Oxford-by-Sea
1
High tide
I put my arms out wide. Fingers stretched out, palms facing up, breathing deeply. It’s my favourite place to be, teetering at the edge, balancing on the roof of our house. I reckon I can see the whole of Oxford from up here, the parts of it that aren’t under water at least.
I withdraw from the edge, I don’t want Sylvia to find me like this, I know she worries, and besides, even from up here I can smell the sulfuric tang of the water. Instead, I plonk myself down in one of the ratty old deckchairs, blue stripes well faded by the sun, and put my feet up on the water tank opposite me.
Sylvia pushes the roof door open with her back, two mugs in hand, concentration etched into her face. She looks wearier than usual, her shift at the hospital must have really taken it out of her.
‘Here,’ she says. I pull my legs down and take the cup of tea she’s offering. ‘What time did you say you were heading out?’ She sits in the deckchair closest to me, stiff and upright.
‘Urgh.’ I don’t want to go back out. I want to stay right here looking out over Oxford, pretending I have nothing else to do, throwing small pieces of bread into the air and watching the gulls catch them. I glance at the round face of my watch, the hour hand just visible behind the cracked glass, ‘well, high tides just passed, so, in about fifteen minutes?’
‘Ok.’ She cradles her cup of tea, blows across it so the steam rises and distorts, then looks out into the distance. I know what’s coming before she even opens her mouth. ‘You know, you could come back and work some shifts at the hospital, save you doing all this fishing work.’
I do know, if only because we have this conversation at least once a month. And I know that for Sylvia it seems to be a simple matter; I’m a trained nurse and it’s paid better than fishing. It’s a lot safer too, but this isn’t something we touch on in our monthly chats, more skirt round indelicately.
‘You know what I’m going to say,’ I try to keep my voice calm and flat. Sylvia nods.
‘I just want what’s best for you Dawn, you know that.’
It’s my turn to nod now. There’s little else to say that hasn’t already been said a hundred times, so I drain my mug and walk over to her.
‘You shouldn’t worry so much.’ I bend over, brushing her copper-coloured hair out of the way, and kiss the top of her head. As I turn to go, she grabs hold of my arm.
‘You’ll be careful?’
‘Of course, aren’t I always.’ I give her my most innocent smile and head back down to the upper floor.
It’s the top floor where we keep most of our belongings. Trying to protect things, fairly unsuccessfully, from the rising damp. I abandon my mug in the kitchenette, I’ll clean it up later, or, more likely, Sylvia will get to it first. Down the stairs on the second floor, where Sylvia makes me keep my fishing things, I pull on my waders, tucking my green wool jumper into them, and my long dark hair into the back of my jumper.
I’m already depressed about how much I’m going to find. Things have been getting worse lately, every time the tide rises it brings less with it. I opt for my smaller bucket, it will look like I’ve found more, not that it will fool Beno of course, he’ll tip it all out onto the table and peer at things through that stupid microscopic lens of his.
I grab my net and sieve and pull a pair of rubber gloves up to my elbows. If it wasn’t for Sylvia’s nagging, I probably wouldn’t bother, but she’s taken on her role as carer pretty seriously since we lost Zak. And she’s right really, I should be doing my best to protect myself from disease while I swirl the dirty water around myself. And it does seem to be working, so far, either that or I’ve just been lucky.
On the set of stairs that lead to the ground floor I pause, take a second to adjust to the intensity of the smell. The tide is already at the fourth step, lapping quietly at the walls, and receding quickly, taking away whatever treasures it brought in. I need to get out there fast and get on with it, before other fishers take all the good finds. Especially after yesterday’s meagre haul of a couple of animal bones and a rusty nail. I count to three and wade quickly down the last four steps, careful not to slip on the greening, almost furry, bottom steps. It doesn’t matter how many times I do this; the cold never gets easier to bear. Temperatures might reach new highs each year, but somehow the water always feels cold. I walk swiftly towards the door, water lashes at the walls now, angry that I’ve disturbed it and shouting through the hall.
The streets of Oxford are bathed in a hazy, late afternoon, October sunshine, which bounces off the grey-green water and onto the surrounding buildings. The whole place glows an eerie orange, strange thin shadows stretched out in the places the glow doesn’t quite reach. I force my way through the water, every movement stirring up waste and making the smell worse.
Sweeping my net around the bottom of the almost opaque water, I try to keep an eye out for anything floating on top. As a kid I used to come home with tonnes of stuff: coins, old bits of technology, even jewellery. But those days are long past, and it’s just the dregs that are left. The dregs that don’t earn very much when I take them to Beno to have them valued and exchanged. Maybe Sylvia is right, maybe it is time to go back to the hospital.
I pass fisher after fisher, buckets fuller than mine. Clearly, I’ve left it too late again. I was like them once, sitting, waiting, watching the tide. But I’ve got lazier recently, knowing the finds will be smaller, less valuable. Other fishers don’t have a choice though, they don’t have a Sylvia to take care of them, a lot of the children don’t even have parents. You see them in their rags, dark circles round their eyes, desperation clinging to them. That’s another reason I’ve got lazy about coming out here at peak time, I can’t bear to see their gaunt little faces.
I already know I’m one of the fortunate ones, living in a building in the city. Not high and dry in a mansion in the Cotswold hills, but at least I have a proper roof over my head. Even from where we live, on a still night I can hear the noise from the floating refugee camps outside the city. And it’s all thanks to Sylvia really. She didn’t have to take on the annoying baby sister of her boyfriend when our parents died. And she could have moved on when Zak disappeared. But she didn’t, and I should be more grateful, especially on days like today when things are obviously getting to her. I will make it up to her when I get home tonight, try and give her less to worry about, actually do the washing up for a change.
I step aside to let a rowing boat pass and decide it’s time to head Beno’s way.
Saint Aldate’s Church is bustling when I arrive, a congregation of fishers and buyers, echoes and sea water bouncing off stone walls, murky foam gathering at the edges.
‘Dawn, lovely to see you,’ Beno says, as I push my way through the crowds.
‘Yeh, yeh,’ I say. I’ve tried other buyers in the past. I’ve preferred other buyers in the past, but this is business, and it isn’t about whether or not I like Beno, it’s about the fact that he always pays a little bit more.
‘What have you got for me today?’ Beno is short and broad and fidgety. I clank the metallic bucket on the small table in front of him.
Beno tips the contents out and spreads things around, removing any muck as he goes, simply flicking it into the water around us. He picks items up one at a time and peers at them, microscopic lens in hand. A broken pencil, two pieces of tile, a mangy looking toothbrush, and some plastic cord. Not the worst day fishing ever, but far from the best.
‘I’ll take the pencil, toothbrush, and cord. Thirty pounds. These,’ he slides the tiles back across the table, ‘these you can keep.’
‘Oh, come on, these are useful. Look,’ I hold one up, ‘you could use it as, er, a coaster.’ Beno raises an eyebrow.
‘Right, and this is still Oxford-by-Sea.’
‘Alright alright.’ I put the tile back down. I knew I was reaching.
‘Fine, Thirty-one pounds, but that’s it.’ He nods once, firm. I clasp my hands together in mock prayer.
‘Thank you.’
‘Alright, now get out of here, I don’t want my other clients to think I buy broken tiles now.’ His eyes flit around nervously.
‘O-k,’ I grab the cash and go, pushing my way through the crowds.
Outside the church, part of the black stripe that’s along every wall, inside and out, is now visible above the water line. A stripe that gets higher each year by at least a couple of centimetres. What we do when the water comes up to the next floor of the house I don’t know, but I try not to think about that now, and anyway, it’s time to go home and make good on the promise I made to myself to wash up and help out more.
I wade back through the open front door, dragging my heavy feet through the dark water of the drowned hallway. Everyone leaves their downstairs door open now, the waters too high to be pushing it open and close anymore, the days of piling up sandbags against them are long gone.
I clatter up the stairs, bucket and net knocking against the walls, excited to give Sylvia the thirty-one pounds - more than twice what I got yesterday. I pause on the second floor and yank my gloves off, which is when I notice that the next door up, the one usually locked, is ajar. Careful, worrier, Sylvia always keeps it shut - and bolted - when we’re both home.
‘Sylvia?’ I shout up the stairs. No answer. ‘Sylvia?’ I dash up the last few steps in my waders, heart pounding against my ribs. I walk into the kitchen first, thinking she probably just can’t hear me over the noise of cooking, but she isn’t in there. I’m aware that I’m leaving wet muddy footprints as I go, Sylvia will be fuming about this later, but I’ll clean it up, disinfect it.
I head through to the living room, which doubles up as my bedroom, but there’s nothing but shadows.
‘Sylvia,’ I try again, before pushing her bedroom door open. Silence. The door swings easily on its hinges hitting the wall at the side with a crack. Normally, that would’ve been more than enough to wake a sleeping Sylvia, but she’s still lying there, unmoving. My breath catches in my throat, but I try again, more urgent this time.
‘Syl-‘ But my voice falters as I see the blood. It’s everywhere. All over the bed. How did I not see it earlier, glistening in the semi-darkness? I rush round to the side of the bed Sylvia is facing and shake her.
‘Sylvia. Wake up. I need you to wake up.’ Her mouth hangs open. I grope around looking for a pulse. I try her neck first, then her wrist, which is when I find the source of the blood. ‘No, no, no. What have you done?’ I drop her arm and stumble backwards.
No, she’ll be fine, I have to stop the bleeding. I lurch forwards again and grab at her arm. I just have to stop the bleeding. I fumble about, tear a strip from the bedding, wrap it tightly round her arm. But the bleedings already stopped. No, no, no. Tears stream down my cheeks.
‘Why?’ I sink and press my face into her side, ‘How could you do this?’ I clamp my hand over my mouth, fight the urge to throw up. I’ve only been out a couple of hours; how could this have happened. It seems so unlikely that the Sylvia I left on the roof would’ve rushed in and done this. More than unlikely. And the door was open, she never leaves the door open, someone must have done this to her. Anger burns up my throat. Sylvia lived for nursing and helping others. Why would someone do this to her?
Then I think back to her weary, tired look and the way she grabbed my arm so desperately. But she was always worrying, always working too hard, always looking after me better than she should’ve done. None of it makes any sense. I take her cold blue hand in mine.
Police. I need to ring the police.
I scramble back to my feet and rush to the living room, kicking off my waders as I go. The mobile phone we share is in the same place it always is - a small wooden table by the sofa. We leave it plugged in and charging at all times, making full use of the bursts of electricity we get, it’s been years since it was actually mobile. My eyes blur as I dial and speak to the operator. Then the paramedic, or whoever it is on the other end who won’t believe Sylvia is dead. Keeps asking more and more stupid questions.
‘I’m a nurse,’ I shout, ‘I know death when I see it.’ I’m told to calm down, take a deep breath. Instead, I shout ‘just send the police and one of those forensic group things to fingerprint the place,’ before slamming the phone down against the table.
I don’t know what to do. Sylvia would know what to do. She was all I had left. How am I going to be anything without her? She was my carer for much longer than I needed, I used to go on at her, say I’m twenty-five now for goodness sake, stop fussing, but I still need her.
Time bends. There are sirens outside. I hear water spray against the front of the house as the boat speeds to a halt outside. Then a trampling of the stairs.
‘Are you Dawn?’ A man in a paramedic’s uniform asks from the doorway. They sent them anyway. I nod. Then point to the next room, worried that if I open my mouth the urge to vomit I’ve been trying to supress will win. ‘The police are on their way,’ the man says, before rushing off, kit bag in hand. Well, I think, that’s something. If they can’t save her, then they are at least going to work out what son-of-a-bitch did this and make them wish they hadn’t.
2
Ebb current
The police rule it a suicide. See no reason it could be anything else, despite my desperate attempts to explain otherwise. Then, the paramedics take Sylvia, zip her into a black bag and leave. The police ask if there’s someone they can call. But there’s no one else and they leave too.
I stumble from room to room, unsure what to do. I light the fire in the sitting room, just like we do most nights, and just like most nights, with the dampness all around, it takes a while to get going. Even once it is going it does nothing to warm me up. Without Sylvia it feels like I will never be warm again. She was what brought life and warmth to this damp and decrepit building, where seawater soaks the lower floor and creeps up the walls. Where salt stains your clothes.
There’s a bottle of vodka on the table and I reach for it, unscrew the top and pour out a glass. No need for two glasses tonight, no need to share. I take another slug. It’s warming from the inside. But it’s no good, I’m still shivering.
I stand and pull all the cushions off the sofa, throwing them on the floor by the fire. The flames sway and crackle as air gushes past them. There I build a sort of den, wrap myself in a blanket and snuggle down. It’s a little like the fortresses Sylvia used to build for me when I was small, back when the tide only ever came to just above my tiny ankles. It’s among some of the earliest memories I have. I thought that splashing all the way to primary school in my wellies was so much fun, unable to work out the unfamiliar look on the face of my parents.
Now I know what that look meant. That they had known it was just the beginning and things were not going to stay fun, and they were right. Things were quickly not fun. Once people realised the water wasn’t going back down, a mass panic started, not helped by the onset of disease the water brought and swirled around us every day. Disease that killed my mother first, then father, weakened by his grief.
I take another long swig and close my eyes. Why did she do it? Did she do it? My eyes spring open again, I should look for a note, if she did do this to herself then she would’ve left a note, I’m sure. I haul myself back out the fortress and back to Sylvia’s room.
