The Salt-Stained Book (Strong Winds Trilogy 1)

by Julia Jones

  She was quite a heavy dinghy. They wouldn’t be able to move her in a hurry.

  Donny looked both ways. There was nobody else about.

  “I reckon we need to start getting back. How about we crawl out of here, as close under the cliff as we can. Opposite direction to that dinghy. Then, soon as there’s a chance, we get up into the wood again ...”

  “And start sniffing after Li! His trainers get well stinky!”

  “Oh okay. If you want. But remember, dogs can’t talk. All this stays between you and me.”

  Luke put his head on one side and yapped, really quietly.

  Even when they were safely up into the trees again Donny didn’t dare explore any further towards the Shotley end of the wood. Margery’s owner and the old lady must be around there somewhere. He couldn’t think what they’d be doing.

  A distant glimpse of the shark-boat nosing down towards Felixstowe made him glad they’d left the beach.

  Luke had become a big and extremely fierce dog, panting and snuffling and cocking his leg against the larger trees. Donny soon got fed up with having his ankle bitten and being jumped on. Then he realised that the best way to cope was by appointing himself Luke’s official handler so he could give commands and get him trotting to heel carrying things.

  This suited them both. Luke bounded about energetically, dropping and retrieving fantasy thigh-bones, while Donny collected smooth, supple, alder twigs for the outer rim of the dream-catchers and some fibrous bark which they might shred and use for weaving. They even found a few of the leaves along Gerald’s trail before it was time to give up and return to the Hard.

  Gerald, Vicky and Liam arrived about five minutes later.

  “That was cool fun!” shouted Liam. “We got stuck in a place where the water had come in and we had to take our shoes off and he got his trousers all wet!”

  Vicky was clutching the bar of her easy-rider, looking pink and bright-eyed as if she’d had cool fun too.

  Gerald was puffing and muddy. He took Vicky and her pack off his back and sat down heavily on a bench outside the pub to clean his shoes with profligate quantities of baby-wipes.

  “Tell you what, Gerald mate,” said Liam, who had got his football out and was doing keepi-uppies with undiminished energy, “an ice-cream all round and we don’t tell Rev. Wendy the word you used when you wet your trousers. Is that a deal?”

  Luke put his paws together, hung his tongue out and dribbled. He was embarrassing. Donny didn’t really know where to look.

  Nor, it seemed, did Gerald who was clearly troubled by the wipe-disposal question. If he took them home he could perhaps shred them for compost. But there were so many and so muddy...

  He shut his eyes and pushed them in the public bin to augment the county’s landfill. Then he began searching, distractedly, for the watch that he’d lent to Donny.

  Maybe it had been Wendy’s?

  He was so relieved when Donny handed it back, that he bought the ice-creams without another word. He wiped everyone’s faces before they were allowed to touch the packaging, pushed those wipes into his pocket and ignored the untidy bundles of bark, nuts, old man’s beard and alder twig that Donny carried up the road and through the vicarage front door.

  No one came out to greet them.

  “They was in your room yesterday,” said Luke, turning back into a boy again. “Checking through your stuff. But I don’t think they found nothing.”

  “That’s because there’s nothing to find,” snapped Donny, his good mood gone.

  Monday, September 18th

  “Vive la Rescue Myth, Donny-man!” Xanthe and Maggi swung themselves, their bags and Long John into some empty seats opposite Donny and Anna. “How was Sunday in the boot camp?”

  “Could have been worse,” said Donny. Pin Mill had basically been all right even if the night had been bad again

  “Could have been better,” muttered Anna.

  Somehow Anna’s Sunday afternoon hadn’t worked out. All Donny had managed to discover was that Wendy hadn’t dozed on the sofa with the newspapers as expected; she’d spent the time in her study re-writing a sermon. This, according to Anna, meant that she’d had to do her homework instead.

  “Instead of what?”

  But she didn’t answer.

  When he’d asked her if she wanted to make dream-catchers with him after supper she’d said no, she was busy. That left him to do his own homework.

  He was beginning to worry about Great Aunt Ellen. She must be very old – in her seventies? Eighties, even? What if Flint did try to arrest her or intimidate her or something? If he could be that offensive to someone like Joshua Ribiero never mind what he had done to that bird on the quay it would sort of be Donny’s fault, wouldn’t it? He’d be responsible.

  Then there’d been another of those sweat-drenched nightmares.

  “Better make the catchers tonight,” said Anna as they had waited for the bus on Monday morning. He must have shouted out again. She must have heard him.

  “Yes ... if you’re not too busy.”

  She ignored him. “What do we need?”

  “Scissors, but I suppose they’ll have some back there.” He wasn’t going to use the word ‘home’ when he meant the vicarage. Not ever.

  “All the sharp ones are locked up. And they’ll ask why we want them. Leave it to me. Anything else?”

  “Well, really big needles would be good. You know, the sort they call bodkins. And, ideally, something sharp to make holes. Then those acorns I collected could be our beads. It’s not how the Native Americans make them, obviously – or Mum – and they won’t last very long. But, well, I don’t want any of this to last very long. They can’t keep me away from my own mother for ever.”

  “You wish,” said Anna. Then she had pressed her lips together and looked pinched and thin again.

  “The parentals have got a wicked plan.” Xanthe told them, as soon as they’d sat down. “We were talking about you on the way home and Dad said, ‘why don’t we lend them Lively Lady?’ As if he’d just that moment thought of it.”

  “And Mum agreed with him so fast it was obvious they’d already had the discussion and made up their minds,” said Maggi. “They often operate like that. They think we don’t notice.”

  “We play along,” Xanthe agreed. “In four-part family harm- on-ee.”

  She stopped, awkwardly.

  “It’s not just the dinghy-lending that impressed us. It’s the way they’ve thought it through,” she carried on, accepting Maggi’s elbow-jab with uncharacteristic meekness. “They are deeply under-whelmed by that porker policeman and they don’t want him harassing you while you’re on the river.”

  “So they think you should disguise Lively Lady!” Maggi dropped her voice dramatically. “Though, obviously they didn’t put it quite so straight,” she added, more normally. “Said that it was time LL had a new coat of paint and maybe something a bit less conspicuous would be a good idea ...”

  “Dark grey,” said Donny immediately.

  Xanthe looked at him sharply.

  “Yeah, go for it. If it’s hot, you need to paint wooden boats a light colour to reflect the heat away. But it’s autumn now and, if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, charcoal could be the new white. We’ll change her sails too. Use the Kevlar set. Classy but drab.”

  “And they want you to keep her somewhere different. Maybe the reservoir, Gitche Gumee?”

  “No, we’ll keep her at Pin Mill ... if that’d be okay ...”

  He hadn’t even said thank you. This was so amazing!

  “But why?” asked Anna. “Why are they doing this? And why include me? I can’t sail like Donny.”

  “Well, Mum says that you’re incredibly ... what was it Xanth?”

  “Mature and clear-headed,” supplied her sister. “And clever with your fingers too.”

  “Oh,” said Anna, flushing slightly. She thought for a moment. “I’m not sure. I might be the fingers but I’m definitely not clea
r-headed. Not about Flint, anyway. I wish I was.”

  “He is a tad scary,” Maggi agreed. “That’s why they want you and the boat out of his way. You may be the muppet to end all muppets which you’re not but you’re our friend and we’ve got an Alliance. So you’re in. Okay?”

  The bus was at school now. There was no time for more.

  “Okay,” said Anna, sounding rather dazed as the four of them clambered out of the bus and joined the jostling Monday morning crowd. “Er ... confusion to our enemies then.”

  As Xanthe had predicted, Mr McMullen told Donny that, as it was the start of a new week, he could consider himself off report. “Not that I haven’t enjoyed seeing your fresh face but ... somehow I’ve gained the impression that you’d rather spend your break and lunchtimes elsewhere. Correct me if I’m wrong?”

  Donny couldn’t quite think how to answer.

  “Please make sure that elsewhere is somewhere that you’re officially allowed to be ... and, Donny – you prefer that to John don’t you? – please also remember that I am your tutor and you know where to find me if there are things you want to discuss.” He paused, stroked his beard and sighed, “Anything troubling you in particular?”

  The question was totally casual; the teacher already turning away. This helped Donny give him a try.

  “I want to go and see my mother, sir. She’ll be worried about me – and I worry about her.” Suddenly he felt a bit choky. He was glad Mr McMullen wasn’t looking at him.

  “Of course. Do you know why you’re not allowed to visit?”

  “No sir.”

  “Neither do I. I’ll try to find out for you. I expect Welfare will ring me for a report sometime. It’s been almost a week. I might even ring her.”

  Donny said nothing. Anything he said would obviously get passed back.

  “She’ll probably want a meeting too. The SS love meetings. But I’ll let you know if that’s going to happen and you can tell me what you’d like me to say. Better still, you’ll insist on your own right to be there.”

  “Am I allowed?”

  “Sometimes. But sometimes they restrict their meetings to Professionals – which implies that you and your mother have only an amateur’s interest in the business of managing your lives. In that you’ll need to brief me thoroughly and I’ll need to be able to go. They have an unhelpful way of timing their meetings for mid-morning in Ipswich – or probably Colchester in your case. Then the school has to find cover for me and I miss half a day’s session with my students.” He sounded fed up. “You see my problem.”

  Donny did. And why should this man give a toss about his troubles anyway? Let alone care about Skye who he’d never met.

  “So I’ll only go to one of their Professional meetings if I think I’ve a chance of making a difference,” the teacher continued. “That’s why I wish you’d open up a bit. I won’t keep your secrets if they’re going to put you at real risk but I do try to assume that you have the best knowledge of your own situation.” He picked up some papers as if to show the interview was at an end. “Unfortunately it’s a minority view. Keep in touch.”

  Donny turned to go. Then, on an impulse, he turned back. “Sir, are there any after-school clubs I can join?”

  Mr McMullen looked surprised. “You’ll find lists in the library or on the school website. I keep this department open late two nights a week for project and exam work and there are still a few of my colleagues who do the same. Your problem will be transport. Talk to me about it when you’ve decided what you want to do.”

  “Oh ... er ... thanks. Thanks very much.” Donny hurried away to his first lesson, his mind busy.

  He saw Anna at morning break, in the ICT area, but she wasn’t speaking to him.

  Google found him half a million hits for ‘Strong Winds’ – nearly all weather reports. There was a song he liked: “Four strong winds that blow lonely / Seven seas that run high,” but nothing that he could imagine even the most eccentric great aunt putting into a crate.

  He gave up and looked instead at the list of After School clubs. He’d join anything: madrigal-making, earwig appreciation, litter management – anything to earn time away from the vicarage.

  This was Monday.

  His next free day was Saturday, the twenty-third of September. Great Aunt Ellen could be here by then! He urgently needed to talk boat.

  He saw Maggi at lunchtime but she was hanging out with a crowd of people he didn’t know so he didn’t go up to her. Then he spotted Xanthe heading towards the music block. He abandoned his place in the food queue.

  “Hi, Xanthe, can I talk to you? Your parents ... Lively Lady ... it’s so totally brilliant. I don’t know how to ... Totally. But ... you said we could repaint her. When can we do it? Where? And how can I not tell Wendy and Gerald?”

  “Yeah,” Xanthe was in a rush but she’d obviously taken it all in. “We need tactics. Can you and Anna stay after school tomorrow? Fake something. We’ll check it in the morning. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Donny dropped back. As Xanthe pushed through the double doors of the music block he felt as if he’d been caught in the wind shadow of an ocean racer.

  He stood, staring after her, as the doors swung shut.

  “Yer won’t do no good there, mate. Her and her sister. Stuck- up tarts. Oughta get sent back where they came from.”

  Donny hit out, wildly. But the older boy felled him with a contemptuous swing of his sports bag. Caught him neatly below the knees and landed him hard on the tarmac. It felt like a well-practised manoeuvre.

  “Bit of a girl yerself, aren’t yer? – mate.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Answers and Questions

  Monday, September 18th

  “Strong Winds’s a Chinese junk – had you realised?” Anna said as they sat in his room after supper making inauthentic dream-catchers.

  “A what?” Donny gaped at her.

  “A Chinese junk – they’re a type of boat. Thought you knew about that sort of thing.” Anna’s tone was light. She was obviously rather pleased with herself. “Or, rather, the term junk may be used to cover many different types of boat – ocean-going, cargo-carrying, pleasure boats, live-aboards. They vary greatly in size and there are significant regional variations in the type of rig. To Western eyes, however, they all appear to resemble one another due to their most significant shared feature, their fully-battened sails.” She sounded as if she was reciting. “I’ve been researching them.”

  “How? Where? Why?”

  “On the web. Once I was sure that that was what she was, I thought I’d find out a little more about them. I can show you a picture. She’s a three-master, wooden, not very big. Painted but I can’t tell you what colours as I’ve only seen a black and white drawing. I think she’s at least sixty years old, probably more.”

  “Anna, you’re amazing! When did you do it? Google gave me half a million hits this morning – all to do with weather. I couldn’t begin to sort them out.”

  “Oh I’m quite good with search engines. And actually it was easy once I refined the initial search by using ‘Chinese’. I guessed it must be something from out there as your great aunt lives in Shanghai. Loads of typhoons of course but in the end I found a boat. That seemed to fit.”

  “You’re brilliant.”

  Anna’s pale, slightly freckled face flushed slightly, as it had when Maggi and Xanthe had repeated their mother’s praise.

  “But there’s a problem. Strong Winds belonged to some sort of female warlord. More Malaysia than actual China. I tried to cross-check with the atlas but it was all really political with independence and stuff. Lots of islands changed their names, changed sides even. I’m not normally a history geek but it looked quite interesting – ”

  Donny wasn’t listening. “How can you bring a boat on a boat? It sounds peculiar.”

  “Not really. I researched that too. If a boat can’t fit into one of the containers they can be carried as deck cargo. They’d have to t
ake its masts down and put a protective framework round it. That’s what your great aunt must have meant by crating. And a Bill of Lading’s just the paperwork.”

  “ ‘Her masts’ – a boat’s a lady. You mustn’t say ‘it’. It’s not right.” Donny was surprised how much he minded Anna using the wrong word.

  Anna looked a bit surprised too. “Oh, okay,” she said. “Even for those gigantic container ships?”

  “Even them.”

  (Though maybe not Flint’s foul shark-boat, thought Donny, meanly.)

  “Because I’ve been watching them,” said Anna. “The Port of Felixstowe site has a webcam. But I can’t usually tell one from another except by their colour. About ten or twelve come in every day – and during the night. Loads of them are from China. If I had a container number I could work out which one Strong Winds should be coming on. But I haven’t. Anyway it might be a different numbering system for deck cargo. The webcam doesn’t get close enough to scan individual ships.”

  She looked disappointed with herself. It reminded Donny of the way she’d looked last night.

  “Was that what you were doing yesterday? Did Rev. Wendy let you use the computer in her study?”

  Anna flared up. “No, she certainly did not!” She hissed at him, always remembering not to shout. “And don’t you ever mention computers around here. Or the Internet or even let them know I’ve heard of it. Or ... I’ll dob you in!”

  “Okay, okay. Keep your hair on. Of course I won’t if you don’t want me to. I hardly talk to Wendy anyway.”

  He felt a bit hurt.

  “Sorry. I forgot. I’m not used ... Let’s get on with the dream- catchers. I want to make at least two. My little sister probably has nightmares.”

  It was the first kind thing he’d heard her say about Vicky. He decided he wouldn’t risk upsetting her again by showing that he’d noticed that the scissors, bradawls and hand drills they were using were all labelled ‘Gallister High. DT department. DO NOT REMOVE.’