The moment of change? For a few seconds the sky remains dark, then gradually it lightens, and the bay fills with brightness.
‘Please come,’ urges Rana, rolling over on the grass outside my cabin and looking into my face.
It is mid-morning and I still can’t decide whether to go to the movies. If I don’t go, Rana is never going to let me forget it. I don’t really want to be seen hanging around with Bevan and Denny, they’re such creeps, but if I let on to Rana what I think, she’ll tell me I’m a snob. Maybe I am.
‘Well …?’
‘Okay,’ I say slowly, a plan forming in my head, ‘I’ll come if you let me wear your new t-shirt.’ I’m quite sure she will never agree.
Rana sits up. ‘What!’
‘You heard,’ I say, smiling. ‘And some of the perfume you bought last night.’
‘No way!’ explodes Rana. She hunches her shoulders and stares stubbornly at the hills.
‘All right. Go on your own.’
Silence. Then another blast from Rana. ‘I don’t know what’s with you today, Cassie.’
I’m not sure either. Perhaps it’s to do with her not telling me sooner about Bevan.
More silence.
Rana bites the side of her mouth. ‘Mum’ll only let me go if you’re going,’ she confesses.
Now it makes sense. I’d wondered why she had been trying to persuade me as though her life depended upon it. ‘The t-shirt and perfume,’ I say. It’s not like me to be so lousy, but now I’ve started I’m not going to back down. And besides, it’s time Rana had a taste of her own medicine.
‘Get lost.’
‘That’s fine. I’d much rather stay here anyway,’ I say, pulling out a stalk of grass.
Her face sags.
‘Oh, please, Cassie. Don’t be so mean.’
I chew the sweet end of the grass, giving it my full attention. When I’ve sucked out the juice, I say, ‘Okay. Just the t-shirt.’
Rana jumps up. ‘All right. You win. But you wait.’
The threat hangs in mid-air.
‘Here I am doing you a favour …’ I tease.
Rana cuts in. ‘You reckon.’
Mum walks around the corner of Richard’s cabin. ‘Ah, there you are, Cassie. Hello, Rana.’
Rana grins. ‘Is it all right if Cassie comes to the movies tonight?’ Her voice is sugar sweet.
Mum glances at me. ‘This is the first I’ve heard of it. I thought you were going to start your project. And what about Ted and the barbecue?’
‘Please,’ I beg.
‘Clare’s going as well,’ adds Rana.
I blink. She never said anything about that to me.
‘Clare Scott?’
Rana nods.
I know Mum doesn’t really trust Rana, she thinks she’s too scatterbrained, too unruly for her own good and that somehow she might lead me down the wrong path. She doesn’t understand her, that’s all. Rana sails her own ship, captains her own crew and walks her own gangplank. Sometimes I dream of being like her. But it is only a dream, for I haven’t the courage.
After a second Mum nods. ‘As long as you’re home on the quarter to eleven bus.’
‘We will be,’ assures Rana.
‘Cassie, if you want to see Grandma Sarah you’d better get a move on.’ Mum disappears.
I walk up the track with Rana. ‘What did you do that for?’ I ask.
‘What?’
‘Say that Clare is going as well.’
She sighs. ‘Sometimes, Cassie, you’re real thick. Look, all the adults think Clare is wonderful. So I reckoned if your Mum thought she was going as well, then she’d be sure to let you go.’
‘As long as she doesn’t find out. If she does, I won’t be allowed out for weeks.’
‘Quit worrying,’ laughs Rana, breaking away and running up the last bit of the track. She turns and waves. The sun glints on her hair. ‘See ya.’
When Mum drops me off at Grandma Sarah’s an hour later, it starts to rain. The drops are fat and warm, like summer puddles. The front door is open. Sophie, cat number three, sits on the step. She is black with white stocking legs. She meows as I walk towards her.
‘That you, Cassie?’ wings a voice from round the side of the house.
‘Coming.’ After giving Sophie a pat, I follow the side path until I see Grandma Sarah sitting on her knees among a whole lot of bright pink and blue flowers. Over her straw hat sits a torn plastic supermarket bag.
‘Hand me the secateurs, there’s a girl,’ she says, stretching out a yellow rubber hand.
I search the ground until I find what I think she’s wanting. ‘These?’
‘That’s them.’
I hand them over. The rain is pouring down now, bouncing off the ground like little rubber balls.
‘Go inside before you drown, Cassie,’ says Grandma Sarah. ‘I’ll only be a tick. Put the kettle on, there’s a girl.’
Once inside the small laundry at the back of the house, I take off my jacket, run my hands through my hair and squeeze out the water. I decide to leave my shoes on, knowing Grandma Sarah won’t care if I leave wet tracks.
I traipse through to the dark little kitchen, where the hedge-green walls and long wooden bench have gathered up any possible light. Even the one window is lost in the gloom, the glass covered with branches of a tree. Aunt Elenor is always at Grandma Sarah to have it cut down, and every time she mentions it, Grandma Sarah gives her the same answer. ‘And if I did, where would the birds nest?’
Taking two mugs from the hooks under the side cupboard, I put a tea bag in each, and wait for the kettle to boil.
Grandma Sarah has lived in the same house ever since I can remember. Mum said she and Grandad bought it a week before they got married. It’s so big and so full of junk. Everyone wants her to sell it, but Grandma Sarah says if they want her to leave, they’re going to have to carry her out. I’m glad, as I can’t imagine her living anywhere else. Where would she keep all her lovely clutter? The old books, Great-Grandma Rose’s furniture that’s squeezed into all the corners, and her millions of shells.
As the kettle boils, Grandma Sarah comes clomping in the back door.
‘Wonderful,’ she exclaims, coming into the kitchen and giving me a great big wet hug. ‘You’re a real honey.’
To Grandma Sarah everything is always wonderful. It’s just the way she thinks. I guess that’s why I like her so much.
Water drips from the edges of the plastic bag over her straw hat onto the floor and her jersey smells mouldy. ‘Such a glorious downpour. Just what the roses need.’ She takes off the plastic bag and shakes it all over the kitchen. ‘How’s your mother?’
‘Fine.’ I pour the hot water into the mugs. The tea bags float about like life jackets.
‘Right. You keep on. There’s some biscuits in the petunia tin.’ Grandma Sarah turns and goes out of the kitchen. ‘I won’t be a moment, I want to get something for you.’ I hear her tramping through to the front of the house.
After finding the biscuits and putting some milk in a jug, I take the tray through to the sitting room. It’s chock-a-block. Chairs, two sofas, a big dark-brown sideboard with curly edges and claw feet, two tellies and a glass cabinet. The cabinet is meant to have the Crown Derby teaset displayed in it, but instead Grandma Sarah’s got it full of her shells. The teaset is the one big family treasure. One day Grandma said it was time for a change, so she put the lot — the teapot, all the cups and saucers, milk and sugar jug — in a cardboard box and shoved it under her bed. Poor Aunt Elenor nearly went spare.
Just as I’m putting the tray on the table between the two television sets, Grandma Sarah sails in carrying a suitcase. It’s brown and battered at the corners and about the size of a pillow. Holding it together, around its middle, is a piece of rope. After dumping it on the floor she picks up her mug and a biscuit and settles into the high winged chair by the window. ‘Now, tell me all about school.’
I’m longing to know what’s inside the su
itcase, but I know she’ll tell me when she’s good and ready. I start to talk about Miss McKenzie and the project. Before I get very far, Grandma Sarah interrupts.
‘She was a concert pianist, you know.’
‘Miss McKenzie?’ I can’t believe it. I can’t imagine her being anything but a teacher.
‘And she was brilliant.’ Grandma Sarah stares into space. ‘She started touring when she was only seventeen. That’s how exceptional she was.’ She shakes her head, as though dusting off the memory.
‘What happened? Why didn’t she keep on?’
‘She fell in love. That’s what happened. With the violinist. He was touring with her.’
How romantic. I hold my breath, hoping she won’t stop. I want to know about Miss McKenzie.
Grandma Sarah’s voice is low. ‘Her parents wouldn’t let her marry him. So he took his own life. Shot himself.’ She shakes her head, then continues, ‘Adelaide McKenzie was from a very well-thought-of family in the town and he was a German. It was years after the war, and a lot of people still hated them and what they did. But Rolf … you couldn’t have found a more gentle person.’ Her voice fades.
I try to imagine what it must have been like for her. Poor old Miss McKenzie. And I think of the way the kids treat her at school. It’s not fair. A lump of sadness sticks in my throat.
‘After he killed himself, she never played the piano again.’ Rain drums on the tin roof. ‘And what’s it matter now?’ murmurs Grandma Sarah. ‘Ask yourself. What’s it matter now what or who he was? All these years down the track.’
I blink hard, trying to take away the threat of tears. The garden’s gone all blurry, the flowers and colours running into one another. Poor silly old lady. She shouldn’t have stopped playing the piano.
Grandma Sarah bangs her mug down on the tray. ‘But here I am rambling on about things that happened more than half a century ago and there you are waiting to hear about your own family.’ She picks up another biscuit, takes a bite. ‘It’s all in there, Cassie,’ she says, pointing to the suitcase.
Looking away from the garden, I kneel down beside the case, keeping my head down. I don’t want Grandma to see my tears, she might think I’m soft.
‘I haven’t been through it for years,’ Grandma Sarah tells me. ‘But I know whatever is in there is to do with the family.’
I go to untie the rope.
‘Oh, not here. Take it home with you, then you can pore over everything to your heart’s content.’
My fingers twitch over the rope. I’m longing to see what’s inside. Dead bones, long-gone people like Miss McKenzie when she was young — but these are relics and fragments from my own past, my own people. Now they’re all going to have to wait at least until tomorrow, as there won’t be time before going to the movies.
Before Grandma Sarah can change her mind about letting me look, she stands up and beckons for me to follow. ‘Come, I’ve got a surprise to show you,’ she says, already shelving my project.
Reluctantly, I leave the case. Already it’s like leaving a friend, one with hundreds of secrets. I get up and follow her down the hall.
‘In here, Cassie.’
I step into the sunroom. It’s full of windows. I remember when Grandad was still alive he used to have his cactus plants along the windowsills. Now they’ve all gone. Marmalade, the second cat, is curled up in the middle of the cane sofa. Nestled into her, looking like soft pompoms, are four newborn kittens.
‘Oh,’ I breathe. ‘How lovely.’
‘Lovely indeed!’ scoffs Grandma. ‘I was told she had been fixed. Ha!’ She shakes her head. ‘The question is, would you like one?’
‘Would I!’ I bend over and pick up the toffee-coloured one. It is so tiny, eyes shut tight. But what about Mum? She’ll never let me have one. After Jessie, our dog for eight years, was run over, Mum said no more animals. She said they took your heart out when something happened to them. ‘I’d love this one.’ I say, ignoring the warning voice in my head.
‘Good. It’s all yours if you can persuade your mother. Now, what about Richard?’
I shake my head. ‘Better not. Mum will probably go spare over me having this one.’
‘Well, Elenor won’t want one, that’s for sure.’ Grandma Sarah winks at me, then bursts into her booming laugh. I return the kitten to the litter. Marmalade stirs, opens her eyes, gives the kitten a dozy lick, and then nods off again.
‘You’re sure about Richard?’
‘The only thing he’s after is a motor for the boat.’
Grandma Sarah smiles. ‘Just like his Great Uncle Geoffrey. Always wanting to tinker with engines.’
Then before I can stop myself, I say, ‘Grandma, do you think there’s such things as ghosts? Spirits?’
She is quiet for a second, then nods thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps. Why?’
‘Oh, nothing really. I just wondered.’ Then I say, ‘Mum said something about there being a pirate in our family.’
This time there is no hesitation in Grandma Sarah’s reply. ‘Certainly there was.’
So it’s true. How brilliant! ‘Do you know anything about him?’
‘Certainly not as well known as the other two, perhaps.’
Now what’s she talking about? There were more than two pirates in the world. Sometimes Grandma Sarah seems to be in a place that nobody else knows about. ‘But there were lots of pirates,’ I say. ‘Not only two.’
‘Ah yes. Men maybe. But who’s talking about them?’ She gives a secret little smile. ‘I’m talking about women.’
I gaze at her unbelieving. ‘Women pirates?’
‘Haven’t you heard of Mary Read and Anne Bonny?’
‘No,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘Women. Wow! Really?’
‘Why not?’ says Grandma Sarah. ‘I’d have made a good one.’
I can’t help but grin, as a picture of Pirate Grandma Sarah flashes into my mind. Towering over me with her sea-rippling hair and her seagulling eyes, wearing striped baggy trousers and brandishing a sword. It’s true — she would have made a great pirate.
‘A headstrong lass by all accounts.’
A phantom sea breeze touches the side of my cheek.
I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life …
‘Ran away to sea. Or so the family story goes.’
‘Was it …?’ The taste of salt is strong upon my lips.
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way, where the wind’s like a whetted knife …
‘Was it Sarah Cassandra Addison?’ I ask, yet all the time knowing it to be so, knowing it to be the same person who had once owned the pink shell earrings.
‘Of course. Who else?’ says Grandma Sarah.
Chapter Eight
All the way back to Rewa Bay I think about Sarah Cassandra. Grandma told me that, according to family legend, she had been only sixteen when she’d run away from home. Two years older than me. I wonder why she left? What could have happened? Maybe it was to get out of an arranged marriage. I’m sure they had such arrangements in those days. Or maybe she had fallen in love with a sailor, not realising he was a pirate. Or maybe she was simply looking for a different way of life, like Rana.
‘You’re quiet,’ says Mum, slowing down at the last set of traffic lights before heading towards the bay.
I put away all thoughts of Sarah Cassandra for the moment. ‘Grandma’s giving me a kitten.’
‘Oh is she now! We’ll see about that.’ Mum puts her foot flat on the accelerator and the station wagon roars up the hill like a lion. The rain has stopped. Steam rises like muslin rags from the side of the road. ‘And was Grandma helpful about the family?’
‘She was great.’
‘Still, you don’t want to believe everything she tells you. She’s got a very vivid imagination and loves a good story.’
When I make no comment, knowing full well she’s referring to the pirate thing, Mum continues. ‘All I’m saying is, take what she’s told you with a grain of salt.’
/> My insides tumble about. I know Mum’s not trying to be mean, I know she’s trying to be practical. And when you think about it, she’s probably right. The sensible thing would be to do my project on Great-Grandma Rose or someone else who hasn’t been dead nearly four hundred years. But I want it to be Sarah Cassandra. I want to tell her story.
‘Remember, Ted would be happy to help you with your research.’
‘I know.’ These days Ted seems to be moving in closer and closer. Lately it feels as though he is walking right beside us all the time. I glance out the side window. Far in the distance, the mountains, like sharp teeth, eat the sky. At the moment I don’t want to share Sarah Cassandra with anyone, especially not Ted. He wouldn’t understand.
Mum continues. ‘After all, he does have access to that sort of thing, belonging to the genealogy society. He’s been telling me about the different ways information can be gleaned.’
‘I won’t forget.’ Learning that Ted is a member of the genealogy society suddenly makes me feel that the suitcase Grandma Sarah gave me needs protection. I fold my arms around it, then close my eyes until we arrive home.
After I’ve helped Mum lug her doll supplies down the track and into her workroom, I start towards my cabin, planning a quick look in the case. Before I can, Mum says, ‘Go and fetch Richard, will you, dear.’
‘But I want to …’
‘It’d be such a help. I’ve got a million things to do before Ted arrives.’
‘Where is he?’
‘At Justin’s. Where else!’
I cut my sigh short. Justin is Mac’s younger brother.
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land
The Lady of Shalott?
The suitcase carrying the family treasures will have to wait. There are never enough excuses to go to Mac’s place.
‘Okay,’ I say, trying to still my trembling heart. ‘I’ll go as soon as I’ve put this away.’ I walk as far as the corner of the main cabin, then once out of my mother’s sight, I run, leap, dance. Oh! Day of delight! I fling the suitcase on my bed, grab up my hairbrush and sweep it through my trembling locks. But where, oh where, is the hair of which I dream? Why instead does it look like an angry gorse bush?
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