Paddy lifts Coco up to place the ballerina angel on the top of the tree and Summer switches the lights on and we cheer. The tree looks magical, like something from a storybook.
‘It smells so good,’ I breathe. ‘Like Christmas!’
‘We’re doing it properly this year,’ Mum grins. ‘Our way. New traditions to suit ourselves, mix it up a bit, make it special!’
‘Will we still hang up stockings?’ Coco wants to know. ‘I know we are practically teenagers now, but we have to have stockings.’
‘Me and Skye will be thirteen in February,’ Summer points out. ‘You are only eleven, Coco. You’re miles behind us.’
‘But we’re definitely not too old for stockings,’ I put in. ‘Any of us. Along the mantlepiece?’
‘I used to have a pillowcase at the end of the bed,’ Cherry says. ‘But stockings along the mantlepiece would be cool!’
‘We always write lists for Santa and throw them into the fire and see if the wind takes them up the chimney,’ Coco says. ‘Can we still do that?’
‘Can we have yule log instead of Christmas pudding?’ I request.
‘And no sprouts?’ Paddy chips in.
‘And nut roast instead of turkey because I am vegetarian?’ Coco adds.
‘Anything you want,’ Mum laughs. ‘Nut roast is fine, but the rest of us might still want turkey, Coco! And I’d quite like a Christmas Eve party, invite some of the friends and neighbours. Fancy it?’
‘Cool!’ Summer says. ‘And you’ll all come and see me in the dance-school Christmas show, won’t you?’
‘Wow – yes please,’ Cherry says. ‘I’ve never been to a ballet before!’
On Friday, Summer discovers Alfie’s card and present in her locker. (The lockers at Exmoor Park Middle School never actually lock – we lost the keys so often Mr King got all stressed out and did away with them completely.)
‘Who could it be?’ she asks, wide-eyed. ‘It’s beautiful! But it just says a secret admirer, so I have absolutely no idea …’
She shows me the card, which features a ballerina girl wearing a Santa hat and a red dress trimmed with white fun fur. I spot Alfie across the corridor, watching, his lips twitching into a smile as Summer slides the pink flower hairclip into her hair.
‘Wow,’ Millie breathes at my elbow. ‘This is so, so romantic!’
‘Could it be Aaron Jones?’ Summer muses. ‘He’s in my French class. Or Carl Watson? Or Sid Sharma?’
‘Or someone else completely,’ I say carefully, trying not to catch Alfie’s eye.
‘Shall I ask Aaron?’ Millie offers. ‘Go on, Summer, I don’t mind. You need to know, and I will be very subtle.’
‘No, it’s OK, Millie,’ Summer says, and that’s a good call, because Millie is about as subtle as a leopard-skin bikini. ‘Aaron’s cute, though. Tia’s always saying she thinks he might fancy me. But then, Carl did wink at me yesterday in the dinner hall, and lots of girls are crushing on Carl. Then again, Sid’s little sister does ballet, so I see him at the dance school sometimes, and he is SO much nicer out of school.’
‘Summer,’ I say. ‘I thought you weren’t interested in boys?’
‘I’m not,’ she shrugs. ‘Just … curious, y’know! You would be too, if it was you!’
‘It’s not me, though, is it?’ I say, and somehow it comes out kind of sad and mean, so I laugh to take the sting out of my words.
‘It will be,’ Summer grins. ‘Soon, I bet. I can’t explain, Skye, it makes you feel all tingly and happy inside to know that somebody … well, y’know. Likes you.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Millie chips in. ‘We grow up at our own pace, all the magazines say so. I expect you’ll catch up soon, Skye!’
I try to smile, but a fizz of anger simmers inside me. I feel much older and wiser than Millie, sometimes. Growing up is not all about glittery lipgloss and clumpy shoes and dissolving into giggles whenever a boy looks in your direction, surely? But Millie’s words make me feel about five years old.
As for Summer – well, I do know about the tingly, happy feeling she’s talking about, even if it is only from my dreams.
All week the dreams have been running through my sleep like an old movie, a Technicolor window on someone else’s past. And ever since Mrs Lee’s weird prediction last week, thoughts of Finch are refusing to stay confined to dreams. They seep out into the daytime too.
It’s like having a secret crush, but one who is even more unattainable than a movie star or an indie-band boy. I don’t believe in ghosts, so how come I am crushing on one?
‘What if the present isn’t from Aaron or Carl or Sid?’ I ask my twin. ‘What if it’s someone ordinary? Or … someone annoying?’
Summer frowns. ‘Well, it won’t be, will it?’ she says, puzzled. ‘It’s definitely someone cool. You can tell because of the thought that’s gone into it.’
‘Right …’
‘Someone like … well, like Alfie Anderson, for example, would never think of this,’ she says. ‘If he was trying to impress someone, he’d give them chewing gum that made their tongue go blue, or a stink bomb or something.’
In the distance I see Alfie gazing over, starry-eyed. Sometimes, ignorance really is bliss.
‘Let’s meet at lunchtime,’ Millie is saying to my twin. ‘We can make a list of possible boys. And then we could start chatting to them, all casual, and see if they seem interested … oh, this is so exciting!’
The bell rings and Summer heads off to class, Millie clinging on to her arm. I am torn between hurt for Alfie, hurt that no one would think to send me a Christmas love note, and hurt that my best friend is drifting away from me.
These last few weeks, Millie doesn’t want to talk about hopes, dreams or ambitions. She doesn’t want to talk about the chocolate workshop or going to the beach or what it would be like to go back in history and wear a crinoline dress and style your hair in ringlets. She only wants to talk about boys.
Well, that’s fine – I guess. I just never thought she’d ditch me for my twin sister.
We are walking through the woods, dappled sunlight filtering through the trees, the skinny lurcher dog running on ahead over the soft, mossy ground, the blush-pink mallow flowers to either side of us.
It’s hot, even in the soft shade of the woods. Finch holds my hand in his, and even though I cannot hear what he is saying, I can feel the warmth of his skin against mine. He is grinning, talking, brushing the dark waves back from his face, pulling the red neckerchief loose as he pulls me forward through the little twisty trees.
When we reach the stile at the edge of the woods, he jumps over quickly, turning back to help me climb it. He’s in a white shirt and red braces, his waistcoat unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, his bare arms tanned as he reaches up to lift me down.
I spin away from him, running down through a meadow starred with wildflowers. I splash through a stream, run on through another field, face turned up to the blue sky, laughing.
We’re at the beach, and he takes my hand again, helping me over the rocks, and we slip and slide across the stones and shells and the gritty sand until we’re at the ocean’s edge, the cold water rushing against our feet.
And then his arms fold round me, holding me close, so close I can hear his heartbeat. When his lips touch mine I don’t know who I am any more, Skye Tanberry or Clara Travers or someone else completely, and I don’t even care. I just care about the taste of salt and happiness, my fingers sliding down his cheek, twining into his hair. The warm sun beats down on us, the icy water laps our feet, and I have never felt so alive, alive, alive.
It is just a dream, of course, but when I wake I can still taste salt. Perhaps it’s just my tears? It’s not real, and I want it to be, so, so much. I turn over and close my eyes, but I cannot get back to the dream, no matter how hard I try.
18
The next Saturday, Cherry moves into her new bedroom. Mum and Summer have gone into town, for ballet-lesson and Christmas-shopping purposes respectively, and Co
co is out in the workshop, helping Paddy with the chocolate orders, which are coming in faster than ever.
I make two mugs of steaming hot chocolate heaped with marshmallows and climb the little wooden ladder that leads up from our landing into the new attic bedroom, sticking my head through the hatch.
‘Hey!’ Cherry grins. ‘Skye! Come on up!’
Mum and Paddy have painted the walls pale yellow and put together an old iron bedstead they found in the attic space, with a new mattress and a feather duvet and the patchwork quilt from the caravan. There’s a stripy rag rug on the sanded floorboards, a pine dressing table and a clothes rail Paddy has made himself from a length of broomstick.
The little attic windows are hung with Japanese noren door curtains with a geisha print, a parasol is suspended from the ceiling to serve as a lampshade and Cherry’s cool kimono is pinned to one wall. It looks awesome, and neat and tidy too, the kind of bedroom where you would never lose a bundle of hundred-year-old letters.
‘This room is the best!’ Cherry says, arranging her clothes on the broomstick rail and folding her socks and tights into a drawer. ‘It’s about a million miles away from my old room in Glasgow, I swear. I love the sloping walls and the little windows – if you stand right on tiptoes there’s actually a view of the sea in the distance!’
I set down the drinks and sink on to a floor cushion. ‘Fancy a hot chocolate break?’
‘Too right,’ Cherry grins, flopping down on to the bed. ‘How’s stuff with you then, Skye?’
‘Great,’ I say. ‘Well … mostly great.’
‘OK … so which bits aren’t?’
Where do I start? I can talk to my stepsister about most things, but I’m not sure a crush on a long-dead gypsy boy is the kind of thing she’ll understand. I’d like to tell her about the dreams, but wouldn’t she think I was crazy?
I dig up something a little less unsettling to share.
‘Growing up is such a pain,’ I sigh. ‘Millie’s gone all weird, pretty much overnight – she’s so hung up on boys and make-up now. She treats me as if I’m some little kid these days.’
‘Sounds like she’s trying too hard,’ Cherry says. ‘D’you think she’s feeling a bit out of her depth?’
I frown. ‘Maybe. I don’t know – Millie has always jumped from one mad craze to another, but this one is really bugging me. Maybe I’m the one feeling out of my depth? This whole growing-up thing still feels kind of scary to me.’
‘You’re doing fine,’ Cherry says. ‘It’s not all about boys and make-up and short skirts – Millie will work that out sooner or later.’
‘I hope so,’ I sigh. ‘But it feels like we’re drifting apart, like she’d rather be with Summer. I mean, I can’t exactly blame her …’
There’s a sparkle about Summer, a shine, something that attracts people and keeps them close, fluttering about her like moths round a flame. But does she really need another for her collection? Does she really need Millie?
‘Millie met up with Summer and Tia in town last weekend,’ I sigh. ‘She hasn’t even mentioned it … I only know because Summer told me. What if I’m losing her, Cherry? What if she’s bored with me?’
‘Trust me, nobody could ever be bored with you, Skye,’ Cherry says. ‘You’re one of the coolest people I know. But … well, you’ve been a bit distant, distracted, lately. Like you’re off in your own world the whole time. Maybe that’s the problem?’
I frown. Is it wrong to want to hide away in the past when the present is so uncertain, the future scary? I don’t think so.
‘Millie needs you,’ Cherry shrugs. ‘That whole town thing might have been a way of getting your attention, making you feel jealous even. Don’t throw a whole friendship away just because one of you is changing a bit. Work at it. I know what I’m talking about, Skye – I didn’t have any real friends until I came here, so I know how important it is. Don’t give up on Millie!’
I am not planning to give up on Millie, but sometimes I worry that she is giving up on me. I push the thought away, firmly.
‘Anyway,’ my stepsister grins. ‘You know where I am if you need to talk. I’m going to miss huddling into the caravan, though, even if it is a lot warmer in here!’
‘We can still use it as a meeting place, can’t we?’ I say, sipping the last of my hot chocolate.
‘Definitely,’ Cherry agrees. ‘Did you hear that Dad is going to paint up the caravan in time for the wedding? Charlotte wants to borrow a horse from the farm and drive it down to Kitnor Church instead of a wedding car!’
My eyes widen. ‘That would be so cool!’ I breathe. ‘We did take it down to the village once, years ago, for the Kitnor Food Fair.’
I lean back against the bed. A picture flashes into my mind, of our caravan, the same but different, crowded together with the others from my dream, down in the woods. Is it a dream, or an imagining, or a shadow from the past?
Clara’s letters have well and truly vanished, so I’ll probably never know.
‘Do you believe in ghosts?’ I ask suddenly, and Cherry looks up, startled.
‘Ghosts?’ she echoes.
‘Well, you know. Spirits from the past,’ I say, my cheeks pink. ‘Reaching out to the present somehow …’ I wasn’t going to talk about this, but Cherry’s a good listener, and how else am I going to puzzle out what the dreams mean?
A shadow crosses Cherry’s face. ‘No, I don’t believe in ghosts. If they existed, I think my mum would have found a way to reach me.’
I bite my lip. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
‘Oh, Cherry, I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have said anything.’
She sighs. ‘It’s OK. All that was a long time ago. I’ve accepted it now. But … funny question, Skye! Has something happened?’
‘Not really,’ I say. ‘It’s just that story about Clara, the gypsies … I can’t get it out of my head. Finding the trunk of clothes – well, it’s made it all seem so real.’
Cherry is listening carefully, and I wonder why I can tell her this when I can’t, daren’t, mention it to Summer. Is it because Summer would be frightened, furious? She’d probably make a bonfire of the dresses, so I’d have no link left with Clara, with Finch. I can’t risk that. Or is it just that lately Summer and I seem to be drifting further and further apart?
I take a deep breath. ‘You said I seemed a bit distant, dreamy, lately … well, you’re probably right. I’ve been having these strange dreams, like snapshots of the past, fragments of memory … about the gypsies in the woods. It has to be linked with Clara, doesn’t it?’
Cherry considers. ‘It could just be your imagination,’ she says. ‘It’s such a sad story, and finding the trunk like that – perhaps your unconscious is filling in the details a little, trying to find a happy ending?’
I shrug. ‘It’s just – well, it feels like more than that. It feels as if I can’t let go, can’t step back.’
‘They’re dreams, though,’ Cherry says reasonably. ‘That’s not the same as actually seeing ghosts, is it?’
‘No … so, you don’t think there’s a reason for it then?’ I ask. ‘It’s not some kind of mystery I have to unravel? You know, like in those spooky movies you see where some ghost is lingering on because they want people to discover the truth about what really happened in the past? Because it feels a bit like that, sometimes.’
Cherry’s eyes are wide, concerned. ‘God, Skye … you think Clara’s trying to tell you something? Like … maybe she didn’t kill herself after all? Maybe she was … murdered? Scary!’
I shake my head. ‘No, I don’t think it’s anything like that. It’s not scary at all. I can’t explain. It doesn’t feel frightening or sinister, but … there must be something, surely? Some reason I can’t let go of it?’
Cherry looks troubled. ‘Clara’s story has really hit home for you,’ she says. ‘I can see that. But you can’t let it take over. Nobody’s trying to tell you stuff, and there is no mystery, you know that.’
‘Ignore me, I�
��m just being silly.’ I laugh, trying to lighten the mood. I don’t want Cherry to think I’m really losing it. ‘You’re right, I’ve let my imagination run away with me. Thanks for listening, Cherry – it doesn’t seem such a big deal any more. Just a couple of weird dreams.’
She nods and we let the subject go. There may be no such thing as ghosts, but as Mrs Lee said, there could be a whole lot of things out there we don’t yet understand.
All I know is that a boy called Finch has lodged himself inside my head, my heart – and I don’t want to let him go.
My stepsister is arranging stuff on her dressing table – hairbrush, make-up, bodyspray and bracelets. She takes out a little photo of Shay and clips it to the side of the mirror, where she can see it every day.
‘Did you know, right from the start, with Shay?’ I ask. ‘That you liked him?’
Cherry rolls her eyes. ‘No way. I thought he was vain and arrogant and annoying. I thought Honey was welcome to him.’
‘What changed?’ I ask, curious now.
‘I got to know him,’ she sighs. ‘I tried and tried not to fall for him, Skye. I knew he was off-limits, but I couldn’t help it. I just couldn’t.’
‘Do you love him?’ I dare to ask.
Cherry’s cheeks flush pink. ‘I think so. I think I do.’
‘But … how do you know?’ I ask. ‘I mean … what does it feel like?’
Cherry shrugs. ‘I think about him all the time. I want to be with him. My heart races and the breath catches in my throat …’
She looks at me carefully. ‘Skye? Is there someone you like too?’
It’s my turn to blush. ‘There might be …’
‘That Alfie boy from Halloween? The one Summer’s been teasing you about?’ Cherry wants to know.
I laugh. ‘No, no, not Alfie. Definitely not Alfie … It’s complicated.’ I tell her.
Cherry smiles sadly.
‘It’s always complicated,’ she says.
19
We make our Christmas wish lists on little squares of coloured tissue paper, neatly writing down the things we’d like most in the world. It’s easy for Coco, who writes a pony in block capitals and then riding lessons; a llama; a donkey; a parrot. Cherry asks for things for her new room, like fairy lights and posters, and Summer asks for pointe shoes, which I know she has wanted forever and can finally actually use.
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