‘It’s good for her to have a project.’
‘Other than we two, you mean? Indeed it is. I have even been left to watch the rugby unharried.’ He pauses, then asks, ‘And you, Tilda? How is life up there on the mountaintop?’
‘It’s only a hill, Dad, and I’m nowhere near the top.’
‘Even so, not many neighbors, not a lot of folk passing…’
‘I’m fine. Stop worrying.’
‘I fear it is written somewhere in the terms of my parental contract: Fret frequently about well-being of offspring.’
Tilda bites her lip, knowing that she cannot even begin to tell her father of the things she has seen. Thinks she has seen. Or the fact that she has no power in the cottage. Or how only moments ago she was frightened half out of her skin by something that wasn’t really there.
‘I’m fine, really. I’m fine.’
‘That’s what you always say.’
‘That’s ‘cause I’m always fine.’
They both know this is not true, but that Tilda says it because she loves her father and doesn’t want him to worry, and he lets her say it because he loves her and doesn’t want her to have to talk about difficult things if she doesn’t want to. Which makes her love him even more.
‘Your mother is talking about a visit,’ he tells her.
‘Ah.’
‘Yes, ah.’ The line becomes crackly, but Tilda can just about hear the smile in his voice. ‘All the same, it would be nice to see you, Little Rabbit.’
And now Tilda smiles. Smiles at the thought of having her father close by, even if it does mean putting up with her mother too. Smiles at his use of her pet name again. The name he gave her when she was old enough to ask about the way she looked, about difference, about why one thing is thought ugly and another thing beautiful. He had taken her to a pet shop and helped her choose a snowy white rabbit with pink eyes, the pair of them agreeing it was the most beautiful thing either of them had ever seen.
And now she smiles with relief at the discovery that she is, after all, still able to smile.
‘A visit would be great, Dad,’ she says. ‘Really. I’d love to see you.’
By the time she puts down the phone she is feeling altogether stronger. The rain has stopped completely, at last, and she decides a run will chase away bad thoughts and strengthen her further.
* * *
As always, the meditative rhythm of running, coupled with the sense of well-being exertion brings, added to the uplifting effect of the landscape through which she moves, act both as balm to Tilda’s troubled mind and tonic for her body. She lopes down the lane, crosses the road and speeds past the church, forcing herself to return to the place where she experienced her curious sighting of the people in the boat. There is no mist today, but the weather, which earlier seemed to be clearing, has changed its mind, so that by the time Tilda reaches the narrow path on the south side of the lake the rain has set in once more. Her lightweight running gear is no match for the deluge, and she silently berates herself for not wearing her waterproof jacket. There is no wind and the rain pelts down hard onto the surface of the lake, causing it to seethe and sing. Soon visibility is reduced to a few strides and Tilda is forced to slow her pace.
Run steady, run strong. Head down, work arms, work. No need to rush. Nothing to run from. Nothing to run to.
Just as she is starting to shake off the memory of the face that had so startled her earlier, she senses rather than sees something moving in the water to her right. From the corner of her eye, not daring to turn her head, she follows the ripples that glide along beside her. She fights conflicting desires; the first being to run faster, to put as much distance as she can as quickly as she can between herself and whatever it is that is stirring beneath the water. The other instinct, the stronger one, as it turns out, the one that wins, compels her to stop. To stop and to face the danger. She stands firm, hands on hips now, looking braver than she feels, watching the surface of the lake as it undulates in shallow waves that are still speckled and peppered by the incessant rain. Her ears are filled with the hiss of water falling on water, to the accompaniment of her own pounding heartbeats. Rain washes over her face, distorting her vision further. She wipes her face with her hand, determined to look, determined to see whatever there is to see. Slowly the eddies and swirls cease their forward motion. The water is disturbed in one place only now, directly in front of Tilda, only a matter of yards from where she stands, her breath held, her fists clenched.
Whatever it is, let it be real! No more ghosts. No more madness.
As she stares hard at the boiling lake, rain running unchecked into her eyes, down her cheeks and dripping off her jaw, a shape begins to emerge. Something dark. Something smooth, reflecting the weak, silvery light of the water-filled day. Tilda gasps, and then, suddenly, she is standing face-to-face with a diver, complete with mask, breathing apparatus, and wet suit. Tilda did not know what she was expecting—or dreading—but it was definitely not this. Not this slightly comical figure, which is now removing his mouthpiece and lifting his diving mask, to reveal a young man, dark skinned, with bright green eyes and a ready grin.