A Sky Painted Gold

by Laura Wood

  The quiet is broken by a whooping sound and the appearance of a group from the house party. Here is Patricia, and her portly husband, Jerry, and trailing behind them is Laurie, whose bathing suit is so scanty that it makes mine look practically Victorian. She is wearing a gorgeous silk robe over the top, but it hangs open, rippling at her sides and doing little to cover anything up. She positively undulates across the sand, a beautiful paper parasol decorated with pink cherry-blossom resting against one shoulder.

  “Hullo!” exclaims an excited Jerry, who is casting not-so-subtle admiring glances in Laurie’s direction. “Isn’t it a smasher of a day?”

  “It’s lovely,” I murmur.

  Robert is talking to Laurie. She gestures back up the steps, and I see that Charlie is slowly making his way down to the beach, struggling to carry something bulky. Robert goes over to help with what I eventually realize is a lounger for Laurie to recline upon so that she doesn’t have to lie in the sand.

  “Oh, what a good idea!” Caitlin exclaims. “I don’t know why I didn’t think about it.”

  “You can have this one,” Charlie pants eagerly, depositing it at her feet.

  “Oh?” Laurie arches one perfect eyebrow. “And what am I supposed to do?”

  Charlie grins. “Your darling fiancé can go and fetch one for you, of course.” He runs a hand through his blond hair and puffs out his cheeks in mock exhaustion. “I’m certainly not doing that again.”

  Laurie looks expectantly at Robert, who rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he says, kissing her lightly on the cheek. “I’ll be right back.” It’s strange, but the crackling feeling that you can’t miss between Alice and Jack isn’t there. Laurie and Robert are warm with each other, affectionate, but their romance isn’t how I imagined it would be. I remember what Laurie said last night, about passion being for outside of marriage, and I wonder again precisely what she meant by it. She and Robert are not at all the characters in the great romance that Alice and I made them out to be when we read about them. It’s almost a disappointment.

  Charlie stands in front of us too, and I can’t stop myself from staring at him. He looks like he’s been chiselled out of marble. No, I correct myself, marble is too delicate, too refined. Charlie’s skin is golden-brown and he sort of glows. I don’t know how to describe it. He looks like an advert for good health.

  For a second our eyes meet and I feel tingles spreading through my body. He really is impossibly good-looking, and that fantasy is hard to give up. I wonder briefly if the tingling feeling is the thing that crackles between Alice and Jack, but I don’t think it is … not precisely.

  I sit back on the sand and lift the book Robert has given me, determined to appear absorbed and interested in that, rather than tingling feelings. I read the same sentence over and over again, letting the waves of conversation wash over me. Charlie and Jerry seem to be chatting about shooting again, and although I try to follow the conversation for a while, I have to give up because it really is unspeakably dull. Laurie, Patricia and Caitlin are perched on Caitlin’s sun lounger like a row of dazzling birds of paradise, gossiping about the people in Caitlin’s magazine. The conversation goes something like this:

  CAITLIN: Well, I’m not surprised to see her in here.

  PATRICIA: No, did you hear…?

  LAURIE: Honey, everyone heard.

  PATRICIA: So indiscreet.

  CAITLIN: And that poor man.

  LAURIE: Oh, I don’t think he’s too downhearted.

  PATRICIA: No! You don’t mean…

  LAURIE: Sure. It’s been going on for weeks.

  CAITLIN: Well, that doesn’t surprise me, with what happened at the opera.

  And on and on they speak in gleeful, urgent half sentences, never actually saying anything that I can follow.

  I’m surprised to find that they read the same magazines that Alice and I do. I wonder again why Caitlin isn’t a fixture in them herself – she seems the perfect poster child for their glamorous world.

  I am still trying to concentrate long enough to get started on my book when Robert reappears with Laurie’s sun lounger.

  “Wonderful, thank you, sugar.” Laurie promptly moves to her new seat, tipping her head back and closing her eyes. Within moments she is asleep.

  “Would you like me to fetch one for you, Lou?” Robert asks politely, and all eyes turn to me as though everyone is just remembering that I am here. I jump to my feet and brush the sand from my legs.

  “No, thanks,” I say awkwardly, trying to cover my exposed body with my arms. “It’s so warm, and I just can’t seem to sit still. I think I’ll have a swim.”

  “Hey, that’s a swell idea,” Charlie exclaims. “What about you, Caitlin? You want to swim with us?”

  “Oh, no.” Caitlin waves a hand, not lifting her eyes from her magazine. “I’m perfectly happy as I am, thank you. Well, almost. Robert, do you think you could send someone down with some drinks? This heat is making me thirsty.”

  There is a murmur of approval for this plan.

  “Just me and you, then, I guess.” Charlie looks at me.

  “Yes. I guess,” I echo. I think he sounds a little disappointed, and I try not to take it personally.

  As I wade in, the initial bite of the cold water almost knocks the air out of me. At my side I hear Charlie mutter something rude below his breath.

  “Are you OK?” I ask.

  “It’s pretty cold,” he says, through gritted teeth.

  “It’s worse if you take too long about it,” I explain. “The only way is to rush in all at once.”

  Charlie inches forward. “I don’t know…” he says.

  “Just do it!” I plunge in, throwing myself into the sea and feeling the shock of the cool water wrapping itself around me. “It’s not that bad!” I call back towards Charlie, who is still standing with the water around his knees. “It’s just because we’ve been sitting in the hot sun. It’s warmer out here.” I swim a few brisk strokes, the feeling returning to my legs. It really isn’t bad at all. Swimming in the winter, now that is the kind of cold that strips you of thought and words; this just makes me feel fresh and awake, all fizzy and alive inside.

  Charlie doesn’t look convinced, but, taking a deep breath, he flings himself further into the water and swims towards me. “You English are crazy,” he says through chattering teeth. “This isn’t the kind of ocean that human beings should be swimming in. Leave it to the polar bears, I say.”

  “Don’t be a baby!” I laugh, splashing him.

  A grin lights up his face and he plunges towards me, returning the favour.

  I squeal and dart away. I am a strong swimmer – living here I’ve been swimming since almost before I could walk, but in this moment I decide I don’t want to swim too strongly. After all, playing in the water with a gorgeous man is the stuff dreams are made of, and it would be rude of me not to make the most of such an opportunity.

  I let Charlie catch me, and he wraps a strong arm around my waist, holding me firmly while he splashes me with more water. I squirm and kick my legs, sending a spray of salt water over us both.

  Charlie is laughing and his eyelashes are wet and clinging together. I rest my palms lightly on his shoulders, and even in the cool water he feels warm.

  “How about a race?” he asks, his arm still holding me close to him.

  “Sure,” I say, desperately hoping he can’t feel how hard my heart is beating. “Where to?”

  “That rock over there?” Charlie pulls his arm away and points to an outcrop of rocks rising from the sea about fifty yards away.

  “OK,” I say. “See you there!” and without another word I swim off. I hear an exclamation behind me.

  I win the race easily, my fingers skimming against the craggy rocks with whole seconds to spare.

  “I win! I win!” I crow as I splash about in the water, ever the demure and graceful lady. I turn to look out towards the village. There is the beach where I stood watching a race just like this one and despe
rately wishing I could be part of it, and now here I am, really here.

  “You’re fast.” Charlie shakes his head. “I’ll admit that, but I demand a rematch. Race you back to land.” And this time he leaves me behind, turning and plunging back towards the shore.

  Even with the head start he doesn’t stand a chance. Taking a deep breath, I dive down under the water, kicking forward and feeling for all the world like a mermaid with my hair streaming out behind me, moving swiftly over the bed of golden sand. I swim far enough that I overtake Charlie before surfacing in front of him. “Hey!” I hear him shout, but his protests are snatched away by a dancing breeze and I carry on moving forward, slipping through the water. I can hear the others on the shore shouting and cheering, and as I stagger out on to the sand I see that Caitlin has jumped to her feet.

  “You did it!” she squeals, throwing herself at me. “You were amazing!”

  I laugh, trying to push the tangle of wet hair out of my eyes. Someone hands me a towel and I look up to see it is Robert.

  Charlie has reached the sand now and he is shaking his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe you’re so fast,” he pants, and I feel myself glowing at the admiration in his eyes. “It’s like racing a fish.”

  Hmm. My face falls. I’m not sure I like that comparison, actually.

  “Don’t compare Lou to a fish!” Caitlin exclaims hotly, like a true friend.

  “I was just saying she swam like one.” Charlie holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Gosh, it was supposed to be a compliment.”

  I shrug. “My sister and I always raced a lot,” I say. I can’t resist smirking at Charlie. “She’s a lot harder to beat.”

  Everyone laughs at this.

  “Now I have no trouble believing you swim out here to the island on a regular basis,” Robert says. “You looked like a sea sprite out there.”

  “It’s just the way it is if you grow up here,” I reply with another shrug, a little thrown by what I think is almost a compliment. “You’re always in the water, or on the water. I love the sea.”

  The rest of the afternoon seems to melt away in a lazy, golden haze of reading and drinking and aimless chatter. I feel the night before catching up with me, and I lie back in the sand with my eyes closed against the sun.

  “It sounds terribly dull down here.” A voice rings out moments later, and I lift myself on my elbow to see that Bernie has arrived, carrying two big bottles of champagne. Trailing behind him and carrying a big wicker picnic basket is one of the handsome young men I saw him with last night. “I’m glad we didn’t bother to drag ourselves out of bed any earlier, if this is the state of things.”

  “If you’re not careful, Bernie, you’re going to turn into a vampire,” Patricia says. “It’s practically evening again.”

  Bernie bares his teeth as though showing off a pair of fangs. “I always have been something of a creature of the night,” he says. “It’s when all the best things happen. Who needs all this sunlight and fresh air?” He shudders. “Give me a dark, smoky corner any day of the week.” These last words are practically a purr, directed at the man beside him, whose cheeks flush pink. “Anyway, darlings,” Bernie continues, “there’s no need to nag me when I’ve rustled up such a lovely feast!” Bernie throws his arms open as though he has carefully prepared each dish himself and expects a round of applause.

  Caitlin rolls her eyes. “I think Eustace is the one who’s done the heavy lifting there,” she says, smiling at the boy who is staring worshipfully at Bernie.

  “Not to mention Mrs Vickers in the kitchen,” Robert drawls.

  Bernie falls gracefully on to the end of Laurie’s lounger, one leg swinging easily over the other. “Semantics, my dears,” he says, already pulling the cork from one of the champagne bottles. “Semantics. After all, I was in charge of the most important bit.” His sentence is punctuated by the popping of the cork, and Caitlin rushes forward with a glass.

  The champagne is poured and we all stand (except for Laurie, who is still lounging). I feel the sand between my toes, and the late afternoon sun overhead. My body is loose and relaxed – tired and awake all at once.

  “Well,” Bernie says, raising his glass. His eyes meet mine, fleetingly. “Here’s to a long and beautiful summer. May God bless her and all who sail in her.”

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  When I arrive home in the early evening I feel as though I am a different person to the girl who left the house only twenty-four hours ago. Everything about the walk back to the farm and even the house itself seems somehow the same but different, and I know that from now on my life will be split into two distinct periods: Before the Cardews and After the Cardews. I drift through the kitchen door in my blue dress, deliciously aware that I am wearing Caitlin’s red bathing suit underneath it and hugging the secret to me like a talisman. I am ready to answer thousands of questions, to relive every single tiny moment in terrific detail, I am ready to tell my tale of glamour and adventure to a spellbound audience. I have mentally compiled a list of a hundred shimmering, magical details with which I will enrapture my listeners. I will, of course, be gracious about the experience, I decide, sharing it with all of them, but not in a boastful way.

  Freya is sitting at the kitchen table, wearing a patchwork cloak and dozens of ribbons in her hair, her nose in a book. “Oh, you’re back,” she says, with a yawn. She turns a page.

  “I am,” I reply.

  There is a long, empty silence. I clear my throat, noisily, but Freya’s eyes don’t leave her book. Her lack of enthusiasm is like a big bucket of cold water. I sigh. Where was Alice when you needed her?

  “Oh!” Freya exclaims, turning to me. Finally, my moment has come. “I almost forgot to say, Midge is waiting for you in the other room.” Freya turns the page. “And also, if you see Tom, can you give him a swift kick for me? He spilled ink on the new costume I was making for Cleopatra and he’s been skulking in the shadows ever since.” Her eyes remain glued to the book in front of her, but her tone is icily murderous.

  I can’t blame my brother for hiding away. Freya is notoriously protective of her costumes, and I know from experience that the threat of violence is not a hollow one.

  Pa appears in the doorway then, wearing the oil-stained overalls that signal car troubles.

  “Oh, dear,” I say. “How is Gerald?”

  “Gerald is just fine,” Pa replies. “Though he is being a touch temperamental and I promised I would give Mrs Penrith a lift over to see her son in Penzance.” Because Pa is one of the only people in the village to own a car, this kind of thing happens quite a lot, and so Gerald’s temperament is of great importance to many people who rely on Pa’s ability to keep him running. In Penlyn, people ask after Gerald more than any other member of the family.

  “Gerald’s always a touch temperamental,” I say, feeling a twinge of frustration at this familiar tale. It just feels so … normal after last night. It seems as if everything should be different, but I’m home and it’s as if nothing happened at all.

  “Did you fix him?” Freya asks. “Mrs Penrith will go spare if her precious Bobby has to go without his weekly fruitcake.”

  “We had words –” Pa smiles, a soft, crinkly smile “– and I’m pleased to say that Gerald has decided to live to see another day.” He finds a dishrag and begins wiping his hands on it, leaving streaks of oil behind. “Your mother is looking for you, Lou,” he adds.

  “I did tell her,” Freya pipes up.

  “I just walked through the door!” I exclaim. “I will go through now.”

  “And I will go and fetch Mrs Penrith,” Pa replies.

  “And I will go and purse the ducats straight,” cries Freya. Then, shaking her head at our blank faces, “The Merchant of Venice, Act One, Scene Three?” Pa and I still say nothing and she shakes her head once more. “Philistines,” she mutters. Freya takes Shakespeare very seriously. She memorized Lady Macbeth’s sleepwalking scene when she was eleven and her performance is,
to this day, the most chilling thing I’ve ever seen. Tom had nightmares for a week afterwards.

  I exchange a look with Pa and then make my way through to the sitting room, where Midge is sitting in an armchair looking the very picture of domesticity. The baby is asleep in a bassinet beside her and she is knitting something. Or, at least, she is trying her best to do so. For some unknown reason Midge finds knitting a terrible challenge, but she can’t seem to accept the fact that while there are a million other things that she is good at, she cannot knit to save her life. Instead, she insists on knitting us lumpy and misshapen items of clothing on a regular basis. I groan under my breath, eyeing the bobbly lilac creation in her lap and hoping that it isn’t destined for me.

  It is then that I notice, with a sinking heart, that Aunt Irene is sitting across from Midge like a malevolent bat, her mouth set in a thin and disapproving line. I curse Freya and Pa in my head for offering up no warning about this. It is, at best, unsportsmanlike. This appearance also probably explains Midge’s desire for me to join her as soon as possible. Aunt Irene’s presence is certainly not the ideal welcome home, although I am determined that it will not dampen my spirits.

  “Hello!” I exclaim, breezing in and kissing Midge on one warm cheek. “Aunt Irene! What a nice surprise.”

  “Oh, it is, is it?” Aunt Irene says acidly.

  I turn to Midge questioningly and she gives me the tiniest roll of her eyes. Obviously her older sister has come over to disapprove of something – it is one of her favourite pastimes.

  “You’re back, are you?” Aunt Irene sniffs, and it becomes painfully clear that today the full force of her disapproval is reserved for me. These kinds of rhetorical questions are always part of the warm-up to a good scolding.

  “Yes,” I say unnecessarily. “I am.” So far the fact that I am back seems to be the only thing my family are interested in, so I’m relieved when Midge asks if I have had a nice time.

  “It was wonderful,” I say, unable to keep the emotion out of my voice, even though I know that Aunt Irene won’t like it. I sit down next to Midge’s chair and rest my head against her knee, as I have done since I was little when I wanted to talk to her about something.