Page 3 of Someone in the Water

Frankie

Being the mother of a newborn is much more than exhausting.

It removes every morsel of energy from your muscles, bones, brain, and eyes.

Which means, in the first few months after Lola was born, I finally felt normal.

This state of fatigue that had become so familiar to me during the summer months, was suddenly being experienced by my new friends at antenatal classes.

And that sense of belonging gave me hope that I could turn the tide on my insomnia.

But it wasn’t to be.

Lola was slow to sleep through the night – perhaps she could sense me twitching and fidgeting in the room next door – so I was still living the tired mum routine on her first birthday.

But by the time she turned two, she was a better sleeper than me.

We spent her birthday at the beach in Southbourne.

It was a beautifully sunny day, so it should have been idyllic, but the warm sand proved too comforting and I dropped off.

My mum was with us – thank God – so when Lola waddled to the water’s edge, Mum was there to whisk her to safety.

But I was left with the guilt of knowing I hadn’t protected my daughter.

Mum didn’t come to the play zone with us on Lola’s third birthday.

There’d been a storm the week before, taking a load of windsurfers by surprise, and Mum was too busy fixing ripped sails in her workshop.

So when my head drooped on the drive home after a couple of hours’ climbing through inflatable tunnels, there was no one to shake me awake.

And when the car veered into a field, not even Lola’s calls of ‘Mumma’ could drag me back to consciousness.

I hit a tree and flipped the car. The airbags saved us, and neither Lola nor I was physically hurt.

But I still spent three weeks in hospital, on the psychiatric ward.

With the trauma of ‘what might have been’ rocketing around my brain, I couldn’t stop my mouth from gabbling about being possessed by an evil spirit, and the doctors deemed me a risk to myself and others.

From that point on, for the two weeks when the worst of my insomnia hits, around the anniversary of those two tragedies, I have left Lola with my mum. Not being with her on her birthday has been a heart-wrenching sacrifice, but always worth it to keep her safe.

I turn the radio on – Bruno Mars’ ‘Just the Way You Are’ – and look out of the window.

There’s a burst of deep purple heather spreading over dark green shrubs and two wild ponies are grazing in the distance.

Lola and I moved to Lymington twelve years ago, when I got a job at the local college, and it’s one of the things I love most about this area.

Being in a coastal town one minute, and deep into English countryside the next.

Lymington is surrounded by the New Forest, and I drive deeper into the woodland until I reach the hamlet of Linwood.

I spot the dirt track from the rental company’s website description and crawl down it at a snail’s pace.

The further I go, the more isolated it becomes, and the better I feel.

Finally, I reach a narrow gate and park up on the verge.

The name of the accommodation is inscribed on a wooden plaque – The Wolf Den – and it makes me shudder.

But I knew this when I booked, and I’m not going to let a name put me off.

I find the padlock code on my phone, then open the gate and appraise my home for the next fortnight.

It’s a converted shipping container on the edge of a field, its location so isolated that the owners have installed a roll-top bath outside on the deck.

In different circumstances, it would make a beautiful romantic getaway.

But for me, it’s a refuge. A place where I can mutter nonsense about evil spirits, and no one will hear me.

I head back to my car and open the boot.

I grab the holdall and a handful of canvases.

It takes three more trips to unload everything – food for a fortnight, paints and brushes, laptop and speaker – and another half hour to find a place for them all in the small living area.

When I’m done, I make a cup of tea and sink into one of the two sheepskin-lined bucket chairs on the deck.

Beyond the small garden, there are fields, trees, fences, and more fields. Not a single human being. It’s perfect.

But I still can’t relax.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and stare at my home screen.

Lola is smiling broadly, tendrils of dark, wet hair framing her face, a medal around her neck, and a proud expression on her face.

The photo was taken last summer. Lola had just won a local windsurfing competition and was feeling justifiably pleased with herself.

It’s not surprising that Lola is a natural on the water.

The beach has been a big part of her childhood, just like it was for me, and my mother before that.

Mum turned sixty-three last year and she still takes a windsurf board out when there’s a stable cross-shore wind.

And except for two years when I was too scared to go near the sea, I’ve been a lifelong fan too.

Mum has made sure that windsurfing is Lola’s first passion, but she’s also a talented sailor, swimmer and water-skier.

I run a finger over the cool glass, then swipe upwards to bring it to life.

I click into WhatsApp and finds Lola’s name.

When she left yesterday evening to stay at Tamsyn’s ahead of their early morning trip to the airport, I hugged her tightly, but then whispered in her ear that it might be better if she phoned her Grams rather than me if she needed anything while she was away.

And I can still see her expression now, as she drew away from me, the mix of sadness and resignation on her face.

My eyes fill with tears at the memory. It feels like such an impossible choice.

I hate the thought of Lola seeing me at my lowest – sleep-deprived, grief-stricken, talking about murderous mythical legends as though they’re real.

But I know that in protecting myself, I’m rejecting her.

Year after year. What kind of mother does that?

Lola is two thousand miles away in Cyprus.

There’s no chance of me physically hurting her like I almost did when she was three.

And Lola hardly ever calls me anymore – it’s always messages or voice notes.

If I stick to typing rather than talking, surely I won’t lose my sanity so deeply that I actually write any of the crazy nonsense that I’ve allowed to slip out of my mouth in the past?

My hand hovers over the chat function, my mind frozen with indecision. But then I push my hair away from my face, drop my thumbs onto the screen, and type.

Hey, hope you had a good flight.

Just to say, what I said about contacting Grams, ignore it

I’d love for you to keep in touch with me.

And I can’t wait to hear all your holiday gossip

Love you, Mum xx