Breathing Underwater

by Julia Green

  ‘We’ll meet you at the bench above Periglis,’ Evie calls after me.

  I’m concentrating on my feet, stepping from one slippery rock to the next along the tideline, when something makes me glance up. Two small girls are digging in the sand further down, quite close to the water. Beyond them, out on the long, thin promontory of stones that’s revealed at low tide, is Joe. I stop dead. It’s him, Joe, in his usual black T-shirt and dark blue jeans, standing at the very end, casting a line into the deep water. His box of fishing stuff is balanced on the stones at his feet. He’s sideways on, his messy brown hair blowing over his face so I can’t see it, but I don’t need to. I know it is Joe. My hands are clammy with sweat, my heart hammering against my ribcage. He’s so solid and real, so not a ghost. It doesn’t make sense, but there he is. I can see him plain as anything.

  I start running towards him, sliding and slipping. The girls look up as I run past. One is Rosie, from last year. She stands up, ready to speak to me but I don’t stop. Water splashes up my leg as I skid in a shallow pool. I’m holding my breath again. Any moment I’m expecting him to go. Stay there! I will him. Wait for me!

  I call out, but he doesn’t seem to hear. ‘Joe!’

  Nearly there.

  ‘Joe!’

  He turns.

  It isn’t him.

  It’s a boy like Joe, a younger version, with the same sort of clothes and messy hair, but a different face.

  Blood rushes into mine. Stupid.

  I’m still standing there, like a lemon, when he says something. His voice is young, light – so unlike Joe’s I almost laugh.

  ‘All right?’ he says.

  I nod. ‘Sorry. Thought you were someone . . .’ I start scrabbling back over the rocks, slipping and stumbling. I stub my toe. I grit my teeth so I won’t cry.

  ‘Freya!’ Rosie’s high voice calls after me as I run past. I want to hide, just long enough to pull myself together, but there’s nowhere on the beach, so I scuff along the top to the bench near the footpath and sit down. I wait there, heart pounding, fists tight. Every so often I glance at the boy, fishing. Easy enough to make a mistake. From a distance. In the fading light.

  Gramps and Evie make their way slowly along the footpath. They come to sit one each side of me. We don’t speak. Squashed in the middle, I start to feel calmer again. I shut my eyes till I can’t see Joe’s face any more and my heart’s stopped thumping so bad. There’s a pain there that won’t go away, though. Ever.

  ‘Look at that!’ Evie says eventually.

  The sky’s amazing. Pink and gold in stripes nearest the horizon, fading through turquoise to pale blue mottled with silver cloud like the skin of a mackerel. The red-gold disc of sun slips into the water as we watch.

  ‘Let’s go and get a drink at the pub,’ Gramps says.

  We cross the field, navigating the football game which I know will play on long after it’s too dark to see. It’s the same every summer. Rosie and her friend are playing along the edge, and Matt and the girl with the braided hair are running, laughing, after the ball. I think I see the fishing boy, at the far end of the pitch, still too much like Joe.

  ‘Do you want to join in?’ Evie asks. ‘We can come back for you later, if you like?’

  I shake my head, even though the voices tug at me. We go on past the church. Echoes of shouts, laughter, follow us on the breeze. Evie links her arm with mine as we go along the darkening lane. Now, ahead, the pub shines out like a beacon.

  We step over the threshold into the bright light. A crowd of people are pushing to get to the bar, ordering drinks and meals. A boat trip from Main Island must have just landed. Gramps tuts and joins the queue, and Evie and I go back outside to find a table. It’s completely dark now. I’m tired out. Voices merge, drift, wash over my head.

  Going back afterwards is like sleepwalking. The field’s empty. A layer of mist skims the surface of the grass, lit up for an instant by the beam of the lighthouse as it swings round. The sea churns stones, speaks a language just out of my reach. Back home, in bed, I can still hear it. It sighs, whispers. Just as I’m dropping off, Joe’s deep voice breathes into my ear. Freya?

  Six

  Last summer

  August 12th

  It’s raining. Evie’s gone shopping on Main Island and Gramps has disappeared off somewhere too. Joe’s making floats. He cuts off a small chunk of wood, carves it into a rough oval with a penknife and sandpapers it until it’s completely smooth. He drills a hole at either end, makes two wire loops and glues them in. He fixes a swivel hook at one end and a treble hook at the other. He paints the fish shape with silver and blue like a tiny mackerel. He gives it an eye of epoxy resin. Last of all he varnishes it. Every step, he takes his time. His hand with the fine paintbrush is steady and meticulous. He lines up the fish floats on a sheet of newspaper on the kitchen table.

  ‘Can I do one?’

  Joe pauses mid-brushstroke; he looks at me, amused. ‘How bored are you, Freya?’

  ‘On a scale of one to ten, ten.’

  Joe goes back to concentrating on getting the markings right.

  ‘How do you remember?’ I ask.

  He shrugs. ‘Seen enough mackerel,’ he says.

  He has an almost photographic memory for some things. When he wants, that is. I can imagine him building boats. Beautiful wooden ones, that cost thousands of pounds. Mum says he’s been like this – clever at making things – since he was really little.

  He hands me a chunk of wood. I pick up the penknife and start whittling the shape. Slivers of wood curl off the knife and drop on to the table.

  ‘Hold the knife so you’re cutting away from your hand,’ Joe says.

  I don’t do too badly. Once I’m sandpapering, it’s almost the right shape. Joe does the wire bits for me, and the glue. Painting is more fun. I copy one of Joe’s, to get the pattern right. Only my brush must be bigger or something, because the lines are a bit thick and fuzzy. I lay it next to Joe’s.

  ‘It’s not as good.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Joe says. ‘The fish won’t mind, anyway.’

  I fidget about for a while longer. Joe makes me wash the brushes. I stare out over the wet garden. The rain’s stopped. ‘Shall we go and see the puppies at the farm?’ I say to Joe.

  ‘You can.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll let us have one?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mum and Dad.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Will you say you really, really want one too? Please?’

  Joe sighs. ‘But I don’t.’

  ‘You used to.’

  ‘That was ages ago. I won’t even be at home after next year. There’s no point.’

  Sally’s made a special pen for the puppies in the scullery just off the farm kitchen. The mother dog, Bonnie, can easily jump over the side but it keeps the puppies safe. They’re heaped together in one corner, half asleep, a squirming pile of puppies. ‘Help yourself,’ Sally says. She’s sorting piles of papers at the table.

  Bonnie comes wagging over. She knows me well, so she doesn’t mind me stroking her puppies. They are Border collies: black and white and very furry. My favourite is the smallest female, with a black face and hardly any white patches. I play over this scene in my mind: when Mum and Dad arrive at the end of August they see me and the puppy together and they say, ‘Well, you’re obviously made for each other,’ and we take her back with us. My own puppy like I’ve wanted ever since I was about five.

  I’ll do all the looking after – the walks and food and grooming and everything. I’ll call her Tilly. I’ll train her properly because Border collies are really intelligent and need to be busy, learning stuff. Bonnie is a working dog on Sally’s farm. Our garden at home is a bit small, but there’s a wall round it so at least it’s safe, and there’s the canal towpath really nearby for walks. She can round up the ducks.

  I pick up my puppy and she squeaks. She’s so warm. I bend my head over her and she licks my face with her rough pi
nk tongue and wags her tail which makes her bottom wiggle too. Puppies can leave their mother when they’re eight or nine weeks, which is about perfect timing for the end of August when we’ll go back home at the end of the summer holidays.

  Bonnie jumps up to check her puppy’s OK. She’s such a good mother. Tilly gets so excited and wriggly I nearly drop her so I put her down quick. ‘There you go, Tilly-Little.’

  The puppy pushes up against Bonnie who flops over so she can feed. All the puppies plough in for a share. They paddle with their paws to make the milk come. Bonnie lets out a huge sigh.

  ‘She’s had enough. We need to start weaning the pups soon,’ Sally says. ‘And find them homes.’

  Evie’s unpacking a huge box of groceries when I get back. There’s no sign of Joe or the fishing floats.

  ‘Wouldn’t you like one of the farm puppies?’ I ask her.

  ‘I’ve got enough to be looking after already,’ she says. ‘With your gramps!’

  ‘I’d do all the looking after her when I was here,’ I say. ‘Every summer.’

  ‘For how much longer, though?’ Evie says. ‘You won’t want to be coming here for ever, Freya. You’re growing up.’

  ‘I’ll never stop coming here,’ I say. ‘It’s my favourite place anywhere in the whole world.’

  Evie makes a sound, a sort of hmmm. ‘The world’s a big place,’ she says. ‘And it’s all just waiting for you and Joe. You’ll see.’

  Seven

  My third morning, this summer. Evie sends me up to the farm to get some milk and stuff. I have to queue with the campsite people at the back door. I read the notices chalked up on the blackboard: Fresh farm veg: courgettes and tomatoes. Organic lamb burgers; organic minced beef. Milk, cream, yoghurt. Boat trip to seals 7pm. Shower tokens 20p.

  ‘Hi.’ The girl with the hair, Matt’s friend, leans against the door frame. Sky-blue cotton trousers and a green top today. She’s got an amazing tan, and three silver belly button rings.

  ‘I keep seeing you,’ she says. ‘You’re Evie’s granddaughter?’

  I nod.

  ‘Izzy. Dairymaid,’ she introduces herself. She speaks with a local accent, but I’ve never seen her other years. ‘Also campsite cleaner, events organiser, occasional boat hand and general dogsbody.’ She laughs, looks at me all wide-eyed.

  I suddenly realise she’s waiting for me to say something. ‘Freya,’ I say.

  ‘Glad to meet you, Freya.’ She has an odd way of talking. Sort of old-fashioned polite but as if she’s laughing, too. ‘How may I help you?’

  ‘Milk. Two pints. One pot of natural yoghurt. Please.’

  ‘Hang on, then.’ She goes to fetch the stuff from the big fridges in the barn.

  While I’m waiting I look into the kitchen and out through its window to the back garden, where Tilly/Bess is playing with a ball. I’m just thinking about calling her over when footsteps thump down the stairs and Matt appears. He stuffs his feet into old wellies by the door. He grins at me. ‘Coming on the boat trip this evening?’

  I’m suddenly tongue-tied.

  ‘You should. See the seals,’ Matt says.

  Izzy reappears. ‘Yes. It’ll be fun. Seven o’clock at the jetty. See you there?’ She hands me the milk and the yoghurt. ‘Yes?’

  I can’t work out whether they’re being extra nice on purpose, because of what they’ve heard about me, or because it’s Izzy’s job, or what. Perhaps that’s just how she is. She has this open, smiling face and all that golden hair and she’s sort of brimming over with something. Happiness? Confidence? I notice it because it’s the opposite of me, right now. And because it’s a shock to realise that. This me isn’t the one I used to be.

  I think about that when I’m lying in the garden later. I can’t read. I start, but my mind drifts off and away and I lose track. I doodle with a pen in my notebook with the blue cover, but I don’t write, either. I draw a maze pattern, like the one on the cliff. Next I sketch a shape that becomes a sea-urchin shell. I shade in the stripes. It’s like I need to pin things down on the paper. Everything might just as easily float off, like thistledown. I have to make myself stay there, seeing and hearing the world around me. I try to draw the foxgloves, and a bee. I draw the tiny yellow pollen bags on its legs. I draw another shape, like a fish.

  I get up, legs stiff from being still too long. The shed door creaks when I push it and spiders scuttle into the corner as sunlight trickles in through the open doorway. I find Joe’s box on the shelf, a year of dust settled on the lid. It stains my fingers. Inside, everything’s still perfectly organised, exactly how Joe left it last summer. Hooks and spinners, flies, a ball of fine line, a series of floats in the neat compartments. There are three perfect hand-painted mackerel floats, and the messy one I made. He kept it, then.

  I try to imagine Joe now, standing behind me and leaning over my shoulder to see into the tackle box. I try to feel his breath against the back of my neck.

  Nothing.

  How long have I been standing here?

  Evie peers round at me. ‘Saw the shed door was open,’ she says. ‘You’ll find the rods at the back, if you’re thinking of going fishing.’

  I’m not. At least, I hadn’t been planning that at all. But why not? If Joe’s anywhere on this island, he’s most likely to be out on the fishing rock below Wind Down. That’s where he’ll come to me, if he’s going to.

  I don’t exactly think this out, not as clearly as this, because if I did I’d see how really mad it sounds. It’s more a feeling, pushing me to do things I wouldn’t normally. I don’t really like fishing much. It’s Joe’s thing, for starters, and you have to stay still and quiet for ages, just hanging around, and then if you do catch anything it’s all rather horrible: the hook stuck in flesh, and the goggling eyes, and the flapping about and everything. Seeing a fish in air is like how I imagine drowning, for a person. Gasping for breath.

  That’s three good reasons not to do it, but here I am, already brushing cobwebs and dust off the two fishing rods. I try winding the reels. One’s rusted up. I take the other one outside into the garden, and the box. I haven’t much of a clue how to do it, since I’ve never done it by myself before, but I reckon I can always ask someone. That boy, even.

  Or Matt.

  Why do I keep thinking about him?

  I’m feeling braver today, so I risk going the quick way via the campsite to get to Wind Down. There aren’t many people around as it’s nearly midday and quite sunny, so people are at the beach already or off on boats or whatever. There’s no sign of anyone I know from other years. Nor the boy.

  Outside a big, hexagonal orange tent someone’s propped a board pinned with home-made jewellery against a camping chair. I stop to look. The earrings, necklaces and bracelets are made from bits of shell and pebble and tiny feathers strung on silver wire.

  The tent door unzips. Izzy pokes her head out. ‘Hi, Freya!’

  ‘Hi!’ I know I’m blushing. Stupid. Again.

  ‘Like them?’ Izzy asks.

  I nod. ‘Are they yours? You made them?’

  ‘Yep. Necklaces seven pounds. Earrings two pounds fifty. Real silver. Bargains.’

  ‘They’re lovely,’ I say. They really are. The colours, the delicate designs.

  ‘Thanks,’ Izzy says.

  There’s an awkward moment: her half in, half out of the tent, me standing there.

  ‘Is this where you’re living?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes. Third tent since April. Two got ripped, in storms, but this one’s extra good. It’s my mum’s.’

  ‘Since April? In a tent?’

  Izzy laughs. ‘Mad, yes? I came over soon as we got study leave for A levels. My mum went mental! I went back to do the actual exams. Then I got the summer job here. But this tent’s properly waterproof and really cosy inside. See?’ Izzy holds open the flap so I can see inside.

  And it is amazing. Like a Bedouin tent or a yurt or something exotic like that: Indian bedspreads and rugs and cushions, everything ba
thed in a pinky-gold light from the sun filtering through the fabric.

  A head sticks up from under an orange blanket and stares, bleary-eyed, at Izzy and me. It’s Matt.

  ‘What’s the time?’ he mumbles.

  ‘Twelve? One? Time you got up,’ Izzy says.

  For a second I’m confused. Haven’t I already seen Matt, up at the farmhouse, earlier this morning? He must have to get up early for milking, and the first boat . . . So maybe that’s why he’s gone back to bed. And then I see the look he gives Izzy, and I go hot all over. Duh! Izzy and Matt haven’t been just sleeping . . .

  I duck back out of the tent. Izzy whispers something to Matt, and he laughs. There’s the soft thud of someone lying down, and I don’t stay to hear anything more. I know they’re not laughing at me. I know that. They won’t give me another thought. I start to run, the rod and the box banging against my legs. All the way, I keep thinking of Mum and Dad, the way they used to be. Izzy, in her bright, silly clothes with that big happy smile. Matt’s soft mouth, finding hers.

  I want to cry. I don’t though. I’ve stopped doing that all the time. It cured me, hearing Mum night after night. It doesn’t do any good, not after a while.

  I decide I’ll just go and sit on the fishing rocks; I don’t have to fish, I’ll just see what it’s like sitting there. And I can think about Joe, and see what happens. If no one else is there, that is.

  But someone is. Why am I surprised, even, that it’s that boy again? Joe’s shadow. I’m about to turn back but he’s seen me and he waves. So I go on. He stands up, and he walks to the edge of the biggest rock which is nearest the cliff, and he holds his hand out to help me do the jump across the gap, as if he knows I might be scared, but without saying anything. So I start liking him a bit, right then.