The Summer of Telling Tales

by Laura Summers

  ‘I came here on holiday once, when I was ten,’ says Mum quietly. ‘With Anna, Gran and Grandad, the year before he died. I expect it’s all different now.’

  We sit staring out through the windscreen at the sea below.

  ‘Hey! What’s that?’ shouts Ellie suddenly. She’s pointing at three shiny dark grey footballs bobbing up and down in the water. Puzzled, we peer down, realizing the footballs have eyes, snouts and whiskers.

  ‘Seals!’ Mum says excitedly. ‘They’re seals!’

  I’ve only ever seen seals before on TV and just once at the theme park Dad took us to, after he hit Mum that first time. She knew I hated all the screamy rides and I’ve got a thing about heights – standing on a chair is an adventure – but Dad was getting twitchy because it had cost a packet to get in and now I didn’t want to go on anything, so she suggested we all looked at the animals for a bit. Seeing them cooped up in their tiny pens and cages was even more depressing so Dad and Ellie went back on the rides again.

  Mum and I went and sat down by the white concrete pool and watched as the keeper tried to bribe some seals with lumps of smelly fish in return for pushing a doorbell and clapping their flippers together and other essential marine life-skills. But the seals weren’t interested and completely lost the plot when the fish ran out. They lay down right where they were, and went on strike, which secretly made me want to cheer.

  At the end of the show I glanced over at Mum to see if she wanted to go. She was sitting perfectly still next to me, but behind her dark sunglasses I saw tears rolling down her cheeks, even though her lips were bent up into a smile. I reached for her hand and held it tight and we sat through the show all over again, until Dad came to find us with Ellie.

  The seals swimming here look totally different. They’re bursting with energy. We watch them for ages as they play around the rocks before finally swimming out to sea and disappearing.

  ‘Grandad used to tease me that seals were really mermaids in disguise,’ Mum tells us. ‘He told us a story about their tears turning into priceless pearls. And we believed it. We used to get up early, Anna and I, and hunt through the seaweed on the beach for them.’

  ‘I bet these are the grandchildren of the ones you saw,’ says Ellie.

  She’s desperate to get out and explore but Mum makes her clip Bruno’s lead onto his collar before we open the car doors. It feels good to be out in the fresh salty air after being stuck inside the car for so long. We give Bruno some water poured into the old dog bowl Ellie’s brought, then set off along the path. The wind blows our hair across our faces and we look like wild things but none of us care. Bruno is excited too and pulls on his lead, wanting to explore every dip and hollow in the short springy grass in case it’s the start of a rabbit burrow. We wind our way down the path to the beach, take off our shoes and walk barefoot along the damp sand.

  There are a few people around now, walking their dogs or fishing. We’re heading for the little rickety wooden shack on stilts at the far end of the beach.

  ‘It used to be a café,’ Mum tells us.

  ‘Hope it still is – I’m starving,’ Ellie says.

  It is still a café but it’s closed. Disappointed, we sit on its weather-beaten wooden steps wondering what to do next when an old man with a fierce expression and a shock of white hair appears behind the window and stares down at us. We all jump and Ellie gives a little squeal.

  He unlocks the door and pokes his head outside.

  ‘Not open till eight!’ he snaps. Ellie pulls a face, which he notices. ‘Was it breakfast you’re wanting or just drinks?’

  ‘Um, breakfast, please,’ Mum tells him.

  He waves to one of the fishermen carrying a bucket and rod, making his way towards the hut. ‘Well, come on then,’ he announces gruffly. ‘Might as well do yours and Bill’s together.’

  Despite his scary-looking appearance, we don’t need asking twice. Mum takes Bruno’s lead and is about to tie him up when the man tuts.

  ‘Aw, bring him in. Don’t stand on ceremony here!’

  Chapter 9

  Ellie

  The old man tells us he’s seventy-one and has a gammy knee that gives him jip, whatever that is, on cold damp days like this. He says it in a voice that makes it sound like it’s our fault, but Mum replies that she knows how miserable arthritis is, because her mum had it. This calms him down a bit and he tells us his name is Stan, he’s too old for this cooking lark, but to sit ourselves down.

  There are six tables squashed into the room with three or four chairs tucked around each one. None of the chairs match but I decide I like this because you can choose the one that fits your size or your mood. We sit down at a round table covered with a red and white checked tablecloth and I can’t help noticing there’s a huge rip in the middle and the flowers in the vase died last century. Dad would have complained and walked straight out but Mum doesn’t even seem to notice.

  Stacked against the walls of the café are all sorts of bits and pieces: metal buckets, fishing nets and rods, some giant pinky-white shells and even an old rusty anchor propped against the wooden panelling in the corner next to a battered piano. Jammed between a tower of lobster pots and what looks like a torture machine (but Mum tells me is just an old fashioned mangle used for squeezing water out of wet washing), is a bookshelf crammed full of books about tropical fish, a collection of dusty, prickly cactus plants and an empty goldfish bowl. Maybe Stan hates running the café because he really wants to run a junk shop instead.

  As he fries up sausages, bacon, eggs and tomatoes in the biggest frying pan I’ve ever seen, he tells us how he and his wife, Daphne, own the café and a nearby caravan site, and asks where we’re staying.

  ‘We’re not sure yet,’ Mum replies, nervously adjusting her scarf, so it covers her bruised neck completely. ‘We’ve only just arrived.’

  ‘Got some vans empty till the season starts. How long you thinking of staying?’

  Mum looks flustered. I can see she doesn’t know what to say, but Stan doesn’t seem to notice and waits for a reply.

  ‘Um . . . a few weeks . . . maybe longer.’

  A flicker of surprise crosses Stan’s wrinkled brown face but then he nods.

  ‘We came away in a bit of a rush,’ I chip in. ‘Mum thought, wouldn’t it be nice to have a bit of a holiday, and we said, yeah, great . . . bring it on, let’s stay by the sea . . . so here we are.’ I give a strange little laugh. Grace is glaring at me to shut up but I can’t, I keep on babbling. ‘It’s really lovely here, isn’t it? We saw seals just now. Some people think they’re mermaids and their tears can change into pearls. That would be great, wouldn’t it? You’d just have to find them, collect them in a bucket or something and then you’d be rich. You could do whatever you liked. No more worries. Ever . . .’

  I stop, finally running out of steam.

  ‘Hear that, Billy Boy?’ says Stan with a laugh to the old fisherman sitting in the corner. ‘I told you you’re wasting your time with fish.’

  ‘Huh. Never catch them, neither,’ Bill retorts gloomily as Stan dishes up our breakfasts and brings them over.

  We thank him politely as he puts down the plates in front of us, and I tuck in eagerly.

  ‘Not hungry then?’ Stan jokes as he hovers at the table, watching us eat, which makes Grace nervous, but doesn’t bother me. Mum tells him it’s delicious and thanks him again, even though her bacon’s burnt and all our egg yokes are mangled to bits. A few seconds later, he seems to have made up his mind about something.

  ‘I can rent you a caravan for a good price. It’s quite small and not the best on the site, but it’s clean and got everything you’ll need. You can have it on a weekly basis. Stay as long as you want.’

  ‘Thank you,’ says Mum looking relieved. ‘Thank you very much. That would be . . . ideal.’

  Stan nods, then goes back behind the counter as a couple of windswept hikers come in for breakfast.

  When we’ve finished, Mum pays and Stan gets
his walking stick. He leaves Bill in charge of the café and we set off along the sandy path through the dunes until it opens up into a large field edged with trees and bushes. Rows of caravans, some huge, some tiny, some with their own little gardens and fences, are spaced out on the grass. We head for a windowless shed at the road entrance to the site which Stan calls his office. He unlocks it and we wait outside while he finds the key to our caravan.

  ‘I’ll only need a small deposit,’ he tells Mum as he gives her a key ring with several keys attached.

  Mum looks worried and mumbles an excuse about having to get to the bank. Confused because she doesn’t have a bank account, I glance at Grace, who gives me another ‘shut up’ glare.

  ‘No rush,’ Stan says as he locks the door of the shed behind him.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Mum.

  ‘Number twenty-one.’ He points to the far end of the site. ‘It’s right in front of the path to the stones.’

  ‘Stones?’ I ask.

  ‘You won’t miss them Maids. Just see if you can count ’em all.’

  I look at him puzzled but he doesn’t explain.

  ‘Better get back,’ he says, ‘Bill’s not exactly your Jamie Oliver. Tried to fry the baked beans last time I left him in charge.’

  With that he limps back along the path towards the café.

  We head over to the other side of the site and start looking for number twenty-one. We pass a lady with short blond hair and thick dark-rimmed glasses sitting on the step of her caravan, muffled up in a red coat. She’s busy typing on the laptop perched on her knees but she looks up, smiles and gives us a little wave as we pass.

  Dad says caravans are common, but I’ve always secretly wanted to stay in one. I love the idea of living in your own miniature house on wheels. I go hot and cold as I suddenly wonder what he’s doing right now. He should be on his way to work – but would he go as normal or would he try and find us? Could he find us? I’m sure Mum wouldn’t have said anything to him about where we were going but he’s always had this horrible way of worming things out of you that you don’t want him to know. I peer back at the site entrance, half expecting him to drive through it at any moment.

  ‘Ellie!’ Mum calls. ‘Number twenty-one! We’ve found it!’

  I turn around to see her and Grace standing by a tatty pale green caravan with a gently rounded roof, surrounded by brambles and wedged into the corner of the site, next to a path. Unafraid of getting prickled, Bruno’s sniffing around the bottom edge of the caravan, his tail wagging madly. I double check the site entrance and tell myself to stop worrying, then run over to Mum and Grace as Mum finds the right key and unlocks the door to our new home.

  Chapter 10

  Grace

  ‘Eurgh! Smells like something’s died in here!’ says Ellie, wrinkling her nose as we step inside.

  ‘Don’t exaggerate, love,’ Mum tells her. ‘It just hasn’t been used for a while.’ She goes to a window and tries to open it but it’s locked so she sorts through the keys and finds the right one. ‘It’ll be fine.’

  She looks worried as she pushes the window open, but I’m pretty sure it’s got nothing to do with the musty pong in here; she’s wondering how on earth she’s going to pay Stan. I check my dress pocket and pull out my little embroidered purse. I can’t remember if there’s any money in here or not. I unzip it and discover a scrap of paper with a list of all my favourite dress designers and a folded up twenty pound note which Dad gave me a couple of weeks ago for passing my last violin exam. I hand the money to Mum and she hugs me.

  ‘Thanks, sweetheart,’ she whispers.

  ‘I haven’t got anything,’ Ellie says, giving me a scowl then eyeing Mum anxiously.

  ‘Don’t worry, darling. We’ll manage somehow,’ she says. ‘Cheer up, let’s make ourselves at home.’

  So we do. There’s:

  One little bedroom with bunk beds (for Ellie and me).

  One tiny bathroom (smaller than my wardrobe back home).

  One living space (with two cushioned bench seats and table that will convert into a bed for Mum).

  One narrow galley kitchen (with four cupboards, a tiny sink, a fridge and a cooker).

  And that’s it.

  Mum goes off to get the car and when she comes back we unload our stuff and spend the next couple of hours sweeping and wiping and cleaning everything until the caravan looks and smells fresh and clean. Mum goes outside and starts to cut away the brambles growing up by the door while Ellie and I stow away our things into the little lockers in our tiny bedroom. I’m about to put my violin case up on the shelf with my sewing stuff when I suddenly feel a sharp pang of guilt because I’m supposed to practise every day for at least an hour.

  Hesitantly, I take out my violin and play a few notes but can’t remember the piece I’ve been learning and haven’t brought any music with me. As it dawns on me that it doesn’t matter any more, my frustration melts away. I junk the exam piece and begin to improvise on my favourite song from the charts. As I play louder and more confidently, Ellie closes her eyes and starts swaying her arms over her head as if she were at a pop festival or something.

  ‘It’s like being on holiday,’ she says.

  But it isn’t. Ever since I can remember, holidays with Dad were horrible. We were always on our best behaviour, walking on eggshells so he didn’t have anything to get angry about. We could never let our hair down and be silly, or make a noise like this. He would have gone ballistic. But now we’re dancing on eggshells.

  Mum peeps round the doorway. She’s holding some delicate pink flowers.

  ‘Sweet briar,’ she tells us. ‘Only flowers once a year. Found it under the brambles.’ She’s taken off her coat and scarf and although the bruise on her neck looks darker than yesterday, she laughs as she joins in, dancing with Ellie. Bruno bounds in next, determined not to miss out on the fun, but the room’s far too tiny for three people and a dog to jump around in without knocking each other unconscious, so after less than a minute, Mum and Ellie flop down on the bottom bunk bed to catch their breath and Bruno leaps on top of them and starts licking them to death.

  I finish the tune with a flourish and Mum and Ellie clap, so I give a little bow before putting my violin back in its case.

  ‘I’ve never heard you play like that before!’ says Ellie astonished.

  No one’s ever heard me play like that before.

  I loved learning my violin until Dad realised I was actually quite good at it, because then the pressure started. I had to practise every piece over and over to score top marks in each grade, even though my head often felt like it was going to explode. I quickly learnt to hide anything else I was good at, just like Mum hides her cuts and bruises.

  I reach up to the shelf to put my violin away and notice the brown paper bag. I hand it to Mum who looks inside, then gives a gasp.

  ‘Oh Grace, I don’t believe it! You saved it!’

  She holds the folded quilt gently in her hands and smells it, as if the faint scent of Gran’s fingers as she sewed it might still be traced, then we go into the main room where she spreads it out carefully over the bench seat.

  She stares at it as if she can’t take it all in at once. ‘So many memories,’ she whispers, with a slight shake of her head, ‘all sewn in here together.’

  As she runs her fingers over the different patches of fabric, her face slowly crumples and she looks as if she’s going to cry.

  ‘Don’t be sad, Mum,’ says Ellie. ‘Gran would be really happy if she knew you’d still got it.’

  ‘I know,’ Mum says nodding, as her fingers move onto the yellow and white daisies and her face lights up with a smile.

  ‘What?’ asks Ellie.

  ‘My best summer dress when I was a kid. Gran made it. It had a plain white collar and pockets and I wore it for the first time when I took my exam for grammar school.’

  ‘I didn’t know you went to a grammar school!’ says Ellie, impressed.

  ‘I nearly didn
’t. The day of the entrance exam, Grandad’s car wouldn’t start. We lived in a village and there were no buses, but he was determined I was going to take that exam so we started walking, even though we both knew we were going to be too late. A mile down the lane, a tractor was about to pass us but Grandad flagged it down and persuaded the farmer to make a diversion. So I certainly made an entrance. When I opened the cab door, two sheep jumped down with me. Most of the other girls turned up in posh cars with their parents.’

  She gives a little giggle and suddenly I can see her, ten years old, her hair in pigtails wearing that little dress with yellow daisies. ‘I’ll never forget the way they turned and looked at me, their noses all wrinkled.’

  ‘But you passed . . .’

  Mum nods shyly. ‘They gave me a scholarship too, money for books and equipment and stuff.’

  ‘You must have been really clever.’

  Mum shrugs her thin shoulders. ‘Maybe . . .’ She hangs her head. ‘Not any more though.’

  I suddenly remember what our Dad used to call her. ‘You stupid cow,’ he’d say, and worse. ‘You’re as thick as two short planks.’

  Chapter 11

  Ellie

  We feed Bruno and fold the rug from the boot of the car to make him a bed, then Grace and I explore, taking the path behind our caravan through the woods. We soon come to a clearing surrounded by trees. There’s no one here and it’s dead quiet. Spaced around the clearing is a circle of old weather-worn stones, some as tall and thin as us, others smaller or fatter or just stumps, half buried under the grass.

  We start to count them.

  ‘Fifteen,’ says Grace firmly.

  ‘No, sixteen. Did you count that little one poking out by that bush?’ I ask, convinced I’m right.

  We both count once more. This time she makes it sixteen but I can only find fifteen even though I definitely counted the little one.