Sea Dreamer

by Elizabeth Pulford

  ‘Are you sure?’ I say. ‘Perhaps there’s been a mix-up.’

  Rana lifts her face. ‘Here. See for yourself.’ She pulls a piece of paper from her shirt pocket, hands it to me. But I can’t read it, it’s too dark.

  ‘It’s my birth certificate. My real father is someone called Peter Renolds.’

  None of this is making sense. ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘I was clearing out a cupboard in the holidays …’ Her voice trails away.

  I give her back the bit of paper.

  Rana flares up again. ‘She stinks! And I hate her,’ she storms.

  ‘Perhaps if you said something …’

  ‘Why didn’t she tell me, Cassie? Why?’

  I want to help, but I don’t know how. I reach out to touch her, but she pulls away. Then, within the quiet of the night, I feel her resistance breaking. I feel her soundless tears, as soundless as the unspoken words between her mother and herself.

  ‘If only she’d told me,’ she weeps.

  Chapter Six

  Overnight the rain has turned the leaves to yellow. Underfoot the earth smells of centuries of rotting matter. The inlet is sullen, mud coloured, moving swiftly, stirred up after last night’s downpour. On the bus to school neither Rana nor I mention the conversation at the boat shed. Rana seems normal. I’m glad. Perhaps telling me what she’d found out has helped. But what about Miss McKenzie? What can I say to her? That Rana’s discovered the man she thought was her father isn’t her real one? And Rana’s mother? What about her? What happens if I tell Miss McKenzie and somehow it gets back to Mrs Winters before Rana has told her she knows the truth? No. Miss McKenzie will have to wait. Rana comes first.

  It’s late Friday afternoon. I’m at Aunt Elenor’s for a fitting of my bridesmaid’s frock. Her house and garden are unreal. They are so perfect, it’s like being in a glossy magazine. The wrought-iron gate clicks shut behind me. I walk up the concrete path, go into the glass porch and ring the bell. Before it has finished playing its musical tune, the door is thrust open.

  ‘Good, Cassie. Come in.’ Aunt Elenor turns. ‘Shut the door after you.’ She strides off down the wide hall. I scrape my shoes on the mat, then follow.

  Aunt Elenor wears glasses, her short hair parted down one side, flat and smooth, a bit like a horse’s rump. She wears clothes that have lots of buttons. Shirts and skirts, buttoned up and down. Even some of her shoes have buttons on them.

  She takes me into the back bedroom. It is small and on the cold side of the house. On the table beside the bed is a photograph of Denise and her fiancé, Thurlow. She is laughing, he is serious. Thurlow is an accountant. Aunt Elenor approves of him immensely. As Denise is on transfer up north for most of the year, all the wedding arrangements are being done by Aunt Elenor.

  The bridesmaid’s frock lies on the bed. Denise wore it when she was fifteen years old, now she’s twenty. It should be in a museum as a fashion replica of yesteryear, not waiting for me to try it on.

  ‘You’re a lucky girl,’ says Aunt Elenor, picking it up and fussing with the ruffles and bows.

  I wish I had the courage to tell her what I really think of it. But I haven’t. The frock is so awful, I don’t want to be anywhere near it. If anyone ever saw me in it, the way it is now, I’d never live it down. Rana would die laughing.

  As Aunt Elenor is talking and patting the frock, words from the poem The Rime of the Ancient Mariner flood into my head.

  Alone, alone, all, all alone

  Alone on a wide, wide sea!

  And never a saint took pity on

  My soul in agony

  ‘Come along, Cassie. I haven’t got all day.’ Aunt Elenor interrupts my thoughts of doom. As I’m slipping out of my school uniform and putting on the ‘thing’, the doorbell rings.

  ‘That will be Mrs Holland.’ My aunt walks briskly out of the room. Mrs Holland is the dressmaker, hired especially for the wedding. Aunt Elenor has been trying to persuade my mother to have a new outfit made for the occasion. Mum told me that Elenor will be lucky if she doesn’t turn up in her sneakers and running gear.

  While Aunt Elenor is out of the way, I quickly go over to the mirror and look at myself. I stare unbelieving. I am a child dressing up … a princess … a pirate … an ugly toad.

  Aunt Elenor and Mrs Holland appear in the doorway. Aunt Elenor’s hands are pressed against her front like she’s praying. Mrs Holland is smiling. After my aunt leaves us, Mrs Holland gets out her tape measure, scissors and a tin of pins. In desperation I say, ‘She thinks I’m a little girl.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’ Mrs Holland turns me to face the window and starts to work. She works in silence and her hands are gentle. I’m thinking about Rana and Mr Winters. I wonder if he knows he’s not Rana’s father and how awful it’d be if he didn’t. What if Mrs Winters had never told him? What if she was pregnant when she got married and all the time he’s been thinking he’s Rana’s father, like Rana thought he was? What a mess. I draw in a quick breath.

  ‘Sorry, did I prick you?’

  I shake my head. ‘No, it’s okay.’ Mrs Holland turns me again. Now I’m facing the back wall. A photograph of Aunt Elenor’s wedding hangs in front of me. In it Uncle Thomas looks so young. Aunt Elenor too. When do people turn old? Is there a set time, like the autumn leaves on the trees? Or does it happen gradually? My mother doesn’t seem old, at least not compared to Aunt Elenor.

  Mrs Holland moves me to face the door. Ring-a-ring o’roses, a pocket full of posies, a-tishoo! a-tishoo! we all fall down. Mr Winters, Rana and I tumbling down over each other. Laughing and laughing.

  A veil of pink net falls away from the bridesmaid frock. Mrs Holland gathers it up and lies it on the bed. ‘There, that’s a start.’ She stands back and looks at the remaining gathered skirt of pink satin. ‘Straight, I think.’

  Aunt Elenor opens the door. ‘Oh,’ she says, eyeing the net on the bed.

  ‘I thought a slim skirt to the ankle,’ says Mrs Holland. Then adds, ‘Cassie has a very nice figure.’

  ‘No net?’

  Mrs Holland shakes her head.

  ‘Well … I’ll leave it to you.’ Aunt Elenor gives a quick smile. ‘Cup of tea?’

  ‘That’d be lovely,’ replies Mrs Holland, drawing a curved chalk line below the existing neckline, by several centimetres.

  ‘We don’t want it too low,’ says my aunt, blinking rapidly, as though not wanting to see what’s happening.

  ‘No tea for me thanks,’ I say, knowing it will only delay my departure. Aunt Elenor withdraws. After a few more minutes Mrs Holland tells me that she can’t do anything further until she’s made a start on the alterations. ‘Another fitting in four weeks?’

  I tell her that’ll be fine and to make sure I don’t forget, write it on the top of my scribble pad. She leaves me to change, goes to join my aunt in the kitchen. As I climb out of the bridesmaid’s frock words from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner flutter through my mind:

  And from my neck so free

  The Albatross fell off, and sank

  Like lead into the sea

  At the library, Rana is knee-deep in magazines. Flair, Cleo, New Weekly and a pile of others.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, plonking down beside her.

  She gives me a quick glance, then goes back to the fashion spread in the magazine. ‘Look at this.’ She points to a skinny model wearing a silver minidress. ‘Isn’t that the most fantastic thing you’ve ever seen?’

  I think about the bridesmaid’s frock back at Aunt Elenor’s and agree with her.

  ‘How cool would that be.’ Rana lets the glossy journal fall onto her knees. ‘That’d get everyone talking at the school dance.’

  ‘Why don’t you get your mother to make it for you?’

  Rana slams the page over. ‘No, thanks.’

  The school dance. Until now I’d forgotten about it. No … that’s not true. I’ve tried to forget, but every so often a wave of remembrance washes over me. But that wave is not
one of pleasure. Not like the waves on the beach that bring tiny pebbles and shells to be picked up and carried home and lain with all my other beach treasures.

  Already, I have too many gifts from the ocean, but I cannot throw them away. As much as they once belonged to the sea, they now belong to me. Charms and talismans of the deep, travelled from unknown territories and unknown seas, perhaps for thousands of kilometres, and perhaps hundreds of years, to be left at my feet by a little white wave, at the precise moment I’m standing at the edge of the wide blue ocean. No — the dance wave is more like a mighty tidal wave, waiting to wash me away …

  ‘Cassie! Hello …!’

  I step back from my imaginary beach to find Rana flapping a magazine in my face.

  ‘I’m not going to the school dance,’ I say.

  Rana looks at me in disbelief. ‘What!’ she exclaims, then slowly a grin spreads across her face. ‘Wow! How radical, Cassie. You’re waking up.’

  I shrug. ‘Dances bore me,’ I say, knowing it’s not true. The truth is if I can’t go with Mac, then I’m not going. But how can I ask him? If he turned me down, and most probably he would, I couldn’t live with myself. And I don’t want to go with anyone else in case Mac hears, then any chance I might have with him would be gone. No, it’s better to keep my dream. Every time I think of Mac I remember The Lady of Shalott, another poem Miss McKenzie loves.

  Four gray walls, and four gray towers

  Overlook a space of flowers

  And the silent isle imbowers

  The Lady of Shalott

  ‘I hate to tell you this,’ rabbits Rana, ‘but you’ve got to. It’s part of the school curriculum.’ She starts to rip out the page with the silver mini.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ I protest. ‘What about other people who want to read the magazine?’

  Rana glances around the library, furtive. ‘What about them!’

  I get up. I hate it when she does stuff like that. Ring-a-ring o’roses … we all fall down. I change the subject. ‘Do you want to come and find something for our assignment?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The one on family roots.’

  ‘Oh, that!’ She shakes her head.

  ‘I won’t be long.’ The lift is always busy, so I take the stairs. I’m two steps from the landing on the fourth floor when I see Ted through the glass partition that overlooks the stairwell. He’s carrying a pile of books, trying to open the door with his foot. This is the second time I’ve run into Ted and, in such a big library, it’s a bit of a coincidence. Going to the door, I pull it open for him.

  ‘Cassie, how nice. Thank you.’ Ted is tall. He has a square-shaped face, short medium-brown hair, medium-brown eyes and all his clothes are quiet. He never wears anything with colour or exciting patterns. But he is polite and kind, so I suppose that’s something.

  ‘That’s okay.’ I hold onto the door while he walks through.

  ‘Anything I can help you with?’

  ‘No — I’m fine.’

  ‘Right.’ He smiles an awkward smile. ‘Till tomorrow then.’

  Tomorrow? Oh, the barbecue. I’d forgotten about it. I nod, then let the door close behind me.

  Quietness surrounds me. A hushed stillness, like that of a church, or the gym at school when I’m in there on my own. I take a deep breath, fill myself with the smell of the books. How wonderful to be a book! One that is so loved, its pages are creased and soft and warm to touch. One that is overflowing with a wonderful story and filled with such words of magic, they bring both laughter and tears.

  A cough behind the bookshelf startles me out of my daydream. I thought I was on my own. I move further down the aisle, trying to keep track of my wandering thoughts.

  I wonder if Sarah Cassandra Addison loved to read books? I shake my head. What made me suddenly think of her? I move towards the section on genealogy. What was she like, this ancestor of mine? How did she live? How did she die? Was she tall? What colour hair did she have? What did she do? I know women in those days, at least the ones from the fine families, did gentle tasks like needlework, while the poorer ones laboured at home bringing up their children. According to my mother our family were once landowners, the gentry kind. She laughed when she told me, adding, ‘It’s a pity it isn’t still the case today.’

  I look over several books on how to do family trees, select one, then move along the shelf, fingering the spines of the books. I feel their backbones, trace the titles and the names of the writers. I’m so absorbed I don’t see Mac until I reach the corner.

  ‘Hi Cassie.’

  I blush, taken unawares. ‘It’s hot, isn’t it?’ I blurt.

  He smiles and nods and looks at the title of the book I’m holding.

  ‘An assignment for English,’ I volunteer.

  ‘Sounds interesting.’

  I raise my eyes and look at him. His face is tanned, a strong, buccaneer’s face, with high cheekbones, black eyebrows, dark eyes and a wide mouth. Around his neck hangs a single gold sovereign coin, his skin bare to the waist. ‘How are things with you?’ I ask. He holds a cutlass to the sky, his arms burnt and brown from the sun, swearing allegiance to his galleon and all who sail in her.

  ‘This year’s a drag.’ The darkness in his eyes deepens. ‘I can’t wait to get to varsity.’

  ‘It must be great knowing what you want to do — being so certain,’ I say, swallowing the ache I already feel of Rewa Bay without him, knowing being at university is a different world to the bay. The nearest university is in a city a couple of hours to the south of Bridgetown, which as far as I’m concerned might as well be on another planet. And knowing too that after he leaves, there will be no chance of running into him. At the moment it doesn’t matter if he hardly knows I exist, it’s the knowing he’s near that counts.

  I start to move towards the door, ‘I’d better get going. Rana will kill me for taking so long.’

  ‘It’s not her sort of place, is it?’ Mac laughs. ‘See you.’

  As I run down the flight of stairs I suddenly feel someone following me. Close behind, breathing blue waves down my neck. I slow down, glance over my shoulder. No one. I remember the ‘voice’ on the island. Perhaps I’m going mental. Perhaps there’s been madness in our family and now it’s coming out again in my generation. Perhaps when Richard gets to my age, it’ll happen to him as well. Stop it, I tell myself, otherwise you really will go round the bend.

  When I reach the second floor I hesitate, then without knowing why, I find myself going in and seeking out the history section, the range of books on pirates and piracy. I take out one, stand and read a bit. ‘In 1720, a pirate called John Rackham, nicknamed “Calico Jack”, surrendered his pirating of the seas, after a short battle. When he was put on trial at St Jago de la Vega, an unbelievable discovery was made’. A cold, clammy sea mist is strong around me. Seagulls scream in my ear and a damp wind blows across my face. Slamming the book shut and not caring what anyone in the library thinks, I take off, dash past the long line of bookcases and down the three flights of stairs to where Rana is waiting impatiently for me.

  ‘Thought you weren’t going to be long,’ she grumbles.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, trying to slow my racing heart, my pounding blood and my quivering limbs. I join the queue to get my books issued. ‘Rana,’ I say after I’ve calmed down, ‘do you think there’s such things as ghosts?’

  Rana flicks her hair and smiles at a boy who is standing near the exit. ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘Were you on the island yesterday afternoon?’ I ask.

  ‘Nope. Haven’t been over for ages.’

  Needles of anger prick me under the skin, their sharp points irritating me. Why doesn’t she admit to it? It must have been her. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure.’ Rana peers into my face. ‘I’d get myself checked out if I was you, Cassie. You’re looking strange.’

  I swallow. ‘You promise you weren’t on the island?’

  ‘I’ve just said so, have
n’t I?’ Nudging my arm, she dismisses the subject. ‘What do you reckon about him?’

  ‘Don’t you ever think about anything except guys?’ I say crossly. The conversation with Miss McKenzie comes into my head about Rana’s lack of assignments at school. I feel like saying something to her, so she won’t get into trouble, so she’ll do something about it, but what would be the use?

  ‘What else is there?’ Rana replies, making little popping sounds with her lips. ‘I’d totally go out with him. He looks like a great kisser. What d’you reckon?’

  ‘If you say so.’ I hand over my books to the man behind the computer. And as I do so, I realise I’m still clutching tightly onto the book about pirates.

  Chapter Seven

  My cabin is in complete darkness. Somewhere water moves against rocks, a breathing lullaby. I roll over onto my side. Am I awake or asleep? Am I in a dream or is the dream in me? And is the darkness part of the dream? Or is it real?

  I am wearing a pair of Aunt Elenor’s shoes, green satin covered with gold buttons. They are so tight they’re hurting my feet, I want to take them off, but I don’t. My bridesmaid’s frock is tucked into my knickers and I’m walking along a sandy beach. Water runs up to my feet. I let it wash over the shoes until they are ruined then, pulling them off, I throw them into the air. They change into two green seagulls. I walk towards a forest of pine trees. In the distance there is a woman. She is beckoning to me, her long hair blowing wild all about her. But there is no wind. She calls to me. ‘Cassie. Oh Cassie.’ Where have I heard that voice before? Then I know. It is the voice of the ocean, the sound of the sea in the pink shell. It is the whispering I heard on the island.

  I wake with a jolt, sweating. Am I here this time? Or have I lost myself somewhere in the dream? What day is it? Is it today or is it some other day?

  The imprint of the dream begins to fade. I lean over and peer at my clock. It’s just before seven, Saturday morning. Leaving the comfort of my bed, I go over to the small window. In a far corner of the sky a fragile line of light divides night from day.