by Julia Jones
Donny took his shoes off. And those horrible fawn socks. Scrunched them up and shoved them in the rucksack. Felt the grass, slightly prickly and the sand, gritty between his toes. Rolled up the too-short trousers. Paddled, just a little way. Then stood still again, feeling the water, quite warm, lapping his bony ankles.
He’d never seen anything like this before. It was as if he’d walked into the book – Swallows and Amazons, Granny’s book.
So it may have been. But Granny had never taken them anywhere like this. The longer Donny stood there, feeling the wind on his face, the ripples splashing more impatiently up towards his knees, the more certain he became that Granny had been holding out on them. On him and Skye. There had been no real water in their lives. Ever.
Okay, small streams in the forests where they’d parked their camper van and ornamental ponds in parks. Nothing like this. No lakes, no rivers, no seas. Nothing you could go sailing on.
If only you had a boat …
Donny was getting obsessed, watching the patterns that the wind made on the water. From in the library the surface had looked flat: close up, here, it was in constant motion. As the wavelets washed up against the sand, they were translucent, fringed with creamy foam; further out they seemed darker, more pointed. Then he saw cross-hatchings of smaller ripples, advancing in swifter lines, ruffling the shiny surface into greyer, more urgent textures. Cats-paws, he thought, unexpectedly finding a word he didn’t know he knew.
It was like he was hypnotised. But stuff was coming up at him. From the depths of the water and the power of the wind.
Twice, people sailed into his tiny bay and beached their dinghies there. Donny watched intently. These dinghies were nothing like the Swallow. There were many more ropes, much thinner and more colourful; the boat was some sort of plastic, not wood, and all its fittings were smaller and more specialised. Yet he was sure that he understood them.
The second dinghy heeled sharply as it left the shelter of the bay. Instinctively Donny shifted his weight to balance her, gave a little on the sheet … “I could sail!” he realised. “I don’t have to read about it. I could do it!”
And in that moment he got a tang of salt, which couldn’t have come from the reservoir, a buffet of a much fresher breeze, the exhilarating sensation of surging forward into a different element.
Donny stood at the reservoir edge for a long time. His feet got cold so he moved backwards and let the dry sand coat them. He knew he’d been given some sort of gift. Here, beside the water, his life had changed.
He forgot about school: about the foster home, the bullying policeman. He even, for a while, forgot about Skye. Slowly and painfully he began to understand what the stuff with the maps had meant when they went on holiday with Granny. She’d kept them hidden on the journeys so no-one could suggest a diversion. They would never take an unexpected turning to a beach or choose a route that ran along the coast.
Granny had hated water. He knew that now. Like she’d hated the North Wind, Kabibonokka. Maybe what they’d said at the funerals had been right: maybe Granny had had problems … secrets, even.
Donny shivered. The sun had gone in and a stronger wind was whipping up the grey waves into dark excited crests.
There was only one dinghy near him now; a very small white dinghy with a fluorescent-striped sail. It appeared to be going nowhere – except backwards, sometimes, or sideways, quite often. The little boy on board had almost given up. He still had hold of the tiller and was pushing and pulling it randomly from side to side but he’d let go of his mainsheet, which was trailing in the water as the dinghy tossed and wobbled. His sail was shaking violently and the boom was crashing irritably across and back.
As the boat drifted towards Donny’s beach, the child looked round, white-faced. The boom caught him a sharp clip on the side of his head and he fell into the bottom of the dinghy, crying.
Donny swung his rucksack on his back, heaved his trousers higher and waded in. If he’d had a conscious plan it was only to grab the dinghy and hold it steady, comforting the boy until someone else arrived. But as soon as he’d touched the hull he knew what he was really going to do.
“Want Mummy …”
“Do you know where she is?”
A shaky finger pointed to a distant landing.
Donny retrieved the dangling sheet, was over the side of the dinghy and in. “Then that’s exactly where we’re going.”
The few hundred metres beat, in that tiny beginners’ dinghy, was one of the great experiences of Donny’s life. As he climbed in, he turned the dinghy’s bows just a few degrees away from the wind’s direction, pulled in the sheet, controlled the tiller and they were off.
He could do this. He knew he could.
The wind hit them as soon as they left the shelter of the bay and sent the dinghy scurrying. She was pulling like a puppy on a lead. Donny could feel the waves bumping the thin plastic underneath him.
“Stay still where you are and keep your head down,” he told the boy. “We’ll soon get back to your mum.”
He wasn’t worried. Not in the least. This was a very stable little boat, squarish and short – a bit like an animated margarine tub. Donny shifted his weight up onto the gunwale and grinned to himself with total delight.
Then he started thinking. He couldn’t point the dinghy directly at the landing place. The wind was funnelling straight down from one end of the reservoir to the other. He could get there by tacking, zigzagging across the wind’s direction. What he wasn’t sure about in his head, because he couldn’t believe he’d ever done it, was exactly how to make the turns at the point of each zigzag.
He’d watched other boats do it. Some made it look so easy, pivoting round in a single graceful manoeuvre, like a dance step, but he’d noticed others come to a total stop, sails flapping, unable to progress in either direction. He’d seen a couple of dinghies capsize, knocked right over.
Deep inside he knew he was going to be okay.
An orange rescue boat came close up-wind of them, the man and the woman inside shouting something that Donny couldn’t hear. He supposed they were offering help. He freed his left hand by holding the sheet in his teeth for a moment and waved cheerily. Then he took hold of the sheet again and crouched down, staring ahead, making it obvious that he was carrying on.
The boy waved too and the powerboat veered away.
It didn’t go far. Donny guessed that the occupants were sticking close to them, checking they were safe. That was good for his passenger’s sake but it upped the pressure. He must make that turn soon. He must get it right.
“Ready about,” he said, using a command that came without thinking. The boy ducked his head down further, though he didn’t need to, and Donny pushed the tiller away so the boat swung eagerly into the wind. He waited just a second until he was certain she was coming right round, then he shifted his weight, swapped hands on the tiller and sheet – and they were away again.
He felt a surge of happiness.
“Okay?” he asked his passenger. The boy sniffed, nodded, sat up straighter and started looking ahead as intently as Donny himself.
Only three more tacks were needed to bring them to the landing place and they were all perfect.
A concrete slope ran out into the water so Donny aimed for that. He felt viscerally connected to this little tub. He knew without having to work it out that he could stop the dinghy’s progress by turning her straight into the wind’s eye and holding her there, but he mightn’t have known exactly when to pull the daggerboard up if the child hadn’t done it without being asked. Then, at the last moment, Donny realised that he could release one of the coloured strings and their rudder would bob up behind them.
Suddenly they were in smooth water and gliding onto the concrete like a pair of pros.
“Thanks. You were great,” said Donny to his crew.
The child probably didn’t hear. He scrambled out over the side as soon as they grounded and stood holding the painter until someone ca
me to push a trolley underneath the dinghy and wheel her up the slope and onto the land.
Donny climbed out after him. He stood to one side watching the boat being taken away, water dripping from her hull, her bright sail still flapping slightly.
He felt bereft. The solidness of the ground shocked him. His body felt heavy and strange.
The powerboat landed alongside and the child was being hugged by the woman passenger.
The powerboat driver came striding over. “Where the hell’s your buoyancy aid?” he shouted. “Don’t you know the single most important rule on this reservoir?”
Donny looked at him. He felt completely furious.
“There it is,” he shouted back, pointing to the little white dinghy. “There’s my buoyancy aid. I’d have said it was a pretty good one. You can keep your pumped-up sausage skins. Mine’s a proper boat!”
Then he clenched his hands into fists and walked away. Past the man, and past the buildings, and along a gravelled track that soon turned into a road. He walked away from the water without once looking behind him.
CHAPTER FIVE
A Rescue Myth?
Wednesday, September 13th, evening
By the time Donny left the reservoir and turned onto the main road he was beginning to feel a bit shaky. He didn’t normally speak like that to people – but people didn’t normally speak like that to him. Except down here, now he was on his own, without Skye, without Granny.
His trousers had come unrolled when he climbed out of the dinghy so he stopped and wrung some of the water out of them. Then he put his shoes and socks back on and pulled out the Internet map. For a scary moment he couldn’t remember where he was meant to be living. Then he calmed down and worked it out.
The map showed a four- or five-mile walk ahead. That wasn’t so good. The school bus would have gone long ago. His watch had been left in the camper van with his other stuff but this felt more like early evening than late afternoon. He was going to get shouted at by Wendy and Gerald as well.
Afterwards, Donny realised that the only person who’d done any actual shouting was him. Again.
It had gone so well to start with. He’d not tramped even a mile when a car overtook him; slowed, stopped and reversed. The friendly faces of Xanthe and Maggi Ribiero appeared at the windows asking if he was okay and offering a lift.
“We don’t do the school bus most afternoons because of clubs and training and stuff. So one of the parentals has to come and fetch us. This is Mum. Mum, this is Donny. He’s new and he doesn’t know anyone. But he does know Hiawatha so we’ve decided that he’s cool. Can we give him a lift, please?”
Xanthe’s mother smiled from the driving seat. She was smartly dressed in a vivid turquoise and orange suit, her glossy black hair swept up onto the top of her head and fixed with an elaborate comb. She was an exotic sight in a Suffolk country lane but she had the same warm smile as her daughters.
“Hi, Donny. I’m June. I’m pleased to meet you. Don’t let my girls push you into doing anything you don’t choose. If you’re happy walking, you stay walking. If you’d like a lift we’ll gladly give you one.”
Would he?! “Er … thanks. I missed the school bus and I’m not sure what time it is. I suppose my carers might be worried … I’ve only been there one night. It’s the vicarage at ... ” he looked at the map and spelled it out carefully, “Erewhon Parva.”
“Okay, that’s good. Would you like to use the car phone? Then we can check you have permission to take a lift with us.”
“Yes … I would but I don’t have their telephone number. They were too busy this morning. They have other children to look after.”
“Then they surely can’t complain that you haven’t rung in.”
His whole body sagged with relief. Mrs Ribiero seemed capable of taking care of everything. She even phoned the school to tell them where he was. The administrator was just leaving but it didn’t sound as if there’d been any fuss. That was good too. It wouldn’t have been like that if he’d been missing for so long at home.
Suddenly Donny felt immensely tired. And lonely in spite of the Ribieros’ kindness. Luckily he didn’t think Xanthe or Maggi noticed. Or maybe they did.
Whatever. The moment he said he’d been to look at the reservoir they both started telling him again about last year’s wind surfing championships and their own two Laser dinghies, Kingfisher and Spray. Both dinghies had been named after yachts that had sailed round the world. The sisters were beginning to list some of the other names they’d considered … Gypsy Moth, Lively Lady “but we’d used that”, Whirlpool, Aviva, Kitty IV, Golden Hind, Strong … when June turned into the vicarage drive and they all saw the police car.
“Well, young man, truant on your first day. Not a good start. You’d better tell me what you were up to. Exactly what you were up to – and who you went to meet.”
The fat policeman was completely blanking Mrs Ribiero, who had got out of her car and walked beside Donny, obviously intending to introduce herself.
Donny felt really awkward. “I didn’t go to meet anyone. I left school after lunch to go and look at the boats because there wasn’t anything for me to do and I hadn’t seen boats before. Or a lake. I mean ... a reservoir. Then I forgot how long I’d been. After that I realised I’d missed the school bus. So I was walking.”
“Don’t lie to me, young man. You’ve been absent all day.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Yes you have. My colleague, Ms Tune, has already spoken to your school. They confirmed that they’d no idea where you were.”
“Excuse me, officer.” Mrs Ribiero cut in. “But I happen to have spoken with the school administration as well. Until I rang them on my car phone, not ten minutes ago, they had no notion that he was missing. He wasn’t on the bus driver’s list and, once he’d left the school, he had no way of making contact. He doesn’t have a mobile and no-one provided a contact number.”
“We telephoned at once. As soon as the bus returned.” This was Gerald.
“But who did you phone?”
“Maiself. As per procedure.”
The Welfare Officer from the meeting was there too. Had she told the policeman a lie or was it the school’s mistake? He’d used his swipe card to check out in the library and he’d registered with the tutor after lunch. He even thought he’d seen her in the school office.
The policeman was looking at Mrs Ribiero as if he knew in advance that she was going to waste his time.
“And who might you be, madam?”
“I’m June Ribiero. My daughters are at school with Donny. We saw him walking home so we called the school and offered him a lift.”
“But, in fact, madam, you couldn’t be sure where, exactly, he was walking from.”
Mrs Ribiero stood very straight and raised her eyebrows.
“It was certainly from the direction of the reservoir. And if that’s where he says he’s been, why ever should we doubt it?”
“We’ve found, madam, that the things this boy says are not always supported by the facts. When one comes to check the facts. As we do.” He reached into his top pocket for a palm pad and made a note. “I must warn you, madam, that you may find yourself liable to some official criticism for colluding with a deliberate truancy.”
He turned his back on June and looked at Donny again. A hard look. Donny felt embarrassed and obscurely afraid but he was also angry.
“You can check everything I’ve said. You’ll find it’s true. I went to the reservoir. I missed the bus. I was walking back. I knew I shouldn’t have gone to the reservoir but I went anyway. People saw me there. Okay?”
“Ai shouldn’t have gone to the reservoir but Ai went anyway … ” Denise Tune mimicked, shaking her head from side to side and looking doleful. Donny noticed that there were other children watching from behind them. He hoped they were enjoying the show.
The policeman blew himself up like a toad on heat.
“Now that you’re so lippy, young man, pe
rhaps you’d like to tell me more precisely where I’ll find this alleged great aunt of yours?”
“My Great Aunt Ellen is not alleged!”
“So you keep saying. But you won’t say when she’s coming or how she’s coming. We’ve checked passenger lists to Felixstowe and Harwich for the next three months but Miss Ellen Walker’s not on them. This gives me problems.” The Welfare Officer was nodding now. Like she was his backing group. “Because I have a decision to make. I have to decide whether we start searching the containers – as we do for all the other illegals from Shanghai.”
Both Gerald and June stepped forward at this point but Donny didn’t see them.
“MY GREAT AUNT ELLEN ISN’T AN ILLEGAL! You go search wherever you like. I want you to find her! Then I’ll get my mum back and I’ll never have to see any of you again! RESULT!”
He turned and ran into the vicarage. He slammed the front door behind him and charged up to his bedroom.
He slammed that door too and shoved a chair under the handle so it couldn’t be opened. Then he threw himself onto his bed and stuffed his head under the covers. He didn’t hear whether anyone followed him. Today had finally been too much. He wanted out of it.
When he woke his room was dark. He felt horrible but he couldn’t remember why.
Then his own shouting started coming back to him.
The clock in the bedroom said half past ten. If Gerald and Wendy were still awake he owed them an apology. This situation wasn’t their fault. He was hungry too. Maybe they’d have something he could eat. Even milk and biscuits would be good.
The study light was on and he could hear voices. Donny paused outside. He felt uncomfortable, a bit like an intruder. He didn’t know these people and this was their house. What if they were … being intimate or something? He listened properly. Maybe they were watching TV.
“Yes … it’s an interesting case. Naturally one feels compassion. The trauma of losing his grandmother. Then he witnessed the mother’s breakdown. Denise Tune says a rescue myth’s not uncommon in these circumstances.”
