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  DON’T THINK A SINGLE THOUGHT

  Don’t Think a Single Thought

  Diana Cambridge

  Don’t Think a Single Thought

  by Diana Cambridge

  Copyright © Diana Cambridge 2019

  The moral right of the author has been asserted according to the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights are reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without prior permission in writing of the publisher and copyright holder.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  A catalogue card for this book is available from the British Library.

  Produced and published in 2019

  by Louise Walters Books

  ISBN 978 1 999 7809 9 9

  eISBN 978 1999 6305 08

  Typeset by Blot Publishing

  louisewaltersbooks.co.uk

  [email protected]

  Louise Walters Books

  PO Box 755, Banbury, OX16 6PJ

  For David

  THE HAMPTONS, 1963

  She wakes. There’s a second or two of comfort – the warm bed, the shimmering morning light, the sound of seagulls. There’s even a pleasant residual muzziness from the sleeping pills the night before – then anxiety claws at her. Her stomach wrenches, her mind spins with fear.

  Their Hamptons apartment is empty – her husband left for the city hours ago. She could make fresh coffee in the immaculate beach house kitchen, but that means getting out of bed.

  ‘Try to put one leg out, then the other,’ her therapist had urged last week, smiling, making a sort-of joke. She’d smiled back at him. But it can’t be done. Her legs won’t move. She clings to the quilt, buries her head in the pillow. Soon she’ll reach for another pill.

  ‘It’s a vacation – the fresh air will do you good. Get you back in shape – you know. And we can hire a housekeeper – you won’t have to do a thing except lie on the beach and read. That suit you?’ That was a kind of joke, too, though in her nerved-up state she’d detected some criticism in her husband’s words. He’d still commute to Manhattan, but reduce his time at the hospital.

  Her therapist advised: ‘Just lie on the beach, Emma, and don’t think a single thought.’

  She’d been ill for months with a mystery virus, flu-like symptoms that wouldn’t go away, her energy falling all the time. Her weight had plummeted, and she’d had to abandon her job in favor of spending time in bed. They’d prescribed anti-depressants which didn’t work. Tranquilizers were better… an expensive doctor would always let you have some, reluctantly of course. She wasn’t an addict: it was occasional use only.

  When she woke for the second time a few hours later, the sun was beating down; there was also a breeze. Could she manage the beach? Theirs was almost private, a stretch of powdery sand in front of their villa. She could hear the maid clattering about in the kitchen… she had to get away from the harsh domestic reproach. Showered, made-up, dressed in a pale yellow sun dress, she ventured into the kitchen.

  ‘You startled me, Mrs. Bowden!’ said the maid, a middle-aged woman in a flowery overall. ‘What would you and Dr. Bowden like for tonight? I thought maybe baked salmon or herbed chicken with potatoes and vegetables, French style. Everything’s fresh.’

  ‘The chicken sounds wonderful, Maria,’ Emma said, trying to inject enthusiasm into her voice. ‘He’ll be back about eight. He likes your lemon tart as well.’

  ‘Oh, everybody likes that! Especially with thick cream. I’ve had some clients eat three helpings, one after the other.’

  Have you?

  Packing a bag with sunscreen, headache pills, a novel, she stepped out into the day.

  Yes, it was gorgeous. Fine sand… waves drifting in, huge tubs of pink and white flowers along the edge of the beach. Far-apart loungers with little tables. A beach bar with uniformed butlers.

  She lay on a lounger, closed her eyes. A butler came to ask her if she’d like anything, maybe iced coffee? When it arrived, she swallowed a couple of headache pills – she felt the familiar tight band forming round her eyes. The heat. She searched for half an Equanil in her bag, and gulped that too. The tablets… they didn’t seem to work as well as they used to. She found another sliver of Equanil and added it to the pill she’d taken – and actually did begin to feel better, a little. The familiar, pleasant wooziness, the blurring of panic.

  Children were playing a little distance from her, building sand up around one of them so before long you would be able to see only his head. She’d read… somewhere… this was dangerous. Children had died, been buried alive. Their hearts had stopped, crushed by the sand, while their faces still seemed to smile. Where was the mother of these children?

  ‘Don’t do that!’ she called to them. They looked over, startled. ‘It’s dangerous. Stop… now. Where are your parents?’

  ‘Over in the clubhouse.’

  They made faces at each other, indicating she was crazy. She stood up.

  ‘What are your parents’ names? I’m going to speak to them.’

  Now they looked nervous. ‘Spencer. What for? We haven’t done anything wrong.’

  Feeling oddly strong, she marched into the clubhouse and found the Spencers.

  Polite, with pleasant voices, they listened and nodded.

  ‘Yes, of course – it’s a silly thing for them to do. I’ll come over with you now,’ said Fiona Spencer, while George gulped back his highball.

  They walked over to where she’d seen the children.

  Nothing there. No one. Just the smooth beach. Had she…? Was she…?

  ‘There they are!’ said Fiona as her three children came running up. ‘We don’t want you burying each other in the sand – is that clear? This lady was perfectly right to come and see us.’

  ‘But we didn’t! She’s made it up! She started shouting at us for nothing! We’ve been swimming and making sandcastles all the time. And we saw her talking to herself. She made it all up – didn’t you? Didn’t you?’

  Three scornful kids’ faces and a pitying adult one turned towards her.

  ‘I think you kids should come up with me now,’ said Fiona. ‘It’s about time for lunch. I’m sorry they were a nuisance.’ They walked away.

  Emma burst into quiet tears. She’d seen… she knew. She’d go back to the villa. Maria would have made the bed up. She’d pull the blinds down. Sleep… the bliss of sleep… until Jonathan came home. Then, bathed, groomed, she’d tell him… she’d tell him she was feeling better.

  1937

  The therapists in the children’s unit where they’d sent Emma were always smiling, kind, detached. She was ten. She stayed there six months. It was to help her get over the accident, which she knows she’ll never get over.

  That school trip, walking in pairs, hand-in-hand on a coastal path – but not with her best friend. The best friend doesn’t turn up. Instead, she’s paired with a hated classmate – the only other girl on her own. A girl no one cares for. This girl, Moira, tells her a boy Emma likes is pretending to like her back, and has made fun of her.

  ‘He thinks you look like a horse!’ laughs this girl. ‘It’s even funnier you think he’s keen on you.’

  Emma snatches her hand away: the girl skids, screams and slides to her death over the cliff edge, into the ocean.

  The school was charged with faulty care of the pupils – there should have been a teacher near every pair. Of course, t
his wasn’t possible – and they’d warned the girls over and over again not to go near the cliff edge. The coastal authority was fined for not putting DANGER notices up and not repairing and fencing it off.

  Emma, mired in horror, unable to get out of bed, needed hospital care. In a children’s unit.

  Every afternoon there was an hour of therapy, art and exercise. She was encouraged to write. She could write her feelings out. They didn’t judge; they encouraged her, said she showed promise as a writer.

  Her parents visited every other weekend. They were obsequious to the staff, and always seemed to be apologizing for Emma, as if she wasn’t there.

  Therapists tried to persuade her that what had happened was not her fault, never her fault. An accident: tragic, but an accident. Her life would heal itself, if she let it. She was a bright, pretty girl with a warm future ahead… the past would gradually recede. It would become the past.

  No one from her school visited, not even the best friend who hadn’t turned up on the day of the accident. She made friends among the other children at the hospital – not really friends. Everyone there seemed to hate their parents. That their own parents could have them “locked up in a loony bin” – their own parents! – created a permanent anger. Parents were the enemy. Everyone longed for the time of freedom. Not freedom to go home – freedom to move away, into a room of their own. Absolute freedom.

  She began to “get better”. It wasn’t so much the influence of the hospital, but because she wasn’t with her parents. She counted the years until she’d be free to leave home – five or six. That wasn’t so long, if you counted up a whole life! She could hang on. Would hang on. Would bide her time.

  Classes were small and the teachers kind – she kept on with her writing and her artwork. At home, the accident was no longer mentioned. She knew that every year the dead girl’s parents held a “vigil” for her somewhere by the ocean – how did that benefit anyone? But she applied herself to her studies and got herself to Vassar, and a room of her own.

  She never went home again.

  She sent cards.

  THE HAMPTONS, 1963

  ‘Your work and the people you love… those are the important things in life. The only important things.’

  Who’d said that? A boyfriend, a long time ago. It seemed significant at the time, but now was ambiguous, almost without meaning.

  She’d gone from being a successful writer of magazine short stories to... to writing advertising copy. And then not even that. Her writing work seemed to dry up. She’d been unwell. This holiday was supposed to revive her. They weren’t short of money. But she liked earning her own, enjoyed the status of her career as a magazine journalist, now lost; had even enjoyed the terrified feeling she’d had just before giving a bookshop talk… it was ages since she’d done that.

  ‘Emma. Em! Wake up, old girl! Daydreaming again? Have we any oat cakes for the cheese?’

  ‘I did ask Maria to bring some – she must have forgotten,’ she lied, holding up her glass for more champagne. Jonathan said it was good for her, and it was, until she woke at 3 a.m., heart racing.

  ‘You must be feeling better if you’re having a drink… fine, but remind her tomorrow, will you? I can’t eat Brie without oat cakes.’

  He took his briefcase into the room they called his “den” while she sat on the front stoop, enjoying the breeze. She heard what sounded like a bike being wheeled to the back, then the letterbox.

  Wicked, selfish people who make things up get what they deserve.

  This means YOU!!

  At first glance it was comic, written on lined paper in a childish hand. She guessed straight away who it was from. Those kids she’d told off at the beach. Told off because they were burying each other in the sand – dangerously. How dare they send her this vicious letter?

  She couldn’t tell Jonathan – but the next day she’d damn well go see their parents again. She – a journalist, a writer – being treated like this! By some stupid, over-privileged kids! Fury made her hands shake. She took another sip of champagne. She took a sleeping pill.

  ‘I’m going to bed, Jonathan. I’m tired. I guess I had too much sun.’

  ‘Sleep well, Emma – the booze should help. I’m leaving early tomorrow, so won’t wake you. Don’t forget the oatcakes.’

  The next morning she woke, stomach churning. She was going to challenge that couple with the vile letter from their kids. Calling her “wicked” and “selfish” because she’d stopped them from playing a dangerous game! She chose a pale pink cotton sundress, a necklace of darker pink wooden beads, Dior makeup and Chanel scent.

  Made-up and ready, she began to feel nervous.

  ‘My, you look nice, Mrs. Bowden,’ said Maria. ‘Going out for lunch? Tonight, I thought a rib of beef with a green salad and pan-fried potatoes, and a crème caramel with vanilla and butterscotch sauce. Would Dr. Bowden like that?’

  ‘I’m sure he would,’ she said. ‘But could you remember to get some oatcakes for the cheese? They have them at the deli.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ said Maria. ‘If not, would crackers do?’

  No, they wouldn’t, she was tempted to say, but instead, ‘Yes, I suppose so… or perhaps cheese straws? If you could make them, that would be even better.’

  A theatrical sigh, then, ‘Of course, Mrs. Bowden. See you later.’

  Walking into the clubhouse, she spotted them immediately.

  ‘Fiona!’ she said, at her most vivacious. ‘I hope you don’t mind me coming over – I had a rather disturbing letter. Put through our door last night.’

  She showed them. There was no answering sympathy.

  ‘This isn’t anything like the handwriting of any of our kids,’ said Fiona. ‘I’m sure they wouldn’t do that, anyway. They’re good kids. Was anyone else around when… yesterday, I mean? When you were on the beach?’

  ‘No!’

  The Spencers looked alarmed.

  ‘Can I buy you a coffee or a drink, Mrs…?’ offered George. ‘I imagine this was a shock – but it’s just a… I don’t know.’

  ‘Emma. Emma Bowden. Thank you. Perhaps a… Bloody Mary.’

  Looking even more alarmed at this choice, they ordered the drink for her. She sipped. It was over-spiced.

  ‘Thanks. I guess – they could have dictated it to someone else who wrote it?’

  ‘No, really. I think what has happened is some other kid overheard and sent this as a prank. I’d try to forget it if I were you.’ George again, soothing, jollying her along.

  ‘You’re not me. And I’ll get to the bottom of it.’

  They murmured a few platitudes, she downed the drink and said goodbye.

  Walking back to her villa, she saw their children playing on the sand.

  ‘I know it was you!’ she shouted. ‘Don’t think you’ll get away with it, either. Brats.’

  She heard one starting to cry. She walked further down the beach and chose a light lunch in a beach bar. Shrimp cocktail, a small portion of pasta with fresh Italian sauce, a pistachio ice cream. A glass of chilled white wine.

  The headache started up, but it was manageable with a painkiller. She was even enjoying staring out to sea, not thinking, not having to talk. Treating herself. Taking herself out to lunch. Not thinking.

  1934

  It’s not as though they were even her real parents – she was adopted at eight. Her real mother had died, while Emma was fostered, from drink and drugs and depression. She’d tried to look after her children; it was too much for her. Their apartment was rough, in a slum area. Often her mother had been out all night, leaving Emma and two babies, Cathy and Mikey, alone, hungry, crying. She’ll never forget the night welfare workers entered the cold rooms and carried her, her brother and sister away, into care.

  They were gentle, but she screamed for her mother – she’d rather be with Mommy, despite everything, than strangers – where were they taking her? To elderly foster parents, frugal with food. Then she was adopted. Being shown ar
ound, displayed, given a lot of new clothes and toys when she preferred her old ones. A feeling of having to perform, smile, pretend.

  She remembered being introduced to someone called Grandma, who had a kind, lined, smiling face… Emma astonished the adults with her clear greeting.

  ‘Hello, Grandma! How are you today?’

  ‘Sweet little thing – I never expected her voice to be so strong…’

  ‘They couldn’t have given you a lovelier girl, could they?’ her adoptive mother’s sister said, with jealousy. There was a group of relatives standing around her, staring.

  ‘But what happened to your proper mommy?’ asked a small boy. Her face fell.

  ‘I told you not to say anything!’ she heard.

  But there was always a feeling – she felt it, knew it – that she might do something bad. She knew – she thought – her parents were ashamed of her.

  But she never saw them now. Never. That was the good thing about growing up. Once you had grown up.

  THE HAMPTONS, 1963

  ‘Emma? Sorry to disturb you… can I join you for a minute?’ It was George Spencer. Reluctantly, she nodded. She was trying to forget she had shouted at his kids on the beach – they’d been frightening her, hadn’t they? Doing something dangerous with the sand…

  She was enjoying lunch by herself. She was on her second glass of wine. She felt better – better than she had in days, until he turned up.

  ‘Ah… this is a bit difficult, but the kids were upset after you shouted at them this morning. Could I ask you not to approach them again? It is their vacation – and of course it’s yours too – I feel a mistake has been made and I know it’s worrying. What does your husband think?’

  ‘He thinks the letter came from your kids.’

  ‘Emma Bowden. Your name sounds familiar. Haven’t you written short stories?’