by Julia Green
The cat purrs as I smooth her head. She pushes her paws at the bedcover, flexing her claws. Gabes leans over and strokes along her spine, and the cat turns to let him stroke her belly.
He lies back against the pillow and watches me. I’m still sitting at the foot of the bed, with the cat.
‘You could stay over, if you wanted,’ he says. ‘There’s plenty of spare beds. Then tomorrow I could show you the other cool places round here. The orchard, and the stream. There’s a place we go swimming.’
I flush. ‘No, I said I’d be back. My parents . . .’
‘Another time, then. Come for the whole weekend.’
I hear voices, laughter, as people come upstairs – Laura and Tom, I think. No one seems bothered that I’m here. I’m just accepted: Gabes’ friend Freya.
‘What sort of books does your mother write?’ I ask him.
‘Novels. Short stories.’ He stretches across to the bookshelves and pulls out a book with a dark green cover and the title What We Love in white lettering, and her name: Madeleine Fielding.
‘What’s it about?’
‘No idea. Haven’t read it.’ He laughs.
All the way home on the bike, I sit pressed close to his back, my arms tight round his waist. It’s much colder now that it is dark, and damp under the trees. The sound of the stream is louder than I remember on the way here. The beam of the headlight seems to fade into the dark too quickly. We don’t pass a single car until we get to the first main road, and then there are orange streetlights, and people staggering home, and it’s a different kind of journey altogether.
He drops me at the top of my road, in case my parents are looking out of the window: there’s no way I’m letting them see me on the back of the bike!
‘I’ll see you Monday, then.’
‘Yes. Thanks for the lift, and everything.’ I hand him back the helmet and he straps it behind his seat.
‘We could go for coffee,’ he says. ‘After college next week.’
‘Yes. Great.’
I almost run down the hill, my heart singing. This is the beginning of my new life at last.
Eight
‘Freya?’ Mum calls down the stairs, the minute I get into the hall. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Yes. All good,’ I call back. I wait for her to get into bed again, before I go through to the kitchen and sit down. I don’t want to have to talk to anyone. I want to savour my whole evening.
Our kitchen looks stark, overly neat and clean and organised, compared to where I’ve just come from. Dad being an architect, he’s got strong views on how things should look. He likes functional, clean design: straight lines, no clutter. Since Joe’s death, Mum seems to spend many more hours each day cleaning and tidying and sorting, to stop her sitting and thinking too much. Being active keeps the feelings at bay, she says. It’s what swimming does for me. I swim every day during the summer holidays when I’m on St Ailla.
My clothes are still damp from the ride home. My reflection in the kitchen window shows messy hair curling round my face and over my shoulders, and I smile. I don’t belong in this too neat, too perfect house. I’m a changeling child, and my real family are somewhere else . . .
A quick rush of guilt comes over me. I stand at the window, staring into the blank darkness outside. I think of the train accident girl, Bridie. I meant to ask Gabes more about her, and I completely forgot. Next time. I fill a glass with cold water from the jug in the fridge, and sip at it as I go upstairs to bed. I lie on my back for ages, my head whirling.
When I close my eyes, I can see green leaves, and golden evening sunlight, and the swoop and curve of swallows, diving for flies.
‘Phone, Freya!’ Mum’s yelling up the stairs.
I’ve only just woken up. I can hear her talking to whoever it is, while she waits for me to come down. Someone she knows. Or she’s being embarrassingly chatty to one of my friends. But who would use the house phone?
‘Danny,’ she says, when I reach the bottom stair. She passes me the phone.
‘Hi, Danny,’ I say, cautiously.
‘You haven’t been answering texts or emails.’ Danny launches straight in. ‘So I thought I’d phone your house. About you maybe coming up to London next weekend?’ His voice goes up at the end, like a question.
‘It’s nine thirty on a Sunday morning, Danny!’
‘Is it? Sorry. Did I wake you?’
‘Never mind that now.’ I sigh. ‘The thing is, Danny, I’ve got way too much college work at the moment. I’ve got a huge Art project, and coursework for Biology and English . . .’ And there’s Gabes . . . But I don’t say that to Danny.
The first summer I went back to St Ailla after Joe died, Danny was amazing. Bit by bit, I told him everything. He was the first person who really listened to what it was like for me, losing Joe. It was Danny’s first visit to the island: I showed him round; shared all the special places with him. I taught him how to snorkel; introduced him to all my other friends. We stayed in touch between summers: emails, the odd phone call, but that’s all. And then this summer, the weather messed up everything.
The things we do together are all connected with being on the island: swimming and snorkelling; evening games of football on the field above Periglis with everyone from the campsite . . . parties on the beach round a fire . . . It’s hard to imagine what it would be like to see him in London.
‘You’ve gone very quiet,’ Danny says.
‘Sorry. I was thinking.’
‘And?’
‘Maybe I could come to London later on, when I haven’t got so much work. You must have loads too. The Christmas holidays, perhaps?’
Danny sighs.
‘Danny?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Danny says. ‘I guess you’re too busy with all your new college friends, now.’ He sounds hurt. ‘So I’ll see you some time. Around. Whatever.’ And before I can say anything he puts the phone down on me.
Mum’s hovering. Because of the open-plan layout, there’s no privacy downstairs. ‘Such a lovely boy!’ she says. ‘I know Evie’s very fond of him. Are you going to meet up with him?’
‘No.’ I so do not want to talk about Danny with Mum. I go over to the window and stare at the sunny garden with my back to her.
She takes the hint. ‘I’ve made coffee, if you want some. And how about an egg? Toast?’
‘Just coffee. I’m still full from last night.’
‘Did you have a good time?’
‘Yes.’
‘You were very late back.’
‘Mum!’
‘I know, but you’re only sixteen, still.’
‘It was Saturday night!’
‘So, what are your plans for today?’
‘I’ve got college work, then I’m meeting Miranda.’
We take our coffees out into the garden. Dad’s away, on a work thing, so it’s just the two of us. Mum talks on and on about what she’s planning to plant next, and I drift off, not really listening, because there’s nothing I can say but yes, and good, and well done, Mum. But I’m glad it makes her happy. I peel back my top, to let the sun get to my shoulders.
Miranda’s waiting for me at the bridge over the river, at the start of the track leading up to the canal. I’m already sweaty from cycling from our house; she looks perfectly cool and collected.
‘How was it? Your evening with Gabes.’ She hugs me.
‘Amazing!’
‘Tell me everything!’
We cycle single file up the footpath to keep clear of the overgrown stinging nettles either side, but once we’re up on the flat towpath there’s room for us to cycle side by side and it’s easier to talk.
‘He lives in this ancient house, in the middle of the countryside. He’s got a huge family, and his mum and dad are really cool and relaxed about everything. We all had supper together.’
Miranda pulls a face. ‘It doesn’t sound much like a proper date, though. I mean, a family meal! Freya! Why didn’t you two go off somewher
e, together?’
‘It was fine. Honestly. I wanted to meet them all, that was the whole point, because we’d been talking about families. That’s all. It’s no big deal, Miranda.’ I swerve to avoid an overhanging bramble. A baby rabbit shoots back from the grassy verge into the undergrowth. All summer you see them, nibbling at the grass beside the towpath, and as the summer wears on they get fewer and fewer, as they meet their untimely deaths: foxes, or bikes . . .
It’s Miranda’s turn to talk: Charlie’s amazing saxophone playing, and how she wants to go with him and a load of others to Glastonbury, next summer. You’ve got to come too, Freya! Pleease? We get to the gate where we turn off down to the level crossing, and we lock up the bikes while a high-speed train from London thunders past. I think of Bridie. It’s as if she’s permanently etched on my mind, now. But I don’t say anything to Miranda this time.
We spread my rug out on the grass near the river, so we can see the weir and watch people. It’s not as hot as it has been; we talk, and read a bit, and then I get up to go for a swim.
‘Please come!’ I say to Miranda. ‘It’s more fun with you.’
She shivers. ‘It’s too cold. And I don’t like the mud, and not being able to see what’s underneath. But I’ll watch you from here.’
Under the willow trees, the light falls in triangles of golden sunlight. I swim slowly upstream, long leisurely strokes, holding my breath as my face goes under, taking steady breaths as I turn my head before dipping in for the next stroke. The rhythm is deeply restful, the water flows like silk over my body. Hardly anyone else swims this far from the weir; most come to play, and hang out, rather than for serious swimming. And that’s not why I do it, either. But the feel of moving on, through water, is something my body needs, and it’s the only way, sometimes, that I can calm down the wild turmoil in my mind, when thoughts go on overdrive.
I’ve gone beyond the stretch of the river where Miranda will be able to see me, should she actually be looking. Which is unlikely. She’s probably reading.
I wonder about the stream near his house where Gabes said you can swim. I can’t imagine it being deep or wide enough just there, but perhaps I’m wrong. How will it be, when I see him on Monday at college?
A bird skims low in front of me: so close I see the moment when it scoops up a beakful of fly and river water. A swallow, again. They are everywhere this summer. Danny’s hurt voice briefly flits into my mind, and I put it out again, quickly.
I lie on my back to float, though it’s hard work to keep still, with the river current pulling me downstream. An image comes: that Pre-Raphaelite painting by Millais, of Ophelia, drowned in the river with flowers in her hair. Ophelia from Hamlet. And I remember reading something about the woman who was the artist’s model; Lizzie someone. She caught cold from lying in the bath water too long, didn’t she?
When I finally emerge from the river, dripping and shivery, the field is full of shadow. The sun is covered by a fine skein of cloud, mottled like the back of a mackerel. The weather’s changing. It already smells different.
Miranda hands me a towel. ‘Hurry up! You were ages. It’s gone all cold and horrible. I want to go back.’
We cycle back fast along the towpath. The air smells of wood smoke; several of the narrowboats have lit their stoves already. It begins to spit with rain. Summer is over.
Nine
Gabes and I have coffee together most days the next week. We just chat, it’s very relaxed and casual. We don’t touch, or anything physical at all. Perhaps he just sees me as another ordinary friend, like all his others. I’m slightly disappointed, but I don’t let on, even to Miranda. Then, on Friday, he invites me to spend Saturday at his house and I say yes. Same arrangements as before: he’ll pick me up from the road near college, on his bike, but in the morning this time. Eleven.
So here I am. This time I’m more prepared for the ride: sensible clothes, a waterproof jacket, gloves. It’s beginning to rain.
‘Hi, Freya!’ Gabes is right on time. He hands me the spare helmet and waits for me to climb on behind him. We set off down the street, turn off for the roundabout and chug slowly up the hill. It’s not nearly so much fun in the rain. I pull the visor down to cover my face. Lorries sail past us, splashing water up over my legs. It’s a relief when we turn off the main road on to the quiet lane.
I’m leaning into his back, arms tight round his waist and my head down because of the wind and the wet, so I don’t see the bend in the lane coming up. The bike seems to tip: my instinct is to lean the other way, to balance.
My big, stupid mistake.
Everything happens so fast I hardly know what is happening. The bike skids on the wet tarmac, I spill off the back, the bike goes over into the bank. I can hear the tick tick of the dying engine. There’s no sign of Gabes.
There’s one of those weird, slow-motion, silent moments that happens after accidents – as if you’ve fallen into something, the pause between one note and the next – before the usual sounds of everyday life fold back again: the cheep cheep of a bird in the hedge, rain dripping on to leaves, wind rippling the long grass along the verge.
I’m not hurt. I sit up, stretch each limb to make quite sure, but I’m fine.
I stand up. I’m covered in mud and grass seeds. I adjust the helmet, which must have slipped sideways as I hit the ground. It did its job, though. Saved my head. ‘Gabes?’ I call. ‘You all right?’
There’s a sort of grunting noise. I walk further up the lane. I can see him now, sticking half out of the ditch next to the hedge. I start to laugh. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘I leant the wrong way. I know you said not to but I forgot. It was all my fault.’
He shifts position. He grimaces as he moves. ‘I’ve done something to my foot. Broken it or sprained badly. It hurts.’
I stop laughing, though he still looks funny, sitting in a ditch. ‘What can I do? Shall I help you get up?’
I pull and he heaves himself up, and we get him out of the muddy water on to the grass, and then he lies back, white-faced.
‘Got your phone?’
I nod.
‘Better call home. Mum’ll come out and get us.’
I hand him my phone while I go to pick up the bike and push it towards the verge, out of the road. It’s heavy. Luckily the lane’s deserted. We skidded right across, and if something had been coming the other way, fast . . . Better not to think like that.
We settle back down on the wet grass to wait. I can tell he’s in pain, but he doesn’t grumble much. He’s annoyed about the bike, and about being stuck, and now a broken – we’re sure it is broken – foot. ‘I’ll be stuck at home, at the mercy of my parents giving me lifts,’ he says.
A car comes along the lane. The driver slows down when he sees us, winds down his window. ‘You two OK? Need a ride somewhere?’
I shake my head. ‘No thanks. We’re all sorted.’
It’s only about ten more minutes before we hear another car, and Maddie appears, driving their green van.
‘You poor loves!’ she says, getting out. ‘Oh, Gabes! Your foot! It’s all twisted. You look awful!’
Between us, his arms round our shoulders, we manage to help him to the van door and up into the front seat. Then we push the bike over and lift that up between us, into the back.
‘Hop in next to Gabes,’ Maddie says to me. ‘We’ll go via Home Farm and then you can wait there while I take Gabes to Accident and Emergency. Are you sure you’re not hurt at all, Freya? It must have been quite a shock.’
I nod. ‘I’m fine. Really.’
‘Nick could have a quick look at Gabes’ foot, first, I guess,’ Maddie says. ‘We don’t want to end up at the hospital unless it’s strictly necessary.’
‘I thought Nick was a vet?’ I say.
‘He is. But it’s much the same: animals, people, broken bones.’
That makes me laugh.
Maddie switches the radio on. The rain sweeps over the big front windscreen. It’s nice bein
g higher up, in the van. You can see over the tops of the hedges. Well, you could, if it wasn’t so rainy and misty. It’s cosy, the three of us bowling along together. I almost wish we were going on a proper journey. A holiday or something.
‘How did it happen, exactly?’ Maddie asks. ‘Tell me properly.’
Kind, generous Gabes says he doesn’t know, that it was just a skid on the wet road. He doesn’t mention me leaning the wrong way, upsetting the balance. Doesn’t blame me at all.
‘Will the bike be all right?’ I say.
‘Probably,’ Gabes says. He frowns again. His face has gone white, with two red splotches on his cheeks. He’s obviously in pain.
The day we planned together is ruined, now. But at least Maddie hasn’t suggested taking me straight back home.
The rain has stopped by the time we arrive at their house. Maddie parks the van in the courtyard.
‘You stay here,’ she says to Gabe. ‘I’ll go in quickly to see if Nick’s around. You come with me, Freya.’
So I follow her into the house, and she fills the kettle and gets a flask out of a cupboard. ‘The wait’s bound to be horrendous. Better to be properly prepared.’ She goes upstairs, calling for Nick.
I sit down at the table. I leaf through the pages of the colour magazine from the newspaper. The cat comes and sits on my lap.
Maddie hurries back into the kitchen with a book in one hand and Gabes’ jumper and notebook in the other. ‘Nick isn’t here. No one is. So, just make yourself at home,’ she says to me. ‘Unless you want to come up to the hospital too, with Gabes? But it’s probably better for you to stay here.’
‘I’m fine here, as long as you don’t mind,’ I say.
‘Beth and the twins won’t be back till about four. I hope to be back long before that. But you’ll tell them what happened, if necessary, won’t you?’
