Breathing Underwater (17 page)

 

‘Izzy left this,' Evie says as I come down into the kitchen the next morning. She points to a large carrier bag on the kitchen table.

Izzy's gone
. My stomach lurches as I remember.

‘What is it?'

‘She left you a note. It was early. She didn't want me to wake you.'

 

Thought you might like these. I'
ll be getting new stuff off Mum. If you don'
t want them/ they don'
t fit just throw them out or give to someone else/recycle or whatever. Be happy. (Wear the necklace!) Take care of Matt for me. See you soon. Love Izzy xx

 

I pull out an armful of soft blue fabric, shake it out: it's a skirt, made of fine Indian cotton. I hold it against me.

‘Pretty!' Evie says. ‘It could do with an iron.'

‘It's meant to be crinkly like that.'

There's a green silk top, and two dresses. The bright colours glow in the dark kitchen.

‘They're just right for this hot weather,' Evie says. ‘You don't want to be in jeans all the time.'

Up in my room, I try them on. I don't feel like me: I never wear dresses. Or bright colours like red, or orange. I don't look like me, either. I look like someone new, or perhaps just a different version of me. In the end I leave the blue skirt on and take my breakfast out into the garden, where Gramps is sitting in a deckchair.

He tries to do a wolf whistle when he sees me. ‘Going dancing?' he says. ‘Can I come? Give us a twirl!'

I laugh and spin round so the skirt floats out. ‘You're better, then?'

‘Much.'

I make us tea, and Evie comes out to sit with Gramps too, in the shade of the apple tree.

‘What are you going to do today?' she asks.

‘Not sure. I'll see what everyone at the campsite's doing.'

‘Danny?'

‘And the others.'

But it's Huw I actually go looking for. My palms are sweating already, from me just thinking about talking to him, but I can't put it off any longer.

 

I find him down on the jetty, helping Dave load boxes and crates on to the supplies boat. I watch him. It takes ages. I go and sit on the bit of wall, like we all did last summer when we waited for the new arrivals. After a while Huw notices me; he sort of half nods in my direction. When he's loaded the last crate he strolls over.

‘All right?' he asks. He takes a packet of papers and a tin of tobacco from his pocket and starts rolling himself a cigarette. He leans against the wall. He cups his hand round the roll-up so he can light it with a match.

‘Yep.' I swing my legs, just like some silly schoolkid. Then I get a grip.

‘Can I ask you something?'

He stays staring ahead, down the jetty. The supplies boat has cast its mooring rope; the engine revs and a cloud of dark smoke follows in its wake. ‘Well?'

My heart's pounding so fast I'm surprised he can't hear it. Maybe he can.

‘It's about last summer.'

He takes another drag of the cigarette. He turns and looks at me; he reaches his hand out and touches my shoulder. ‘I know, Freya. It was a terrible thing.'

I have to keep staring straight ahead, otherwise I'll dissolve completely. ‘The thing is,' I start. ‘The thing is . . .'

‘What?'

‘I've been thinking about it all over again . . .'

‘Of course. Me too.'

That throws me off guard. But of course he has. Who wouldn't? I'm surprised he's come back to the island, even, after what happened.

‘I've been trying to work some things out,' I say in a rush, before I lose my nerve completely. ‘And I need to talk to that girl – Sam; find out what she remembers about Joe, and that night, before the accident.'

Huw frowns. He throws the cigarette down and crushes it under his boot.

I carry on, my voice sounding silly and high-pitched I'm so nervous. ‘Do you know where I can find her? Her phone number or an address or something, I mean?'

‘No,' he says. ‘Why would I?'

My cheeks are burning up now. I don't know what to say.

Huw goes on. ‘Joe was mad about her. Cra–zy! Poor bloke. 'Cos she wasn't bothered. Not after the novelty wore off. You don't want to talk to her, Freya. She can't tell you anything about your brother. It won't help.'

I'm so close to tears I don't even look up when I hear the engine of a boat slowing down as it approaches the jetty. Huw's hand is still on my shoulder, pressing down. ‘He wasn't even with her that night, when the accident happened,' he says.

Something suddenly boils up inside me. It's the way he's talking so sort of casually about her and Joe. But I don't shout and rant. My voice comes out ice cold.

‘I know,' I say. ‘But you were.'

Huw seems to go still.

‘I saw you. You and Samphire were together in that house. You didn't care, or think what it might be like for Joe, did you?'

‘Hey,' Huw says. ‘Steady on, Freya!'

‘You knew how much Joe liked her. You said just now, he was crazy about her. So what if he saw the two of you together? Imagine what he'd have felt like then!'

Huw shifts away from me. ‘He was crazy to
like
her so much, I meant. She wasn't worth it. She just wanted a bit of fun. Amusing herself on her holidays. It didn't mean anything to her. Joe deserved better than that.'

We're both quiet, remembering.

Huw starts up again. ‘I'm not proud of what I did – with her, I mean. I'm sorry if Joe was upset. Sam said it was over. She'd finished with him. Didn't care. Joe's
accident
wasn't anything to do with her, Freya. Or me.'

I stare at him. His shoulders are hunched up, his face stony. I wonder if he does feel guilty, really. But I can't hate him. He's saying the truth, as far as he knows it. He's three years older than Joe. He's probably had loads of girlfriends. He's good-looking. Even I can see why Sam would fancy him more than Joe. Sixteen-year-old, inexperienced, love-sick Joe.

I'm suddenly crumpling up, defeated. I wish I hadn't said anything now. It hasn't got me anywhere. I just look stupid.

‘What's going on here?' a voice says. ‘Freya?'

It's Matt. Out of nowhere. Then I remember that boat. It must have been his.

I jump down from the wall. ‘It's OK,' I say. ‘We were just talking.'

‘You look all upset.'

‘I'm all right,' I say.

‘I've got work to do,' Huw says. ‘Sorry I couldn't help, Freya.'

‘I've got to go anyway,' I say.

I start walking up the path, take the left fork towards the pub. Behind me, I hear Matt and Huw's voices, slightly raised, as if they're arguing about something.

Running footsteps behind me crunch the gravelly stones. I don't turn round.

Matt catches me up. He walks beside me for a while. I don't speak.

‘Freya? What was going on, with Huw, just now?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Slow down a bit! Did he upset you?'

‘It's nothing,' I say. ‘I asked him a question. It was my fault.'

‘About what? What do you mean?'

‘Nothing. Please.'

‘If you're sure . . .'

‘Yes!'

‘So where're you going now?'

‘Home.'

‘You're going the wrong way!'

‘The
long
way home,' I say, and he smiles.

He doesn't turn back, like I'm expecting. He keeps on walking beside me. I slow down.

‘Shouldn't you be at work?' I say, after a while.

‘You sound just like Izzy!'

Izzy. She'll be miles away by now.

‘Did you see her off, this morning? I ask him.

‘I did. I took her over to Main Island to get the early boat.'

In my mind's eye I see him kissing her goodbye, and watching the big ferry make its way out of the harbour at Main Island. He stands there till it's just a speck in the middle of the ocean. I realise, suddenly, that it actually makes me feel better, thinking about the way they love each other: that there are good things, as well as sad ones. People who care about each other, stay together, even if they sometimes do things apart. A bit like Evie and Gramps.

‘Want to go for a swim with me later?' Matt asks.

‘OK . . . If you're sure.'

‘After I've done the afternoon ferry. Sixish?'

I nod.

‘Sand bar? Or Beady Pool?'

‘The sand bar's nicer for swimming,' I say. My voice sounds shaky. I'm trembling.

He turns back, I walk on, past the turning for the sand bar and Gara, on towards Beady Pool. I try to forget about my conversation with Huw about Samphire, so I can think properly about Matt asking me to swim with him. What it means.

Evie's Bronze Age well is near here: I wonder about stopping to find it, making a wish, but I haven't got anything to give in return; Izzy's blue skirt has no pockets, and I can't even find a pebble to drop down. There's a load of bracken and other ferns, and the soil is peaty and damp, rather than stony like it is on other places along the cliff. So I don't stop. What would I wish for, anyway?

I think of Matt and my heart gives a little leap.

I finger the talisman necklace Izzy made me. I wear it all the time now; I've got used to the feel of the stone, cool against my skin in the hollow of my neck.

Izzy's good at giving things. She travels lightly and she gives things away, passes them on. Her own happiness is a kind of gift. Then there's the necklace, the bag of clothes. Those words on her note come into my mind again.
Take care of Matt
. . .

Is Matt a gift to me, too?

 

Danny's loitering in the lane, looking over the gate at the old lighthouse buildings. The
For Sale
notice is still up, though it's beginning to fade and blister in the sun.

‘Hi,' he says. ‘I just called for you. No one was in.'

‘They were probably in the garden, at the back. Didn't hear you.'

‘So where've you been?' Danny asks. ‘You're all dressed up!'

‘Not you as well!' I say. ‘I put on Izzy's skirt and suddenly everyone's commenting! I must have looked a right scruff before.'

‘No, I didn't mean that!' He's gone red.

‘I know. Just teasing you. So what did you want? When you called?'

‘Nothing, really. Just to see what you were doing today.' He picks off a poppy seed head and chucks it into the garden.

‘I went to talk to Huw.'

‘Oh?'

‘About Sam.'

‘And?'

‘It was a disaster.'

‘Why?'

‘How he was . . . he didn't want to talk about her. Said he didn't have her number or anything.'

Danny still looks puzzled.

‘I thought it might be another clue, you know? About Joe. If I could speak to her, she might tell me how Joe was feeling, or what he'd been talking about. Something. Anything.'

Danny looks doubtful.

He starts walking, and I go with him, past my house and towards the campsite. There's the usual queue for milk and stuff at the farmhouse back door. No Izzy, of course. Sally's dealing with everyone. She sees us and waves. ‘Gig-racing tonight!' she calls. ‘Don't forget! Boat leaving at seven, if you want to come.'

‘What's that about?' Danny asks.

‘Gig-racing? Oh, it's a kind of island thing, racing these boats called gigs. Like the ones they used to row out to pilot big ships. Each island has a team. Dave does a trip out on the
Spirit,
to watch. It's fun. You should go.'