Halfway down the hill a thought strikes me. What if she was visiting a friend? What if that house isn’t her house? I shrug my shoulders and keep walking.
At the bottom of the hill, I turn right and cross the road into Harris Street. The ground is covered in leaves after the wind yesterday. All the gardens in the area are small and neat, clipped and trimmed, tied up in readiness for the coming months.
As I walk up to the gate I saw Miss McKenzie going through, I wish I had some flowers. Or a magazine. What if she’s too sick to see me? If only I’d thought to ask the secretary in the office exactly what Miss McKenzie had done to herself and where she lived. Perhaps she won’t be at home. Maybe she’s in hospital. All these thoughts and more crowd into my mind as I go up the narrow, concrete path. The front door is open. I knock loudly.
‘Come in, Marjory,’ calls a cheery voice.
Marjory! Whoever it is must be expecting someone with that name. But it doesn’t stop me from stepping into the wide hall. A smell of gingerbread fills the air. Now what? I’m standing dithering when a woman appears. She looks about the same age as Miss McKenzie.
‘Oh,’ she says, a bit taken aback.
‘I’ve come to see Miss McKenzie. I’m in her class. If that’s all right?’ The words come out in a jumble, tumbling over one another like somersaults.
‘How nice. I’m sure she will be pleased.’ The woman leads me down the hall. She pauses outside a door at the far end of the house. ‘I’m her younger sister. Gwyn Roberts.’
I’d never thought of Miss McKenzie having a sister. Gwyn pushes open the door. ‘You’ve got a visitor, Adelaide,’ she announces, stepping to one side, letting me in.
Miss McKenzie is propped up in bed, surrounded by books and pillows. A rose-covered quilt covers the bed. She looks up as I enter. ‘Cassie. What a pleasant surprise.’ Her white hair is pinned back, but some bits float around her face, like they’ve had enough of being tied down.
Now that I’m here, I feel stupid and shy. If only I’d brought something to give her.
Gwyn bustles around behind me. ‘There now. You sit here.’ She unloads a chair full of books. ‘What a thoughtful girl.’
‘I can’t stay long …’
‘I’ll make a cup of tea,’ chatters Gwyn, pushing open the window a fraction. ‘That’s better.’
‘There’s some lemonade in the fridge,’ suggests Miss McKenzie. ‘Perhaps Cassie would rather …’
‘A cup of tea is fine,’ I say.
‘Right,’ says Gwyn. ‘I’ll leave you two.’ A loud banging on the front door sends her scurrying down the hall. I presume it is Marjory this time.
After she’s gone, the room seems very quiet. I sit still, feeling awkward, like I’m in class and Miss McKenzie is up the front.
‘She’s very bossy,’ whispers Miss McKenzie, her frail fingers trying to catch the wisps of hair as they lift in the light draught from the window.
‘I hope you’re all right,’ I say.
She sighs. ‘A nasty twist to the ankle, that’s all. But my goodness, how it did hurt. And, I must add, it was entirely my own fault.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Another brief silence. ‘We did new poets today,’ I venture.
‘Ah. I wondered about the school’s judgement in securing the services of Mr Boot.’ She turns and gazes out of the window. ‘Don’t you think this is the loveliest time of the year?’ Without waiting for a reply, she says, ‘When the leaves lie thick at your feet, and winter is nudging at your cheek.’
Before I can ask who the poet is she’s quoting, Gwyn appears with a tray laden with gingerbread, two cups of tea, a bowl of sugar and a jug of milk. She beams at the both of us. ‘This is just what Adelaide needed. A visit from a young person.’
After Gwyn has gone again I sip my tea and Miss McKenzie nibbles on a piece of the gingerbread. In between mouthfuls she asks me about Rana. Then, without knowing why, I tell her everything. When I’ve finished, I feel better, as though getting it out into the open has somehow changed things. Not changed what’s been going on with Rana, but the way I feel about the goings-on. Miss McKenzie nods her head thoughtfully, makes no judgement, and then changes the subject.
‘Cassie, I want to say how much I enjoyed the piece on your grandmother.’
For a moment I’m puzzled, then realise she must be talking about the piece we wrote in class ages ago.
‘Most interesting. And well written too. You have a gift with words.’
‘Do I?’ I’m blushing, but happy.
‘You should take English at University.’
‘Mum wants me to be a surgeon.’
Miss McKenzie bursts out laughing and shakes her head. ‘Oh, no. That’s not you at all.’
It seems Miss McKenzie understands me better than Mum. And I suppose sensing that was what made me realise she would understand about Sarah Cassandra. I put down my cup and saucer, pick up my bag and pull out my folder. ‘Would you like to see what I’ve done for the family project?’
‘Very much. If you would trust me with it for a few days?’
I nod, but before putting the folder on the end of her bed, I take out the sketch I found.
‘This is Sarah Cassandra Addison, my ancestor,’ I say, handing it over.
‘My … my …’ murmurs Miss McKenzie. ‘If you hadn’t told me, I would have said it was you.’
Then I tell Miss McKenzie about the possibility of Sarah Cassandra being a pirate and how I’ve been having these funny things happening around me lately. Almost like she is around.
When I finally finish burbling, I feel stupid. What must Miss McKenzie think? But before I can explain further, she starts speaking. Her voice is soft, like she’s letting out a family secret, like she’s allowing herself to open a forbidden door.
‘Once, a long time ago, I was almost trampled to death by a horse. If I hadn’t been snatched away, I wouldn’t be here today to tell the tale. But when I looked around to see who had saved me, there was no one there.’ She pauses for a brief second, then continues. ‘I was lucky to escape with only a cut on the side of my face. But do you know the most wonderful thing of all?’
Wordless, I shake my head.
‘On the way to the hospital, I heard a violin playing. I asked where the music was coming from, but all my family told me was to lie quietly, that I’d had a bad knock on the head and I needed to rest.’ Miss McKenzie smiles to herself, locked in another time. ‘You see, they thought I was imagining the music. But I wasn’t. If they had heard it, they would have known it was Rolf.’
I catch my breath, tears prick my eyes. Rolf was the man she had wanted to marry. The curtains stir in the late afternoon breeze, as Miss McKenzie’s voice fades. ‘It was the most beautiful music you ever heard.’
Chapter Twelve
Two weeks later I learn Rana has been suspended from school. Clare tells me, not out of spite, but because she knows how close we were. After school, going home on the bus, I try to decide if I should go and visit Rana, having admitted to myself that I was pretty horrible the last time she was around. A lump rises in my throat. Never before have I been so nasty, but after that Saturday night and the way she treated me, the sheer desolation I had felt going home on the bus afterwards is something I never want to go through again. Not for Rana or anyone else.
But in spite of my new-found determination, by the time the bus reaches the bay, I’ve decided I will go and see Rana. After all, what harm can it do? It doesn’t mean I’m going to be her slave again. Surely we can at least be friends. It’s stupid to be going on like this, I admit to myself. Besides, I miss her crazy ideas, her mad adventures. Things are dull without her, too serious, and I’m pretty sure Rana will want to make up. She was obviously trying the other day at school and I wouldn’t let her.
Even though the air is cold, the sun is nice on my back as I climb the hill towards Rana’s place. The back door is open, a radio blaring somewhere inside. I knock. There’s no reply. I call, ‘Hello. Anyone there?
’ Still no answer. I’m about to walk away when Mrs Winters appears from around the side of the house. She gives a start when she sees me.
‘Is Rana around?’ I ask.
Mrs Winters shakes her head. She looks tired and sad. ‘She’s moved out.’
‘Oh! I didn’t realise …’ The news that Rana is not living at home catches me by the throat.
‘Yesterday,’ continues Mrs Winters. ‘Took off without so much as a goodbye.’
I’m stunned.
‘Come in, Cassie.’
I don’t want to. Instead I want to go far, far away. Back to the times that were full of happy sunshine, the days when Rana and I danced and laughed and played ring-a-ring o’roses, but I stay and I follow Mrs Winters inside. She sits down at the table and points at a chair for me to do the same. ‘You’ve probably gathered things haven’t been the best for a while.’
I nod dumbly.
She gazes at me. ‘You’ve always been such a good influence on Rana, Cassie. But, like everything else, she’s obviously driven you into the ground as well. It was bound to happen. It was just a matter of time.’
I make no comment. Mrs Winters lets out a long sigh. ‘Ever since she was little, she’s been headstrong. Having you around, Cassie, has been the best thing for her. Not that she would ever admit it. And now she’s obviously gone and messed that up.’
‘She’ll come back,’ I say, but not believing it for a second, knowing Rana.
‘No,’ says Mrs Winters, shaking her head. ‘You and I both know she won’t. She’s already made it quite clear, she can’t bear living here, can’t bear me.’ She gives a weak smile. ‘But enough of Rana. What have you been up to? How’s school? I’ve missed you coming around.’
Half an hour later, walking back down the Winters’ track, I’m feeling sick inside. Oh Rana, if only I’d allowed you in the other day, if only I’d agreed to a truce. Perhaps, if I had, you’d still be here. Why, Rana? Is it because of all the business about your father? Or is there something else?
Turning towards the bay, I see the ocean glinting silver, like the sharp edge of a knife … I’m standing on its rim … falling, falling into the silent ocean … Where are you, Rana? … my hair streaming, weeping all around …
‘Hi there!’
I give a violent start, jerk myself back into this world and swing around. Behind me stands Mac, grinning. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you.’
‘No. It’s okay. It’s …’
‘You all right?’ His grin disappears and he leans towards me slightly.
I force a smile, trying to shake off the terrible feeling of foreboding that has filled me since leaving the Winters’ place. ‘Rana’s walked out. Left home,’ I blurt, desperate to tell someone. At any other time Mac would have been the last person I would tell, he’s too special, too hidden within me, belonging only with my inner world of words.
‘We’ve been friends for so long,’ I say, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘And now she goes off, without saying … without …’ My voice dwindles away … a silent uttering of the leaves in the trees … I swallow hard at the choking sensation in my throat … and winter comes, cold and bleak … I feel Mac’s closeness, feel his compassion. Don’t let me cry … the warmth of childhood long gone. I break down. ‘Why didn’t she tell me? Doesn’t she know how much I care about her? We’ve been friends since …’
Mac reaches out, breaking in to my sadness. ‘She’ll be okay, Cassie.’
‘Yes,’ I whisper. ‘She’ll be okay.’ But in my heart I’m not so sure.
Once home, I have this great longing to go to the island, to be on my own, to get away from everything. My feelings about Rana and Mac are all muddled up, criss-crossing, going round and round in my head until it hurts. I need the peace of the island, even if it is only for a little while. Mum looks doubtful when I ask.
‘Cassie, it gets dark so quickly at this time of year, plus you know how fast the weather changes.’
‘I promise to be back in an hour.’
‘Well …’ Since telling her about Rana, I’ve noticed she’s been careful with what she says to me. ‘All right. But no longer,’ agrees Mum, rifling through her box of threads.
Richard raises his eyes from the TV and asks if he can go as well, but Mum shakes her head. ‘I think it’d be nice if Cassie went on her own this time.’
He slumps back down in the chair. ‘It’s not fair.’
‘Next time,’ I say, ruffling his hair. Richard pulls away and scowls, but before I’m out of the room he’s already forgotten about going to the island and is immersed once again in a programme about owls.
Two minutes later I’m in the dinghy, slipping the oars through the calm water. The tide is on the turn, the high water breathing quietly before starting to pull back towards the ocean, the air chilly now the last of the sun has disappeared behind the row of black hills. A lone seagull stands on the shore watching me.
Rowing across the wide stretch of water, my mind wanders back to my meeting with Mac this afternoon. For the ten minutes or so we were together I felt sure he was wanting to ask me something, but in the end didn’t, because of the state I was in about Rana. Thinking about it now, there wasn’t one thing he said that suggested such a thing, only a strong feeling on my part.
The dinghy gives a shudder as the stern hits the sandbank on the island, jolting me back to the present. I quickly scramble out into the cold water, my old jeans already pulled up, but not far enough to stop the legs getting partly wet. After pulling the boat up onto the shore, I don’t bother to anchor it. Already the water is retreating fast, now leaving only a dark stain on the sand, where not more than two minutes ago it had covered my feet.
After putting on my sneakers, breathing in deeply the smell of the sea and the bush, I head towards the forest of pine trees then, remembering the last time and the whispering voice, decide to keep to the outer edges. After walking for a while, I find myself on the far side of the island. Darkness is already pulling in fast, the time of dusk vanishing and the noisy seagulls are quiet and settling for the night. I know I should be heading back, but it’s the first time in ages I’ve felt happy. The sound of shells crunching under my feet, the sharp smell of winter, and the rising moon white in the sky. Why then won’t I allow myself to think about Rana? What am I afraid of? The truth. But what is the truth? What is Rana’s truth? Is it something like the truth of her father?
Now I’m in the hidden pocket of the island, where there are no houses, no signs of civilisation, only the view of the mainland covered in dense bush, the separating stretch of water and the darkening sky. My thoughts turn from Rana to Sarah Cassandra. I stop and stand perfectly still. If I was Sarah Cassandra and lived three hundred years ago, at this precise second in this precise location, what would be the difference between now and then? What makes this moment the twenty-first century and not Sarah Cassandra’s time? I close my eyes, listen and feel with all my senses. The ocean would sound the same. The salt spray would taste the same and the bush would smell the same. So what makes the difference? If nature keeps the same cycle no matter what the century, then it can only be the events and the people. Then a crazy thought flits into my mind. What if the whole of time is happening simultaneously, but on different levels?
At this wild, disturbing thought, my eyes fly open. And before I can tell myself the idea is totally ridiculous, I see her. I see Sarah Cassandra standing right in front of me, as clear as if she belongs to this century, her tawny hair tumbling about her face, the pink shell earrings shimmering in the strange half-light.
‘Help her.’ The whispering cry encircles me, pulls me fathoms down … then the time splinter fades, my eyelids flicker … She is gone. Now there is only the sound of the distant ocean.
Next I’m running, running like I never have before. Through the darkness, away from the deserted side of the island. My thoughts are jumbled, confused. It didn’t happen. I didn’t see Sarah Cassandra. I couldn’t have. Such things only
happen in books. It’s the pirate thing. It’s getting to me, driving me into all sorts of imaginings. My lungs are aching and my breath coming out in sobs, but I don’t stop until I come to the dinghy. I grab the rope and pull the boat to the water’s edge, then clamber inside. All sorts of impossible, silly questions fill my head. If I did see Sarah Cassandra, who did she mean when she said, ‘Help her’? Perhaps I heard wrong, perhaps she said ‘Help me’? No — for if I did hear anything at all, it was definitely ‘Help her.’
Halfway across the inlet the answer strikes me. Sarah Cassandra was telling me to help Rana. But why? The question has no sooner entered my head than I remember something else about the vision of my ancestor, something that until now hasn’t had time to register. Sarah Cassandra had been pregnant.
Chapter Thirteen
During the following three days the weather comes with force, leaving no doubt it is winter. Sheets of wind and rain sweep up the inlet, beat against the little cabins and turn the inlet into a lashing sea. And, sitting at my little desk, staring out of the window into the bleakness of it all, I’m wondering what it would have been like to be sailing on a pirate ship in the midst of such weather. To be Sarah Cassandra, sixteen and pregnant, far from home, living among cut-throat villains, thieves and plunderers. Shaking my head, I cannot imagine, not even for a second, what it must have been like.
And then, remembering her plea, help her, and her swollen belly, I’m again jolted into thinking about Rana. Was Sarah Cassandra trying to tell me Rana was pregnant? No — I can’t believe it. I won’t. She wouldn’t have …? My thoughts struggle against the awfulness of it, struggle against the remotest chance of it being true. Not Rana. Not the one who had always skimmed the waves and sung her own song and whose wild, buccaneering spirit and untamed pirate ways I had secretly always longed for myself. Not my shipmate and compass. No — not that Rana. If she is pregnant, then it’s another Rana. One I don’t know at all.
Sea Dreamer Page 9
