by Julia Green
‘I might. It’s a good laugh. You have to sing and cheer and stuff. Some of the blokes strip down, put on warpaint. It’s all very tribal. Afterwards everyone goes to the pub.’
A dog barks. The almost-grown pup comes hurtling round the corner and jumps up.
‘Hello, Bess!’ I pat her warm back. Her fur is still slightly woolly and soft, not silky smooth like Bonnie’s.
‘Hey, Freya! I’ve got a really good idea!’ Danny says. ‘How about asking Sally about that Sam girl? She must keep details for the campsite. Phone numbers and emails and stuff. She could look up her books for last summer for you.’
‘I’m not sure . . . Maybe Huw’s right, and it won’t help. Sam won’t know anything. She might not even remember Joe.’
Danny looks stunned. ‘How could she possibly forget? An accident like that . . .’
‘She might not even have known about it. She left that Saturday morning, the day after.’
‘Wasn’t everyone talking about it? Surely it was a huge thing?’
‘How do I know?’ I say miserably. ‘I wasn’t at the campsite, was I? We were all in shock, up at the house. It wasn’t general knowledge till later that morning, and she’d have left before then.’
The truth is, I don’t know. It’s all a blur. I hardly remember that day at all. Mum and Dad arrived by helicopter to Main Island, sometime in the morning.
Danny’s still talking.
‘What exactly did he say?’ Danny asks again.
‘Who?’
‘Huw.’
‘Not a lot. That Sam was just messing about. Having fun. Didn’t care about Joe, really. That it was over, anyway, between her and Joe.’
Danny’s quiet for a bit, deep in thought. ‘How would he really know? Maybe he’s wrong about that. It’s worth a try, isn’t it, finding Sam? Don’t give up so easily.’
‘It hurts too much,’ I say. ‘Sorry, Danny. I don’t want to talk about it any more.’
We walk on. Bess trots beside me, as if she belongs to us. I keep my hand on her warm back. At the gate to the field, she barks and turns and races back to the farmhouse.
Danny’s family are sitting in the sun outside their tent, reading and drinking coffee. Hattie waves to me and runs over. My heart sinks a bit.
‘We’re going to another island today and there’s palm trees,’ she says. ‘Are you coming? Please?’
I shake my head. ‘Not today.’
‘What about that boat thing, this evening?’ Danny says.
‘Probably.’
I turn back to the house, to wait for it to be six o’clock.
Twenty-three
‘The doctor called again,’ Evie tells me as I come in the back door. ‘And I’ve just spoken to your dad.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He’s worried about Gramps. Wants to see him. He’s going to sort out his work, phone back later. He sends his love to you, Freya. Perhaps you’d speak to him this evening?’
I mull this over, up in my room. It sounds serious. Like, Evie thinks Gramps is really sick. But he didn’t seem it this morning. He said he was getting better. He came downstairs and was sitting in the garden and everything. He’s back in bed now, resting. I can’t bear it if something happens to Gramps. I look in on him, but he’s asleep. It’s the new pills, Evie says, making him drowsy.
At five, I get my swimming stuff and notebook and set off for the sand bar, to wait there for Matt. I’ve been daydreaming about him all afternoon.
The sun’s still hot. Early evening will be a good time for swimming, with the sea coming in over sun-warmed sand. I’ve got my swimming things on under my clothes, to make it easier to change. I find a sheltered place to sunbathe, up near the dunes at the Gara end of the beach, away from the day trippers who just plump down on the nearest bit of sand at the end of the path. I doodle in my notebook, to pass the time.
I’ve almost given up on Matt when I see a figure making its way along the sand. I can’t see his face at first, but I recognise the way he walks. My heartbeat quickens even though I’m trying to stay cool. Think of Izzy, I keep reminding myself. My legs suddenly look too pale; I cover them up with the blue skirt and pretend to be busy drawing.
His shadow falls across the white page.
‘Freya. Hi. Ready for a swim, then?’
I nod self-consciously.
‘I’m so hot! I’ve been looking forward to this for hours!’ He strips off his T-shirt and drops it and his towel in a pile next to my stuff. He grins. ‘I hear you swim like a fish.’
‘Says who?’
‘Izzy; Danny.’
‘Well then!’
Matt laughs. ‘I know. Have you seen Izzy swim?’
I realise with surprise that I haven’t. All those times we’ve been on the beach together, she’s never actually gone into the water.
‘Race you!’ He starts running, and I join him. He’s much faster than me, but I do my best, and I manage to dive in straight away, rather than my usual slow wade out, and once we’re in I’m easily as strong a swimmer as he is: stronger, even. He can swim fast for a short while but can’t keep going like I can.
The water’s freezing on my sun-heated body, but it’s exhilarating. Waterbaby, Mum used to call me. I get into a steady rhythm, my breathing deep and regular. There are only the smallest waves: the wind’s dropped for once. I could go on and on for ever, further and further out. The water gets deep very quickly off the bar, but it’s crystal clear, so you can see right down to the wave-ridged sand beneath. I turn on to my back to float. Above me the sky is blue blue blue, fading at the edges to white.
Matt’s treading water, beckoning me back. I flip over, swim slow overarm strokes towards him.
‘OK, you win!’ He grins, and shakes his wet hair out of his beautiful tanned face. ‘Don’t go out any further. The tide’s coming in and the currents start to pull you out.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘I’ve swum here every summer since I was little.’
‘I can’t stay long,’ Matt says. ‘I said I’d row in the gig race tonight. They’re one man down.’
‘Have you done it before?’
‘Not here, but back home, yes. Don’t look so worried! I’m not that bad at it!’
‘Race you back to the beach?’ I do my best crawl, and just to show off, when I see how far ahead I am, butterfly. The sea seems unnaturally still, as if it’s holding its breath.
I walk up the beach to get my towel, turn to watch Matt stride out of the sea. He shakes himself like a wet dog. His wet shorts cling to his body.
‘Here!’ I hand him his towel.
‘Thanks. That’s better.’ He rubs his head and his chest. He turns to me. ‘You’re still dripping wet! Come here!’ He leans over and wipes the water from my face with his towel. He’s so close I feel his breath warm on my cheek.
Does he have any idea what he’s doing to me? I’m like melted butter. My head’s all muzzy. But he seems oblivious to the effect he has.
‘Any idea of the time?’
I reach down for my watch. Joe’s watch. ‘Twenty to seven.’
‘Just time to phone Izzy before I get going. Should be helping down at the boathouse. Do you want to come?’
I shake my head. I can’t speak for a minute.
He chatters on. ‘Thanks for the swim. You do swim like a fish. Izzy was right.’
He has his back to me now. He’s fished his phone from his pocket and he’s dialling her number. I see him smile as she picks up. I lie down on the warm sand, on my tummy, so he can’t see my face. Not that he’s looking.
I pull myself together. What else did I expect? What would I have thought, really, if he’d done anything else? He belongs to Izzy and Izzy belongs to him. It’s so stupid, feeling like this. He’s just being friendly. There are different kinds of touch. I shouldn’t take everything so . . . literally. But it’s like my head knows one thing, and my body feels another. They don’t quite match up.
Once Matt’s gone, I
get dry and dressed and start walking back. I pass the pub and glimpse the team, down below at the boathouse slipway, getting the gig ready. Six blokes: Luke, Ben’s dad and uncle, two of Dave’s mates, whose names I don’t know, plus Matt. Over at the jetty Dave’s steering the Spirit round to pick up a queue of people. Perhaps I should go, after all?
I hesitate, at the top of the track, dithering over what to do. Danny turns up just at that moment. ‘Good!’ he says, when he sees me.
‘I’m on my way back,’ I tell him. ‘Not coming on the boat.’
His face falls. ‘Oh well,’ he says. ‘I guess you’ve been a million times before.’
‘Yes.’
‘They’re doing the long race, right out to the Bird islands and back to Main Island.’
‘The triangle.’
Danny fishes around in his pocket and pulls out a scrap of torn paper. He hands it to me rather sheepishly. ‘I got this for you.’
I turn it over. Numbers, handwritten. ‘What is it?’
‘Her phone number. That girl, Samphire. Her mother’s phone, anyway.’
‘Danny! How come?’
‘I saw Sally. I asked her. I was right, see? She did have it.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Just that you wanted to get in touch with a girl who was here last year. She wasn’t bothered. Well, she was a bit busy at the time, but I said it was important.’
‘Oh, Danny!’
‘What? Was it wrong?’
‘I don’t know . . .’
The ship bell rings. Dave revs the boat engine. People have started boarding. ‘Sure you won’t come?’ Danny asks.
I shake my head. ‘But thanks for the number.’
Do I really mean that?
I’m touched that Danny got it for me. Really. He’s quite shy; it would have been a big effort: finding Sally, asking, all that. I stare at the paper in my hand. Now it’s a reality, I don’t know what to do. I could actually phone. Leave a message. Speak to Sam, even. I finger the numbers, carefully written in Danny’s hand in black ink on the scrap of lined paper.
Shouts and whoops echo out over the Sound. The race hasn’t started yet, but all the gigs from the off-islands are making their way to the starting buoy, followed by the flotilla of supporting boats. I almost wish I’d gone after all.
I dump my wet towel and swimsuit on the draining board in the kitchen. Evie’s talking on the phone in the front room. She waves at me through the open door.
‘It’s your dad! Don’t go anywhere!’
I sit on the arm of the sofa.
Evie’s nodding and looking pleased. ‘Goodbye, Martin,’ she says, and hands the phone to me.
‘Hi, Dad.’
It’s weird hearing his voice, so close and clear in my ear. He sounds fine. He says he’s missing me.
‘What’s the house like?’ I ask.
‘Not bad, for a rented place. It’ll do for now. Your mum’s still looking for somewhere else, though.’
Panic grips my belly. ‘What do you mean?’
‘For us to buy,’ Dad says.
I let out my breath. For a moment I’d thought he meant just Mum, a house by herself . . .
‘There’s one here for sale,’ I blurt out. ‘The one attached to the old lighthouse.’ I don’t even know I’m going to say that until the words come bleating out of my mouth.
‘Oh, Freya!’ Dad says, after a bit of a silence. ‘Not practical, I’m afraid.’
‘It’d be a great project,’ I say. ‘Doing it up and everything. Imagine.’
Why am I saying this? It’s totally crazy.
The architect bit of Dad comes to the fore. I know he is imagining, just for a brief moment, what a great time he’d have designing something round the actual lighthouse. ‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘But no. Your mum wouldn’t ever contemplate living there. You know that, Freya.’
I do. For her it would be a constant reminder of losing Joe. Rubbing salt in wounds: the cruel sea, always there, less than a mile away in all directions. Then there’s the fact there’s no proper shops. No work. Hardly any neighbours. And being right next door, practically, to Dad’s parents, lovely as they are . . . she wouldn’t want that either. Plus it’s hundreds of miles away from her friends, of course, and from my school . . . and in winter you get stranded for days. OK, a million good reasons why not.
‘Well,’ I say, changing the subject. ‘Are you and Mum coming over?’
‘For the Bank Holiday weekend. I am, anyway. Your mother doesn’t think she’s ready yet.’
‘Is she there? Can I talk to her?’
‘Not right now. Not a good time, love. Tomorrow, maybe.’
I give up. I put the phone down. I think about Mum, ghostly thin, still grieving. She doesn’t even want to speak to me, now.
I wish Evie hadn’t made me speak to Dad. It’s stirred everything up again. But maybe because of that, I get Danny’s scrap of paper out again and without letting myself stop to change my mind I just dial the number.
Evie’s clattering around in the kitchen. I kick the door to while the phone rings and rings. It’s a landline, not a mobile. No one answers. I’m just about to put the phone down again when a voicemail clicks on. It’s one of those automatic reply services, not a personal message. The person you called is not available . . . please leave a message after the tone.
I clear my throat, then start talking. ‘This is a message for Samphire,’ I say. ‘From Freya, Joe’s sister, from last summer, remember? Can you call me? I’d like to talk to you . . . about Joe.’ I leave my mobile number.
My hand shakes as I replace the handset. I’m shivering all over. It’s in her hands now. All I have to do is wait.
Only later, lying on Joe’s bed, do I start to wonder what exactly I’ve gone and done.
Maybe it wasn’t even the right number. They could easily have moved. Wasn’t Sam talking about that, even, last summer?
She probably won’t phone back. Why would she?
If she knows about Joe, why would she?
And if she doesn’t? No reason. She won’t phone.
What if she does phone, and she doesn’t know about the accident, and I have to tell her about everything? Imagine that.
What good will any of it do, now?
Have I just made another stupid mistake, Joe?
If only he’d answer.
His room seems emptier than ever. Nothing’s ever moved in here, except when Evie cleans. His books, CDs, the shells and things, all lie untouched. The edges of the posters on the walls are beginning to curl. He’d have moved on from them by now, if he were still here. He’d have new pictures. You can’t keep everything the same. You shouldn’t want to.
Samphire’s unsmiling face stares coldly down from the small photo over the door. I can’t stand seeing it any longer. I pull a chair over, stand on it so I can reach to take it down. It’s dusty, slightly yellow at the edges. I turn it over.
Scribbled on the back are two words and a date, in Joe’s handwriting.
First time 18 August
First time for what? But I know really. I’m not that stupid.
It’s horrible. It’s like reading someone’s diary when you absolutely know you shouldn’t. I’ve gone too far, prying into his secret life, into places which are nothing to do with me. Suddenly and absolutely, as good as if he’s saying it out loud, for real, I hear Joe’s older-brother voice in my head: Piss off, Freya. Get your own life.
Hands shaking, I tear the photo into tiny pieces. It’s still not enough; I want to destroy the evidence completely. I shove the fragments into the fireplace and light them with a match from the box on Joe’s shelf. A small flame licks along the torn edges. I watch the flame flare up and then die until there’s just a tiny pile of ash-flakes in the hearth. It only takes seconds. I open the window wide to let out the stink.
The air outside is heavy and still. The scent of full-blown roses and something sour and disgusting, like rotting vegetation, rises from
the flower bed beneath the window.
I’m sick of me.
I’m sick of all this searching and trying to work things out.
I straighten the bedspread, put the chair back in its place, check the fire’s completely out, and go into my own room. I lie on the bed, don’t turn the light on. The room gets darker, still I don’t move. Evie knocks on the door, to see if I’m all right, and I call out yes, just having an early night, so she leaves me alone after that. I don’t undress. I check my phone: no messages. I leave it switched on.
It’s hot and stuffy even at this hour. I open the window wider, to get some air. My notebook’s lying on the table: I pick it up and start leafing back through the pages I’ve written this summer, re-reading everything, looking at the doodles and sketches, retracing my steps. This summer. Last summer.
I stare at the drawing of the maze I did a while back. It’s like a picture of my own mind: the way I go back and round, searching for a way through, taking wrong turnings and finding dead ends. All this searching, to find a way into the centre, to find out the truth of what really happened to Joe.
You could stop all that, I tell myself. It doesn’t have to be this way. The simple truth is this: Joe died. I miss him so bad it’s like a physical pain running through my whole body, like mineral through rock. But I can’t change any of that. And maybe I’ll never know, for real, what actually happened, and why. Maybe there are some things I can’t know, and that’s what I have to accept.
Right now, all I want to do is to clear the muddle out of my head, wash it away.
Wash it away.
Water. Cool and deep and dark and inviting.
Swimming.
The way it feels to swim, my arms and legs strong, driving me forward, and the water running over my head.
How simple everything is, reduced to that. One arm, and the other. Legs kicking. Moving forward. Free.
My heart’s beating fast, my stomach fluttering. It’s all I want to do now: swim. Even this late, in the dark, in the cold sea. Overwhelming, the need for it.
Evie’s with Gramps in their room. I don’t want her worrying about me as well, so I creep past their door, down the stairs, take my towel and my damp swimsuit from the rail in the bathroom, and slip out of the back door without her hearing.
