The Twice-Lived Summer of Bluebell Jones

by Susie Day

  “Of course you have,” says Mum, even though Tiger’s never mentioned t’ai chi before in her life, as she plucks the teaspoon and the Marmite out of their hands and clasps them in front of her. “So, this Catrin: she’s who you’ve been out running with, in the mornings?”

  Tiger nods, toast in mouth, humming.

  “Think I might have seen her around,” Mum says, casually. “At the Pavilion, maybe. Short dark hair? Lots of silver jewellery? Gorgeous?”

  Tiger hesitates, toast hovering. “Suppose she is a bit,” she says. “She’s just a friend,” she adds quickly, the words at the moment trailing in the air behind.

  “Mmm. Well, bring your ‘just a friend’ round for tea sometime, will you?” Mum says, smiling as she slides the Marmite back across the table.

  Tiger rolls her eyes, but I can tell she’s pleased. Tiger’s potential girlfriends are not always parentally approved. Or sisterly approved either, not that anyone asks me. We all hated Sasha the Cow long before she broke Tiger’s heart and turned her into a weeping snotmonkey.

  “She could come out with us today,” says Dad, flipping through the diary I brought with us: the handwritten itinerary we’ve been cheerfully ignoring. “What haven’t we done yet, Bluebe—” He coughs, correcting himself. “Blue? Ah, here we go: boat trip out to Mulvey Island. I used to love it over there. Proper sandy beach. Come on, my bucket and spade’s getting rusty.”

  “Um. Actually. . .” I mumble, shrinking my shoulders. “I’m doing that already. Going on a boat trip to Mulvey Island. Today. If I’m allowed? I checked – they have life jackets. And the boats come back every hour till seven, so I wouldn’t be late. I’ll take my phone.”

  I look at Mum as a smile spreads across her face. “Well, aren’t you organized? Sounds fab, baby.”

  I don’t know why I was so worried. It was Red who came up with the idea: of course they were going to say yes.

  “You going with Fozzie?”

  “Yep. And her sister, and a few other people. I’m supposed to bring a fiver and something for lunch.”

  “Never mind about that,” says Dad. “I’ll come with you. It’ll be like a daddy and friends day out. I’ll bring my guitar!”

  “Dad!” says Tiger.

  “What?” he says.

  “Ignore him, he’s joking,” sighs Mum.

  “Am I?” says Dad.

  “Um,” I say, “it’s a public boat, anyone can get on it. . . so I suppose. . .”

  Mum takes Dad’s hand. “Ian, love: remember that night we brought a tiny little Tigerlily home from the hospital, and then a few years later we had Bluebell, and we both realized we’d never have any time to ourselves, ever again, until they were grown up enough to do their own thing? Well, now they are. This is when our glorious new era of freedom starts.” She gives her rounded belly a pat. “And it’s going to last less than three months before it goes away again for a very long time, so shut the hell up. OK?”

  “Fine,” sighs Dad. “A day with my lovely wife it is. What do you want to do, my darling?”

  She yawns. “I want you to do the washing-up and then be really quiet while I go back to bed.”

  She kisses him on the cheek and shuffles off.

  “Rock’n’roll lifestyle, romance, glamour: I am living the dream, ladies,” says Dad, pulling on rubber gloves with a snap.

  I leave him to it, hugging Mum’s words to myself like they’re my new Milly. Grown up enough to do their own thing.

  Cash in my pocket and sarnie in my bag with Diana, I hop down the caravan steps, and nearly walk straight into – or through – Red.

  “Why are you out here?” I whisper, hurrying away from the caravan in case my voice reaches through the walls. “You can walk right in, remember?”

  Red shakes her head. “Feels rude. And weird. And, I don’t know, there could be naked people in there! You should be happy I don’t just barge in unannounced.”

  I suppose I am. I haven’t got any bits and pieces that she’s never seen before, but still. It would be like taking off all your clothes and staring at yourself in a mirror. I skipped that PSHE homework. It’s freaky enough looking at my body walking around as Red, and she’s got pants on and everything.

  “So, all set for the boat trip, huh?” Red says, looking me up and down. “Got your swimsuit?”

  “Yep,” I say, lifting up my T-shirt to tug at my swimming costume, on under my clothes.

  Red looks surprised. Almost as if she knows I nearly didn’t put it on; nearly left it scrunched on my bunk, oops, by mistake, how silly of me to forget my humiliating Lycra one-piece, the one that shows off the puppy-fat belly where there should be a waist, the flumpy parts where there should be boobs; hairy bits, spotty legs. . .

  Of course she knows.

  “Is that what you did?” I ask her. “Left it behind?”

  She blinks at me from under her hair. “Doesn’t matter,” she snaps. “Can we just go?”

  On the way down the short-cut path, I want to ask her whether the boat ride will make me feel sick – but Red’s quiet. Quiet, or cross. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to wear the swimsuit after all. When this was her summer, she didn’t have a Red poking her nose in to remind her. She probably did leave it behind.

  But then, she knows that – so if she didn’t want me to change what she did, why did she even ask? My brain hurts even trying to figure it all out. It’s like I’m watching the most complicated episode of Doctor Who ever, starring me. Twice. And I don’t know how it ends.

  Instead, I think about photos I want to get today – the lighthouse, the view back towards Penkerry, the improbably blue sky – and begin to feel excited again. I’ve got twelve shots left on this roll of film, and another roll in my bag just in case, though I’d rather get the first set developed first: see what I’m getting right and wrong.

  The Mulvey Island boat bobs at the end of a floating wooden jetty that juts out from the beach, at the far end of the prom. By the time we get there, Fozzie and Mags are on board, waving. Dan’s there too, joking away with the boatman like an old mate.

  The jetty shifts under my feet as the water moves it, and I instinctively reach to grab Red’s arm for support before I remember, and shoot her a relieved grin. She doesn’t grin back.

  “Where’s Merlin?” I say, hanging back.

  I look up at the handful of houses clinging to the cliff at this end of the beach; pick out the grand-looking white one Fozzie told me was where he lived.

  “He’s always late, miserable beggar,” shouts Dan over the slapping sound of the water against the boat. “Come on, Blue, don’t be shy!”

  I expect Red to climb on board first – but she’s walking back along the jetty.

  “Hey!” I shout. “Wait, stop!”

  “Is it Merlin?” says Mags.

  “Can’t see him,” says Fozzie, craning her neck.

  “It’s all right, love, we’re not leaving for a minute or two yet,” says the boatman.

  Red keeps on walking, on to the pebbly beach and up. I open my mouth to shout again, but they’re all looking at me like I’m barmy already. Thankfully Merlin appears at the head of the promenade, top hat bobbing, tailcoat flapping as he runs.

  “You’ve got good eyes,” says Dan. “Come on, you lazy git!” he yells.

  Red’s still walking away. I whip out my phone, mutter something incomprehensible about having forgotten to do something, and call her.

  Red stops, halfway up the beach, and answers just as Merlin flies past.

  “Where are you going?” I hiss, cupping my hand round the phone.

  Red turns round, her shoulders tilted like she’s tired. “I’m going to leave you to it for today,” she says.

  “What? No, you’re supposed to come with me! You have to come with me!”

  “Go and enjoy yourself. You don’t need
me. You’re going to have a brilliant time, I promise.”

  She hangs up, and I watch her walk slowly up the beach, head down as the wind whips her hair. I don’t understand. What could Red possibly have to do? She can’t touch anything. She can’t talk to anyone who isn’t me. And anyway, she’s my wish person. She’s here to help me, not go off and do her own thing.

  Doesn’t she want to spend the day with me?

  “Everything all right?” asks Fozzie, as I clamber awkwardly on board. “If you want to invite another friend along, go ahead. We don’t bite.”

  I crunch up my face, trying to work out what part of the conversation she might have overheard. I’m not sure, so I just shake my head and smile.

  “Forget it, doesn’t matter.”

  Fozzie nods and sits back, though I can feel her eyes on me, curious, as Merlin hops on board just in time.

  The engine rattles into life, and we go puttering off through the water, leaving Red far behind.

  The first few minutes are fine, but as we get out into open water the boat stops gliding through the water and starts bouncing off it, jolting from side to side. I wish Red was here to promise me I’m not going to fall in, or throw up. Unless that’s why she didn’t come: because I am. Fozzie’s wearing flip-flops and even she might not forgive me puking on her bare feet.

  “That’s the Bee,” says Mags, pointing out a stack of rock jutting up from the sea near Penkerry Point, which the boat chugs around at a careful distance. It’s black and shiny, with three fat stripes of some kind of yellowy-white rock running through it. “Means we’re more than halfway there,” she whispers, shifting over to sit next to me. She spends the whole of the rest of the trip talking softly in my ear, asking me to show her how Diana works; distracting me on purpose.

  I tell her about my wall of pictures in my bedroom at home; my tessellating pattern, personal wallpaper.

  “You should do that in your room,” says Mags, nudging Fozzie. “Her bedroom is rank,” she smirks.

  “It is,” sighs Fozzie. “That bumpy wallpaper with the little bits of wood stuck in it, painted pink. Euch. I got a few posters, but I never thought of using photos. That would look lush.”

  “You can have some of these,” I say, holding the viewfinder to my eye.

  “Really?”

  I click: pin her bright red smile in a blue sky, for ever.

  The water’s calmer once we’re nearer Mulvey Island, and by the time we reach the jetty there, I’m feeling almost normal. There’s no beach on this side: a landing platform, and a steep path up the rocks. We scramble up and out on to the flat, where the wind’s so strong it sends Mags skittering along, almost lifted off her feet. Merlin carries his hat, hugging it close to his chest. My jumper billows out in front of me, and I rest my hand there for a second, trying to imagine a Peanut inside. Mum says it’s like being a microwave oven, buzzing away with a light on inside – but no convenient ping to tell you when it’s done.

  We pass the lighthouse: automated, so it’s all locked up. I take a few shots that will have strings of my hair whipping across the frame.

  When we dip down into a hollow, the wind drops at once, and a golden beach with frothy little waves sparkling in the sun spreads out below us.

  “Aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” yells Dan, as he begins to sprint down the path, shedding clothes as he runs.

  I half expect Fozzie to be too cool for seawater; not with her hair sculpted, and her face so perfectly made up. But she yells, “Come on,” eagerly chasing after him, Mags on her heels. They fling bags down by a patch of rock at the top of the beach, then strip off, swimsuits on under their shorts like me, and follow his footprints through the wet sand to splash into the sea. I can hear Fozzie yelping at how cold it is, and Mags runs straight back out again, knees jumping high. Then she laughs and runs back in, splashing Dan with a vengeance.

  If Red was here, I guess she’d be hissing in my ear, urging me to follow them.

  I should. It’s only a body. I’ll have a new one soon, one like Red’s. Who cares if they see the not-quite-finished version I’ve got now?

  Merlin flops down next to the bags, leans back against the rocks, and plonks his top hat back on to his head, half over his face like he’s going to sleep.

  “You’re not going in?” I ask.

  He tilts the hat up. “I don’t swim,” he says, and drops the hat brim back over his eyes. Then he lifts it again. “I can swim. I just, you know. Don’t.”

  He crosses his ankles, slides his hands inside their opposite sleeves as if they’re cold, and yawns.

  I look at the splashy happy people in the water.

  “I don’t swim either,” I say. I drop my bag down. I stretch out beside him, and it’s that simple.

  It’s not quite that simple.

  This is the first time it’s been the two of us, alone. I don’t know Merlin. I know he lives in a big white house. I know he doesn’t have an official fairground job, but whenever we pass a deckchair, he plucks playing cards from his pocket and launches smoothly into his patter, Find The Lady, Pick A Card, all gentleman’s charm and hand-kisses for the old ladies in return for a quid or two. I know when he switches it off, he sinks out of sight. He looks like he’s been drawn into technicolour Penkerry by a different artist, with pen and black ink: a little black cloud in the blue sky.

  I just don’t know why.

  He answers my questions – yes, his accent’s a little different from the others’, he was a proper Valleys boy till they moved when he was ten; no, he doesn’t have brothers or sisters; yes, I can try on his hat – but it’s all shrugs and mumbles, like he’s at the dentist and I’ve got the drill.

  It’s only when I shut up and take out my camera that he relaxes. I click away, shifting near to the water to capture Dan’s wide mouth, Fozzie’s legs up in the air as she handstands underwater. Then a few close-ups: Merlin’s battered Converse frosted with damp sand. The crinkled red rose tucked into his hatband. The angle of his nose against the blue sky, cheekbones and chin shadowed by the hat brim, bottom lip dangling plump and unaware.

  It’s a good face. For photographs, I mean. I stare at it through the viewfinder. Not taking any pictures. Just looking.

  He shifts when he realizes, wrapping his sleeves tighter over his chest, though I can feel my arms itchily pinking in the heat from the sun.

  His cheekbones are pink too, in two high spots.

  I lower the camera, suddenly understanding. “Sorry. I hate having my picture taken too,” I say.

  He frowns at me from under his hat, like I’ve stolen something he didn’t know he had. “Suppose that’s why you’re the girl behind the camera,” he says dryly.

  I fiddle with the lens, wondering if it’s that obvious to everyone else.

  Merlin idly watches the waves for a moment. Then he seems to make a decision. He sits up, tilting the hat back so I can see his eyes, smiling charmingly behind their rings of eyeliner. He reaches into his coat pocket for a deck of cards, shuffling them deftly with his long thin fingers, eyeing me like a dare.

  He doesn’t see me as a friend, then. Only a mark, one of the tourists he tricks on the prom.

  I nod towards the cards as they flick together. “So what do those make you?” I say.

  “I’m the boy who doesn’t like to be tricked.” He’s smiling, assembling all his charm, but I don’t think he’s joking. “Confession time. The Red Dragon reopening on the Friday? Lucky guess, fine. But how did you do the rest of that riff on Madame Soso? Fozzie swears blind she never told you those names.”

  Merlin keeps his eyes on the cards as he asks, but I realize he’s serious; genuinely desperate to know.

  “I told you,” I shrug. “I can see into the future.”

  He stares at me intently, as if hoping the eyeliner will hypnotize it out of me, then drops his head with a low chuckle.
>
  “You’re good,” he says. “It’s almost like you believe it. Go on, then.” He slides the deck out in a fan on a flat bit of rock. “Which card am I going to pick?”

  “Oh, I’d need my, er, spirit guide for that. And she’s not here today.”

  “Really?” he says, witheringly. “What a shame.”

  “You think? I’m kind of enjoying the peace and quiet.”

  It’s out of my mouth before I’ve even thought it. But it’s true, I realize. It’s a relief, not to be concentrating on not talking back to someone no one else can see. Not trying to live up to her expectations.

  “Cheers, says a lot for my company,” Merlin says ruefully.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean—” I blush. “I only meant. . . It’s nice to just be yourself, sometimes, you know? Instead of trying to be something you’re not.”

  His eyes travel over my face. I don’t know what he’s looking for.

  We play Guess the Card on the flat bit of rock, and he gets it right every time.

  I wait for him to switch back into charm mode, dip his hat for me to throw him a coin, but instead he hands me the cards, and starts trying to teach me the trick. I play at reading his mind: Two of clubs. Three of clubs? A club? A diamond? A card of some kind, with maybe a number on it?

  It makes him laugh out loud.

  Lunch is a messy picnic, everything we’ve brought piled on to a sandy towel, help yourself. My sandwich and banana look feeble. Fozzie and Mags have Shed goodies in packets. Dan’s brought cold pizza and doughnuts and a bottle of Coke. Merlin’s is all shop-bought fancy stuff, Mexican wraps and posh crisps – and I wish Red was here after all for me to yell at her, because foodfail is exactly the kind of thing she should be rescuing me from.

  No one seems to mind, though. Everything tastes like sand and suncream anyway. Dan eats the banana, under protest at the idea of unprocessed food entering the sacred temple of his body, and we give him a round of applause.

  Fozzie scoops all the rubbish into a plastic bag, and we take it to the bin together.