Salt Sisters

her beans.
Lucas’s lip jutted in a sulk.
‘This tastes different to Mum’s jacket potatoes.’
I sighed. Here we go again.
‘Hers has more flavour,’ he said.
My jaw clenched, locking in the angry thoughts I didn’t want to say out loud. We ate the rest of the meal in silence, the burden of loss hanging over us like thick sea fog.
After dinner, the kids dispersed to various corners of the house to do their own thing. I half-thought about checking that they were playing nicely, but I had just opened a bottle of wine and the first glass was going down very well.
Rachel hadn’t replied to my message, so there was no more snooping to be done that night. I idly scrolled through Instagram, flicking through pictures of my Hong Kong friends partying and eating out. There was one I lingered over: Chiara and Mathilde with Adam and Thierry, posing at the beach. I should have been there, too. That was everything I’d ever wanted, everything I’d worked for. Why should I have to give it up? I sighed. I missed my real life.
The doorbell rang, startling me out of my daydream.
An elderly lady was standing on the doorstep, the hood of her coat pulled up over her head, wisps of white hair blown in a halo around her face. Her face was criss-crossed with lines in every direction and her eyes were sparkling blue.
‘Isabelle Morton – how lovely to see you.’
The musical chime of her voice sounded strangely familiar.
‘I’m sorry, but… I’m not good with faces.’
There was something about the way she said my name, but I couldn’t think where I knew her from. Undeterred, the visitor squeezed past me into the hall and started unbuttoning her coat.
‘Really, Isabelle? I’m disappointed, I’d have expected more from my star pupil,’ she said, removing her hood.
I squealed. ‘Mrs Wheeler! Oh my god!’
She gave me a light slap on the wrist. ‘Less of that ‘god’ stuff please, young lady. And try not to look so surprised to see me – you did invite me over.’
‘So I did,’ I smiled, thinking back to the conversation I’d had with Sandra. I followed her obediently into Amy’s kitchen.
Diana Wheeler must have been well into her eighties, not that I dared to ask. And despite Sandra suggesting that her mother was past her best, Mrs Wheeler seemed as sharp as ever. She had been the Head of English at St Helen’s, where she was a firm favourite of many pupils. It was Mrs Wheeler who had nurtured my love of reading and taught me that books were a passport to the world, inspiring my ambition to travel. She ran the drama club and the school newspaper, so I’d spent plenty of my lunchtimes and evenings in her company.
She lived at Amble, just a couple of miles down the coast, and had known our parents well. Right after Dad died, Mrs Wheeler had come to call on me, Mum and Amy, bringing home-cooked meals and making sure we were able to keep up with schoolwork while also having the space to grieve. When Mum had disappeared, Mrs Wheeler had been one of the first to notice something wasn’t quite right. It was probably thanks to her that we’d got the help we needed and weren’t taken into care. But she never made a fuss about it, and always left us feeling like we were in charge.
I chose my words carefully. ‘Forgive my surprise, but your daughter said that you don’t get out so much these days.’
‘That bloody woman!’ Mrs Wheeler exclaimed with a surprising strength. ‘She’s full of rubbish. I ask her to help me out from time to time and she thinks I can’t do anything for myself. Utter nonsense!’
I bit my lip to suppress a giggle. Mrs Wheeler was in fine form.
‘Let me assure you, Isabelle: I lead a very full and active life. It’s true that I no longer have the physical capacity for life’s more arduous tasks, but I am one hundred percent compos mentis!’
She took a seat and gestured for me to sit beside her.
‘So tell me,’ she said, squeezing my hand with cold, thin fingers. ‘Are you working at Vogue magazine?’
I cringed – the teenage me had vowed to be covering Paris and New York Fashion Weeks for the style bible. Where had that dream gone wrong?
‘Not quite, but I do work in communications. Sort of. Client relationship management. Marketing for a wealth services provider…’ My shoulders sank as I heard for myself how uninspiring that sounded.
Mrs Wheeler chuckled. ‘Don’t worry, dear, I’m only teasing. I’ve kept up quite well with your career over the years. Amy told me how well you were doing at the bank.’
Hearing her say Amy’s name was a punch to my stomach. ‘You… you spoke to my sister? Recently?’ My breath came in small gulps.
Mrs Wheeler beamed. ‘But of course! We were both on the school governing body and the Lifeboat Institution committee, and then she and I would meet up in our spare time to gossip about the rest of them!’ She gave a wicked cackle. ‘We saw each other for coffee every Tuesday.’
I realised once again that I knew so little about my sister’s life.
‘And Amy spoke about me?’ I almost choked on her name.
Mrs Wheeler looked at me with her kind, glistening eyes. ‘All the time, Isabelle. She was enormously proud of you.’
I couldn’t hold back my tears any longer.
Mrs Wheeler dabbed at her own eyes with a cotton handkerchief. ‘You two were always so close. As thick as thieves! The Salt Sisters, that was what you called yourselves, wasn’t it? Closer than any other sisters I know. It was to be expected, after everything you went through. It’s all very sad, dear. Very sad.’ She put her arm around my shoulder and pulled me towards her tiny bird-like frame. ‘But Amy would want you to hear it from me: she adored you. And even though you weren’t living in each other’s pockets, you were always in