Amanda Jennings - The Cliff House

‘Do you know The Cure?’

Tamsyn shook her head.

‘You’ll love them. Robert Smith is a total sex god. Sexy in a way that isn’t really sexy but is, if you know what I mean? This track is “Killing an Arab”.’

Tamsyn held the headphone to her ear.

‘What do you think?’ Edie asked, watching her face carefully.

‘I like it,’ Tamsyn replied, sounding as if she was telling the truth. ‘I haven’t heard anything like it before but it’s brilliant.’

Edie rested her head against the back wall, pulled her knees up and draped her arms over them. Tamsyn copied her, adopting exactly the same position, except with her head turned towards Edie. The girl’s eyes were bolted to her. Edie tried to ignore it for a bit, assuming she’d eventually look away, but she didn’t and it became irritating.

Edie pressed the stop button on the Walkman and the music quietened with a loud click.

‘Are you all right?’ She turned to face Tamsyn.

‘Sorry?’ Tamsyn’s lips twitched nervously.

‘You’re staring. It’s unnerving. And a bit weird, if I’m truthful.’

Tamsyn’s face flushed fuchsia, clashing horribly with her hair. Edie was hoping she would laugh and say something cool or even combative, but she didn’t, she just clammed up and mumbled apologetically. Dull. Boring and dull.

Edie knelt up and shuffled to the end of her bed and climbed off. She wrapped the headphone wires around her Walkman then faced Tamsyn with crossed arms. She was going to tell her to leave. This wasn’t fun. This was worse than being alone. She’d tell her the barbecue was off and her plans for the summer had changed and didn’t include her anymore.

But as she opened her mouth, Tamsyn swung her legs off the bed and looked up at her, eyes fixed and unwavering. ‘My dad died.’

Edie raised her eyebrows. A dead father definitely made her interesting again.

‘I think I come over a bit weird because of it.’

Edie didn’t say anything.

‘Sorry. Maybe I should have told you sooner. I—’

‘How old were you?’

‘Ten.’

Edie felt a small twist in her stomach. Ten years old. A little younger than the age she’d been when she first found her mother passed out on the floor, pale and still. For a while she’d been convinced she was dead and it terrified her. She’d sat beside her for ages, holding her hand, stroking her, begging her to wake up. Then her father appeared and sent her out of their bedroom. As she left she heard him muttering crossly, saying ‘at this rate she’d be dead before Christmas.’ Shortly afterwards Edie returned to school and every night she went to bed convinced she’d get a message in the morning that this time her mother hadn’t woken up.

‘What happened to him?’ she asked, sitting down beside Tamsyn on the bed.

‘He drowned.’

Edie rested her hand on Tamsyn’s knee.

‘He was a volunteer with the RNLI.’ She hesitated and glanced at Edie. ‘The lifeboats? He was called out in a storm that had come in too fast. There were a couple of tourists who’d got caught in a dinghy. Idiots. They died too. His body was washed up the next morning a few miles down the coast.’ She paused and blinked slowly, then whispered: ‘Sometimes it hurts so much I can’t breathe. I miss him every day.’

Tamsyn became animated as she talked about her father’s death. Her shyness evaporated. Her raw grief was palpable, but so was the inner strength which Edie had seen a flash of the day before.

‘That’s dreadful. I’m so sorry,’ Edie said. And she meant it. ‘You poor thing.’

Without thinking she put her arm around Tamsyn and for a while they sat like that, peaceful, no sound except the lilt of the breaking waves which rolled in through the slightly open window.

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