2: Chocolate Box Girls: Marshmallow Skye (7 page)

9

Later, I wish I had stuck to my guns and worn the green coat because it’s freezing on the beach. I move closer to the bonfire, which is roaring, sparks flying out into the velvet-dark sky.

Paddy sips a bottle of beer and rakes the scarlet embers, setting foil-wrapped potatoes to bake while Mum ladles steaming soup into tin mugs. Cherry, Coco and Summer sit close to the fire, faces bright in the flickering light. Honey is sitting apart from the rest of us, huddled on the bottom step of the cliffside path, a sad, shadowy figure in the soft, pooled light of the lanterns.

I walk across and sink down on to the step beside her.

‘I didn’t think you’d come,’ I say.

‘Neither did I,’ Honey sighs. ‘Mum made such a fuss. This
big lecture about being a part of the family and giving Paddy and Cherry a chance. She really doesn’t get it, does she?’

‘I think she does,’ I shrug. ‘She knows it’s hard for you. We all do. But she’s right, Honey – you are a part of this family, even though you act like you don’t want to be. I miss you!’

Honey laughs. ‘I miss you too, little sister,’ she says. ‘I bet you don’t even know how cool and cute and funny you are, do you? But you’ve got it all wrong, I do want to be part of the family … I did … only Mum and Paddy and Cherry have made that impossible now. They’ve pushed me out, replaced me. Can’t you see that?’

‘Nobody could ever replace you,’ I say, and it’s true – Honey has always been the brightest, boldest, most beautiful sister. She is impulsive, reckless, dramatic, emotional … it’s what we’ve always loved about her. But then Dad left, and Paddy and Cherry arrived, and all of the things that once seemed so lovable have begun to turn sour.

‘Cherry has,’ Honey states coldly. ‘She’s taken Shay, and she’s taken Mum, and she’s taken you and Summer and Coco too … she has you all fooled, doesn’t she? You think she’s so sweet –’

‘That’s not the way it is,’ I argue. ‘I know she’s hurt you,
but she didn’t plan any of that, and if you actually got to know her –’

‘Boy, has she got you suckered,’ Honey says. ‘Poor little Cherry, with no mum of her own, no sisters, no boyfriend … I bet you felt sorry for her, right? Only while you were making her welcome, she moved right in and helped herself to everything she wanted!’

Honey looks across to the bonfire, where Summer, Cherry and Coco are laughing, talking, drinking soup from tin mugs, their faces flickering in the firelight. I see my new stepsister, her confidence growing, starting to feel a part of things; Honey sees a con artist, a liar, a thief.

I don’t know if I will ever get her to see things any differently.

Tears brim in Honey’s eyes and spill down her cheeks like rain, but when I try to put an arm round her shoulders she shakes me off roughly, jumps to her feet and runs away up the lantern-lit steps towards the house.

Maybe I didn’t handle things too well.

Summer appears at my side. ‘What did you say to Honey, Skye?’ she wants to know. ‘She was crying! Why did you have to upset her?’

‘I didn’t … I just … I was trying to tell her how much we need her, that’s all. I said that if she’d just give Cherry a chance …’

Summer raises an eyebrow. ‘Tactful,’ she says. ‘The last time Honey gave Cherry a chance, what happened? Cherry stole her boyfriend!’

‘It wasn’t like that!’ I protest.

‘Maybe not,’ my sister shrugs. ‘I bet it looked that way to Honey, though. And you’ve always made it pretty clear you’re on Cherry’s side.’

My mouth opens and then closes again, shocked. Summer and I don’t argue or wind each other up, not ever. We are always on each other’s side, no matter what – or at least we were, until the silly disagreements about Clara’s dresses and the emerald-green coat.

‘I’m not on anyone’s side!’ I tell my twin. ‘How could I be? Honey is family!’

‘I’m guessing she might not feel that way right now,’ Summer says.

‘Let’s not fight,’ I say. ‘Please, Summer. I just want us all to get along! That’s what I was trying to say to Honey.’

My twin sighs. ‘Look, Skye,’ she says. ‘Relax. I wasn’t
blaming you, just trying to think how Honey might be feeling. Forget I said anything.’

She nudges me, trying to make me smile, but I’m not sure that smiling is an option right now. Nor is forgetting.

‘C’mon, Skye, I didn’t mean to upset you!’

She hooks an arm round my shoulders and pulls me over to the fire, and my panic begins to fade. Paddy plays the violin, a soft, haunting tune, while Coco, Cherry and I skewer marshmallows on long sharpened sticks and toast them in the bonfire. We eat the marshmallows sticky and smoky and melting hot, a taste like memories.

I gaze into the flames and imagine a boy with a sweet, crooked smile and laughing blue eyes, a boy called Finch. I close my eyes and wish I could conjure up the dream again. It would feel a whole lot less complicated than real life at the moment.

We light sparklers, and Summer winds me up by writing
Alfie
in the air right in front of me, and I use my sparkler to scribble through it before tracing out the name
Finch
when nobody is looking.

Then Paddy lights the fireworks and they begin to rocket skywards, exploding with soft popping sounds, scattering
stars across the darkness. As I watch the showering fountains of silver sparks fall back down to earth, I try to shake off the horrible feeling that my family is unravelling. I never fight with anyone, and I’ve nearly fallen out with my twin …

Maybe it’s because Summer has had a long day, a tiring day, what with all the changes to her dance schedule. Maybe she’s just feeling a little prickly? Millie says that we are full of hormones right now because of growing up, and those hormones can make us moody or sad or tearful for no particular reason.

Whatever just happened between Summer and me, it wasn’t anything serious. Was it?

10

Finch is waiting for me beside the gate where the mallow plants arch upwards, waist high, starred with blush-pink flowers with ragged, silken petals. He picks three or four of them, carelessly, and threads them gently into my hair, then takes my hand and leads me down through the woods.

A glimmer of orange flickers through the trees and there’s the sound of singing, laughter. I can see the caravans, and there’s a flash of swishing skirts, white petticoats, bright stockings, as women dance in the firelight. One man plays a violin, another holds an accordion, squeezing wild, wonderful, wistful sounds from it.

We watch the dancers for a while, stamping our feet and clapping in time to the music, breathing in woodsmoke, watching the sparks fly. When Finch pulls me into the middle of it all, I forget that I don’t know the steps, that I don’t like dancing. I follow him, knowing I would follow him anywhere, anywhere at all. We laugh and whirl around in the firelight, a girl with flowers in her hair, a boy with laughing eyes, until we are breathless and dizzy, hearts thumping, and not just from the dancing
.

I wake in a tangle of duvet, the silver bracelets pressing hard against my cheek. A thin, wintry light trickles through the curtains, and Summer is at the dressing table, plaiting her hair, dressed for ballet practice.

‘You missed some great dancing last night,’ I say, half asleep still. ‘Around the fire.’

‘Dancing? What dancing?’ my twin asks.

My head struggles to remember. ‘Not at the beach bonfire,’ I explain. ‘Later … in the woods. Remember?’

‘What are you talking about, Skye?’ Summer says. ‘We sat by the bonfire for a while after the fireworks, then went to bed … there was no dancing.’

I sit up, shivering, put a hand up to my hair where the mallow flowers should be. Nothing. Another dream … like the last one, about a boy called Finch, a boy with dark hair and laughing eyes. Gypsy caravans in the woods, music, dancing, and blush-pink mallow flowers even though it is November.

It felt so real.

Fear uncurls inside me and my eyes prickle with tears. I fell asleep wearing Clara’s bracelets and dreamt myself into her story again … at least, that’s what it felt like. A gypsy caravan, a boy called Finch, music, dancing, laughter. I love history, but this is a little too close to home. Clara’s story has lodged itself inside my head and it’s playing tricks with my mind.

‘Skye?’ Summer says. ‘Are you OK?’

I frown. ‘Sure … I remember now,’ I say. ‘Must have been a dream …’

Summer’s eyes widen. ‘Skye, you’re crying!’ She slides an arm round my shoulder and wipes away the tears.

Why am I crying? Because of a girl called Clara Travers, whose love story ended in the cold, wide ocean? Or because of a boy called Finch who makes my heart beat faster, a boy from a whole different century?

It’s all too weird.

‘Was it a nightmare?’ my sister asks.

‘No … yes … I don’t know!’ I whisper. ‘I … I think I dreamt about Clara and the gypsies.’

Summer’s face is anxious. ‘Clara?’ she echoes. ‘No wonder
you’re spooked, Skye! You have to let go of it. It’s just a stupid old ghost story, right? A load of rubbish.’

‘Right,’ I say, although I don’t believe it. And I am not sure that letting go is an option.

‘Now do you see why I think you should ditch the old clothes?’ Summer asks. ‘It’s just creepy, the way you’re always wearing her stuff! It’s not worth it if it gives you nightmares!’

She slides the silver bracelets from my wrist and dumps them into the trunk, shutting the lid firmly. ‘OK?’ she says. ‘Ditch the clothes. Promise? No more nightmares!’

‘I guess …’ I say. ‘I promise …’

‘Summer!’ Mum calls up the stairs. ‘Are you ready? We’re going to be late!’

Summer grabs her dance kit.

‘Sorry, Skye. I have to go. It’s the auditions for the Christmas show today.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘Good luck then.’

She flashes me a smile and is gone.

I rake a hand through my hair. It’s almost eleven, too late to help with the guest breakfasts, but in a little while, when Mum gets back, I’ll help her with the room changes. Right now, my mind is reeling.

I’ve promised Summer, but already I know it’s a promise I can’t keep.

I don’t
want
to let go of Clara’s story. It scares me, but more than that, it fascinates me too. I just wish I knew what it all meant. It’s as though the dreams are pulling me back to the 1920s, to a time when gypsy travellers camped out in the woods, to another world – yet it feels so real, so right. It feels like my world.

I look out of the window, my eyes following the stone wall that separates our garden from the woods. I can just make out the little gate from my dream, but the paint is peeling with age and the mallow plants are dying back now in the first autumn frosts. There are no flowers left, but I know the name of the plant because Mum picks the soft pink flowers in late summer to sprinkle over salads.

‘Marshmallow used to be a medicinal herb,’ she told me once. ‘It’s what the sweets used to be made from, once upon a time. The flowers are edible – not all flowers are, but these are so pretty in a salad or on top of a cupcake …’

I liked the idea that my favourite sweet came originally from a pretty garden herb, even then.

In the dream, Finch put mallow flowers in my hair … does that mean that Clara liked them too?