Anouska Knight - Since You've Been Gone

Out here, without the clouds of cigar smoke, there was nothing to compete with the scent of the rich wooden panelling, the preparation of savoury foods somewhere off in the house and, over that, the subtle sweetness of the more polite Argyll’s cologne. It wasn’t like the bottle I slipped under Charlie’s pillow every Christmas Eve, not quite so familiar. This had a sweeter edge to it, the difference between flowers and berries.

‘Nice cake, by the way,’ he said, trying again for polite exchange. ‘I haven’t seen one like that before.’ He smiled then, it was a good smile, but his didn’t reach the eyes either.

‘Ciaran, your father’s ready,’ the ice maiden purred, sashaying along the corridor to us. I hadn’t heard the doors that time. This close I could see she’d made her blue eyes colder with smoky makeup.

‘Here you go dear.’ The friendly lady smiled, approaching us again.

‘Thank you … Goodnight.’ I smiled, taking my bag from her.

‘Goodnight,’ Ciaran Argyll called as I reached the cool of the evening air outside.

I looked back over my shoulder to the perfect couple and gave him an acknowledging smile.

Moving into him, to mark her territory, the ice maiden gave me nothing.

I couldn’t feel the bite of the freezing waters around me, only the urgency to swim further out into them. He was here, I knew that, waiting for me to find him. To bring him home.

Behind me on the jetty, the life ring hung idly against the timber post. Why hadn’t I brought it with me? A sensation of unease deep in my chest tried to dig a foothold.

‘Come on, Hol! Catch up, it’s warmer here!’ Charlie laughed, water sloshing against his face. The unease disappeared.

‘I’m coming! Hang on!’ I laughed, trying not to splutter. It wasn’t easy swimming and laughing at the same time, but Charlie managed.

Over the sounds of water, slipping in and out of my ears, another voice found its way to me.

‘Holly! Holly, come back!’ Martha and Dave were on the jetty. She’d thrown the ring into the reservoir but it bobbed around without validation. I threw my hands above myself and waved at her.

‘It’s OK, Martha! We’re just swimming! Look, I found him! I found Charlie!’ I turned back to see if Charlie had waited for me, but he was twice the distance away now. Still laughing.

‘Charlie! Wait!’ I called, the unease digging down again.

‘Holly!’ Martha called worriedly. Can’t she see? I’m with Charlie .

‘Charlie? Charlie?’ The unease became heavier, like lead in my chest. ‘I can’t see you. I can’t see you, Charlie!’

‘Holly?’ Martha called, but I was swimming away from her.

‘Come on, Hol,’ Charlie called, ‘catch me up!’ I’d found him but he was further away again.

‘Wait for me, Charlie, you’re too fast!’ I called, but still he swam. Why won’t he give me a chance?

Martha’s voice grew nearer.

‘Holly? Holly?’

Swim harder, Holly. You can get there .

‘Holly? Holly honey, wake up.’

Martha was gently rocking me, concern etched into her face. My heart was still thudding, not realising the trickery yet.

‘I’m awake,’ I whispered. Please go now . I could still get to him, he was still there, still within reach. I wasn’t ready to give him up yet, not ready to accept the day.

‘Are you OK, honey?’

Already I could feel him slipping. Now I’d never get him back.

I’d expected more dreams, it was coming up to that time. But not those ones. Not like the dreams that had plagued me last year.

That was when I’d stopped drinking with the girls. So that I wasn’t spending my weekends waking up after midday not only with a hangover but fewer hours to pull myself together again. It’s hard enough nursing an aching heart, an aching head helps nothing.

Don’t cry. You’ll upset Martha. Be grateful .

‘Hol? Were you having a nightmare?’ I didn’t think she would go, stationed eternally on the jetty.

In place of my self-imposed ban on girly nights, Martha instigated a non-negotiable scaled down version. For the two years since the accident, Saturday nights had been dedicated to the emotional well-being of her kid sister. She didn’t realise that staying here every week, eating with her and Rob, sleeping in their guest room—it didn’t take the edge off my loneliness as she hoped it would, it defined it.

‘Hey. No, I’m good.’ I sent her the lie with a smile. It worked and she sent one back. I preferred Martha with her dishevelled morning look. Before she perfected her makeup for the day and set her hair flawlessly in place, she was the most beautiful girl I knew I’d see all day. But it was pointless telling her. I’d heard Dad try when Mum was out of earshot. Gilding a lily, he’d called it.

Really, she didn’t need to gild anything. Martha had inherited all the good stuff, which was probably for the best as it would have been wasted on me. She had a respectable inch on my five-foot-six, that was without the heels, her eyes were more decisive as to the shade of hazel they wanted to be and she was bestowed our mother’s rich blonde waves. I, on the other hand, had taken after our lovely dad—less polished and less blonde, with that not-quite-brown, not-quite-blonde colouring that could have been either had I ever decided which way to go with it.

But despite our differences, and the things I kept hidden from her, there was no question that we were tight.

Martha was a good sister, the best even. But this staying over every Saturday night was really about her emotional well-being more than it was mine. She needed to feel that she was doing some good, and I loved her enough to go each week as a spectator in her blossoming family life. It was the least I could do for her, she lost Charlie too.

‘Rob’s making breakfast,’ she chirped. ‘He’s breaking the big guns out. Full English?’ I wasn’t a breakfast person, but Martha was hell-bent on taking care of me for the entirety of the time she was allocated each week. She was weeks away from giving birth to their first child and, happy as I was for them, I couldn’t help but think of my impending niece or nephew as a welcome distraction. Maybe then I could have breakfast-less Sunday mornings in my own home again.

Downstairs at the breakfast table Rob had spared no efforts in his quest to fatten me up. He was just shovelling the last of the scrambled egg onto an already mountainous pile when I bypassed him for the coffee pot.

‘Morning, gorgeous,’ he said, busying himself with the next bubbling saucepan. ‘Beans or tomatoes? Or both? I’m having both.’

‘You are not, you’ve got enough on your plate already,’ Martha warned him.

Rob leaned in to me and whispered, ‘She’s got that right.’ I stifled a smile while Martha scowled at him. ‘What? I’m a growing boy, I need my energy,’ he protested.

‘Rob, we aren’t going to fit in the bed if you carry on.’

Rob looked at his beautifully rotund wife and then threw me a collusive look.

‘Sorry, my love. I’ll tell you what, I’ll have half a grapefruit next Sunday morning instead. Hol will hold me to it, right, Hol?’

‘You got it.’ I grinned into my mug. Martha made good coffee. ‘Anyone else have a headache this morning?’ I asked, sitting down to survey the man-sized portion waiting for me. It smelled good, actually.

‘Only from Rob’s snoring. You two were the only ones drinking last night.’

‘Was that you snoring, Rob?’ I asked, biting into a triangle of toast. ‘I thought someone was firing up a Harley outside.’