The Pearl in the Ice

it with her finger. It didn’t look sore but the skin itched and burned, like bad chilblains. It had kept her awake last night.
She folded her clothes neatly and put them on the stool. The water thundered into the bath. It was half full already, the water blurring the line of red enamel paint. How she had hated sitting in what seemed like a thimbleful of water. Today she would bathe like an Egyptian queen with hot water up to her neck.
The minute she climbed over the side of the bath and her foot touched the water, it stopped itching. She sank down into the water, looking up at the large lead cisterns which had been installed by Commander Denham for his bride thirteen years before. Marina had very few memories of her mother, and the memories she did have had been dulled by time. She shut her eyes as her limbs floated around her. She called up a hazy vision of a pale face with large dark eyes. There was long dark hair, like trailing seaweed. Ropes of pearls that hung down over the stiff boned bodice of a green silk dress with lace ruffles, like white caps on waves. And two canes topped with mother-of-pearl leaning against her chair, which her mother used if she had to walk. But Marina couldn’t remember her walking, only being carried by her father. When he lifted her up, Marina could see the many large metal clasps on her mother’s heavy black boots. She had always been frightened of those boots and had had nightmares where they became fixed to her own feet and pinched and squeezed her until the tears came. However hard she tried, she couldn’t take them off.
Marina lay back and let her legs float slowly upwards.
The water rushed into her ears – such a beautiful sound. She closed her eyes and let her face sink under the surface.
A bright image floated up in front of her.
Her mother’s face looking down at her.
Marina wanted to reach out and touch that face.
But this was just a memory, from the time before the red line had been painted on the enamel. It was from before her mother had left. It was from the time when her mother – although an invalid – had lifted Marina over the edge of the bath and lowered her on to the surface of the water. Marina remembered that feeling of the water suddenly on her back and crying out in alarm, but her mother had held her fast. And so, reassured, Marina had relaxed and floated on the gallons of warm water, kicking her little legs and reaching out her hands to try and touch the ropes of pearls that hung down from her mother’s neck. Her mother had smiled.
And now, the water deep and warm, other images crowded in – she couldn’t be sure if they were real or invented. Because there was her mother’s face above, but it was blurred, as if it were being seen through water. And surely she was not remembering the sensation of having a heavy weight on her chest as if a stone had been put there . . . Or that she was sinking. Marina shook her head and the water in the deep bath gurgled in her ears. But she could still remember, or imagine, her mother’s small hand on her chest all those years ago, pushing Marina under the water. Marina remembered – it did feel like a memory – that she struggled. She couldn’t breathe. She tried to cry out but the water filled her mouth and anyway her mother was still smiling and, although normally so frail and weak, her hand could have been made from tempered steel. Marina remembered that she couldn’t break free. Her chest had ached with the desperate need to breathe . . . ‘Mama . . .’ But her cry was silenced by bathwater and her frightened tears could not be seen.
Her mother’s hand was snatched away. A rush of water, a gasp of air. Marina had been pulled up, coughing and spluttering, from the water.
Her father!
‘Annabel!’ he had cried. ‘What are you doing?’
From the safety of her father’s arms, Marina saw how her mother’s eyes had clouded and her beautiful face had become sullen. She said nothing. ‘She’s just a child, Annabel,’ her father had whispered. ‘You promised me you would never . . .’
Her mother’s deep green eyes had flashed their defiance as she wound her pearls tightly round her fingers. Still she spoke no word.
A sharp pain stabbed Marina’s chest. She was still submerged! She sat up abruptly. The water rushed off her head and body, slopping over the sides of the bath. She drew in a huge gulp of air. How long had she been under the water? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? But that was ridiculous. No one could hold their breath for that long.
She hopped out of the bath and snatched at the bath sheet, wrapping it around herself. She reached down to release the large metal ball which acted as a plug. There were goosepimples on her skin, but she didn’t feel cold.

4
The morning dawned with fearsome brightness.
‘The day of my execution,’ Marina said to the ceiling. Perhaps she could just refuse to get up? What could Ivy do then? But she knew Ivy was ordered to pack up the house today, before she went to her sister’s in Kent.
And Edward was already knocking loudly on the front door. She hauled herself out of bed and dressed in the hated school uniform. First, the regulation calf-length brown serge skirt. Then the regulation blue cambric blouse. The four regulation winter vests and the dancing slippers were already in her trunk. None of these ghastly items had any decent-sized pockets. And as for the ridiculous boater which scratched her scalp . . . She pushed her sailcloth trousers and tunic into the blue sailor’s kitbag she had demanded for her last birthday. Perhaps she could wear them on Sundays to go walking in