Chapter Text
The old wringer truly has seen better days, she thinks as the machine makes a jarring sound with each turn of the hand crank. Perhaps this is why laundry feels particularly laborious today, why her face is flushed warm and she feels the beginning of a headache. Or maybe it’s simply her age, she certainly has seen better days too.
If she told Mr. Farnon that she needed a new wash wringer, he would probably concede much too quickly without even looking at the books which she knows are far from being in the black. It’s not because he doesn’t have enough work to do, quite the opposite really, sometimes she worries more than she likes to admit, but you cannot change a man’s nature, and it’s his nature to treat an animal even when the owner cannot pay, or make his housekeeper’s life easier when she tells him something needs repairing. No, she decides, old it may be but it would have to do.
She pauses to catch her breath, fingers squeezing the bridge of her nose trying to will the dizziness away, the pile of laundry waiting patiently for her to get a grip.
“Mrs. Hall, are you alright?”
She turns to see Mr. Farnon entering the kitchen, slowing his stride as he takes in her state.
“Of course, just a bit winded, is all.”
He comes up beside her, takes her by the arms and turns her to him, assessing her like he would do with one of his furry patients. “Your eyes are glassy. Are you coming down with something?”
I’m fine, she wants to protest, but he’s already laying the back of his hand to her forehead, his eyes widening. “You could fry an egg on here.”
“Oh, nonsense. I’m perfectly–” The damp shirt she’s holding drops to the ground. She bends down, picks it up, stands up straight and the world around her goes black.
Hushed voices coming from the hallway. ‘I could stay.’ Helen. ‘No, no need to take that risk, you have Jimmy and Rosie to take care of. I’ll stay with her.’ Siegfried. More muffled words she can’t make out. Then the staircase creaks as one pair of feet retreats, and another pair approaches. Her eyelids flutter open, she turns her head and sees Siegfried’s concerned face, hazy as if she were looking through a fogged-up window. She lifts her hand, searching for the windowpane to wipe it clean, finding nothing but air. No matter, perhaps she’s meant to brush the frown from his face instead, smooth out the lines on his forehead. It’s not right that he’s looking so worried. She doesn’t quite cross the distance before he catches her hand, squeezes it.
“Audrey,” she hears him say. Feels the rim of a glass touch her lips. “Drink,” he says gently. “Just a sip. There you go. Good girl.” Her vision blurs, darkens as the bed underneath turns into an ocean, and still she can hear his voice: Audrey? Audrey!
‘Audrey,’ her mother calls out to her sternly. ‘Don't wade in too deep. Are you listening to me, girl?’ The waves play around her ankles, the sand soft beneath her feet. Above her, the seagulls cry and she lifts her head, watches them, squinting against the sun. She likes how they sound, their cheeky laughter, letting the turbulent winds carry them unfazed by weather and etiquette. Her summer dress flaps around her in the breeze, like wings.
Scarborough draws many tourists at this time of year, easily distinguishable from the locals. She likes watching them, too, like a different breed of birds, exotic to the seaside; women with large hats and umbrellas to protect them from the sun, comically clutching onto them when the wind picks up. The breeze plays with the ends of a silken scarf too loosely wrapped around a neck and before the lady can do anything, it’s free and flies through the air, flutters past Audrey and then lands on the water. It dances on the waves, only a few steps further into the open sea not far from where she stands. Wetness soaks up into her dress when she moves towards it but she doesn’t mind. Her mother calls her name. It’s a lovely thing, and the fish have no use for it, so what a shame it would be if it were lost. It’s right there now, so close she can almost reach it – a wave crashes against her knees and then retreats with force and pulls her feet from under her. Water swallows her, pulls at her, momentarily she’s part of the murky, salty tumble before the wave withdraws as quickly as it came. She gasps for air and then a hand grabs her arm and yanks her up. ‘See what happens when you don’t listen? Rushing in where angels fear to tread, that.” Water drips from her hair into her face, the salt burning in her eyes, and she squeezes them shut.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, wiping his thumbs over her brows to collect the last drops; wrings out the damp cloth before placing it back on her forehead.
She clings to her mother as she carries her back, eyes fixed over her shoulder on the colourful speck which becomes smaller and smaller in the distance and wishes she had been just a little quicker.
“Deep breaths now, Audrey. In and out. In – and out.”
The waves roll ashore and return into the open sea with a steady rumble. She’s back at the beach. Edward has built a canal, and with each incoming wave water rushes towards the castle, encircles it, before flowing out again. The next wave is bigger, she sees it coming and leaps up, lifts her boy before he gets wet. The wave rolls over the castle and subsides, leaving nothing but white foam and muddy ruins. ‘Don’t cry,” she tells him, holds him, skinny legs dangling, a boy almost too big now to be held. ‘We’ll rebuild it.’ But he doesn’t cry. He doesn’t throw a tantrum either, he looks at the mess that's left with a blank face and doesn’t believe her. And how could he? The sand castle has been dragged away by the waves, and when the tide comes, they’ll go back to their broken home. Time undoes everything, runs through her fingers like sand and the sun sinks into the ocean, red like fire.
She’s burning up. Heat rises from her insides, and the cool towel on her forehead isn’t enough anymore, she needs it on her neck, her chest, all the places that seem to steam. She’s so warm, uncomfortable; squirms, trying to free herself from the layers that are suffocating her. Sweat prickles against her skin.
His beard tickles where it touches her, following the line of her neck, down to the valley between her breasts. Her fingers slip into his hair, soft, like she’s imagined it to be.
It is wrong to want, but god, she wants.
His breath is hot on her skin and her chest rises with each heavy breath she takes, pressing it against his mouth, his tongue. Her fingers dig deeper into his hair, urging him on and she feels teeth, the allusion of a bite.
She’s no delicate thing, no angel, no saint. Her skin is ablaze and her heart wild with longing.
His hands slide over her ribcage to her armpits, along the length of her arms until they reach her hands, fingers intertwined as he’s pressing them into the pillow above her head. Drags his mouth over her throat up to her jaw, the roughness of his beard a delicious burn against her skin. She dips her chin, silently begging him to kiss her and finally, finally he is, kissing her, unhurried and deep, as if she were something to be relished. Reality shifts. Becomes soft around the edges, like the dreams you have in the earliest morning hours when time stretches like taffy, turns gooey and sweet and you want to savour it forever.
‘Siegfried.’
‘I’m here, I’m right here.’ It is a dream, she knows that. The only thing real is the warmth of his hand holding hers, each callus so familiar she’d recognise it blindly. Gentle. Safe.
Robert is shouting. Her eyes keep flickering to the door, praying that Edward won’t come back, not just yet. It is past sunset and she knows her boy is too old now to be told to be home before nightfall but she worries, can’t help it, when he stays out late. And yet, right now, she desperately hopes he’ll stay out just a little bit longer. Just until this storm has blown over; and it will, she knows, it always does. Robert thunders and rages. Her mistake, she ought to have known better than to ask him to please put his drink away when sitting down for dinner, no matter how gentle her voice is, no matter how calm he had seemed. She’s grown up by the sea and knows how quickly the weather turns. But sometimes she forgets, she’s only human after all – her mistake, for believing he still is, too. He grabs the bottle. The shattering of glass makes her flinch.
‘It’s alright. It was only outside on the street.’ Her heart hammers and she swallows a whimper. Doesn’t let herself cry. It won’t do, all it would do is make him angrier. A window closes, and everything falls silent.
No sound, not even the whisper of the wind or the beating of her own heart. The night is cold and black above her and around her. She squints, finds tiny specks of stars reflecting on black waves. Her breath leaves her lungs as clouds, crystallising in the air. Her hands feel cold, too, and when she looks down she sees them grasping onto the metal railing, so tightly her knuckles look white like bone. The ground underneath her sways, and the air smells like smoke. Noises reach her ears from the hollow body beneath her feet, muted at first, then more distinct, clanging and buzzing and distant voices from the ship’s engine room. She stares out into the distance and suddenly, there is a blazing light, expanding quickly, reaching them before she can open her mouth, and then it hits. Cold water presses into her from all sides, crushing her lungs. She should be kicking, struggling, but all she can think of is her son’s name, over and over again, and her body trembles.
‘You’re alright, everything will be alright. This is a good sign, your body is fighting back. A natural mechanism. You’re a fighter, aren’t you, Audrey. Nothing can keep you down.’ Yes, she wants to cry out. It can, it does. I’m tired. She’s freezing, drenched, violent shivers overtaking her and she can’t stop them, can’t do anything, she’s stuck in a body that doesn’t obey her.
The world beneath her tilts, and then something pulls at her, grounds her, two hands that form a lifeline and a rock she tumbles against that smells of tobacco and cologne, of firewood and hay, of home. She buries her nose in it, clings to the solidness and warmth, anything to keep her from sinking further into the dark nothingness. The shivers ease, ebb away like the falling tide. The seagulls call, or maybe it is a child’s voice.
Scarborough becomes smaller with each second, the sound of the seagulls faint. The train rocks her gently. A mother and a child walk past her, the girl catches her gaze and she gives them both a smile. The mother returns it, polite, but the girl looks at her warily and she realises there are tears brimming in her eyes. She blinks them away, turning her head in embarrassment. Her grip tightens around the handle of her valise, holding all her belongings, an entire existence neatly folded and squeezed into a leather bag. The train takes a curve and her old life disappears before her eyes. Sadness and relief flood her at once, and this time, she cannot stop the tears from falling.
White noise. The huffing of the train. The humming of a person next to her. Soft murmurs, a hand stroking her back. ‘Shh, it’s a dream. Just a dream. Go back to sleep.’ She listens, does.