Tracy Buchanan - The Lost Sister

He shrugged. ‘Why not?’

I sighed. ‘Family. It comes back to my family.’

‘Bring them.’

I laughed. ‘I’m not sure my husband would really be up for that.’

‘Your daughter would. She’d love it.’

‘I’m sure she would until it rained and her dolls got wet.’

He smiled as he peered out to sea. ‘Children love a bit of rain.’

I took a moment to explore his face, to take in the golden bristles on his cheeks, the way his beard glowed white beneath the moonlight. ‘I can’t believe I’m even discussing this with you.’

‘What’s wrong with discussing it? In fact, take it a step further. Come and meet everyone.’ He jutted his chin towards the direction of the cave. ‘The cave is larger than it looks from the outside. We’re making quite a home of it.’

‘You’re seriously trying to recruit me?’

He tilted his head, examining my face. ‘ Recruit. That’s an interesting word choice.’ There was an earnestness in his green eyes, a kindness in his expression. He didn’t seem deranged or weird like some said.

‘Who are you?’ I asked him.

He shrugged. ‘A painter. A sculptor.’

‘Where are you from?’

‘Where are you from?’

‘Ah, I see, you’re a politician answering questions with more questions.’

He laughed. ‘Very far from it.’ His face grew serious. ‘It is an interesting question though. Who are you , Selma Rhys? Close your eyes, really think about it. Block out the light. Clarity comes with darkness. Who are you?’

I tried to grapple with the question. I saw Becky, Mike … then my mother. Her beautiful face. Those cold, cold eyes.

‘Who do you think you are, Selma?’ I remembered my mother once asking. ‘Just who do you think you are?’

Fast-forward twenty years, feeling the weight of my first novel in my hands after it arrived in the post. ‘A writer, Mother. I’m a fucking writer,’ I remembered saying out loud.

‘A writer,’ I said, snapping my eyes open. I realised tears were streaming down my face. I wiped them away, embarrassed. ‘Warm wine always makes me emotional,’ I said with a small laugh.

Idris stood up, putting his hand out to me. ‘Come on, come meet the others.’

I looked at his hand, hesitating. Then I found myself taking it and standing with him in the darkness.

Becky

Kent, UK

2 June 2018

Becky stares into the darkness of her room. She hears the gentle snores of her dogs from the landing, trying to take comfort in the familiar sound of it. But she can’t sleep. Her mind is racing. All she can see is the desperation in her mum’s eyes as she pleaded to be taken to the cave. Then the bitter disappointment when Becky refused.

Becky looks at the time. Three in the morning. Not even light.

Clarity comes with darkness.

She sighs and gets up, walking to the window and staring out over the field. Summer senses her movement, as she always does, and contemplates her from the landing, her long face resting on her paws.

‘Oh Summer,’ Becky says to her. ‘What am I going to do?’

Summer rises and trots over, putting her face close to Becky’s leg. Becky strokes her soft head.

‘Clarity comes with darkness, apparently,’ she says. ‘So why haven’t I got a clue what to do about my mum?’

In response, Summer jumps up, her paws on the window sill as she peers out, tail wagging. She lets out a low whine, which Becky knows means ‘I want to go out’.

‘You want to go for a walk now ?’ Becky asks.

At the mention of the word walk , Womble and Danny suddenly wake up, alert. Becky groans. She should have known not to use that word out loud.

‘I can’t believe this,’ she says as they pad over, wagging their tails. ‘I’m going to have to take you all out, aren’t I?’ They grow more excited and she laughs. ‘Fine. Come on then! Maybe the darkness will give me some clarity.’

She pulls on some jeans and a light jumper, then heads outside. She is surprised that it’s not pitch black, as the moon casts a silver light across the fields. The dogs leap ahead of her, excited at being out in the dark. Becky welcomes the cool air of night. But it doesn’t clear the cobwebs inside. Her mum is wrong, darkness doesn’t bring clarity.

‘Ah, another person who’s awake,’ a voice says from the darkness. She looks up to see David. He’s standing at his kitchen door, a mug in his hand. The dogs leap over the fence and bound over to him as he laughs.

‘Couldn’t sleep either?’ Becky asks him.

‘Never been a big sleeper. Not seen you out at this time of night before though.’

‘I’ve got a lot of things on my mind.’

‘Your mother?’

Becky nods. She’d told him about it as she’d hurriedly rushed to her car the evening before, asking him to let the dogs out if she wasn’t back within three hours or so.

‘Want to talk about it?’ he asks now.

‘Only if you have another one of those going,’ she says, gesturing towards his mug.

‘I can certainly arrange that for you.’

She smiles and lets herself into his garden through the gate, walking into the kitchen. There’s a lamp on, casting a soft glow around the room. She’s always liked his kitchen, full of knick-knacks picked up from his years running a pub in Ireland: ornate pint glasses, horses’ shoes, framed photos of racehorses. It feels comfortable in there, a contrast to the place she used to live in with her dad in Busby-on-Sea, which was always so sparse.

‘So, how is your mother?’ David asks, bringing a mug of steaming hot chocolate over to her.

‘Her usual defiant self. A few lies thrown in too, par the course.’

He smiles. She’s told him about her mum over the years – small details, but enough to form a picture.

‘I met her doctor,’ Becky adds, blowing on her drink, steam spiralling up from the mug. She takes a quick sip, feeling the tears start to come. ‘What she said is true. They think she only has a few days.’

David frowns, looking down at his own drink. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he says with a heavy sigh.

‘She wants to die in the cave she ran away to.’

He peers up at Becky, his frown deepening. ‘Really?’

‘Yep. It’s impossible, of course. What with all the medication and equipment she needs.’

‘Is it?’ He looks into her eyes. ‘Or are you just hoping it’s impossible?’

‘What do you mean?’

David places his mug down and drags his chair to be closer to her. Under the light of the lamp, she notices how old he looks, how tired.

‘I mean maybe you don’t want to do as your mother asks because she’s been doing as she wants all her life. Maybe this time, you’re in control and that feels good.’

Becky shakes her head. ‘It’s not like that. You know I’m not like that!’

He shrugs. ‘I didn’t know the little girl who got left behind by her mother. This is bringing all that back, I bet.’

Becky frowns. ‘Maybe. But the fact still remains, a cave isn’t a nice place to die.’

‘Isn’t it? Just don’t rush into a decision you might regret. If she thinks she was happy there, for a while anyway, then it might be the best place for her.’

I think you’ll be happy here, Becks, I really do.

A memory comes to her of her mum smiling down at her, the cave behind her. Her mum had said that to her once.

David yawns.

‘Sorry, this isn’t exactly the conversation to have at three in the morning,’ Becky says.

‘I don’t mind.’

‘No, really,’ Becky replies, standing. ‘I’m tired anyway. We both are.’