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Conor nods reluctantly. “All right, then. I suppose that’ll have to do. Swear and promise?”
“Swear and promise,” I say, and we each spit on our right hands and slap them together.
Conor believed me when I said that the seas of the world talked to me last night. Yesterday afternoon I felt as if I was on the outside of the family, on my own, while Conor was inside, close to Mum and Roger. But now Conor and I are back together.
“Hey, Saph, what’s the matter? You’re not crying, are you?”
“No, I’m just glad that…”
“That what?” asks Conor, wiping tears off me with the corner of his duvet. “You know Saph, you cry the biggest tears in Cornwall. We ought to bottle them and sell them to the tourists.”
“That you don’t think it was just a dream.”
“No. I know when you’re making up stuff. Those words sound real to me. But I wish I knew what to do.”
“Let’s talk to Granny Carne,” I say, not because I’ve thought about it, but because that’s what people round here say when they have problems they can’t work out.
But to my surprise Conor seizes on the idea. “You’re right, Saph! That’s what we’ll do. I should have thought of it before.”
“You mean we should go up there now?”
“Yeah, why not? Let’s go up there as soon as Mum’s gone off to work.”
Mum’s in her bedroom, brushing her hair and twisting it into a shiny knot for work. She smiles at my reflection in the mirror.
“There you are. You were sleeping so heavy this morning. I crept up and took a peep at you and you never even stirred. You look a lot better for the rest. Roger said he had a chat with you while you were making the tea yesterday.”
“Yes.”
“That’s good. He thinks you’re a bright girl. I said that he ought to see your school reports. It’s the same every time. ‘Bright, but can’t be bothered’.”
“You didn’t tell him about my reports, Mum!”
“No, I didn’t. I’m too kind, that’s my trouble. But Mr Carthew’s always saying that you don’t do justice to your intelligence in your schoolwork. You could do really well, Sapphy, if you made an effort. You could get yourself to university, get a good job, get out of this place.”
“I don’t want to get out. I want to be here.”
Mum sighs, and lays down her brush. “I know. You think you want to spend the rest of your life swimming in the cove and running about with Conor. I don’t blame you, I was the same at your age. I failed all my exams and I didn’t care. But I don’t want you to end up like me, Sapphy, counting up your tips at the end of the night and hoping you’ll be able to pay the electricity bill.”
“But Mum, I thought you liked it in the restaurant.”
“It’s all right. But I want more for you. Don’t you see that? I want you to have a different life. Everyone wants more for their kids, it’s human nature.”
I wonder if it’s Mer nature too, I think, and hope that the thought won’t show on my face.
“Conor’ll be all right,” Mum goes on. “He works hard, and he knows what he wants. But you’re such a mazeyhead, Sapphy, sometimes I want to spifflicate you to make you see sense.”
Mum laughs, and I laugh too.
“Roger’s a good man,” goes on Mum abruptly. “I only want what’s best for you and Con.”
“Mum, you sound like you’re going to marry him!”
A flush rises in Mum’s face. She looks so like Conor. “Nobody said anything about marriage, did they?” she says. “We’ve only known each other five minutes. All I mean is, give Roger half a chance, Sapphy. He wants to be a friend to you, if you’ll let him.”
I can’t think of anything to say about Roger. I don’t even want to discuss him. “Why’s your hair so much shinier than mine, Mum?”
“Because I brush it from time to time,” says Mum.
“I keep asking you to do a henna wax for me, but you never have time.”
“I will, Sapphire, I promise. Now stop fiddling with my hair and let me get on. I’m going to be late. Oh, these school holidays, they go on for ever and ever amen. I’ll be glad when you’re back in school and I can stop worrying about you all day long. Be good, Sapphy, and don’t go off on your own. Stick with Conor.”
“But Mum—”
“What?”
“Mum, do people ever hear voices – of things that aren’t there?”
“What sort of voices?”
“Voices calling, but there’s no one there. Maybe calling your name.”
Mum puts one hand on each side of my face, framing it. Her fingers are soft and cool. “I think there are more things that happen than we know about,” she says. “You remember I told you that I was working upcountry in Plymouth, when my Mum died?”
“Yes.”
“No one was expecting her to die. She had a chest infection, but she was on antibiotics and people hardly ever die of chest infections. But she got an embolism in her lungs and she died at three o’clock in the morning. Dad rang me at four.”
I don’t know what an embolism is, but I’m not about to ask.
“So I never saw her again before she died,” says Mum. “But about two weeks later, after the funeral, when I was in the garden of our house – I hadn’t gone back to work yet, I was helping Dad – I heard Mum’s voice. She said, ‘Jennie?’ and I said, ‘Yes.’ And then she said, ‘Don’t worry about me, Jennie, I’m fine.’”
I stare at Mum. She’s never told me anything like that before.
“Did she say anything else, Mum?”
“No. But I felt her come up close. I didn’t see her, but she patted my cheek just like she used to when I was little. It was as real as that.”
“Was she a ghost, then?”
“No. She was Mum, same as always. And then she wasn’t there. Do you know, Sapphy, I’ve never told anyone about it until this minute.”
I look at Mum. She’s smiling, but her eyes are shiny. “Does it make you sad,” I ask, “when you remember your mum?”
Mum shakes her head. “No, I like talking about her. Come here, Sapphy, give me a big hug.”
I hug Mum tight, squeezing her until she gasps for breath. What if Mum died, and all I had was a ghost who walked up a path and then disappeared? Mum seems to be happy about her mum doing that, but I certainly wouldn’t be.
“Promise me you won’t,” I whisper.
“Won’t what?”
“You know. Promise. You won’t ever just—”
“Ever just what?”
“Disappear.”
Mum takes a deep breath. I can feel her ribs rise as her lungs fill with air.
“I promise, Sapphy,” she says.
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#ulink_ad8d6278-7490-52b1-af8d-02b80aae8748)
As soon as Mum’s left for work, we’re on our way to Granny Carne’s. Her cottage is up on the Downs, tucked into the hillside, half hidden. The grey granite walls look like part of the hill until you get close. There’s no track, only a narrow path, so even a Jeep can’t get up here. The path is steep, and the sun beats on our backs so that we’re sweaty and out of breath by the time we get up to the cottage.
We stand side by side in front of Granny Carne’s door.
“Go on, knock.”
Conor’s knock is loud in the stillness. A few bees buzz and the wind riffles. The knock echoes, but nothing moves. He knocks again, more loudly.
“She’s not there.”
“Oh.” We stare at each other in disappointment. All that climb for nothing.
“What shall we do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Go back?”
“No, let’s wait. She might come back soon.”
We sit on the rough grass. This is where people come when they have troubles. They talk to Granny Carne and she tells them things no one else knows. Things about the future, and the past too. People say she can look into the future, like a fortune-teller. Dad used to say that the doors that are closed to most of us are like windows to Granny Carne. She can see straight through them. I used to think he meant real doors, and imagined Granny Carne waving her wand to turn them into glass, like a witch in a storybook.
Conor’s trying to make a beetle walk along a grass stalk. We both crouch down to see if it will. I squint, and my squint makes the stalk look as big as a log. This is what it must look like to the beetle. A big rough log, a climbing conundrum that he has to work out. Maybe there’s a Beetle world, just as there’s a Mer world. In Beetle world, shoes look like boulders, and flowers are as big as bike wheels. We’re giants, and a puddle of water would be as deep as Ingo…
“I wish we’d brought a bottle of water, Conor,” I say. “I’m really thirsty.”
“There’s a stone trough round the back of the cottage. It’s spring water.”
“How do you know?”
Conor hesitates. “I came here with Dad once.”
“You never told me! When?”
“Last summer. Early last summer.”
“Before he left.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Before he left.”
“What happened?”
“Me and Dad were out walking. He was taking photos at the top of the Downs, and we came back this way. He said he would just call in on Granny Carne.”
Conor stops. Like me, he can hear the echo of Dad’s voice saying those exact same words. Dad’s voice always made you want to hurry along where he was going.
“Dad went inside the cottage, but I didn’t,” Conor goes on. “I was thirsty and I heard water trickling, so I went round the back and found where the spring ran into the trough. There were some baby frogs.”
“What do you think Dad asked her about?”
“I don’t know. He was in there a long time, but I didn’t bother, because I was watching the frogs.”
Conor is good at watching. He’ll watch the seals for hours until they lose their fear and come right up on the rocks, close.
“Then he called me,” Conor says. “He and Granny Carne had finished talking. She stood in the doorway and watched us go, with her arms folded like this. I don’t think they even said goodbye. I thought maybe they’d quarrelled.”
“Did she look angry?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe not angry. But they both looked serious.”
“Did Dad tell you anything?”
“No. He walked so fast I almost had to run to keep up with him. But he did say one thing.”
“What?”
“He said, That’s the last time I ever go there.”
“Then they must have quarrelled.”
“Maybe Granny Carne told Dad something he didn’t want to hear.”
I try to think what that could be. It must be terrible to see into the future. To know what’s coming, but not be able to change it. Like a curse.
But if Granny Carne has earth magic, then maybe she can use her power to change the future. Then the future wouldn’t be like an accident rushing towards her – it would be a thousand possibilities. Not all of them have to come true.
The beetle has decided it’s not going to bother walking down the grass stalk, however invitingly Conor waggles it. It scurries away, back into Beetle world, away from the two mysterious giants who do things it can’t understand.
Suddenly, the bright sun on Conor’s hand is covered in shadow. We look up at a tall figure dressed in white, with a white veil over its face, and white gloves. It takes me a moment to recognise that it’s Granny Carne.
“I’ve been seeing to the bees,” says Granny Carne. She takes off her bee keepers’ hat and veil, and carefully peels off her gloves. She’s wearing a white smock, with trousers tucked into her boots.
“Where are the bees?” I ask.
