The Other Side of Summer (5 page)

I was glad to leave our house. Being there at the end was like kicking it when it was down. It was lifeless, like the fixed eyes of the rats Charlotte used to catch and leave for Mum on the back doorstep. Eyes that said ‘I give up’. It was hard to imagine it had been our noisy home.

We couldn’t leave England without first going to Gran’s house, near Tintagel in Cornwall, two hundred and fifty miles from London, in a wild open space. Dad drove us all there in Dorrit. I loved that petrol-blue Morris Minor. Mum had bought it when she was at university and, despite lots of breakdowns, she had never given up on it. It had beautiful curves over the
wheels and big round headlights and wing mirrors. There was a square boot with a wooden frame, and double doors at the back that were hinged on the sides, which together made it look more like a small, cosy room than the back of a car. In there we had four large pieces of luggage and the Ibanez Artwood, tucked up safely in the velvet-lined case. I hadn’t played it for a few days, or thought very hard about why. The face from the dream and the line from the song were unreachable to me now.

You know what I’m about to say, don’t you?

I won’t get perfect calluses if I don’t practise every day? I know, Floyd. I will.

It would take days of practice before my fingertips were tough enough again that each chord wouldn’t sting. I’d built them up before, when Floyd used to give me lessons, and I would do it again once we got to Australia. I’d have no friends and nothing else to do, so I was going to put everything into the Ibanez Artwood.

On the drive we were quiet but I thought I could sense something different between Mum and Dad. He wasn’t making his usual effort to talk to her, and she had a new look on her face that I could just make out if I pressed my cheek into the car window and caught her reflection in the wing mirror. She looked steely.
Maybe it was the thought of seeing Gran. They battled as often as Dad and Wren.

Gran seemed like part of nature. She was different to London people. She had strength in her arms, the weather in her face and dirt under her fingernails.

I can taste Gran’s bread already. Have double for me, Sum.

Floyd, don’t joke. I wish you were here so much it hurts.

Sorry, I can’t help it. The atmosphere in this car is so
…

I know.

Finally, in the dark, we passed the sign for Gran’s village. Everyone stirred and stretched and I wound down my window. Already I could hear animal sounds I could never hear in London because of the traffic. I looked up. The sky seemed enormous.

We piled out of the car outside Gran’s. The wind was an extra-strong mint in my brain, wiping away all traces of the motorway fumes and the weird atmosphere of the journey. The sea air in Cornwall let you know who was in charge. Tintagel was a place where the elements seemed stronger than anything human. I liked that. Humans had a choice and you could drive yourself mad trying to understand why they kept destroying each other. But nature was different and I didn’t believe it caused damage on purpose.

When Gran came out of the house and walked down her front path with open arms, I think we all knew that
she meant to welcome the four of us, but Dad, Wren and I stood back while Mum ran into the hug.

‘Now then. That’s better,’ said Gran.

Nobody moved for a while. It was just the wind, the darkness, and my mum being comforted by hers.

After we’d carried the luggage inside, Gran fed us cheese sandwiches I could hardly get my jaw around, with homemade white bread and almost as much butter as cheese. Dad didn’t argue. They were delicious. Then she told us all to go to bed and nobody argued with that, either.

Wren and I were on narrow single beds at either end of a long room. Although the air in there was wintry, I knew the beds would be toasty. Gran had flask-shaped ceramic hot water bottles that were even older than she was. The mattresses were as soft and deep as cake, with layers of sheets and blankets tucked in so tightly that we could only get under them by sliding in from the top. The marshmallow pillows cupped my head and Mum even came in to say goodnight.

When Mum was sitting on Wren’s bed I could hear my sister talking in a way that made her sound little again. I got a sprinkling of feeling that happiness was almost in reach. Mum’s replies to Wren were low
and quiet like a violin bow pulled along the deepest string.

Then it was my turn. Mum sat so close to me that the covers tightened uncomfortably, but I wasn’t going to say a word about that.

‘It’s nice here,’ I whispered, so that it could be just between us. Mum nodded and smiled. She kissed me on the cheek and rested her head on the pillow. The tip of her nose grazed my ear and I could feel her breathing me in. I only cared about Mum and me in that moment.

When she sat up, she traced her thumb over my forehead. I wanted to tell her that we should stay here in Cornwall instead of going to Melbourne, but I didn’t want to make her sad again.

I lay awake for a while afterwards. It was darker and quieter here but it wasn’t lonely like home. Gran’s house felt like it was the boss of us. It told us that we could go to sleep inside it and trust that everything would be okay in the morning. I drifted off peacefully.

Over breakfast the next morning – the morning before our last morning – Gran let something slip.

‘Charlotte looks like she’s settled in already, so you don’t need to worry, girls. I know you’ve been particularly fond of her, Wren, dear.’

Dad starting coughing, obviously fake. I knew what Gran meant straight away but Wren didn’t get it. We weren’t taking Charlotte with us, but they hadn’t wanted to tell us. I didn’t know what to feel, but that almost didn’t matter because Wren was going to feel it all.

‘Charlotte can settle anywhere,’ said Wren. ‘Even Australia if she has to. I’m going to train her to kill possums.’

‘Don’t say that. What did possums ever do to you?’ I don’t know why that came out of my mouth. Possums were beside the point. Any minute now, Wren was going to rain hell down on all of us. Charlotte was her best friend.

‘Possums look like rats with marbles for eyes,’ she went on, still oblivious. ‘Charlotte’s going to devour their brains.’

Gran poured more tea from the pot and gave Dad a stern look. But it was Mum who spoke to Wren.

‘Charlotte’s staying here, darling.’

‘What?’ Wren stabbed the table with the end of her spoon. ‘What are you talking about?’

Mum went on. ‘Charlotte’s old, Wren. She wouldn’t do well on the flight. It would be cruel to make her go. She needs to stay with Gran.’

It was so new hearing Mum talk this much that I was mesmerised. She sounded calm – different to the old Mum, but in control. I knew that Wren was going to kick off now and make life horrible for hours, but seeing Mum like this made me think that I’d been right to hope that things would get better. Even when Wren screamed and threw her cereal bowl at the wall and told us she wished we were all dead while the milk ran down in rivers.

She took the cat from her bed by the fire. I heard the tiny rip of claws losing their grip on the cushion, as if Charlotte was trying to tell Wren that she really wanted to stay here with Gran. Wren draped Charlotte over her shoulder like a stole as she left the kitchen. Dad had his face in his hands. Mum’s face and Gran’s, too, were stony as they cleared the dishes and wiped the milk from the wall.

But I was okay. I’d miss Charlotte but having Mum back was better than a cat. Finally it was looking like Dad’s plan wasn’t so stupid after all.

We were a different sort of quiet in Gran’s house and it was the good sort. The house was so crammed full of things to look at and you could always hear the wind and the waves outside. Things were simpler here.

I spent one whole summer here by myself, remember?

Of course I do. I missed you. I think I drove Mum mad asking her every single day when you’d be back. Then finally you were, and you’d grown about a half a metre and you could play the guitar like a pro.

That’s all I did the whole time I was here.

That’s all I’ll do when we get to Melbourne.

Mum curled up with a book in a huge squashy armchair by the fire. She hadn’t cried since we left London. Maybe our house had been too full of memories. She was wearing a big grey cardigan of Gran’s that made her look safe and small inside. I liked watching Gran take care of her, and Mum letting Gran do it. The way they used to argue felt like something I’d imagined.

In the afternoon, while Wren was soaking off her rage in Gran’s enormous claw-foot bath, I took Charlotte into my lap and sat in the window seat at the porthole in the bedroom.

All houses should have a round window you can sit inside, but unfortunately not all of them would have a view like this: a distant cliff top, an endless messy sea of sparkling greys and indigos, even a soaring kestrel. It was a picture that could make you believe in impossible things.

Charlotte had fallen into a blissful sleep as I stroked her behind her ears the way she liked. This was our goodbye, and it hurt. But didn’t Wren, with her crying and denial, make her pain worse? We could have a completely new life in Australia. I could be brave and say some more goodbyes.

Goodbye, old house. Goodbye, old life. Goodbye, old friends.

Whoever got Mal would be the lucky one. But I couldn’t take our friendship with me. I needed portable, solid, dependable things, like the Ibanez Artwood.

The next time I opened the case, we’d all be somewhere new.