The Drowning by Valerie Mendes Read Free Book Online

door for Mum; climbed into the driving seat; hurtled the car into reverse, its horn blaring; drove out of the Digey and away.
    The keys throbbed in her fist. The three tables outside the front of the Cockleshell were littered with dirty cups and plates. On one of them sat a small pile of coins. Jenna stared down at them, wondering confusedly why the money had not been taken or the tables cleared.
    Imogen and Morvah came racing up to her.
    “Is there anything we can do?”
    Imogen’s face was streaked with tears. Morvah looked exhausted.
    Jenna stood huddled in their arms for a moment, willing herself not to cry.
    “No, I’ll be fine. I’ll ring you.”
    She released her friends, steeling herself for whatever lay ahead.
    “I need to be on my own.”
    “Are you sure? We could help. Just tell us what—”
    Speechless, Jenna turned away.
    Imogen called,“Ring me. Any time. Promise me, Jenn. The minute you have news.”
    Jenna unlocked the tearoom door and closed it against the sun.
    The room baked in the afternoon heat. A fly buzzed angrily above one of the tables, then settled itself noisily in a pot of cream.
    She walked stiffly into the kitchen. The sweet scent of pastry filled the air, making her feel sick.
    She threw open the door to the inner courtyard.
    Dusty crouched in a shady corner, his yellow eyes circling the erratic flutters of a butterfly.
    Jenna scooped the cat into her arms. She held his slender body against her face, smoothing the fur between his ears, murmuring into them.
    “Benjie didn’t want to go. He told me. He said it scared him – the noise, the beach, the crowds. I didn’t listen, did I? I promised I’d look after him.”
    Jenna’s legs gave way beneath her.
    “Oh, my God, Dusty. What have I done?”

Aftermath
     
    Jenna lay curled up in a ball in the middle of her studio floor.
    As if she were in a trance, she’d fed Dusty, cleared the tea room of its half-eaten meals, piled the dishes into the dishwasher, tidied the kitchen, bundled a tray of freshly baked jam tarts into the freezer. She’d polished the tables, swept the floor, emptied the tiny vases of daisies, counted the money in the till, bagged it up and stacked it in the safe.
    Sweat dripped down her back. Her grazed heel smarted, her shoulders burnt.
    She’d picked up the phone and asked for the number of Truro Hospital. The pencil broke as she scribbled it down. It didn’t matter. She knew she’d never find the courage to dial it.
    Upstairs, she’d stood for a long time in the doorway to Benjie’s bedroom, watching Klunk and Splat scuttle around their cage.
    She’d taken a shower and washed her hair, put on cotton pyjamas, made a cup of tea, waited until it was stone cold before she swilled it down.
    The sickness at the bottom of her stomach subsided into a dull ache.
    She felt numb.
    When the phone rang she leapt to answer it.
    “Dad?”
    “I’m so sorry, Jenn.” His voice choked. “They did everything they could. The helicopter crew, the staff at the hospital. They’ve all been marvellous. Benjie had—” His voice petered out.
    “Dad, talk to me . . .”
    “It looks as if he’d got himself caught . . . trapped under one of the rocks . . . There was nothing they could do for him. It was just too late.”
    She hauled herself upstairs to her studio and shut the door.
    The slow twilight had begun. Through the window she could see gaggles of tourists, strolling, laughing, out for their evening meal; couples with their arms around each other, kissing in doorways; gangs of teenagers carrying cans of beer, jostling their way down to celebrations on the Saturday-night beach.
    I’d forgotten . . . It’s Denzil’s party . . . I said I’d ring Imogen . . .
    I should ring Tammy . . .
    I can’t . . . I can’t do anything . . .
    If I lie on the floor, I’ll still be able to hear Dad’s car when they get back.
    She must have fallen asleep.
    The studio door opened.
    “Jenn? . . . Are you all right?”
    Dad bent