The Water Cure(12)

There is a storm the night that it finally happens. Mother wakes us up, will not take no for an answer, and leads us into her bathroom. It is cramped, too hot, blankets and pillows on the floor for us to use as bedding, but the only window is small and has a wooden blind that shuts out all the light. King made that blind himself so he could develop photographs in the pitch-dark, dripping paper over the bath. Mother floats tea-lights in the sink. We try and make a bed for Grace in the tub but she is too large now to fit in, bulbous like an insect with her skinny legs, so in the end Sky is the one who lies down in the porcelain with a folded towel beneath her head. Grace stretches out on the floor, my hands hovering above Grace’s stomach. My need thrums uncomfortably loud. ‘Don’t,’ Grace says. She does not say it gently.

Water from the tap, our mouths kissing the metal directly. Water scattered with our fingers at each other, cooling. Mother stands and tries to see what she can from the window. When the wind catches the blind extra hard she makes the same shushing noises that King had developed for his trips, her lips pursed, as if she can out-blow it. To the noise of the rain, the noise of the protections of our mother, we fall into curled-body sleep.

In the morning the storm is over and Mother is gone. The three of us wake each other, move slow through the door into her bedroom, where she stands by the window, looking down at something on the beach. She is shaking, and I start to shake too. I cannot help it.

‘Stay there,’ she tells us without looking around. ‘Don’t move.’

We ignore her, walk to the window. ‘No,’ she says again, but it’s too late.

There are three people lying on the shore, high up on the sand past the breakers. As we watch, one of them sits up and retches ungracefully into the sand. They remain sitting up.

‘They’re men,’ Mother says, putting her arms out to push us back, though they are far below us, though we are safe for now. ‘Men have come to us.’





II




* * *





MEN





Thank you for opening your home to me. It is very difficult to feel that there is no hope, that all there will ever be is pain and no cure. I should have known that sisterhood would be the answer. I look forward to getting to know the others.





Lia


Emergency has always been with us, if not present emergency then always the idea that it is coming. The ringing in the air after a loud sound has passed. The count before the thunder hits. And here, finally, is the emergency we have been waiting for our whole lives.

We gather lengths of muslin and our knives and we move down to the shore while the men are still weak. By the time we arrive, they are sitting up. Two grown men and one boy, all of them tracked with salt and sand. The small one is crying hard. We stand in a semicircle a safe distance away from them, fabric bunched in our hands, ready.

One of the men gets to his feet. His body is elongated, dark hair across his chin and head, cropped close. The other man is older, shorter, his hair fair or grey or both, pale eyes that he shares with the first man. A blue rucksack, soaking wet, lies on the ground between them.

‘Please don’t be afraid,’ says the man who is standing up. His words come out differently from ours. He extends a hand though we are too far away to take it, though we wouldn’t take it anyway.

‘Stop,’ says Mother. He withdraws the gesture immediately.

‘We had an accident,’ he says, swaying slightly. ‘Our boat went down.’ He gestures to the sea, but there is no wreckage.

‘You shouldn’t be here at all,’ Mother tells him. ‘This is private property.’

‘We’re looking for sanctuary,’ he says. ‘We know of your husband, King. Can we speak to him?’

Mother’s face looks uncertain.

‘Girls, go further up the beach,’ she tells us. ‘Move back.’

We do as we are told, until she raises her hand.

‘Men,’ we whisper to each other, our heads almost touching. ‘Men men men.’ We are appalled. My legs shake. I turn to see whether I can make out teeth, claws, weapon, but there’s nothing to suggest their danger.

After some time speaking, she gestures for us to return.

The strangers are standing now and Mother displays the knife casually, as if it’s just another part of her, a part she knows extremely well.

‘Why shouldn’t we drown you?’ she demands.

‘Would you drown a child?’ the dark-haired one asks in return. He pushes the boy forward. My sisters and I clutch at each other. The boy is sweet. His eyes are pink, rabbit-like.

‘I would do anything for my girls,’ Mother says, stoic.

The men look at the water. It is calm, but there are currents that would take you under in a second.

‘We can be of use,’ the older one says. ‘We can protect you.’

‘We don’t need protecting,’ Mother says.

‘You might do soon,’ the dark-haired man says. ‘This isn’t a threat from us, understand. But a lot of things are happening out there. People worse than us could be coming for you.’

Mother seems to consider this.

‘Perhaps this is fortuitous,’ he continues. ‘We are fathers, we are husbands, like he was.’ So she has told them. A quick stab of grief passes through me. He looks at us. ‘We know something of how to keep people safe.’