by Susie Day
There was an awkward silence.
Louise looked plaintively from Max to her dad.
‘Oh, for pity’s sake, stop looking so miserable,’ Mrs Evans said. ‘I couldn’t fit you all in my car anyway. And … well, like Bill was saying, you’ll need to tidy up. Do some laundry.’ She nodded at the warm fleeces, borrowed from the drawers. ‘And … well, I think the kids deserve a bit of the Christmas holidays with their dad. Right, Pete?’
Dad nodded, swallowing thickly. ‘They do, yeah.’
It seemed Bill and Mrs Evans between them had plotted it all: a not-quite-Christmas Day for the Kowalskis in the cottage, with permission this time. The Bevans were going to Llanberis that evening, visiting Michael’s family. But they’d be back tomorrow, the twenty-third, and there was the mountain-centre van they could borrow to get them all home to Southend.
When Dad would go to the police.
It wasn’t perfect. But it was something.
‘Thanks,’ said Max awkwardly, as they slowly filtered back out into the cold. It was darker now, the night drawing close.
Bill gave Max a guilty look. He dipped his head, glancing nervously at Michael as if words had already been said. ‘Listen. I’m sorry, Max. I knew something wasn’t right, you lot there looking after yourselves. I shouldn’t have gone along with it. Should’ve asked the right questions, not left you to manage.’
‘No need to stick your nose in, is there?’ said Dad, awkward in the doorway. ‘They did all right, by all accounts. Bright kids.’
Bill looked Max’s dad in the eye, like he knew him of old, and he didn’t much like what he knew.
‘They are, very much so,’ he said quietly.
‘Thank you for bringing us that box of food,’ said Louise. ‘And teaching us how to do a fire.’
‘Thanks for the Welsh cakes,’ said Thelma.
‘I was going to say that one!’ said Ripley hotly. ‘Um – thank you very much for having a nice dog.’
Bill smiled.
‘I’m sorry I lied,’ said Max.
‘You’re forgiven.’
There was a lot more Max could say. But Bill smiled, and Max felt understood, without his having to learn a new way of speaking to say it all.
31
It was not a usual sort of Christmas, that year.
There wasn’t a tree with presents beneath it. There wasn’t turkey and telly and noise as everyone tried out their new bike or speakers or toy that went bang. Santa did not arrive to fill anyone’s stocking.
It wasn’t even Christmas Day.
Dad had been up since four, Max guessed when he climbed from his bed. He’d put all the washing on, neatly folding anything that hadn’t been used. He sent them all out for a ‘Christmas walk’ to the post office for milk, and when they came back the cottage was clean and warm, even the grate of the wood burner cleared of its thick coating of ashy grey. There was steaming tea on the table, in heavy mugs, and hot buttered toast, to be eaten tucked up on the sofa.
Louise went to her room, and came out looking bashful with an armful of small packages, wrapped in notepaper.
‘Presents!’ said Ripley, excited.
Dad coughed, an odd look on his face.
‘They’re only little,’ said Louise, looking anxious as Ripley helped to pass them round. ‘Thelma didn’t think it was a good idea at all – but I really wanted to, T. I could only get things from the post office, though, so … well, you’ll see.’
Thelma got a packet of envelopes, with flamingos drawn on them in hopeful biro.
Ripley, a roll of tape with Christmas stockings and gingerbread on it.
Max got a small bottle of Tipp-Ex, the sort you used to wipe out mistakes.
‘For your trainers,’ Louise explained. ‘Because you liked how white they were, and they aren’t any more.’
They were gone, and he didn’t have the heart to tell her. But she was right: he had, and it was so kind of her to notice that he wondered how much else she saw and did not say.
‘Wait. There isn’t one for you,’ he said.
Louise blushed. ‘I bought a new notebook last week, and a pen, and … well, it wasn’t really our money to spend anyway. So I’ve had mine. I’m sorry there isn’t one for you either.’
She looked at Dad.
He shook his head. ‘Got my present already,’ he said, in a gruff voice that sounded sandy with feelings.
He pulled Ripley into his arms as if to cover them, ruffling her hair. ‘Don’t I, princess?’
She wriggled happily in his lap. Then she sat up crossly.
‘You took down all my pictures!’
‘Packed them.’
Dad nudged a bag, where the pages of charcoal angels and presents were neatly folded. ‘Can’t leave those behind.’
‘What about the other decorations?’ asked Louise.
‘The Christmas stick is not coming home with us,’ said Thelma, contemplating it warily.
It had shed some dry bark, and now looked vaguely bald in patches. In the cool of daylight, with no lights on, it was undeniably not a tree; not close to one.
‘Poor stick,’ said Ripley.
‘I still think it’s festive,’ said Louise.
‘I think …’ said Dad, slowly, ‘that it’s a stick.’
For some reason it was funnier when he said it.
But Louise packed it anyway – carefully, in newspaper.
They did the washing-up, and wrote a note, to say sorry, and thank you, again, to Mrs Evans and Elis Evans’s nain and all the rest. Everyone signed it.
They left it on the table, propped against the kettle.
‘Goodbye, cottage,’ called Ripley. ‘Goodbye, walls, goodbye, fire, goodbye, slippers.’
‘Oh god, save us,’ said Thelma.
‘Come on,’ muttered Louise, clutching her notebook tightly to her chest. ‘I’m in the middle of a very important chapter.’
‘Someone touched someone’s boob,’ said Thelma. ‘I read it over her shoulder.’
‘You did not!’ wailed Louise.
‘She did, I saw,’ said Ripley.
‘Did she say “boob”?’ asked Dad, looking nervously at Max.
Max shrugged. Not his problem.
‘OK, we’re definitely leaving now,’ said Dad.
The slam of the cottage door felt final, and for a moment Max swayed on his feet, feeling the ache in his legs from the walk of the day before.
They weren’t just going home. They were going back to face it all: everything they’d run both from. Dad knew about the suitcase, now. His lips had gone white when Max showed him. He’d gone out to the cold clear air of the garden by himself, to think. Then he’d called them all together: not just Max, but the whole family. He was going to the police when they got home, he’d told them. He’d take the suitcase; he’d tell them it was all Nice Jackie. It would help, he said. They might let him off, if he told them that.
They all knew what it meant. When he went to the police, he might not be coming back.
Now, it didn’t seem such a fearful future. Perhaps they would let him off. But if Dad couldn’t be with them for a bit, they still would be all right, even then. Tal had been in care. He’d come out OK. And Max didn’t need a new family, like Tal had.
Asking for help: it was OK. He wouldn’t mind having a bit of help.
The mountain-centre van was already open when they reached the Bevans’ house. Michael sat at the wheel, too large as always.
The girls climbed in. Dad took the seat up front, beside Michael, looking vaguely terrified.
Max lingered, gazing back along the road. Back up at Y Ddraig Aur, at the zigzag path and the snow and the false peak, leading to nowhere and everywhere.
‘You know, I’ve been thinking,’ said a voice from the wall. ‘About the dragon.’
Tal was sitting in a fleece and a pair of purple-and-yellow striped trousers, gazing up at the mountain too.
Max held his breath, and waited: to hear Tal say it ha
d all been a lie. As if they’d both wanted to believe in it, and had both known it was a lie, all along.
But Tal smiled.
‘They don’t like the cold, dragons.’
Max nodded. Of course they didn’t. It was obvious, really.
‘I think,’ said Tal, ‘it was probably tucked up somewhere warm. Under the mountain, by the lake of gold. Till the snow melts, I think.’
Max nodded again.
‘You could come back next year. We could go looking again. In spring maybe, or summer.’
‘You reckon?’
Tal nodded. ‘Yeah. Much better chance. They might even hibernate. Scientists don’t know, do they? Summer, that’s when we should go.’
And that was that.
Max felt something light settle round him, like protection. A friend, who wanted to see him again in the summer.
A plan.
Dragons to believe in.
Max climbed into the van happy, and all along the valley he watched the mountains wind away behind them, naming them under his breath like a promise: I’ll come back, I’ll come back, I’ll come back.
Acknowledgements
My heartfelt thanks to the Puffin superheroes: Ruth Knowles, who I want to be when I grow up; Emma Jones, for editorial brilliance; Stephanie Barrett and Sarah Hall; and every unnamed member of the team that brings a book to life. Special thanks to Andrew Bannecker for the incredible cover illustration and Dominica Clements for the design.
Effusive thank yous to my agent Caroline Walsh, whose positivity and support I could not do without. You believe in me when I don’t, and I really appreciate it. Thanks too to Allison Cole and the rest of the team.
Love, gratitude and long-distance hugs to the Sisterhood, and the new place.
I’m indebted to the whole Gowans family for their warm hospitality and generosity. Thank you especially to Jenny, who should know by now that if she makes a casual suggestion of what I should write next, I will probably listen.
Thank you to my family for having the good sense to be Welsh, and for taking me up many mountains.
Thank you to Fliss, for all the best adventures.
Finally: much of this book was written on the 7.42 train. Thank you to my fellow commuters for politely ignoring the frantic typing woman in seat 44, and for (mostly) not eating beef-flavoured Monster Munch for breakfast.
A note on locations
Y Ddraig Aur is not a real mountain’s name, and there is no Welsh legend of a golden lake guarded by a dragon. Nant Glyder is not a real place, and the topography of this book is not any you will find on a map of north Wales.
Anyone familiar with Snowdonia, however, will recognise the mountain Y Ddraig Aur is based upon. The Glyders are one of the finest ranges in the National Park, and Glyder Fach’s peak is rightly famous for its striking, otherworldly spiky rock structures. There is a real Castle of the Winds, and, on a day when the cloud sits low and swirls like smoke, you can very much imagine it might make a home for a dragon. (There’s a real punishing scree, too.)
‘Max was, he knew, doing something very stupid.’ This is quite the understatement. Mountains are beautiful places to spend your time, but they deserve your respect. If Max’s story inspires you to seek out a mountain or two, be like Michael: learn the right skills, take the right gear, and always wait for the weather.
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Susie Day
PEA’S BOOK OF BEST FRIENDS
‘There,’ said Pea, propping up her creation on the mantelpiece. ‘Told you I’d have time to finish it.’
She stepped back and considered her handiwork. It was a blue plaque – the sort they put outside houses where famous writers once lived, to make people say ‘Oh!’ and fall off the pavement. This one was more of a blue plate, really. The writing was in silver marker that was running out. She’d spelled Author wrong due to the pressure of the moment – but it would do till there was a real one.
‘It’s nice,’ said Clover doubtfully, peering over the top of Pea’s head. ‘But why isn’t my name on it?’
‘Mine isn’t either,’ said Pea. ‘Or Tinkerbell’s, though I suppose I could add us. Somewhere.’
‘Don’t bother with mine,’ said Tinkerbell, clicking one end of a pair of handcuffs closed around her tiny wrist. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
With a click, the other cuff snapped shut around the fat wooden leg of the sofa.
With a gulp, the key disappeared down Wuffly the dog.
It was the day the Llewellyn sisters were to leave the sleepy seaside town of Tenby for their new life in London. So far, it was not going exactly as planned. The electricity had been cut off a day too soon. Tinkerbell’s father Clem (who had stayed overnight just to keep an eye on things, as he often did lately) had made a bonfire in the front yard to cook toast over, stuck on the end of a twig, and accidentally set fire to the front door. The removal van had arrived three hours early, and left without warning, taking with it breakfast, their hairbrushes, and all but one of Clover’s shoes.
But not, apparently, a pair of handcuffs.
Pea was secretly pleased. Clem had put out the fire before she could dial 999, but now they had an excuse. Perhaps she could locate a kitten for the firefighters to rescue too, while they were in the area. In gratitude, they might offer to take them by fire engine all the way to London, sirens on. That would be the ideal introduction to city life.
City life was something of a mystery to Pea, but she couldn’t wait to meet it. She’d made everyone play Monopoly after tea for weeks, for research. London seemed to be mostly about rent and tax, going to jail, and being a top hat. Old Kent Road was brown. According to films, there were also red buses, Victorian pickpockets, and all houses had a view of Big Ben. It was going to be brilliant.
‘Please tell me you’ve got a spare key for those cuffs,’ said Clem as he chased Wuffly around the ancient blue sofa.
‘There’s a car coming!’ cried Clover, wobbling on one shoe.
Tinkerbell sat on the floorboards, cross-legged, drawing a picture of a mermaid with perfect concentration.
Wuffly made a break for the open door of the flat.
Clem gave chase.
The blue plate toppled off the mantelpiece with a smash.
Pea knelt beside the pieces, and clutched her thumbs tightly in her fists. She’d seen it on a poster in the library. It was supposed to stop you from crying – something about redirecting the electricity inside your brain. It never worked.
‘Oh, don’t, please don’t! We can fix it!’ said Clover, who hated anyone getting teary (despite being quite the expert herself), especially on important days. But the glue was in a box on its way to London. So were all the other blue plates.
‘Well, we’ll make another one when we arrive. A brand-new one for our brand-new house.’
‘But it isn’t for the new house,’ Pea said. The new house hadn’t earned a blue plaque yet. It was for this house, like a goodbye present. But that was the sort of thing Clover wouldn’t understand, like saving the nuttiest square of chocolate for last.
Clover eyed Tinkerbell. ‘Don’t stress. At this rate, we might never get there.’
Pea looked at the plate jigsaw (wondering half-heartedly if the firefighters might be able to fix it), then looked at Tinkerbell, and sighed. As the eldest, Clover was supposed to be the mean one, really, but she’d never been very good at it.
‘You can’t stay here, Tink,’ Pea said gently, taking her drawing pencil. ‘Clem burned all the chairs. And you’re too little to be left behind to look after yourself.’
‘I’m seven, not five,’ said Tinkerbell drily, producing a new pencil from her pocket.
‘You won’t even remember this place once you see our new house,’ said Pea, watching as Tinkerbell gave the mermaid horns and a tail. ‘I expect it’s more like a palace, really. With turrets, a drawbri
dge—’
‘Loads of handsome princes,’ said Clover.
‘If you like.’ Pea suspected Tinkerbell would be more interested in dungeons, but Clover was thirteen, and Pea had read all about hormones and mind-altering lip gloss. She herself intended to stay sensibly eleven for as long as possible.
‘She’s here!’ shouted Clem from the stairs as Wuffly barked a mad fanfare.
Pea ran to join Clover at the first-floor window. With a scrape, and a bit of help with pulling the sofa, Tinkerbell followed. Even Wuffly reappeared, to press her wet nose against the glass.
It was a taxi. Not the usual Tenby sort, with DAVECABS and a phone number stickered to the door, but a proper black London cab with an orange lamp. And climbing out was no ordinary passenger.
It was Mum.
Bree Llewellyn, who had lived for the last four years in this tiny first-floor flat with her three girls, making ends meet while she typed, and typed, and hoped.
But Bree Llewellyn was no more. The birdlike blonde goddess stepping out of that taxi was now better known as Marina Cove – bestselling author of the Mermaid Girls books.
They waited for her to wave up at them, but there was a handful of girls on the doorstep, clutching books to be signed.
‘She’s so good with the fans,’ breathed Clover.
Privately, Pea thought Clover sounded a bit daft when she repeated other grown-ups’ words like that. But it was true: their mother always gave her readers plenty of attention. They watched her pose for photographs, and write her not-real name in the front of books, and Pea very quietly and privately missed the days when she had belonged just to them. Tinkerbell’s mermaid, with the horns and tail, ended up on top of a thickly scribbled furniture bonfire, engulfed in red-pencil flames.
Then there were footsteps on the stairs, dainty and clicky.
There she was in the open doorway, great clouds of blonde hair flowing over her shoulders, long skirt shimmering like silver scales. Marina Cove, the famous writer.
