‘I’m fine, thanks. Truly.’ Truly, truly, now that you are here.
Mac hovers in the doorway. ‘I don’t suppose you’re … what I mean is … would you like to come on a whale march with me?’
A whale march. Are the whales going to be marching? Is Mac asking me for a date? My heart pounds.
‘It’s next Saturday. It’s just that I …’
I interrupt. ‘Yes I would.’ I look up at him and for a moment we stare at each other, as though both realising the importance of what is happening.
She loosed the chain, and down she lay
The broad stream bore her far away
The Lady of Shalott.
‘I was also wondering,’ says Mac, his dark eyes not leaving my face. ‘If you’d come to the senior dance with me?’
‘I’d …’ Is this really happening? ‘… I’d love to,’ I say, my fingers curling around the edges of the papers, imagining they’re holding his hand.
‘I wasn’t sure. When I saw you and Denny …’ his voice falters.
So he had seen us. Well, if I’d really thought about it, he couldn’t have missed us. I let out my caught breath. ‘It was Rana’s doing. I only went because of her.’
A short silence, except for the distant cry of an oystercatcher.
‘The dance is four weeks away,’ says Mac.
‘I’ll come on one condition,’ I say, keeping a straight face, teasing him now.
Mac looks puzzled.
‘That you come to ours with me.’
‘Your wish is my command, fair maiden,’ laughs Mac, giving an embellished bow.
Before I can respond, Rana appears behind Mac. ‘What wish?’ she asks.
‘That Cassie will be my partner in the bay rowing championships,’ says Mac, winking at me.
‘What? Come on,’ quips Rana, edging round Mac and slipping into the cabin. She looks at the both of us, knowingly. ‘Are you two going out?’
Five minutes later, after Rana is satisfied she’s heard the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, she lets Mac go.
‘I’ll ring you tonight, Cassie,’ says Mac, backing out of the cabin.
I nod and smile.
Rana settles herself on the bed next to me. ‘So, you and Mac.’
‘It’s only just happened,’ I say, feeling guilty at being so happy.
‘Don’t panic, Cassie. You haven’t fooled me. It might have “just happened”, but it’s being going on for ages.’
I look at her. Sometimes Rana seems to know things, sense them, far more than she lets on.
‘And yeah,’ she continues, ‘I know you found the pills.’ She pauses and turns towards me. ‘And yeah, if you must know, I did think of taking them, but only for about half a second.’
I sit quietly.
Rana continues. ‘Ever since finding out about my real father, things have been different for me.’
‘I know. I understand.’
‘No, you don’t, Cassie. You’ve got no idea. It’s changed my whole life. Before I found out, Mum was Mum and Dad was Dad and I was me, but afterwards I didn’t know who anyone was any more.’
I open my mouth, then close it again. I want to tell her that in time it’ll all work out, but how do I know? I want to tell her that underneath everything that has happened, she is still the same person. But is she? And I want her to promise me, above everything else, in return for all the promises she never kept, never to think of taking a bottle of pills again. Never. Ever.
‘What about school?’ I ask, trying to find a safe territory. ‘Would you come back if you were allowed?’
‘Don’t know yet. It depends.’
I wait for Rana to explain, but she doesn’t elaborate. She is quiet for a few seconds, then suddenly her face brightens. ‘You want to know what happened with Mum?’
‘If you want to tell me.’
Rana pulls up her legs and crosses them. ‘Don’t be so stuffy, Cassie. Why wouldn’t I?’
As she starts to talk, something shifts inside me, like sand filtering through an hourglass.
‘For starters, Mum never told me because she reckoned the past was the past and anything that happened there was better left there.’ Rana screws up her face. ‘And she tells me I don’t face up to things. Can you believe it?’
I nod, absentmindedly, my thoughts drifting. The past, the present and the future, each separate, each with its own time span, yet each one affecting the other.
‘Cassie, are you listening?’
I blink, pull myself back. ‘Go on.’
‘Guess what my father is?’
‘You found out?’
Without waiting for me to guess, Rana says with a proud note in her voice, ‘He’s a lawyer.’
‘Wow!’ I say, thinking of my father, who is somewhere in Australia running a hotel with a woman whose hobby is shooting wild pigs. When Mum found out she laughed and laughed and said it served him right.
Rana continues, ‘Mum told me she met my father at the university. She was working in the office, he was studying law.’
‘Did he know about you?’
‘Not until after I was born. His family moved to another town when he graduated. Mum decided not to let on. She didn’t want him to think he had to marry her.’
‘If your mother never told him, then how did your real father find out about you?’
‘You’ll never believe the next bit.’ Rana smiles to herself. ‘Dad wrote and told him.’
‘You mean your dad now? Mr Winters?’ I try to take it in. It’s like a story with beginnings and endings all over the place, and in the middle is a circle and in the middle of the circle is Rana.
‘Yep. Can you believe it? My dad had always fancied Mum, but my real dad got in first. They were all friends at university.’ She lets out a long sigh.
‘He really must have loved your mother,’ I say. ‘Your dad now, I mean. And you.’
‘Yeah,’ says Rana. ‘I reckon.’
Chapter Fifteen
Two months later, on a warm day near the end of winter, Aunt Elenor brings Grandma Sarah down to the bay for a visit. It’s also for a final try-on of my bridesmaid’s frock, which I have to admit is looking quite amazing. At least Aunt Elenor knew what she was doing when she hired Mrs Holland. The wedding is still seven weeks away, but already Aunt Elenor is like a cactus about to have its first flower. Richard disappears when he hears her voice, even though she has long dropped the idea of having him as a page boy.
Grandma Sarah settles herself in a chair, around the side of the main building, out of earshot of Aunt Elenor telling Mum all about the food arrangements for the wedding. ‘Now Cassie, what’s this great surprise you’ve got for me?’ A wing of wind lifts the edges of her wide straw hat and tugs at the blue scarf anchored around the crown.
‘My project. The one I was telling you about,’ I say, handing over the folder. When I knew Grandma Sarah was coming to the bay, I sat up the last two nights and finished it. Last week Ted gave me all the information he had found out about Sarah Cassandra, plus a long explanation about how useful the International Genealogical Index had been. When I saw how much trouble he had gone to, I kissed him and he blushed, while Mum stood at the bench and smiled and smiled.
Kneeling down beside Grandma Sarah, I wait to see what she thinks. I wanted her to be the first one to see it.
The Sea Ancestor
Grandma Sarah nods when she reads the title, then slowly turns the cover. Inside the first pocket of clear plastic is the sketch I found of Sarah Cassandra.
‘Well I never,’ she exclaims. ‘It’s you all over, Cassie. Fancy.’
Underneath the picture is:
Sarah Cassandra Addison
Born 1704
Died 1720
And on the opposite page is the poem Sea Fever
I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song a
nd the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.
I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the seagulls crying.
I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
Grandma Sarah turns the page.
A time when pirates rule the seas,
but not for much longer;
it is the time when their tyranny is about to change.
My name is Sarah Cassandra, I’m sixteen years old. Until a week ago I lived at home with my family, but because of the disgrace I have brought upon myself and indeed upon the goodness of the Addison name, I have found no alternative but to leave.
After travelling some considerable distance down the coast, four days in all, I arrived at this Inn. With the money I was given on my birthday and by the selling of my few pieces of jewellery, I am able to stay in these modest lodgings, at least until the baby is born, after which only time will tell where my path shall lead. I have sold all my jewellery but for the pink earrings fashioned from shells. The ones he gave me, the one who came from the sea, the one whose child I am carrying, although this he does not know, having set sail before I could bring myself to tell him the truth.
Until my most grievous condition became apparent to my family, it was understood that two years hence, I would be betrothed to the son of the vicarage, a person who took pleasure only in the sound of his own pompous voice. So is it little wonder my eyes and heart did stray further afield? But upon my honour, at my first meeting of the child’s father, it did happen all of a chance. It was on the stretch of beach that runs under the edge of the cliff upon which our house stands. A blowy, November day, a day when great gusts of winds carried the waves high up onto the beach, a day that stirred the very soul of the sea, my most favourite kind of day, and while walking I saw a lone figure of a man coming towards me.
As he passed he gave a slight bow, and even now as I am writing this down, my heart again takes to jumping within me, the same as it did then. I knew our meeting was not by chance.
Still I can see him that first time. His long black hair blowing, hair full of stormy days, dark blue-green eyes, cape flapping at the edges, his long stride, and the gold earring he wore in his right ear.
Over the next week I learnt from others that he was here on a short visit, one to his sister and her husband, the new owners of the local tavern, a profession that did not sit well with either my family or the vicarage.
After that first meeting, I have to confess I did then conspire to have further ‘chance’ meetings and later I learnt that he, too, had spied me in town early that same week and made his own discreet enquiries as to who I was and where I lived.
I am writing this account in a room that overlooks the harbour of St Bathans. It is to be a record for the child, to be given in the event that I am no longer here. So that when he is of an age (why am I so sure it will be a boy?) he will know who his father is, in spite of what my family might lead him to believe.
There is talk of pirates inhabiting this area, but so far I have seen none, although the landlord tells me there is one by the name of Jack Rackham who has been known to take an ale or two within these very quarters. But that aside, I am waiting for the good ship that my beloved sails upon to return to this harbour. Already five months have passed since he first set to travel to other shores. Oh, how long it seems since I’ve seen his face, felt his arms, how long …
When Grandma Sarah finishes reading, she gently closes the folder, then stares down the inlet, lost in her own thoughts.
I wait, the smell of seaweed strong on the incoming tide, the sound of the distant ocean no more than a murmur.
After a few moments Grandma Sarah turns to me and says, ‘Wonderful, Cassie. Absolutely wonderful. I’ve no idea how you’ve captured so precisely the feeling of Sarah Cassandra telling the story, but you certainly have, and it is so believable. In fact, at one stage I could have sworn I wasn’t reading the story at all, and that someone was telling it to me.’ She pauses, shakes her head, as though trying to dislodge such a notion. ‘Now I’m being fanciful.’
I smile inwardly, knowing that Grandma Sarah had ‘heard’ the story in exactly the same way I had.
Grandma Sarah hands the folder back to me. ‘There is something very real about it. Something that has an absolute ring of truth to it. Especially the first part.’
I give a small start. For the first part of the story had ‘spoken’ to me and I had no trouble whatsoever in writing, but the second part, the piece about the pirates, had given me nothing but trouble. For there was no ‘voice’ with that part, only unanswered questions. Questions to which only Sarah Cassandra knew the answers.
‘Now,’ says Grandma Sarah, changing the subject. ‘How would you like to be the keeper of the family vault from now on?’
‘You mean the suitcase?’
‘Most certainly.’
‘Oh, yes,’ I breathe. ‘I’d love it.’
‘Good. That’s settled.’
At this point Aunt Elenor comes out with a plate of biscuits. She stops and looks at me in an accusing manner. ‘You look taller,’ she says, frowning. ‘That’s all I need, you growing out of your bridesmaid’s frock before the wedding.’
‘What do you expect at her age, Elenor,’ teases Grandma Sarah, winking at me.
‘It’s not funny, Mother.’
‘Don’t worry, Aunt Elenor. I promise I won’t grow any more until after the wedding.’ I get up and give her a hug, even though she isn’t the hugging sort.
‘Goodness, Cassie! Goodness me!’ splutters Aunt Elenor, thrusting the plate of biscuits into my hands and going back inside, all a-fluster.
Grandma Sarah chuckle, and then asks, ‘Now, what about the kitten? It’s been weeks now. It’s almost old enough to have its own.’
‘I’m still trying to talk Mum round.’
Grandma Sarah clicks her tongue then reaches into her canvas bag and pulls out a plastic supermarket bag. ‘I nearly forgot. I thought you might like this.’ She lifts out my favourite shell. The lovely big pink one.
‘No, I can’t …’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Because it’s … it’s …’
‘Yes it is. But now I want you to have it. It’s time for me to start making some space around my corners.’ She pulls out another shell, a small pearl-coloured one. ‘This one’s for Richard.’
I put down the biscuits, take the pink shell and press it to my ear. How wonderful it is. Far inside, I hear the ocean. Far away, I hear the sea singing.
After Aunt Elenor and Grandma Sarah have gone, I tell Mum I’m going for a walk. Rana rang and told me she had something big to tell me and to meet her at the boat shed. Ever since the night of the high tide, Rana and I have kept in touch, seen each other, but not nearly as much as we used to. She never returned to school, in spite of the suspension being lifted, instead allowing her mother to arrange lessons through the Correspondence School, but I don’t think she’s ever bothered with them.
Arriving at the boat shed and finding Rana not there, I allow my thoughts to return to Sarah Cassandra. I was right about her having drowned at sea. Ted told me he had traced her drowning to a report in the Southern England Times about the capture of the famous pirate Jack Rackham and two women pirates. At the trial it was discovered there had been a third woman on board the ship, a young lady by the name of Sarah Cassandra Addison, but she had been washed overboard during a terrible storm and had never been found. In the report there was no mention o
f a baby, so for whatever reason Sarah Cassandra had chosen to join the pirate ship, she had obviously chosen to do it alone.
‘Not a pirate then?’ I had asked Ted, disappointment welling up inside me.
‘That’s something no one will ever know for sure,’ he had replied.
Ted also said that nowhere on the family grave was her name. But there was the name of a Thomas John Addison, born 1720, died 1771. I figured he had to be Sarah Cassandra’s child and that before joining the pirate ship, she had sent the baby back home, hoping and trusting her family would care for him. She must have included the shell earrings, wrapped them up with his few clothes, the only tangible gift from the baby’s mother and father. For what other explanation could there be for their survival? If Sarah Cassandra had taken the earrings on board the ship with her, they would be down at the bottom of the ocean.
My thoughts are cut short by the arrival of Rana. She sits down beside me.
‘Hi,’ I say, feeling a bit like a stranger.
‘Yeah, hi.’ Rana starts grinning. ‘What do you reckon?’
‘About what?’
‘About some friends of yours getting caught lifting videos.’
‘Friends of mine?’ I say, puzzled. Then it clicks. ‘Not Bevan and Denny?’ I ask.
Rana nods and we both laugh. Then before I can ask her if that’s the big news, she says in a quiet voice, ‘I’m going away, Cassie.’
A heron lands on the rock beside the boat shed.
‘It’s all been arranged. Mum’s done it all. Behind my back, wouldn’t you know. What a sneak.’
‘Where to?’ I ask quietly.
‘You’ll never guess. Not in a million years.’
I watch the heron digging its beak down into the soft damp sand, looking for food.
‘America. Can you believe it?’ Rana’s voice turns shy. ‘I’m going to stay with my father. See what happens. Only four weeks first off, then who knows.’
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