by Julia Jones
“How little you know. She is his death-ship. Please lock the house and close my door and let me have some peace.”
Then as Xanthe was trudging downstairs again, Mrs Farran called after her, “Both bolts and chains to be on and the cat flap must only open out. If the cat wanders in to the garden at night he must wait until I call him in the morning.”
He knows the rules, Xanthe mimicked to herself.
Something woke her an hour or so after she’d fallen asleep but she wasn’t sure whether she’d actually heard it. She thought it was a single sound – a deliberate angry smash. Then there was silence in the house and silence from the street outside.
She didn’t like this house. She didn’t like the feelings in it. This silence wasn’t peaceful: it was a tense and angry silence. She wished she’d bought some music with her so she could put on headphones and blot it out. She was also hungry but she felt strangely prevented from getting out of bed and crossing the room to fetch herself an apple or a biscuit. Was she afraid that there was something that would hear her?
Xanthe lay there in the dark needing the sound of something identifiably normal and external: a car engine or a night-bird would be equally okay; the hum of a fridge or Mrs Farran snoring.
Her wish was finally granted. She heard the kitchen
cat-flap click.
Chapter Six
In Broad Marsh Creek
Monday May 27, lw 0430 hw 1052 lw 1700 hw 2309
The cat’s basket had been empty when she came down the stairs and once she’d walked into the kitchen it didn’t take a detective to work out why.
Mrs Farran’s special rosebud teapot lay shattered on the floor. The animal must have knocked it down from somewhere then scarpered into the night. The locks and chains were all in place and the cat flap shut. She didn’t reset the catch until she’d swept all the broken china into a newspaper. It was only a local paper but even so it had something about that gangland trial that had been all over the news before she left home. It was odd not catching headlines on the internet. Maybe she should ask if they took newspapers on Godwyn.
She wrapped the remains and put them beside the waste bin. She couldn’t see a china cupboard open and didn’t recall noticing the teapot when she’d been filling the hot water bottle last night. It must have come from somewhere. Right now she needed to get down to her crew, grab herself some breakfast and make the most of the early tide.
The youth worker, Jonjo, told her that he was a kayak instructor with lifesaving and rescue qualifications from the Lea Valley Centre in East London. Xanthe wasn’t sure why she didn’t entirely believe him. Jonjo was quick and efficient and muscular. He obviously had the qualifications but he didn’t seem big on fun. His shoulders were broad and his neck seemed almost as wide as his head. He looked like Action Man.
She guessed that Maggi would accuse her of prejudice at this point and would ask whether there was any reason for her to assume that youth workers shouldn’t look like Action Man.
She banished her sister from her head and asked Jonjo to wait in the centre of the creek with the safety boat. She wanted him a little way away from the lightship, idling his engine and keeping his bows pointed to the flood. They had three Picos today, two kids in each one and herself with David. The wind was light, conditions good.
Xanthe waded in to the water with each dinghy, holding them steady while she supervised the letting down of centreboards and rudders and gave detailed instructions about mainsheets. A smooth start, a breath of wind, that brilliant mix of pulling and gliding and both of the first two dinghies reached the safety boat.
Then it was her and David’s turn. A neat spring to get herself on board: the dinghy had scarcely lurched.
David startled. He flung his arms up, dropped the mainsheet and sort of dived across the centreboard case. He turned a somersault into the shallow creek and splashed like a stranding porpoise before he realised that all he needed to do was to put his feet down and stand upright.
“You ok?” she asked in amazement once she’d got the dinghy back on the ramp and was in the water herself, standing beside him.
He hadn’t shouted. The water was pouring off him and he was breathing pretty fast. He blinked at her and rubbed the side of his head but he didn’t answer.
“Anyone there? Hullo. Earth to David. This is Captain Xanthe, mission control, are you receiving me?”
Anyone else would have laughed, or apologised or, quite possibly, stormed off.
“Blink once for yes. Blink twice for yes. Blink any the heck number of times. Or stand on one leg and scratch the middle of your back with the other big toe if you’re not hearing my signals.”
David was still breathing like he’d run a marathon. He was blinking though, blinking like crazy.
He wasn’t signalling, poor little shrimp, he was struggling not to cry.
She lowered her voice. “David, it’s Xanthe. Did I scare you?”
A gulp, more blinking and a nod.
“Then I’m truly sorry.”
It hadn’t been her weight that had catapulted him overboard: it had been his own extraordinary nervousness. She needed to learn from that. She made him keep on watching her: she made herself keep reassuring him. Together they slithered cautiously back into the Pico and she gave him the tiller while she managed everything else.
“Keep steady,” she said, “Keep her pointing to the stern of Jonjo’s boat. That’s excellent. When we get there you leave me to do the work. You don’t move until we’re alongside. You’re our skipper now. Solid.”
“Good feeling?” she asked everyone when they were all clustered together around the RIB and Jonjo was towing them down the creek towards the wider space of the Flete. Nods from Nelson and Kieran. Uncertainty from Kelly-Jane and David. No response from Siri.
She’d asked Jonjo if there was anything she needed to know about the little girl. Was English maybe not her first language?
“Look,” he’d said. “I’d like to be able to talk to you about these children but I have to tell you thet I can’t.”
She must have looked as irritated as she felt.
He carried on, “We’re not looking for you to turn them into the next generation of Olympic sailors.” (That hurt.) “Just try to build their confidence, let them hev some fun.” (Could be a tough one.) “And there’s another thing,” he added. “I didn’t agree with the way Dominic handled your sailing without permission thet first day but you need to know thet he has reasons to be cautious. Don’t ever organise an activity thet would involve any of them being alone or out of sight of the rest of the group.”
“I don’t think they’d let me.”
The sun was shining, waves were dancing, the Flete was filling with the flood tide and if anyone had a total capsize situation they’d only drift upstream into the shallow water of the marshes. Not that anyone was going to go over. The wind was so light it wouldn’t capsize a paper bag.
They floated together in a three-dinghy raft and Xanthe set them simple beam reach courses across to the RIB. When this had been achieved several times by everyone, she used herself and David as demonstrators and taught them how to tack. Then she added a jib to the mainsail on Kerry-Jane and Siri’s boat.
Broad Marsh Creek led north-westwards from the Flete. The tide was almost at its full height; the breeze was southerly.
“Time for a cruise in company,” she told them. “We’ll ask Jonjo to go on ahead. All the way to the top of the creek, with luck. Then we follow. No stress and it’s NOT a race. You heard it here first.”
Except that the dinghy that had Siri at the helm appeared to have grown wings. Xanthe could see the younger girl leaning forward to touch the older one on her shoulder. Kelly-Jane eased the jib sheet then, as the dinghy gathered speed, another sign from Siri had her moving forward and inward. That was communicating. No need for speech.
Xanthe c
ontinued to watch as Siri shifted her weight to allow the dinghy’s slim transom to lift and pull away. The temptation to give chase was almost overwhelming. She forced herself to stay behind, to sail at David’s pace, to be a teacher.
But she wasn’t a teacher yet. She was a racer. She wasn’t going to give up. She understood that now.
Nelson and Kieran were larking about, their line wavering and peals of laughter suggesting that Nelson was spouting his usual dreadful jokes. They’d hauled their sheet too tight. They’d be over in a moment.
“Steer to them, would you Skip?” Xanthe asked David, trimming the Pico for maximum speed. “Let’s see if we can steal their wind.”
“Let the dinghy settle,” she called across to the boys. “She’s designed to sail flat.”
“Let go of your mainsheet!” she yelled more urgently.
David’s steering lurched violently. They’d be over themselves in a moment. She made herself stay steady and quiet. She spoke – didn’t shout – across the water to Kieran. He understood her and no one fell in.
By the end of the simple course Siri and Kelly-Jane had reached the top of the creek, not far from the landing stage. They’d tacked through 180 degrees without being asked and were lying neatly moored alongside the RIB.
“That was impressive,” said Xanthe.
Kelly-Jane looked really pleased. She couldn’t read Siri’s expression at all.
“What goes Quick-Quick?” called Nelson.
“A duck with hiccups,” Kieran supplied and they both rocked wildly with laughter.
Xanthe dug out the oldest joke in the entire book. “So what goes ha ha bonk?”
The engine of the RIB was humming gently; small wavelets splashed against the sides of the dinghies as Jonjo began towing them in a wide circle, turning for home. Sails were furled, rudders and centreboards up. They were skimming the furthest edge of the narrow creek. Xanthe was scanning the water surface as she always did. It had become habit with her and Maggi.
“David,” she said urgently, forgetting his amazing clumsiness, forgetting he wasn’t her sister, “Look there, your side, quick! Can you get it?”
Their dinghy was on the outside of the raft, closest to the marsh wall and the landing stage. She’d seen something protruding from the surface of the water. Not a broken withy, nor the periscope of a submarine.
He listened, reached out, nearly tipped over. Gasped for breath, reached a bit further. She kept the dinghy balanced and hung on to his legs. It wasn’t graceful.
Jonjo slowed the RIB to nothing and everyone watched as David stretched impossibly far from the side of the dinghy.
“I c-can. I know I c-can.”
He did and Xanthe hauled him back and the two of them collapsed. There was bewilderment and applause from the others.
“Ha ha bonk,” said Jonjo, unexpectedly. “It’s us laughing our heads off. So what was thet about?”
Now that Xanthe considered the matter she wasn’t entirely sure.
“Let’s call it a challenge for my young apprentice. Think Sword in the Stone – Excalibur – Lady of the Lake. Could have been an arm in white samite under all that.”
She didn’t know what samite was but she’d always assumed it was some sort of silky material. Ultra-clean, expensive stuff which would probably have gone nicely in the main bedroom at Rebow Cottage. So that was quite appropriate because the object that David had just handed to her was Mrs Farran’s ebony walking stick.
The kids were hugely chatty and happy after their sail. Siri didn’t speak but once they’d unrigged the Picos and carried the sails and foils back to the lofts and were walking back along the path to the lightship, she turned her face to the breeze and spread her arms on either side. Then she stretched out her fingers as if they were flight feathers and did the smallest skip.
Xanthe had hoped to catch Dominic Gold at lunch. She wanted to talk to him about Mr and Mrs Farran and the situation at Rebow Cottage but he never showed up. She’d left the stick in the sail lofts and was planning to take it back to Mrs Farran later. She thought she’d better check first whether the old lady really had lost it and also make totally sure it was clear of ‘filth’.
She saw a search-and-rescue helicopter heading out to sea and she found herself telling the kids about Maydays and coastguards and the time her friend Donny’s great-aunt had a heart attack at sea and had to be winched up into a helicopter which was like a flying ambulance. Kieran and David seemed interested in what Xanthe was telling them about the rescue and radioing for help but then she started to explain about the attack by modern-day pirates and Kelly-Jane began to look uncomfortable and Siri withdrew completely.
Xanthe found herself staring at the little girl’s blue eyes. They were pretty eyes but there was something about them that made her think of a transparent, toughened screen – soundproof, bulletproof even. Sometimes Siri was right up against this invisible barrier, close and intense as if she was trying to get through. More often she was some way back in the dim light, existing in a life that seemed entirely disconnected from whatever else was going on around her.
“Where do you take a sick ship, teacher-lady?”
She was still thinking about Maydays and Pan-pans. She wasn’t quick enough.
“To the doc, of course. Gimme high-fives!” Nelson jumped up and went palm to palm with her before she had a chance to remember her dignity. “So what lies at the bottom of the sea and shivers?”
“Nelson, my bruvver, even I know that one – it’s a nervous wreck.”
They took a couple of the kayaks to the salt-water swimming pool and messed about constructively until it was the end of the afternoon and Martha was hurrying the kids off to her mother’s to learn to cook a barbecue tea and then play board games. Xanthe should have been heading back to Rebow Cottage but she couldn’t face it. She searched again for Dominic but someone told her he’d been called away. The lightship was filling up with birdwatchers looking forward to their supper. She felt awkward and out of place.
She went down to the sail lofts and set herself up a trestle and a loop of rope so she could begin to get back her fitness for hiking out. At least exercise took your mind off your problems. She had her arms crossed over her chest and was arched horizontally backwards feeling the strain – and the pain – in her lower back muscles, stomach muscles and thighs. She was moving her head from side to side and she was breathing deeply and counting seconds to see how long she could hold still.
“You okay there, Xanthe?”
Jonjo had come in with his arms full of gear.
She drew herself upwards towards vertical very, very slowly. It hurt.
“Thet was impressive,” he said. “I hope your landlady provides you with a handsome supper if you’re working out like thet.”
“She doesn’t know what darkies eat.”
“Say thet agen?”
His voice was sharp. Suddenly he was so South African. She wished she’d kept her mouth shut.
“You heard what I said and it isn’t your problem.”
“I think it is.” He stood there frowning. “Hev you spoken to Dominic?”
“Couldn’t find him.”
“Then I’ll come to your lodgings with you. How old are these people? Even if they’re ignorant, it’s not acceptable.”
He took no notice of her protests and walked up to Rebow Cottage with her. But Mr Farran wasn’t there and Mrs Farran had already gone to bed. They found a note on the kitchen table. It had been written in pencil first then gone over very carefully in pen. The handwriting was extremely old-fashioned.
“I have visited the shop and hope there is something here that is suitable. Please lock the house at 9pm. Yours sincerely, Iris Farran.”
There was a tin of lychees, some boil-in-the-bag Uncle Remus rice, a small jar of mango chutney, a packet of peanuts and a single banana.
<
br /> Xanthe and Jonjo looked at each other and burst out laughing.
Chapter Seven
Grey Shapes
Tuesday May 28, lw 0500 hw 1140 lw 1740 hw 2354
A morning mist had spread across the saltings like a duvet. Rebow Cottage and the other small houses in the village street were lit by pale sunshine but wafts of wet air came reaching up to Xanthe as soon as she turned downhill. By the time she reached creek level she could only see ten metres in front of her. It was hard to find the gap between the sail lofts that led her onto the main pathway to Godwyn. Even the blazing scarlet of the lightship couldn’t struggle though this damp greyness.
Then she smelled breakfast and hurried up the gangway.
“Hey, Cap’n Xanthe, teacher-lady, what comes after the Stone Age and the Bronze Age and all them?” Nelson didn’t wait for her to try to answer. “It’s the Saus-Age…sausage, geddit? And what did the space-pirate find in his pan? Un-identified frying objects!”
David asked her very quietly whether they would be going in the dinghies today.
“Do you want to?”
“I think I d-do.”
“We might need to wait a bit. It’s foggy outside.”
“I hate fog,” said Kelly-Jane. “Anyone could creep up in it.”
“Giant orcs,” Kieran agreed, “Or dementors.”
“Yeah and loadsa zombies too. We are the living dead…” Nelson got up and began to prowl around making sudden grabbing movements.
“Stop it,” said Kelly-Jane. “It ain’t funny. Siri don’t like it and neither do I.”
“You’re right,” said Xanthe. “Let’s leave out the orcs and zombies. They don’t belong here. Does anyone know what Godwyn used to do during the years she was at sea?”
“Big Dom told us that before he even offered us a toilet-stop. She was like a floating lighthouse so if ships saw her in the dark they wouldn’t run on the sands or whatever.” Kelly-Jane sounded bored by the idea.
That annoyed Xanthe.
