Breathing Underwater (4 page)

‘Hey! Freya!'

Gramps is at the gate. I run the last bit of the lane and give him a big hug. He smells fishy, salty. He holds me tight for ages.

I wriggle free. ‘The lighthouse is for sale,' I say, as if he doesn't know already.

‘Some fool will be buying it for a holiday place, doing it up.' Gramps sniffs. ‘They'll get more than they bargained for.'

I follow him through the front garden and round the side of the house to the back door. He points out the flowers he loves: he knows them all by name, as if they are children:
Alchemilla mollis
;
Verbena
;
Astrantia
;
Digitalis
. Foxglove. A bumblebee pushes up inside the purple bell-shaped flower. We used to put the flowers on our fingers like little hats, until Evie told us the flowers are poisonous.

Evie's washing her hands in the kitchen sink. ‘You found each other, then.' She picks up the towel from the hook on the door. ‘Supper's in about half an hour.'

Gramps grins. ‘Time for a quick drink.' He pours beer for himself, and wine for Evie.

I go upstairs to unpack. I pause outside the room where Joe sleeps – slept. The door's ajar. I push it open, make myself go right in. The bed is made up, the dark blue bedspread smoothed over. Joe's pictures are still on the walls: the wrecks map, photographs of the Wayfarer dinghy, with Joe and Gramps standing next to it, a ten-year-old Joe in his wetsuit and Gramps looking more upright and smiley than he does now. There are framed drawings Joe did when he was younger: designs and plans of boats and buildings, mostly, drawn in fine black draughtsman's pen. I go over to the window and pick up the shells and stones and bleached bird skulls lined up neatly along the shelf. There's a pile of driftwood, some brass nails, and an old rusty winch he found on the beach.

There's no dust on anything. I imagine Evie in here, polishing the pebbles in her hands, dusting the sea-urchins and the dried-up starfish. I lift one of the sea-urchins; it is light and hollow in the palm of my hand. Joe's books – mostly secondhand, borrowed from Gramps or picked up in charity shops – are neatly stacked along the other shelf.
The Kon-Tiki Expedition
;
Mountains of the Mind
;
The Perfect Storm
;
Spear Fishing for Beginners
. Joe wasn't your average sixteen-year-old. He wasn't like anyone else I've ever known.

But that's the before Joe.

Joe before Sam arrived and changed him.

 

‘Fancy a quick walk?' Evie says, after supper. ‘I need to see Sally, at the farm. Then we could go along the shore to the pub.'

‘What happened to the puppies? Did Sally find homes for them?' I ask.

‘All bar one,' Evie says. ‘She kept the one you loved, after all. You can come with me and see her, if you like.'

Gramps and I wait in the yard while Evie talks to Sally. Gramps wanders into the greenhouse where Sally grows vegetables to sell to the campsite people. Leggy tomato plants scrabble for light among courgettes and peppers. Gramps tuts at the weeds. His own greenhouse is immaculate.

Two dogs come bounding out of the kitchen. One's Bonnie, the mother dog; she wags her tail and comes to sit right close up on my feet, a warm weight against me, so I can fondle her silky ears. The other one barks and dances. She doesn't look anything like the small, cuddly puppy from last year. She doesn't remember me.

‘What's her name?'

Gramps shakes his head. He's hopeless at remembering things like that.

Evie and Sally come to the door.

‘Hello, Freya. Lovely to see you! You've found Bess, then.'

Last summer, I wanted her so badly I could cry. I've wanted a dog for as long as I can remember. Mum always says no. In my head, the puppy was called Tilly. Now I've got to get used to calling her Bess.

‘She's grown so big!' I say.

‘She's a bundle of energy,' Sally says. ‘Any time you want, take her out with you.'

The dogs have the run of the place. They don't need to be taken for walks because they can go wherever they want, more or less. So Sally is just being kind.

Bonnie trots behind us as we make our way down the track to the gate and the camping field.

‘Bess!' I call.

She runs, barks, and rushes back to the farmhouse.

‘Never mind,' Evie says. She knows I'm disappointed.

 

The campsite's full of brightly coloured tents packed close together in the honeycomb of tiny stone-hedged fields that run between the farmhouse and the shoreline. People are queuing with pots and pans for space at the sinks outside the stone barn. Evie and Gramps keep stopping to chat, so I go on ahead.

‘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.