Читать книгу Storms - Chris Vick, Chris Vick - Страница 23

THE CLOCK ON the kitchen wall told her it was an hour since she’d made those calls. And so far, nothing. She paced up and down the kitchen, biting her nails.

‘Hannah!’ said Dad. ‘Darling. Why don’t you sit down? Take your coat off.’

Mum and Dad were sitting at the table. At one end, Mum had laid breakfast: china cups, a rack of toast, a bowl of freshly boiled eggs. At the other end, Hannah had piled up blankets, a bucket, a camera and a notebook. Beano sat at the door, watching her, unsure if he should go and lie in his basket, or if they were off for another walk.

‘Hannah, sit down,’ said Dad.

‘The whales …’

‘The whales will wait till this marine-rescue chap calls, or arrives. There’s nothing you can do yourself, is there? It’s best to wait here.’

She hated Dad being right. She hated his self-confident, knowing-he-is-right-ness. Hannah wanted nothing more than to pelt down to the beach. To see Little One. To try to comfort the young whale. That much, at least.

‘Hannah, please eat something,’ said Mum.

‘I’m not hungry,’ she snapped. Then quickly added: ‘Sorry.’

‘Okay, darling. I’ll make up a packed lunch.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You pamper that girl,’ said Dad.

The phone rang in the hall. It hadn’t rung three times before Hannah answered.

‘Hannah Lancaster? This is Steve.’ She could barely make out his voice through the crackle and shrieking wind. She put a finger in her other ear.

‘Our people are down here now,’ he said. ‘Sorry I didn’t call earlier. I’ve come off the beach to get a signal.’

‘Oh. Right. Great. I’m coming down.’

‘You haven’t told anyone about this, have you?’

‘No. Why?’

‘We don’t want crowds – they get in the way. We need to keep the media away too, as long as possible.’

‘I’m coming down. I can help,’ she said.

‘We have all the help we need. But if you want to come and watch …’ Steve’s voice drowned in white noise. ‘You’re breaking up …’

‘How are the whales?’ The line was dead.

‘Is everything okay?’ said Dad. He was right beside her. So was Mum.

Hannah dodged past them, grabbed the bucket, shoved the blankets and notebook and camera inside it, and left.

‘Wait,’ Dad shouted through the open door, holding Beano by the collar. ‘I’ll get my coat.’