The Vanishing Tide Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2022 by Hilary Tailor

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542036580

  ISBN-10: 1542036585

  Cover design by Emma Rogers

  For my mother, Gill.

  CONTENTS

  Start Reading

  Prologue

  Chapter One ISLA, MARCH

  Chapter Two ISLA

  Chapter Three PENNY

  Chapter Four ERIN

  Chapter Five ISLA

  Chapter Six ISLA

  Chapter Seven ERIN

  Chapter Eight ISLA

  Chapter Nine ISLA

  Chapter Ten PENNY

  Chapter Eleven ERIN

  Chapter Twelve ISLA, APRIL

  Chapter Thirteen ISLA

  Chapter Fourteen ISLA

  Chapter Fifteen PENNY

  Chapter Sixteen ERIN, MAY

  Chapter Seventeen ISLA

  Chapter Eighteen ERIN

  Chapter Nineteen ERIN

  Chapter Twenty ISLA

  Chapter Twenty-One ERIN

  Chapter Twenty-Two ISLA

  Chapter Twenty-Three PENNY, JUNE

  Chapter Twenty-Four ISLA

  Chapter Twenty-Five PENNY

  Chapter Twenty-Six ERIN, JULY

  Chapter Twenty-Seven ISLA

  Chapter Twenty-Eight ERIN

  Chapter Twenty-Nine ISLA

  Chapter Thirty ISLA

  Chapter Thirty-One ERIN

  Chapter Thirty-Two PENNY

  Chapter Thirty-Three ISLA

  Chapter Thirty-Four ERIN

  Chapter Thirty-Five ISLA

  Chapter Thirty-Six ISLA, SEPTEMBER

  Chapter Thirty-Seven PENNY

  Chapter Thirty-Eight ISLA

  Chapter Thirty-Nine PENNY

  Chapter Forty ISLA

  Chapter Forty-One ERIN

  Chapter Forty-Two ISLA

  Chapter Forty-Three ERIN

  Chapter Forty-Four ISLA

  Chapter Forty-Five ISLA

  Chapter Forty-Six ERIN

  Chapter Forty-Seven ISLA

  Chapter Forty-Eight ERIN

  Chapter Forty-Nine PENNY

  Chapter Fifty ISLA

  Chapter Fifty-One PENNY

  Chapter Fifty-Two ISLA

  Chapter Fifty-Three ISLA

  Chapter Fifty-Four ISLA

  Chapter Fifty-Five PENNY, OCTOBER

  Chapter Fifty-Six ISLA, NOVEMBER

  Chapter Fifty-Seven ISLA, MARCH

  Chapter Fifty-Eight ISLA

  Chapter Fifty-Nine ISLA

  Chapter Sixty ISLA

  Epilogue

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  READING GROUP QUESTIONS

  “O Mary, go and call the cattle home,

  And call the cattle home,

  And call the cattle home,

  Across the sands o’ Dee.”

  The western wind was wild and dank wi’ foam,

  And all alone went she.

  From ‘The Sands of Dee’ by Charles Kingsley

  Prologue

  It is always the same. The sun is setting and there is no sign of her yet. She sits on the sea-wall, back to the lagoon, kicking the heels of her sandals, waiting for Clare. She has developed a quiet patience for her sister’s timekeeping, but the baby will be awake soon and she must get back. Her gaze tracks the cockle wagon as it trundles down the long stretch of sand, the men sitting on the edge with their rakes and buckets, their legs dangling and swaying as they laugh and joke. Their voices become faint and begin to recede into the wail of the seagulls and the advancing tide. She squints into the sunset as it suddenly stops: a solitary man leaping from the back, tearing into the water.

  This is when the shouting begins.

  The wagon becomes alive with men, jumping onto the sand and sprinting through the sea, kicking up foam and stone like so many wild horses. They surround the object of their disquiet. One of them, still a boy, turns and vomits into his hands. She sees them gather a dark shape and heave it clear above the water. It is only when that beautiful hair falls back into the waves like an inky waterfall that she knows Clare isn’t coming back.

  Chapter One

  ISLA, MARCH

  Sliding the key into the lock was harder than she thought. Isla had waited almost ten years to enter this house and now she didn’t need Astrid’s permission, she still felt like an intruder. A salty wind stung her skin as her wrist angled itself against the doorknob, a complicated sleight of hand only three people, now two, could perform to get the key to turn. A click gave way to a groan as the door swung slowly in.

  Isla put her rucksack down, hung her coat on the only hook in the hallway and considered her inheritance. The old leather armchair was still there in the sitting room, but the floor was uncluttered by the mess she remembered as a child. It had never been this tidy when she was growing up. The air didn’t smell as if it had been sealed up against the world and there were no strands of tobacco scattered across the coffee table; the bowl containing Astrid’s Rizlas and her carefully wrapped chunks of resin had gone. It could have been an ordinary room where a normal family might live an unremarkable life. The deception was unsettling. The only thing that looked familiar was an enormous metal shelving system running the length and height of the wall. Hundreds of art books, hurled together and threatening to topple at the lightest touch. She looked at the titles and recalled that several of them had once been aimed at her head, one after another, whizzing by in a blur of colour.

  She opened the door into the dining room, quickly averting her eyes from the painting above the fireplace – a habit from childhood she could not shake off. It had always given her the creeps. Maybe she would have liked it more if somebody else had painted it, somebody nicer. It was worth more than the house, she knew that, and the house was worth a fortune. You weren’t allowed to build this close to the shoreline any more and the view to the sea was stupendous. Astrid had regularly fended off estate agents who came knocking. The building, more than a hundred years old, needed renovation and was ripe for profit. She never let them down kindly. Upsetting people who wanted something from her was a sport in which Astrid excelled. Now it was Isla wandering through the rooms like a prospective buyer, noting the jobs that needed to be done, the cracks that had to be filled. It wasn’t too bad. The white weatherboard on the beach side was peeling, but the skeleton of the house had endured. She would enjoy doing something with her hands while her mind considered what to do with the absence. Loving Astrid had been a burdensome task. London was too far from here to make social calls, especially when you knew you weren’t welcome. Although Astrid seemed to tolerate a phone conversation once every couple of months, it was always Isla who made the call. Astrid had never courted anyone’s company but her own.

  The house felt unnaturally cold. A damp breath of wind snaked around her neck, stirring the curtain drawn against the window, making her shudder. Spring came late this far north, and she cursed herself for leaving her warmest jumper behind. She had spent almost two decades of her youth here and on the few occasions she’d returned, it was always in the futile hope that the weather would be as warm as the capital. She’d forgotten how the cold crawled into your bones and squatted there till summer. Isla peered back into the hallway to see if she had left the door open. It was shut.

  The last time she’d visited, she had brought wine and flowers. It had been a significant birthday for Astrid; Isla had felt there should be some acknowledgement, even though Astrid had not remembered Isla’s birthday for years. Astrid had given her a curt nod of appreciation when she’d handed the flowers over. There were only eighteen years between them. They should have been more like friends. But, just as before, she’d found herself cold and alone for the weekend while Astrid painted in the studio. Isla had used the time to brood. She was past forty and still with no family of her own. She didn’t want to be here. Astrid didn’t want her here. No wonder she couldn’t hold down a relationship – she had never been shown how to care for anyone else. Astrid was all she had, all she would ever have. Isla was suddenly floored by the understanding that this would never change. She had lost her opportunity to make her own family; she’d been too busy moping over the mess she’d left behind in this house.

  Two days later, when she saw the flowers lying on the kitchen countertop, wilting in their cellophane, something inside her snapped. This would be the last time. If Astrid wanted her company, she would have to ask for it. The request never came, and when the time stretched between them it had been more a relief than a heartbreak. As Isla looked around the place, remembering that weekend, it struck her that Astrid had always been incapable of nurturing the living, and she had passed this affliction on. It was probably the only thing they had in common.

  A faint chemical scent she couldn’t put her finger on drew
her to the foot of the stairs. There was a large circular stain on the oatmeal carpet, pale grey in colour – not what she’d imagined. She crouched down and touched it, conscious of being close to something very profound. It was dry and crisp and when she drew her hand back, a fine white powder coated her fingertips. She wondered who had taken the trouble to do this. It must have been hard to clean.

  She stood. Using the stairs would be difficult without thinking about Astrid’s last moments, but even so, as she stepped over the stain, a small seed of excitement began to grow in the pit of her stomach. Maybe the information Astrid refused to provide when she was alive could be prised from this house now she was dead. Astrid had always delivered the truth like an unwanted meal. It didn’t matter if it was unpalatable to the recipient; you were to eat it all without complaint. If Astrid had wanted to tell Isla about the circumstances surrounding her Aunt Clare’s death, no doubt she would have taken delight in frightening her with the gory details. But to refuse to talk about it at all – well, that was something else. The story of Isla’s father had been repeated like a folk song throughout her youth: He was a waste of space, he didn’t care, he’s gone, gone, gone. Astrid could have used his death to curry sympathy, but she didn’t. It was the women who mattered in this family. Men added a layer of complication. It was a lesson Isla was still trying to unlearn.

  As she reached out to steady herself, she noticed the finial at the end of the balustrade. The tip was missing, broken off by Astrid’s fall. Isla touched her own head and winced at the thought. She had felt fine about coming alone, staying here by herself. It hadn’t crossed her mind to book into the only hotel in the village, but when she started to walk up the stairs she felt a resistance, the flex of a muscle, willing her to go back down. Halfway up she paused, unsure what to think. Astrid was gone. Isla would never again bear the brunt of her disapproval. But the house was charged with friction. She could feel it gathering round her like mist rising up from the sea.

  She said out loud, ‘This is my house now.’ The words sank through the air like stones through water and before she finished saying them, she knew it wasn’t true.

  Chapter Two

  ISLA

  The rooms at the top of the house were even more light filled than the ground floor, offering a panoramic spread all the way out to the islands and beyond. As Isla considered the view that had inspired her name, she wondered once again how Astrid had lived with it. Missing Clare was the only vulnerability that Isla ever detected in her considerable armour, and she struggled to understand how Astrid could bear to paint the very thing that took her sister away.

  Isla stood in the hallway and contemplated the only door she knew would be locked, wondering where the key was kept. She tried the handle, smeared with years of dried paint, the ghost of Astrid’s thumbprint recorded on the Bakelite. Bracing herself for the loud shriek as it rotated, Isla knew it couldn’t be this easy. Sure enough, it wouldn’t budge.

  ‘Hello?’ a woman called out from below.

  Isla frowned.

  ‘Isla, is that you? Are you up there?’

  She recognised the voice of Penny Walton, the only human being Astrid called a friend.

  ‘Yes, it’s me. Coming.’ Isla turned away from the door, crossed the landing and tramped down the stairs. A weather-beaten face waited for her at the bottom, strong brown fingers worrying Astrid’s spare keys between swollen knuckles. Her denim espadrilles avoided the stain, her expression betraying the fact she was wondering whether to deliver gentle sympathy or a stiff upper lip. If it hadn’t been Penny who had found Astrid at the bottom of the stairs, hours cold, Isla would have cut the meeting short. But she was Astrid’s oldest friend and had handled the police until Isla could be found. Isla acknowledged the debt and made herself be kind.

  ‘Would you like a drink? Tea?’ Isla said, walking past her into the kitchen. ‘I’m sure I can find something somewhere.’ She rooted about in the same larder she had opened as a child, in the same vain hope that something of use might be found. Amongst the mouse droppings, an elderly jar of something clouded and pickled crouched next to tins of food she would never want to open, the prices indicating the state of their contents. ‘I’m amazed she didn’t poison herself. When did they abolish the halfpenny?’ Isla inspected a packet of suet and threw it in the bin. ‘I need to get some traps – it reeks in there.’

  ‘It’s OK. I brought you something. Here.’ Penny proffered a cotton grocery bag, an armful of bangles clattering against wrinkled skin.

  Isla took it gratefully. She had forgotten the nearest shop was a half-hour walk to the village and would probably be closing soon. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, shutting the larder door. ‘The rest of the place is spotless.’

  ‘The police made such a mess . . . well, they added to the mess. I needed something to do. I didn’t want you coming back to . . . you know . . .’ She stopped and considered something privately. ‘I . . . when I was waiting for the police. After I found her. I took her things. From the table in the sitting room? I didn’t want the police to find it and think the worst of her. She didn’t smoke that much anyway. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘No, I don’t mind.’

  ‘You can have it back if you like. I kept it safe.’

  ‘It’s yours. I don’t want it. I never took to that stuff. Makes you paranoid.’

  ‘Fair enough. You’ll want this though.’ Penny put her hand in the pocket of her dress and withdrew something on a thin black chain.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Isla.

  ‘She had it on when she died. I kept it because I didn’t want it getting lost. It was important to her.’

  Isla examined the pendant. It was flat, made from filigree metal that had once been painted in the centre. She could see flecks of azure and white clinging to the recesses. ‘Did she make this? I don’t remember her wearing it or seeing it in the house.’

  ‘I don’t think she ever took it off these past few years,’ Penny said quietly. ‘She always wore it under her clothes.’ She touched her clavicle briefly with her fingertips as she remembered.

  ‘It looks like an upside-down flower head.’ Isla tipped the pendant towards the window so it caught the light. ‘It’s got a design on it. Something in the middle.’ Isla squinted at it, trying to make it out. She wondered what she’d done with her reading glasses. They were new, a depressing reminder of middle age, and she wasn’t in the habit of wearing them on top of her head like other people did. She spent most of her day looking for them instead.

  ‘It’s a hamsa,’ Penny explained, frowning.

  ‘What’s one of those?’ Isla asked, aware she was missing some kind of point.

  Penny gently took the pendant and turned it the other way up. ‘It’s a hand, not a flower.’

  ‘Oh. Now I see it. What’s that thing in the middle?’

  ‘It’s an eye. It’s supposed to . . . protect.’

  ‘Protect? From what, exactly?’

  ‘I don’t know. Bad spirits, that sort of thing.’ Penny looked uncomfortable.

  Isla tried to stop herself from laughing. ‘Astrid was no hippy. Why on earth was she wearing this?’

  Penny gave a shrug. ‘No idea. But she would want you to have it.’

  ‘Really?’ said Isla, puzzled. ‘Why?’ Then she remembered the feeling she’d had, climbing up the stairs. She thought about how Astrid had died and she felt the disquiet that rose in her chest like a tide. ‘Let’s have that tea, shall we?’ she said, putting the pendant round her neck.

  Isla filled up the kettle, her fingers familiar with the heft of it, the angle needed to close the lid, the pressure required to depress the switch. They sat at the kitchen table, the comforting ritual of tea-making filling the air. It was almost cordial. But Penny had always been Astrid’s ally and Isla regarded her with a wary reserve.

  ‘We sat here, just like this, the day before she died. If only I’d known . . .’ Penny muttered.

  ‘How can you predict something like that? Nobody could know.’

  ‘It just seems so . . . meaningless, falling down like that. And unfair.’

  ‘Being fair wasn’t Astrid’s specialty, though, was it?’

  ‘Unless . . .’ Penny paused, looking bothered.

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘This last year. There was something going on with her.’