by Lewis, Gill
I slide forwards on the seats and open the small locker under the foredeck. Three blankets are neatly folded where they always are, strapped to the low shelf above the tool kit and the flares. I pull my blanket out and wrap it round me. It’s deep turquoise, like the summer sea, woven through with strips of silver ribbon.
I curl up against Moana’s curves and bury my head in the thick folds of blanket, breathing in the salty mustiness of it. The ocean rushes beneath us, a constant stream of white noise. Waves slap against Moana’s hull, like a heartbeat. I touch the painted wood to feel it pulse against my hand. Somewhere under the thick layers of paint are the pencil drawings of leaping dolphins that Mum drew for me. I try to trace the outline of them with my fingers now. I can almost smell the sawdust and steamed wood of the boatshed where Mum and Dad rebuilt Moana. If I close my eyes, I can still see Dad curving steamed planks of wood to make Moana’s hull, Mum laying white caulk between the boards to make her water-tight, and me sitting in the dirt, floating paper boats across wide puddle seas.
Mum, Dad, and me.
Those pencil dolphins are still there beneath the paint, etched into Moana’s hull. I try to picture them in my mind. I never thought I would forget, but somehow, now, it seems however hard I try, I just can’t see them any more.
And it must be like this that I fall asleep, cradled in Moana’s hull. Because when I wake the wind has dropped and Moana is still. Her sails are down and she is rocking gently, anchored in the shelter of the cove where we keep our lobster pots. Threads of hot sweet coffee steam drift my way from Dad’s red tin cup. The sun is warm on my back, and the sea is turquoise blue, rippled with silver light. Somewhere above a seagull cries. But otherwise, all is quiet and still.
Dad is leaning over the side, pulling on rope. It coils in the boat, dripping weed and seawater. He hoists a lobster pot in and places it on the floor. I can see a tangle of legs and antennae of a lobster inside. It’s a big one and will fetch a good price at market. I know we need the money.
Dad opens the trap and runs his hand along the armoured shell of the lobster’s back. He draws it out and its claws slash through the air. Its red antennae flick backwards and forwards. Dad turns it over, and in the soft protected curve of its belly lie hundreds of tiny eggs bunched together, glistening black in the sunlight.
‘She’s berried,’ I say. ‘We can’t sell her. Look at all those eggs.’
Dad looks up. He’s just noticed I’m awake. ‘We’ll take her and release her in the marine reserve,’ he says.
‘Not much point,’ I say. I scowl at him. ‘Jake says his dad is going to pull his dredging chains across every last corner of the reserve when the dredging ban is lifted.’
Dad places the lobster in a large black bucket and covers it with a towel. His face is tight in a frown, running deep creases across his face. He knows there’s nothing we can do to stop Dougie Evans from destroying the reef.
‘Keep out of Jake’s way,’ he says. ‘He’s got a nose for trouble like his dad.’
I stifle a laugh. I picture Jake lying in the dirt, blood pouring down his face. ‘Not any more he hasn’t.’
Dad looks up. I try to hide my smile, but I can tell Dad’s seen already.
‘You in trouble, Kara?’ says Dad.
I lift the towel and peer in at the lobster. She glares at me with her small black eyes. ‘She needs seawater in there,’ I say.
‘What else has Jake been saying?’ says Dad.
I cover the bucket with the towel and sit back so I can look Dad in the eye. I ask the question that has filled my mind all this way. ‘Is Moana up for sale?’
But Dad turns away. I watch as he ties a chunk of mackerel flesh bait for the lobster pot, and throws it back into the water. The coil of rope unwinds and disappears into the wavering shafts of light.
‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘You’re selling her. You’re selling Moana.’
I want him to tell me that it’s not true, because Dad never lies to me.
But he doesn’t say that.
He turns to look at me. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘It’s true.’
And that’s all he says. But it’s like the breath has been punched right out of me.
‘But you can’t,’ I say. It comes out in barely a whisper.
‘We’ve got no choice, Kara,’ he says. ‘I owe more money than I’ll ever earn. We can’t even afford her mooring fee.’
I twist the end of my blanket round and round in my hand. ‘What about Mum?’ I mumble the words.
Dad flicks the last drops of his coffee out to sea and screws on the thermos cap tight. ‘There’s no other way.’
‘What about Mum?’ I say it louder this time, to make sure that he can hear me.
‘Mum’s gone,’ he says. He looks right at me. ‘She’s been gone a year today. D’you think I don’t know that? She’s gone, Kara. It’s just us now.’
I stare at him. Dad hasn’t talked about Mum for months. ‘Mum would never sell Moana,’ I say. ‘She belongs to all of us. We built her together. How will you tell Mum you sold our boat when she comes back? She’ll come back, I know she will.’
Dad watches me, like he’s trying to decide just what to say.
‘She’ll send a sign,’ I say. My eyes are blurred with tears. I blink and push them back. I think of the dove feather I found the day Mum disappeared. I think of the cowrie shell, pure white; the one I found by candlelight, the night we floated candles for her out to sea. ‘Like she did before, she’ll send a sign.’
Dad holds me by my shoulders, but his hands are trembling. ‘Let it go, Kara,’ he says. ‘There are no signs. There never were.’
I push Dad’s hands away.
The silence is thick between us.
The wind is still. The water flat, like glass.
‘Kara,’ Dad says. He kneels down in front of me. ‘Look at me.’
I close my eyes tight.
‘Kara . . .’
I cover my ears because I don’t want to listen.
I fold my head into my lap to block him out.
I don’t want to hear what he’s going to say.
I don’t want to hear it.
But it’s no use.
I hear him say it, anyway.
‘Mum is never coming back.’
CHAPTER 4
Dad has never said those words before. I stand up and back away from him.
‘You’ve given up,’ I say. ‘You’ve given up.’
‘Kara . . .’
I pull off my life jacket and reach into my bag for my face-mask and fins.
‘Kara, sit down,’ says Dad.
I push my feet into my fins, pull on my face-mask and stand up on Moana’s side, holding on to the metal shrouds that support her mast. The water below is crystal clear.
‘Kara, come down . . .’ Dad reaches out his hand.
But I don’t take it.
I let go and dive into the water, down into bright blueness shot with sunlight. I turn and watch a trail of silver bubbles spiral upwards. I see Dad through the rippled surface leaning out, looking down. I kick my fins hard and pull through the water and swim away from him towards the shore.
I count the seconds in my head before I can burst above the water. I count the seconds before I let myself breathe. My heart is pounding fast, too fast. I can’t relax. My lungs burn. My ribs ache. I can’t find the quiet space in my head that lets my heart slow down and my mind go clear. I’m too angry for that. I have to breathe. I burst upwards and gulp the air.
I’m halfway between Dad and the shore. I can hear Dad call my name, but I keep swimming until my hands touch the soft sand of the cove. I pull my fins and mask off and walk barefoot up through the rocks to the clifftop path. My T-shirt flaps wet and cold against me, and my shorts cling to my legs, but I keep walking and don’t look back.
It’s only when I reach the stile that turns inland, that I double back and crawl through the long grasses. Moana’s sails are up, and Dad is sailing from th
e small cove. I watch him sail towards the marine reserve, the stretch of seabed that lies between the shore and Gull Rock, the small island out beyond the headland. Moana’s sails cast long shadows in the early evening sun.
I sit up and brush the sand and sea salt from my clothes, and look around. A fresh breeze ripples through the grasses. There’s no one else up here, just me. I don’t want to go back to Aunt Bev’s house. I can’t face her and Uncle Tom. I don’t want to face Dad now either.
Beyond this cove there is another smaller cove, too narrow for most boats to enter. The water is deep and crystal clear. It shelves up to a strip of sandy beach. I head there now, away from the coast path, towards the green wall of gorse that lines these cliffs. The gorse spikes snag my T-shirt as I scramble between the bushes to the cliff edge. Below the crumbly topsoil and twisted roots of gorse, a ledge of hard dark rock cuts through the softer green-grey layers of slate, and curves down to the cove. I climb down, finding all the footholds and handholds I know so well, counting the layers of folded rock. Millions and millions of years squashed together. Like explorers going back in time, Mum used to say.
The small beach is covered by the high tide. I edge my way to the flat rocks that jut out beyond the cove into the sea. Sometimes grey seals haul out on these rocks and lie basking in the sun. I press my back into a hollow curve of a rock worn eggshell-smooth by wind and waves.
Mum used to sit here with me and we’d watch for dolphins. I used to think she had special powers, as if she could feel them somehow, or hear them calling through the water. Sometimes we’d wait for hours. But she always knew they’d come. They would rise up like magical creatures from another world, the sunlight shining from their backs, the sound of their breaths bursting above the water. They would leap and somersault in the water, just for us, it seemed. It made me feel as if we’d been chosen somehow, as if they wanted to give us a glimpse of their world too.
I haven’t been back here since then. Not since Mum left. I wrap my arms around my knees and stare out across the gold, flat sea. The sun’s rim touches the horizon, bleeding light into the water. I’ve been waiting for a sign from Mum all day, but it’s too late now. The sun has almost set.
Maybe Dad is right and there are no signs to look for.
Maybe I have to accept Mum is never coming back.
I watch the last rays of sunshine flare like beacons across the sky.
And then I see it.
I see a flash of white leap from the water.
The light shines on its smooth curved body, before it plunges back into the sea.
I scramble to my feet and stand at the ocean’s edge, watching the spread of golden ripples.
This is the sign I have been waiting for.
I just know it is.
It has to be.
The dolphin leaps into the air again. It’s white, pure white. It twists and somersaults before diving under water, sending up plumes of golden spray.
I see other dolphins too, their grey streamlined bodies and dorsal fins curving through the water. There must be at least fifty dolphins, a huge pod of them. I’ve never seen so many at one time. Their bursts of breath blast through the stillness.
But it’s the white dolphin I’m looking for. Then I see it again, much smaller than the rest. Its pale body is tinged with pink and gold in the fading light. A much larger dolphin swims close by its side. Mother and calf, they break the surface together in perfect time. I watch them swim side by side, out into the open sea. I wrap my arms around me and feel warm despite the chill night air. I feel so close to Mum somehow, as if she’s right here beside me, as if she sent the dolphins. I can almost see Mum’s face, her big wide smile. I can’t help wondering if, wherever she is right now, she is thinking of me too.
I watch the dolphins until I can no longer see their fins trail dark lines upon the water. The sea has darkened under a star-scattered indigo sky. The silhouettes of two oystercatchers skim across the surface, their short pointed wings beating fast and hard. But that is all.
I know Dad will expect me home by now. I scramble up the cliff to the coast path that runs between the cliff edge and the fields. The air is fresh and damp with dew. It clings in a pale mist above the wheat fields that run inland. The in-between light of dusk holds everything in a strange stillness, like time’s drawn breath.
And it feels to me as if everything is about to change.
CHAPTER 5
The tarmac of the coast road is still warm from the day’s sun. It’s more than two miles home from here and I hope Dad’s not waiting for me. He has a late shift at the pub today, so maybe I can slip back without him noticing.
I haven’t walked far along the road before a car pulls up, its headlights glaring in my eyes.
The passenger window slides down. ‘KARA! Is that you?’
It’s Aunt Bev. She leans across from the driver’s side. She’s furious. I wish I’d walked across the fields back home instead.
‘What’s wrong?’ I say.
‘Just get in the car, Kara,’ she snaps, ‘now.’
I climb in the back seat next to Daisy. She’s in her dressing gown and slippers, munching a family pack of crisps. She’s usually in bed by now.
Aunt Bev twists round to glare at me. ‘What’s wrong?’ She spits the words out.
I glance at Daisy. She points at me and draws her hand across her throat. I’m as good as dead.
‘What’s wrong?’ shouts Aunt Bev again. ‘The coastguard and the police are out looking for you, that’s what’s wrong. Your dad’s in a right state. He’s gone with them too.’ She slams the car in gear and we lurch forward. ‘You’ve got some questions to answer when we get back. I can tell you that, my girl.’
I say nothing. I strap my seat belt up and say nothing.
We drive back home in silence and in darkness. Daisy takes my hand in hers and squeezes it. I squeeze hers back.
‘I told them you’d be OK,’ she whispers. ‘But they wouldn’t listen.’
‘That’s enough from you, Daisy,’ snaps Aunt Bev. ‘You should’ve been in bed an hour ago.’
Back at the house, I sit in the kitchen and wait for Dad. I can hear Uncle Tom phoning the police and coastguard to say that I’ve been found. Aunt Bev is heating up a pan of milk for Daisy’s bedtime drink. Daisy’s been told to go upstairs, but she’s sitting at the kitchen table, twirling a curl of golden hair round and round her finger.
She leans across so our heads are close together. ‘What happened?’
The question catches me off guard.
‘The white dolphin came,’ I whisper.
Daisy’s eyes open wide. She’s the only one who knows the dreams I have.
‘It’s bedtime for you, Daisy,’ says Aunt Bev. She pours the warm milk into a mug and points up at the stairs.
I stand up to go too, but Aunt Bev signals me to stay. I don’t want to be here, just her and me. I watch Daisy cup her hands around her mug and leave the room. She gives a small smile before disappearing around the door and up the stairs.
Aunt Bev pours herself a mug of tea and leans against the oven. ‘Well?’ she says.
I stare at my hands and say nothing.
‘I heard you bust Jake Evans’s nose today.’
I look up at her. She’s glaring at me, daring me to challenge her.
I don’t deny it.
‘The only person with a proper job in this house is employed by Jake’s dad,’ she snaps. ‘Do you want Uncle Tom to lose his job as well? Do you?’
I shake my head. ‘No, Auntie Bev,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry.’
She sighs and rubs her hand across her swollen belly. ‘God knows this year’s been hard for you, Kara, but you’re not the only one who’s struggling. We can’t go on like this. It’s time we had some straight talking in this family . . .’
But she doesn’t finish, because Dad bursts through the door.
He pushes past the table and pulls me into him. He wraps his arms around me, so I’m buried in h
is thick wool jumper. It smells of wood-smoke and engine oil. I feel his warm breath in my hair, and I feel five years old again.
‘I’m sorry, Kara,’ he says, ‘I’m so sorry.’
Aunt Bev’s voice cuts through. ‘It’s Kara who should be sorry. She’s had us all worried sick.’
But Dad holds me by my shoulders. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘what I said about Mum. I shouldn’t have.’ His eyes are red, so that I could almost think he’s been crying, but I’ve never seen him cry before.
I smile at him. ‘It’s going to be OK, Dad. She sent a sign. I saw a dolphin, a white dolphin. Mum sent it for us.’
Dad pushes back my hair. He looks right in my eyes but I can’t tell what he’s thinking any more.
‘Mum’s still here for us, Dad,’ I say. ‘I know she is.’
Aunt Bev thumps her mug down, slopping tea across the table. ‘Your mother stopped being here for you the day she left.’
Uncle Tom lays a hand upon her arm. ‘That’s enough, Bev.’
Aunt Bev’s not finished. ‘But it’s true. And we were left to pick up the pieces. It can’t go on like this, Jim. How long are you going to wait for her? Another year? Five years? Ten years?’
‘Leave it, Bev.’ Uncle Tom tries to steer her away. ‘Not now, not tonight.’
Aunt Bev pulls away and glares at Dad. ‘Kay should never have left. Her responsibilities were here.’ She raps her finger hard on the table to make her point.
Dad sits down and puts his head in his hands. ‘We’ve been through this before, Bev. She had her reasons.’
‘Going halfway around the world on some hippie dolphin-saving trip?’ she snaps. ‘Was that a good enough reason to leave a husband and child?’
I scowl at Aunt Bev. ‘Mum’s a marine biologist,’ I shout. ‘She’s stopping people catching wild dolphins. You know that.’
But Aunt Bev ignores me and sits down next to Dad. ‘You’ve got to face it, Jim. If your own sister can’t tell you, then who can? You’ve just got to accept that Kay isn’t coming back.’
Dad shoots her a look. ‘We don’t know that, Bev. We just don’t know.’
