Читать книгу Ingo - Helen Dunmore - Страница 11

When I wake the next morning, there’s heavy white mist outside my window. I can’t even see the garden wall. I push my window open and lean out. There’s a mournful lowing sound, like the moo of a cow who has been separated from her calf. It’s the foghorn, calling to warn the ships.

So many ships have run aground and broken up on the rocks around here. Dad used to tell me a long list of their names: the Perth Princess, the Andola, the Morveren, the Lady Guinevere. Some of the wrecked ships were homeward bound from wars more than two hundred years ago, Dad said. You can still find driftwood from ships that sailed to fight Napoleon and never reached home again. Dad once showed me a piece of driftwood with a hole where a ship’s brass nail would have fitted.

I held it up and put my finger over the nail hole. I tried to imagine what it was like when the ship sank. The noise of the wind screaming and the waves pounding. Men would yell out orders on deck, trying to save the ship. But the wind and current were stronger than the power of the men, and the ship was driven on to the black spine of the rocks.

The rocks ripped the hull and water gushed in, on top of the people who were struggling to escape. There was nowhere to go, except into the wild black water.

Boys Conor’s age worked on those ships. Maybe they climbed the masts as high as they could, trying to save themselves. They clung to the spars as the ship tossed this way and that like a horse that falls at a jump and breaks its back.

They had no chance. The sea knows how to break up any ship. Those rocks are too far out for people on shore to throw lines and save them. In that raging sea you could never launch a boat for rescue.

The foghorn lows again. Danger, it says. Keep away. Danger. I hope the ships are listening today.

Mum’s up. I can hear her banging around in the kitchen. No sound of Conor.

My heart jumps in fear. Barefoot, I tiptoe to the loft ladder. I grasp its sides and climb up as quietly as a squirrel, high enough to see Conor’s bed.

He’s there. I can see the back of his head poking out of the top of the duvet. He’s fast asleep.

I climb down the ladder, go to the bathroom and then pull on my jeans and a sweatshirt. If I’m quick, I’ll get the chance to talk to Mum before Conor wakes up. Maybe I’ll be able to tell her what happened yesterday – ask her what we can do—

But as soon as I see Mum, I know I can’t say anything about Conor and the sea and the girl, and why it frightens me. In the daytime world, none of it makes sense. Mum won’t understand why I’m scared.

“She’ll have been one of Conor’s friends from school,” Mum would say. “Conor can’t spend all his time with you, you know, Saph. He’s growing up.”

Mum’s busy, making coffee, ironing a dress for work, and finishing off peeling the potatoes, all at the same time. She’s got the radio on and she’s humming to a song called Happy Days, which is getting played about twice an hour this summer:

Happy days babe,

I got them for you,

The morning sunshine

The sweet dark too,

Yeah the sweet dark too…

It’s the kind of song people Mum’s age love. Her face has gone soft and dreamy, listening to it. She lifts the iron and the steam sizzles, then she smiles at me.

“Hi, Mum. Wow, is that strawberry tart for us?”

Mum brings leftover stuff back from the restaurant sometimes. But this is something special. A big tart stuffed full of shiny ripe strawberries, glazed with jelly. There’s only a quarter taken out of it.

“Have a piece for breakfast if you like, Sapphy.”

For breakfast? I stare at Mum. There is something completely different about her this morning, but I can’t work out what it is. Quickly, before she changes her mind, I divide the strawberry tart into three pieces and take my own.

“Mm, s’dlishus, Mum.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” says Mum, sounding more like herself. But she still doesn’t look like herself. What’s going on?

And then I see what it is. The tight lines around Mum’s mouth have melted away. She’s wearing her favourite jeans and her pink top. She looks happy. I swallow the mouthful of tart and ask, “Did you get good tips last night, Mum?”

“Mm.” Mum shakes her work dress and puts it on a hanger. “All right. Nothing special.”

So it’s not that.

My heart leaps. Suddenly I know what it is. “Mum, is there news about Dad?”

Mum’s face changes. “Sapphire, if there was news about Dad, I’d tell you both straight away. I wouldn’t keep it from you. But there isn’t. And—”

“What, Mum?”

Mum’s face struggles. “Even if there was news – even if they found… something… it wouldn’t be good news. You know that, don’t you? That’s why we had the memorial service.”

“You mean you want me to forget about Dad.”

“No. I’d never, never ask you to do that. But you’re not a baby, Sapphy. You can’t keep on living in dreams. It’s not good for you, it’s holding you back.”

She starts ironing again, and the subject of Dad is closed. I wish I hadn’t said anything. The lines are back around Mum’s mouth. Quietly, I make myself a cup of tea and start on the washing-up from last night. After a while Mum says, “Guess who we had in the restaurant last night, Sapphy.”

“Um – dunno,” I say dully, but that doesn’t stop Mum.

“A party of divers. They’re exploring up this way, looking for wrecks. They might call in here at the weekend.”

“Oh.”

“You wouldn’t believe the number of wrecks there are that have never been explored.”

“I know. Dad told us about it. There’s—”

“Your father never went diving,” says Mum. “Now Roger – he’s one of the divers – he’s gone all over the world. He was telling me about it. They have sonar equipment and everything. He’s discovered wreck sites in the West Indies, and off the coast of Spain, and all over. He got interested when he was just a boy. He saw them raising this old Tudor ship called the Mary Rose, on TV, and they showed how the divers worked. That got him thinking. He made up his mind he was going to be a diver.” The iron hisses as Mum attacks one of Conor’s shirts. “He had ambition,” she goes on. “He knew what he wanted to do with his life. He didn’t mess around.”

“Dad didn’t mess around!”

Mum turns to me with the iron in her hand.

“I never said he did. I was talking about Roger. I wish you wouldn’t be so touchy, Sapphy. Anyway, Roger was telling me about how they’re planning to explore the coast down here, off the Bawns—”

“You didn’t tell him about our cove, did you, Mum?”

“For heaven’s sake, Sapphire, it’s not your own private cove. That’s a public footpath that goes down by there.”

“I know, but nobody ever uses it except us and people who live round here. Usually there’s no one down there except me and Conor.”

“That’s the whole trouble with this place,” mutters Mum, zizzing her iron down the seams. “Nobody does come. Well, they’re welcome to explore off the cove as far as I’m concerned, and they’re welcome here too. It’s good to see some different faces. I do wish you’d be more friendly, Sapphy. You’re like a – like a sea anemone. If anyone comes close, you shut yourself up tight.”

“That’s how sea anemones survive,” I point out.

“But you do it to me too, Sapphy, and I’m your mum. It’s got to be a habit, that’s what it is. We’re spoiled out here, seeing no one all day long unless we choose. If you lived in town you’d have to learn to get along with all sorts of people. Maybe that’d be a good thing. You can’t stay in a little world of your own choosing for ever—”

“Mum, we’re not moving!” I burst out. Conor and I have a secret fear that Mum plans to move us all into St Pirans, close to her work, so that she can keep an eye on us. She keeps saying how much we’d enjoy the surfing, and how many nice shops there are, and how good the school is.

“Who said anything about moving?” asks Mum in surprise. Or maybe she’s not really surprised. Maybe she’s preparing the way, so that the idea of moving becomes something familiar…

But we can’t move. What if Dad comes back and we’re not here?

“All that’s happening is Roger’s coming for Sunday dinner,” Mum goes on. “I’ve got my day off then. You’ll like him, Sapphy. He’s very nice.”

“Just him?”

“Well, just him this time,” says Mum, bending over the board and guiding the iron very carefully.

“I hope you told Roger about how much you love the sea,” I mutter, quietly enough that Mum won’t hear me. “Maybe you could even go out in his boat?”

The strawberry tart isn’t as good as I thought when I took the first bite. The strawberries are mushy and the pastry’s soft. In fact, it’s disgusting. That must be why they let Mum take it home. I slip the rest of my slice into the bin and cover it with potato peelings.

“My God, Sapphy,” says Mum, looking up and seeing my empty plate, “I hope you won’t stuff your food like that on Sunday.”

“Don’t worry, Mum, I’ll do my best to impress Roger,” I say.

“Roger,” says a sleepy voice. “Who’s Roger?”

Conor appears, with his duvet wrapped round him.

“Conor, please don’t trail your duvet on the floor,” says Mum. “How many times have I told you? This kitchen floor gets covered in mud with the two of you traipsing in and out all day long. Sapphy, what time did you go to bed last night?”

“Um – about ten o’clock, wasn’t it, Conor?”

“Yeah, ’bout that.”

Conor reaches into the fridge, gets out the orange juice and tips the carton to his mouth. He doesn’t ever touch the carton with his lips; Conor has perfected the art of tipping a stream of orange juice straight into his mouth, without choking or spilling a drop.

“Get a glass, Conor,” says Mum, as she always does.

“Saves washing-up,” says Conor, as he always does. “So who is Roger?” he asks again, fitting the carton back into the fridge door.

“A friend,” says Mum.

“He’s a diver,” I say quickly. “He’s one of a party of divers who are going to explore wrecks. They’re going to dive from our cove, Conor. They think there’s a wreck out there, by the Bawns. They’re coming on Sunday, aren’t they, Mum?”

Conor stands still. I can see thoughts flickering in his eyes but I don’t know what they are.

“Oh, OK,” he says at last, as if there’s nothing more to talk about. As if he doesn’t care if twenty Rogers come to our cove and have Sunday dinner in our cottage. I stare at him in disbelief, but he just looks back at me without expression.

“Conor, will you please get that duvet off the floor?” says Mum. “I haven’t had time to mop it this week – and I’m on the early shift today. What time is it, Sapphy?”

“Um…” I look at my wrist and it still says five past seven. But there’s the radio clock winking. Eight fifty-two.

“Nearly five to nine, Mum.”

“Oh no, I’ve got to get going. Conor, we need eggs and potatoes today. A dozen eggs, and mind you check they’re not cracked. If Badge can help you bring a sack of potatoes down, thank him and say I’ll pay for them tonight. While you’re up there, ask if they can set aside two pints extra milk for us on Saturday. Sapphy, put your duvet cover and Conor’s in the machine, put them on programme four and don’t forget to hang them out on the line. And then if Conor sweeps this floor, you can wash it down. The mop’s outside the back door. If the man calls about the MOT, Conor, tell him I’ll bring the car in at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, before I go to work.

“Now then, there’s plenty of bread for sandwiches. Use up the rest of that chicken, and you can take crisps and a KitKat each. I’ll be back at six tonight. Mind you clean your teeth properly, Sapphy. You’re seeing the dentist soon.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” says Conor, saluting.

Reluctantly, Mum smiles. “I know, I know. But someone’s got to think of everything.”

“OK, Mum.”

“OK, Mum,” I echo.

Suddenly Mum stops in her rush from ironing board to fridge to door. She stands and looks at us, really looks at us.

“Come here, both of you,” she says. Conor shuffles forward in his duvet. I hang back.

“Come on, Sapphy. Give me a proper hug.”

She reaches out for me. I feel bony and awkward, as if I don’t fit into her arms any more. But Mum strokes the back of her hand down my cheek and says, “Your Mum loves you,” just as she did when I was little, and suddenly I feel myself relaxing, melting…

“You’re good children,” says Mum, so quietly I’m not sure I’ve heard her right. “Stay together, mind. Look after each other.”

“We will,” I say, and I mean it. I am not letting Conor out of my sight today. “Will you be all right driving, Mum? The mist’s so thick.”

“It’ll be clearer up on the road,” says Mum. “There’s my good girl. Now, I’ve got to go, or I’ll be late.”

I go out with her, to open the gate and shut it again after she’s gone through. The mist is not quite so bad once you’re out in it. I can see as far as the wall, and the thorn bush looming in the field beyond.

Mum has her fog lamps on and she drives forward cautiously, gripping the wheel. She hates driving in bad weather. The mist blows in from the sea. It’s thick and silent and salty, and the damp of it is all over the gate post in silvery beads. Mum’s tyres crunch over the rough stones, and through the gateway. She gives a little toot of the horn, and drives on up the track. I swing the gate shut, watch the red rear fog lights disappear into the mist, and then tie the twine securely around the gate again. There won’t be many walkers coming down here today, not in these conditions. It’s dangerous on the coast path when the mist is down like this. You could walk straight over the edge of a cliff. We won’t go down to the cove today.

But for once I don’t mind that. It feels safer inside the cottage.

Safer? Why did I say that? The mist swirls, dragging wet fingers across my face. I’m going to go back inside and maybe I’ll light a fire if we’ve got any wood left in the shed. It’s cold when the mist is down. I hurry back inside and there’s Conor’s duvet on the floor.

“Conor! I’m not picking up your dirty washing for you! You can put it in the machine yourself.”

But there’s no answer. The cottage is silent.

Maybe he’s gone up to the farm to get the eggs and potatoes.

No. He’d have had to go past me. Even in the mist he couldn’t have gone past without me seeing him.

“Conor?” But this time I don’t shout. I am asking the empty, familiar kitchen to tell me where he is. The radio clock winks. The fridge whirrs. They must have seen him go, but they’re not telling me.

They don’t need to. A cold shiver is creeping over my skin, as cold as the mist. I know where Conor’s gone. Down the track, through the bracken and foxgloves, down the path and out on to the grassy lip of cliff above the cove. Everything wet and shining with mist. The rocks hidden, the sea hidden. Down the rocks, between the boulders, on to the rocks. Everything slippery and dangerous—

The sea pulling like a magnet. Pulling Conor as it pulled me.

What’s the time? The tide will be going out. I remember how the sea swirled round my legs, urging me deeper and deeper—

Conor, wait. Wait, wait. Don’t go without me. Wait, Conor, I’m coming.