done – or failed to do.
It was Brian who bathed Ottilie and put her to bed. Got her up in the morning and gave her breakfast. If he didn’t Ottilie would go unwashed, maybe even unfed, though if she was hungry
Erica never went to the top of the hill, or to the end of the pier.
Her sore, grey eyes remained blank as they tracked a pair of swallows swooping in and out of the garage attached to the house. They’d built a nest inside and were making a mess all over her car. It didn’t matter, she never used it anyway, and Brian usually kept his parked in front, on the drive.
The skin stretched over the fine bones of her face was pallid and lined, seeming to add ten years to the mere thirty she had lived. She didn’t feel alive any more, or not often. Sometimes, after she’d taken her medication, she felt as vibrant and free as the butterflies skittering and settling amongst the wild roses, verbena and milkweed. There was a time when the butterflies had inspired her to write a melody, but she didn’t have a piano to play it on any more, or the will to try. She’d been able to name the butterflies then, and probably still could if she tried – orange sulphur, comma ... She didn’t really want to. It would mean engaging with them and she couldn’t allow herself to do that, even though her mind was like one of them, hovering over thoughts and vistas, noting them but never allowing anything to reach into the gnarled and shadowy depths of her feelings.
The postman had dropped some mail through the door a while ago. He was one of the few who came, along with other deliverymen with her online orders, and a local councillor canvassing for an election. They used to have quite a flow of visitors, mainly children coming to learn the piano, but that was when they’d lived in their other house, the one they’d bought just after Jonathan was born. It was miles from here, way up north close to the Scottish border. She’d had friends then, just a few, who’d carried on coming after Jonathan’s death, but she’d found it too hard to pretend that life could go on the way it had before. She’d had to ask the parents of her pupils to make alternative arrangements, and then she’d withdrawn from her friends too. And before long the only person she was seeing in a day was her husband, Brian.
She didn’t include Ottilie because Ottilie was only three. She might be four soon, Erica couldn’t be sure because she had no idea of the day or month.
She wished she didn’t have to see Ottilie at all; everything would be so much easier if she didn’t.
She could sense the child’s eyes on her now; they were making her feel jumpy and sick. Her heart was starting to jerk; the swallows were soaring inside her head; her eyes were full of butterflies. Ottilie was watching her from the open door at the far side of the room, waiting for her to turn around. Sweat trickled down her back. What did she think was going to happen? Did she think at all? Of course she did, but it was hard to know what went through her mind since she barely spoke. Her eyes were the colour of beech bark, her hair as soft as cashmere, wavy and as dark as the earth. It wasn’t often that Erica looked at her daughter. It was too confusing, and she, Erica, was too weak, too broken and afraid of what she might do if she touched her.
Get away from me. Get away from me. GET AWAY FROM ME YOU FILTHY LITTLE BITCH .
Was it her voice that had spoken, or one of those inside her head?
Ottilie had never known her brother; she hadn’t been born by the time he’d died. She’d come along a few months later like some sort of compensation, or maybe she was a punishment. That was how it felt, like a life sentence for what she, Erica, had done – or failed to do.
It was Brian who bathed Ottilie and put her to bed. Got her up in the morning and gave her breakfast. If he didn’t Ottilie would go unwashed, maybe even unfed, though if she was hungry
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