Chapter Fifty-Five
It’d been warm that day – oppressively so – and Damien could feel the sweat making his hair stick to the back of his neck, could feel it slipping down his cheeks as he crouched by the water’s edge, loosening stones and watching the satisfying ripples they made as the lake swallowed them, one by one.
His eyes tracked towards the small rowboat, and back again.
His father would skin him if he took it out without him.
And Nanny would shout. And he knew that.
And yet he still turned around, craning a head towards the sleepy house.
The gardeners were trimming the trees in the shaded driveway – he could hear the rhythmic thwack of their axes echoing – and for once, one blissful moment, he was all alone.
Just him, and the ducks that fretted water through their feathers with their beaks.
He took one step, and then another, and turned back around once more.
Nanny had fallen asleep reading to him – as he’d suspected she would, when she’d taken the armchair in that warm slant of sunshine.
He didn’t need his father to take him out on the boat.
He was old enough now to know how to untie the careful knots holding it to the shambling dock.
Big enough that he could clamber into it and shove the little boat away from the dock.
It was only the oars that gave him trouble – but he grappled with them nonetheless, trying to find the rhythm his father did.
It was harder than he’d thought. One oar dipped too deeply into the water, the other only skimming the surface, and before he knew it, he was turning in circles, his face growing redder and redder.
‘Bother it,’ he grunted, as one of the oars slipped from his grip – and toppled over the side of the boat with a sucking splash.
Damien froze for a moment, pulling the second oar into the boat with a little more care – though he smacked it against his knee, which made it smart. Then he peered over the edge, down into the murky depths.
It’s deep, our lake, his mother had told him. And mean. There are reeds at the bottom that like to grasp things, Damien. Don’t swim in the lake. You hear me?
But he wasn’t going to swim, was he? He was just going to fetch the oar and bring it back.
He took off his waistcoat first, and then his tie. His shirt was next – and then his shoes, his socks. He wondered about his shorts, though he was sure they would be fine, and then he dangled one hand tentatively over the boat’s edge.
The water was cool – wonderfully so – and so the decision was easy, really.
He jumped in.
And for a moment, the world vanished. The light above him blurred, and fractured, and thought he could see the shadow of the boat – bobbing there – it was further away than he’d thought it would be, and try as he might to claw his way back towards it, the water seemed to pull him down.
His chest was beginning to feel tight, as though he wanted to take a breath, and he kicked harder, and harder, trying to force himself up, trying to reach it again—
‘You’re safe, Damien.’ Ava’s voice – a ripple in the water. ‘Breathe for me.’
His head broke the surface of the water, and he sucked in a lungful of air.
He was just beneath the boat, although somehow he’d ended up on the other side of it.
He moved around it carefully, kicking to keep his head above the water, and took the biggest breath he could manage, before diving down again.
Even with his eyes open, he could see nothing. It was dark beneath the water – and murky, like the belly of some sleeping creature from one of Nanny’s stories. And no matter how hard he kicked, how low he went, he couldn’t see the oar.
And then he remembered his mother’s warning.
About the reeds.
Something touched his foot then, and he gasped, feeling a rush of water go into his mouth, his nose, down his throat.
He flailed, trying to swallow it and spit it out at the same time – and felt panic flare within him as he opened his mouth, and more water poured in.
His legs were kicking wildly now, the slimy reeds curling around his legs, his ankles, and the water didn’t feel cool anymore, but cold – and hungry.
And then he heard it.
His mother’s voice.
His mother’s voice.
‘Damien? Damien! Oh God.’
He was kicking as hard as he could.
‘Damien!’
His hands clawing at the water, his chest squeezing, throat tight.
‘I’m with you, Damien.’ He felt Ava’s hand upon his – but it felt distant, unreachable – as unreachable as the shadow of the boat above him, for the water wouldn’t release him, no matter how hard he kicked, and kicked, and—
He broke the surface, a stream of water pouring from his mouth, his nose.
He coughed, his lungs burning, his throat stripped and raw, and drew in one shaky breath, and then another – feeling his chest gurgle with it.
The boat was close, and he used the last of the strength in his arms to try and drag himself into it – though now they shook with the effort, and he had to kick the water’s surface to try and swing his body over the edge.
He lay down in the boat, sucking greedy gulps of air, his vision dancing. And then he remembered the voice, and he peered out from the edge of the boat.
The lake was empty – though now the ducks had gone – no doubt scared away by his thrashing around.
And then his gaze tracked back to the house.
And saw the door swinging on its hinges, beneath the wisteria.
Open.
‘Mother?’ he called out, eyes scanning the water. But she wouldn’t have gone in the water. She was scared of it – more scared than Nanny – who didn’t like lakes, or grass that was too long, or tea that was too hot.
The thudding sound of the axes was getting slower now – and he knew that the gardeners would be walking back soon.
He didn’t want to try with the oars again, and so he used his hand over the boat’s edge to try and coax it back to the dock – though it took an age, and he had to keep switching sides so as not to float into the tall reeds at the water’s edge.
When he’d tied it back up again, and put his dry clothes over his wet skin, he walked back to where he’d been standing before, throwing stones – and that was when he saw it. And he felt his breath catch his throat.
‘I cannot do this,’ Damien said, his voice low, trembling. ‘I cannot.’
‘I am with you,’ whispered Ava. ‘I am with you.’ And he felt her hand against his, felt her weave her fingers through his and hold them, squeezing.
One shoe, lying on its side.
Frowning, he plucked it up. ‘Mother?’ he called, turning back to the house. ‘Mother, you’ve lost your shoe.’
He ran for the door – up the stairs – and into her room, but it was empty.
She wasn’t in the drawing room, nor the parlour, nor the kitchen – his wet feet squelching in his leather shoes now – and he ran back upstairs, throwing open every door, every room, until Nanny grunted awake, and the book slithered from her lap.
‘Damien!’ she said with a start. ‘What time is it?’
‘Mother lost her shoe,’ he said, handing it out to her.
‘You’re soaked!’ she exclaimed – fingers grasping at his hair. ‘What’ve you been doing?’
‘Nothing,’ he said – though he knew it was a feeble lie.
The image shifted a little then – until it was dark. Until he was dry, and tucked beneath the covers of his bed, and he could hear Nanny’s voice outside his door, talking to his father.
‘And where did he find it?’
‘Down by the lake. You don’t think—’
‘I’m with you,’ Ava whispered, as the door opened, sunlight streaming through it. It was morning now, and Nanny stepped back into the room, her eyes wet, her chin wobbling. And then all she was saying was ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’
And Damien didn’t want her to be sorry. He wanted her to fix it – to turn the clock backwards to when the two of them were sitting in this room, she reading, him sitting upon the floor – and none of this had ever happened.
And then he heard his father’s voice. ‘What have you done?’
Nothing, Damien wanted to say. Nothing. It wasn’t me. Wasn’t my fault. But none of those words came out, for there was an ache in his throat so hot and so fierce he could not squeeze the words around it.
You did this. His father’s voice.
‘No,’ said Damien. ‘No. No!’
Yes, his father said, his rage like a cresting wave, breaking over Damien, spittle flying from his mouth now as he shouted: ‘You killed her. You – with this insolence of yours.’
‘My lord, please—’ Nanny’s pleading voice. ‘It’s not the child’s fault.’
And Damien could feel it. Could feel where it had all begun. That untethered feeling, as though he had been anchored to the ground with only a piece of string, and now that had snapped and he was floating, up and away, further and further.
‘Get out of my sight, boy. Get out!’
His father’s voice was a roar.