by Liz Kessler
“Apart from the time it must have happened while he was still on it,” Sal said. “The time when he somehow ended up on the mainland in our time, not his.”
“And then again when we sent him back home,” I added.
Grandad let out a whistle. “That’s pretty much it in a nutshell, then.”
“So it never happened again?” I asked.
Grandad shook his head. “Never had the chance. Chap who bought the boat wasn’t from around here, so the boat and compass were separated straightaway. But before I took the note to the shop and packaged up the compass for you, I made a decision that it was time to leave the past behind and look to the future.” He winked at Gran. “And I had a plan for that as well.”
“What was that?” I asked.
Grandad threw an arm around Gran’s shoulders. “I had to marry the girl I’d loved since I’d first set eyes on her.”
Gran rested her head on Grandad’s shoulder and slung an arm around his waist. The smile they gave each other said more than any words could have.
“Hey, Grandad,” I said as we walked on. “I’ve just had another thought.”
“What’s that?”
“The permission letter at the lifeboat station. How come you’d already written one for me?”
Grandad smiled. “Remember, I still didn’t know exactly how you had managed to get back to us all those years ago, and I had never been able to talk about it with anyone. I recalled you saying that you were going to fetch the lifeboat men, and even though I never saw you again after that, I remembered your words when the piece about the lifeboat open house turned up in last week’s Times & Echo.”
“So you thought you’d make sure you’d covered all the bases,” I concluded.
“Exactly. I figured it couldn’t do any harm.”
At that moment, Flake came running over and dropped a stick at Grandad’s feet, pulling our attention back to the present day. Mitch stood a little farther away, furiously wagging his tiny tail too, his little pink tongue sticking out as he panted.
Grandad looked down at the stick, and then at Flake. “Want me to throw this, do you?” he asked.
In reply, Flake wagged his tail so furiously it swept an arc in the sand.
Grandad laughed and threw the stick. Flake ran and grabbed it instantly. I bent down and threw another one for Mitch, and before long the two of them were chasing each other around in circles again.
We walked along in silence for a few moments, catching up with Mom and Sal’s parents. I looked across the water. The sun was trying to come out and there were tiny patches of light sparkling on the surface of the sea.
“I wonder what happened to the boat,” I said.
“Maybe it broke up on some rocks,” suggested Sal.
“Or got sold to a pirate,” her mom said, linking her arm with Sal’s.
“Might have gotten chopped up for firewood,” said her dad.
“Or raised onto stilts and put in someone’s backyard,” Mom added.
“Could be anywhere,” Grandad replied. “It’s for someone else’s journey now, though. I think we’ve reached our destination.”
As the others walked along the beach, smiling and laughing, I paused to look out to sea. There was a piece of driftwood bobbing around on the waves near the beach. The sunlight caught the edge of it and, for a moment, seemed to make it glow yellow like the hull of the boat.
I stared at the driftwood, wondering if maybe it was a piece of the boat; if perhaps it was still here, all around us; if the boat and compass had been sent just for us or if they traveled constantly through time, bringing people together, mending links and building bridges across the chasms that split people’s lives apart.
A moment later, the sunlight moved away, and the driftwood washed up onto the shore. It was beckoning me, teasing me, inviting me back to the water’s edge.
But I didn’t want to go back.
I watched it a moment longer. And then I turned away and ran along the beach to join my family.
It had been a quiet day at the boat shop. So quiet, in fact, that Eric was considering closing early. He rolled himself a cigarette and riffled through some papers in the back office. He’d close up in ten minutes.
He had just put his cigarette out when a man burst through the door. He scoured the shop, looking down every aisle till he found the one with the compasses.
“Looking for anything in particular?” Eric asked.
The man didn’t reply. He was so intent on his close inspection of the compasses that he probably hadn’t even heard Eric speak.
“That’s it!” the man suddenly said, a few moments later. He picked up one of the compasses and carried it to the desk.
“That one, is it?” Eric asked, grabbing a plastic bag to put it in.
The man nodded. “But I don’t want to take it away,” he said. “I want you to keep it.” Then he pulled a wad of cash and a piece of paper from his pocket and held them both out toward Eric. “Can you take this note?” he asked. “Put it in the bag with the compass.”
Eric studied the man. Quite sharp looking. Mid-twenties. Bright shiny new band on his wedding finger.
“Put it with the compass and keep them both here?” Eric asked the man. “Why would I do that?”
“I — it’s for someone. I need to leave it here for them.”
“You’re not mistaking me for a post office, are you?” Eric asked, narrowing his eyes.
“No. I — I just need to leave it here. Please. It’s for a friend.”
Eric studied the man a moment longer. “For a friend,” he repeated. Then he took the paper from him.
“Yes,” the man said.
“And what does this friend look like?” Eric asked, slipping the paper inside the bag.
“She . . . well, she’s a girl. Thirteen years old. Normal sort of height for a girl her age. Quite skinny. Blond hair — about shoulder length, maybe a bit longer.” The man watched as Eric put the compass inside the bag. Then, casting his eyes across the desk in between them, he pointed at a marker. “Can I borrow your pen?”
Eric shrugged and passed the pen across.
The man picked up the bag from the desk and pulled out the piece of paper. He wrote something quickly and put it back in the bag. Then he scribbled something on the side of the package, before holding it out to Eric.
Eric squinted at the bag. “For Mia?” he said, raising an eyebrow.
“That’s her name.”
“I see. And this Mia — will she be expecting a package?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”
“So what makes you think she’ll be coming in, then?”
The young man looked Eric in the eye. “She’ll be here,” he said firmly. “She’ll have a poster with her. She’ll be looking for someone. For . . . well, for someone who looks like a slightly younger version of me. Please, just pass it on. Tell her it’s from Pi — from Peter.”
“Peter.”
The young man nodded. Eric held his gaze for so long that Peter began to fidget. Clasping his hands together, he twisted the shiny ring around and around on his finger.
Eric pointed at the ring. “New?”
Peter smiled. “Just married.”
Eric nodded slowly. Finally, he spoke again. “OK, then. I’ll do it for you.”
“Thank you,” Peter said. “Thank you!” His face was a wide smile of relief as he turned to leave. But halfway back to the door, he stopped.
Turning back to Eric, he cleared his throat. A hint of red edged across his neck. “There’s one more thing,” he said.
Eric waited.
Peter paused, his eyes darting around as if he were searching the shop for the words he needed. “You may have to hold on to it for a while,” he said eventually. Then his eyes met Eric’s and held them firmly. “But she will come for it,” he added. “I promise. One day, she’ll be here.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
With enormous thanks to the many people who
helped me to turn a moment of inspiration into an actual book.
As always, my family was extremely helpful and supportive in all their varied and wonderful ways. Thank you for being amongst the first and last to check each book for me.
Huge gratitude, as always, to my kindest critic, biggest fan, and best friend, Laura Tonge.
Thanks also to my top writer buddy Annabel Pitcher, for our ingenious scheme to support each other in our writing and reward each other with books!
I am possibly more grateful with every book to my wonderful publishers Orion and Candlewick. Thank you for continuing to have faith in me and my books, and for all the many, many things you do for them and for me.
Eternal gratitude to my agent Catherine Clarke — the best in the business!
And finally, a massive thank you to the lovely Pink Bag Lady, Jane Cooper, who came up with the perfect title after I had spent about a year discarding hundreds of others and driving all my friends mad in the search for the right one.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2012 by Liz Kessler
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
First published in Great Britain by Orion Children’s Books, a division of the Orion Publishing Group
First U.S. electronic edition 2013
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 2012954327
ISBN 978-0-7636-6727-6 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-7636-6910-2 (electronic)
Candlewick Press
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Somerville, Massachusetts 02144
visit us at www.candlewick.com
