The Twice-Lived Summer of Bluebell Jones (6 page)

I meet them backstage like always, to help them get the gear up to the car.

“Top night!” yells Fozzie, as Dad locks up the backstage door. “See you around, Blue!”

I wave back as she dances wonkily along the pier.

“
Blue
, now, is it?” says Dad, smirking. “I see. I think we need to reassess our naming strategy for Peanut, honey. Stuff flowers, let's go with colours. Vermilion? Or Aquamarine? Orange?”

“Heliotrope!” shouts Tiger.

“Beige,” says Mum. “My granny always said you can't go wrong with beige.”

“Beige Jones: future rock god,” says Dad thoughtfully. “If you say so, sweetness.”

We get to the car, parked up on the prom, and Mum and Dad have a snog while we pile things in the boot. They're always like that when the gig goes well.

Tiger wolf-whistles. I give them a slow clap.

“Thank you, thank you, we're here all summer,” Mum says.

“Well, I think you can say we're officially settled in,” says Dad, as we pile in and drive off. “So, my gorgeous girls: what do we think of Penkerry?”

Tiger's smile is electric. “Love it,” she breathes.

Dad quirks an eyebrow at me in the rear-view mirror.

“It's good, yeah. It's, um. . .” I look at the lights from the pier, reflections flickering on the black water as we head up Penkerry Hill, hunting for the right word. “It's . . .
tidy
.”

“Ha!” yelps Dad.

“Oh my god,” says Mum. “You've made my children Welsh.”

“It's in the genes, sweetheart!”

“I know this dents your patriotic pride, love, but you were born in Kent.”

“Ah, but I grew up here, that's what counts. Welsh parents. Welsh grandaddy. It all counts.”

We pick out Welsh names for Peanut all the way up the hill, to add to the list on the fridge. I hope we call Peanut “Myfanwy”. That way, if we're going to buy her Myfanwy-themed birthday presents, we'll have to come back.

“Hey, can we come to Penkerry next year? For my fourteenth birthday?” I ask as we climb out of the car. I'm so happy. There's nowhere else I'd want to be blowing out my birthday candles – but Red had to wish herself back here from my next birthday. Maybe I can fix things so we come back for real. Like an advance present, from my old self to the new one.

“Sure, baby,” says Mum, waddling up the caravan steps. “Why wouldn't we want to come back?”

Red's waiting inside, and I beam, proud of myself.

Red looks at the carpet.

She doesn't say a word.

 

 

6.
The Boy Who Doesn't Like to Be Tricked

 

“What do you mean, you've got plans?”

Dad steals the Marmite out from under Tiger's hand and holds it hostage.

Tiger fights him for the Marmite with a teaspoon.

“I'm going out. With Catrin. She does t'ai chi up in this place in town, and I said I'd go and check it out with her. You
know
I've always wanted to learn t'ai chi.”

“Of course you have,” says Mum, even though Tiger's never mentioned t'ai chi before in her life, as she plucks the teaspoon and the Marmite out of their hands and clasps them in front of her. “So, this Catrin: she's who you've been out running with, in the mornings?”

Tiger nods, toast in mouth, humming.

“Think I might have seen her around,” Mum says, casually. “At the Pavilion, maybe. Short dark hair? Lots of silver jewellery? Gorgeous?”

Tiger hesitates, toast hovering. “Suppose she is a bit,” she says. “She's just a friend,” she adds quickly, the words
at the moment
trailing in the air behind.

“Mmm. Well, bring your ‘just a friend' round for tea sometime, will you?” Mum says, smiling as she slides the Marmite back across the table.

Tiger rolls her eyes, but I can tell she's pleased. Tiger's potential girlfriends are not always parentally approved. Or sisterly approved either, not that anyone asks me. We all hated Sasha the Cow long before she broke Tiger's heart and turned her into a weeping snotmonkey.

“She could come out with us today,” says Dad, flipping through the diary I brought with us: the handwritten itinerary we've been cheerfully ignoring. “What haven't we done yet, Bluebe—” He coughs, correcting himself. “Blue? Ah, here we go: boat trip out to Mulvey Island. I used to love it over there. Proper sandy beach. Come on, my bucket and spade's getting rusty.”

“Um. Actually. . .” I mumble, shrinking my shoulders. “I'm doing that already. Going on a boat trip to Mulvey Island. Today. If I'm allowed? I checked – they have life jackets. And the boats come back every hour till seven, so I wouldn't be late. I'll take my phone.”

I look at Mum as a smile spreads across her face. “Well, aren't you organized? Sounds fab, baby.”

I don't know why I was so worried. It was Red who came up with the idea: of course they were going to say yes.

“You going with Fozzie?”

“Yep. And her sister, and a few other people. I'm supposed to bring a fiver and something for lunch.”

“Never mind about that,” says Dad. “I'll come with you. It'll be like a daddy and friends day out. I'll bring my guitar!”

“Dad!” says Tiger.

“What?” he says.

“Ignore him, he's joking,” sighs Mum.

“Am I?” says Dad.

“Um,” I say, “it's a public boat, anyone can get on it. . . so I suppose. . .”

Mum takes Dad's hand. “Ian, love: remember that night we brought a tiny little Tigerlily home from the hospital, and then a few years later we had Bluebell, and we both realized we'd never have any time to ourselves, ever again, until they were grown up enough to do their own thing? Well, now they are. This is when our glorious new era of freedom starts.” She gives her rounded belly a pat. “And it's going to last less than three months before it goes away again for a very long time, so shut the hell up. OK?”

“Fine,” sighs Dad. “A day with my lovely wife it is. What do you want to do, my darling?”

She yawns. “I want you to do the washing-up and then be really quiet while I go back to bed.”

She kisses him on the cheek and shuffles off.

“Rock'n'roll lifestyle, romance, glamour: I am living the dream, ladies,” says Dad, pulling on rubber gloves with a snap.

I leave him to it, hugging Mum's words to myself like they're my new Milly.
Grown up enough to do their own thing.

Cash in my pocket and sarnie in my bag with Diana, I hop down the caravan steps, and nearly walk straight into – or through – Red.

“Why are you out here?” I whisper, hurrying away from the caravan in case my voice reaches through the walls. “You can walk right in, remember?”

Red shakes her head. “Feels rude. And weird. And, I don't know, there could be naked people in there! You should be happy I don't just barge in unannounced.”

I suppose I am. I haven't got any bits and pieces that she's never seen before, but still. It would be like taking off all your clothes and staring at yourself in a mirror. I skipped that PSHE homework. It's freaky enough looking at my body walking around as Red, and she's got pants on and everything.

“So, all set for the boat trip, huh?” Red says, looking me up and down. “Got your swimsuit?”

“Yep,” I say, lifting up my T-shirt to tug at my swimming costume, on under my clothes.

Red looks surprised. Almost as if she knows I nearly didn't put it on; nearly left it scrunched on my bunk, oops, by mistake, how silly of me to forget my humiliating Lycra one-piece, the one that shows off the puppy-fat belly where there should be a waist, the flumpy parts where there should be boobs; hairy bits, spotty legs. . .

Of course she knows.

“Is that what you did?” I ask her. “Left it behind?”

She blinks at me from under her hair. “Doesn't matter,” she snaps. “Can we just go?”

On the way down the short-cut path, I want to ask her whether the boat ride will make me feel sick – but Red's quiet. Quiet, or cross. Maybe I wasn't supposed to wear the swimsuit after all. When this was her summer, she didn't have a Red poking her nose in to remind her. She probably did leave it behind.

But then, she knows that – so if she didn't want me to change what she did, why did she even ask? My brain hurts even trying to figure it all out. It's like I'm watching the most complicated episode of
Doctor Who
ever, starring me. Twice. And I don't know how it ends.

Instead, I think about photos I want to get today – the lighthouse, the view back towards Penkerry, the improbably blue sky – and begin to feel excited again. I've got twelve shots left on this roll of film, and another roll in my bag just in case, though I'd rather get the first set developed first: see what I'm getting right and wrong.

The Mulvey Island boat bobs at the end of a floating wooden jetty that juts out from the beach, at the far end of the prom. By the time we get there, Fozzie and Mags are on board, waving. Dan's there too, joking away with the boatman like an old mate.

The jetty shifts under my feet as the water moves it, and I instinctively reach to grab Red's arm for support before I remember, and shoot her a relieved grin. She doesn't grin back.

“Where's Merlin?” I say, hanging back.

I look up at the handful of houses clinging to the cliff at this end of the beach; pick out the grand-looking white one Fozzie told me was where he lived.

“He's always late, miserable beggar,” shouts Dan over the slapping sound of the water against the boat. “Come on, Blue, don't be shy!”

I expect Red to climb on board first – but she's walking back along the jetty.

“Hey!” I shout. “Wait, stop!”

“Is it Merlin?” says Mags.

“Can't see him,” says Fozzie, craning her neck.

“It's all right, love, we're not leaving for a minute or two yet,” says the boatman.

Red keeps on walking, on to the pebbly beach and up. I open my mouth to shout again, but they're all looking at me like I'm barmy already. Thankfully Merlin appears at the head of the promenade, top hat bobbing, tailcoat flapping as he runs.

“You've got good eyes,” says Dan. “Come on, you lazy git!” he yells.

Red's still walking away. I whip out my phone, mutter something incomprehensible about having forgotten to do something, and call her.

Red stops, halfway up the beach, and answers just as Merlin flies past.

“Where are you going?” I hiss, cupping my hand round the phone.

Red turns round, her shoulders tilted like she's tired. “I'm going to leave you to it for today,” she says.

“What? No, you're supposed to come with me! You have to come with me!”

“Go and enjoy yourself. You don't need me. You're going to have a brilliant time, I promise.”

She hangs up, and I watch her walk slowly up the beach, head down as the wind whips her hair. I don't understand. What could Red possibly have to do? She can't touch anything. She can't talk to anyone who isn't me. And anyway, she's
my
wish person. She's here to help me, not go off and do her own thing.

Doesn't she want to spend the day with me?

“Everything all right?” asks Fozzie, as I clamber awkwardly on board. “If you want to invite another friend along, go ahead. We don't bite.”

I crunch up my face, trying to work out what part of the conversation she might have overheard. I'm not sure, so I just shake my head and smile.

“Forget it, doesn't matter.”

Fozzie nods and sits back, though I can feel her eyes on me, curious, as Merlin hops on board just in time.

The engine rattles into life, and we go puttering off through the water, leaving Red far behind.

The first few minutes are fine, but as we get out into open water the boat stops gliding through the water and starts bouncing off it, jolting from side to side. I wish Red was here to promise me I'm not going to fall in, or throw up. Unless that's why she didn't come: because I am. Fozzie's wearing flip-flops and even she might not forgive me puking on her bare feet.

“That's the Bee,” says Mags, pointing out a stack of rock jutting up from the sea near Penkerry Point, which the boat chugs around at a careful distance. It's black and shiny, with three fat stripes of some kind of yellowy-white rock running through it. “Means we're more than halfway there,” she whispers, shifting over to sit next to me. She spends the whole of the rest of the trip talking softly in my ear, asking me to show her how Diana works; distracting me on purpose.

I tell her about my wall of pictures in my bedroom at home; my tessellating pattern, personal wallpaper.

“You should do that in your room,” says Mags, nudging Fozzie. “Her bedroom is rank,” she smirks.

“It is,” sighs Fozzie. “That bumpy wallpaper with the little bits of wood stuck in it, painted pink. Euch. I got a few posters, but I never thought of using photos. That would look lush.”

“You can have some of these,” I say, holding the viewfinder to my eye.

“Really?”

I click: pin her bright red smile in a blue sky, for ever.

The water's calmer once we're nearer Mulvey Island, and by the time we reach the jetty there, I'm feeling almost normal. There's no beach on this side: a landing platform, and a steep path up the rocks. We scramble up and out on to the flat, where the wind's so strong it sends Mags skittering along, almost lifted off her feet. Merlin carries his hat, hugging it close to his chest. My jumper billows out in front of me, and I rest my hand there for a second, trying to imagine a Peanut inside. Mum says it's like being a microwave oven, buzzing away with a light on inside – but no convenient ping to tell you when it's done.

We pass the lighthouse: automated, so it's all locked up. I take a few shots that will have strings of my hair whipping across the frame.

When we dip down into a hollow, the wind drops at once, and a golden beach with frothy little waves sparkling in the sun spreads out below us.

“Aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” yells Dan, as he begins to sprint down the path, shedding clothes as he runs.

I half expect Fozzie to be too cool for seawater; not with her hair sculpted, and her face so perfectly made up. But she yells, “Come on,” eagerly chasing after him, Mags on her heels. They fling bags down by a patch of rock at the top of the beach, then strip off, swimsuits on under their shorts like me, and follow his footprints through the wet sand to splash into the sea. I can hear Fozzie yelping at how cold it is, and Mags runs straight back out again, knees jumping high. Then she laughs and runs back in, splashing Dan with a vengeance.