Breathing Underwater (18 page)

‘Will you?'

‘I might. It's a good laugh. You have to sing and cheer and stuff. Some of the blokes strip down, put on warpaint. It's all very
tribal
. Afterwards everyone goes to the pub.'

A dog barks. The almost-grown pup comes hurtling round the corner and jumps up.

‘Hello, Bess!' I pat her warm back. Her fur is still slightly woolly and soft, not silky smooth like Bonnie's.

‘Hey, Freya! I've got a really good idea!' Danny says. ‘How about asking Sally about that Sam girl? She must keep details for the campsite. Phone numbers and emails and stuff. She could look up her books for last summer for you.'

‘I'm not sure . . . Maybe Huw's right, and it won't help. Sam won't know anything. She might not even remember Joe.'

Danny looks stunned. ‘How could she possibly forget? An accident like that . . .'

‘She might not even have known about it. She left that Saturday morning, the day after.'

‘Wasn't everyone talking about it? Surely it was a huge thing?'

‘How do I know?' I say miserably. ‘I wasn't at the campsite, was I? We were all in shock, up at the house. It wasn't general knowledge till later that morning, and she'd have left before then.'

The truth is, I don't know. It's all a blur. I hardly remember that day at all. Mum and Dad arrived by helicopter to Main Island, sometime in the morning.

Danny's still talking.

‘What exactly did he say?' Danny asks again.

‘Who?'

‘Huw.'

‘Not a lot. That Sam was just messing about. Having fun. Didn't care about Joe, really. That it was over, anyway, between her and Joe.'

Danny's quiet for a bit, deep in thought. ‘How would he really know? Maybe he's wrong about that. It's worth a try, isn't it, finding Sam? Don't give up so easily.'

‘It hurts too much,' I say. ‘Sorry, Danny. I don't want to talk about it any more.'

We walk on. Bess trots beside me, as if she belongs to us. I keep my hand on her warm back. At the gate to the field, she barks and turns and races back to the farmhouse.

Danny's family are sitting in the sun outside their tent, reading and drinking coffee. Hattie waves to me and runs over. My heart sinks a bit.

‘We're going to another island today and there's palm trees,' she says. ‘Are you coming? Please?'

I shake my head. ‘Not today.'

‘What about that boat thing, this evening?' Danny says.

‘Probably.'

I turn back to the house, to wait for it to be six o'clock.

Twenty-three

 

 

‘The doctor called again,' Evie tells me as I come in the back door. ‘And I've just spoken to your dad.'

‘What did he say?'

‘He's worried about Gramps. Wants to see him. He's going to sort out his work, phone back later. He sends his love to you, Freya. Perhaps you'd speak to him this evening?'

I mull this over, up in my room. It sounds serious. Like, Evie thinks Gramps is really sick. But he didn't seem it this morning. He said he was getting better. He came downstairs and was sitting in the garden and everything. He's back in bed now, resting. I can't bear it if something happens to Gramps. I look in on him, but he's asleep. It's the new pills, Evie says, making him drowsy.

 

At five, I get my swimming stuff and notebook and set off for the sand bar, to wait there for Matt. I've been daydreaming about him all afternoon.

The sun's still hot. Early evening will be a good time for swimming, with the sea coming in over sun-warmed sand. I've got my swimming things on under my clothes, to make it easier to change. I find a sheltered place to sunbathe, up near the dunes at the Gara end of the beach, away from the day trippers who just plump down on the nearest bit of sand at the end of the path. I doodle in my notebook, to pass the time.

I've almost given up on Matt when I see a figure making its way along the sand. I can't see his face at first, but I recognise the way he walks. My heartbeat quickens even though I'm trying to stay cool.
Think of Izzy
, I keep reminding myself. My legs suddenly look too pale; I cover them up with the blue skirt and pretend to be busy drawing.

His shadow falls across the white page.

‘Freya. Hi. Ready for a swim, then?'

I nod self-consciously.

‘I'm so hot! I've been looking forward to this for hours!' He strips off his T-shirt and drops it and his towel in a pile next to my stuff. He grins. ‘I hear you swim like a fish.'

‘Says who?'

‘Izzy; Danny.'

‘Well then!'

Matt laughs. ‘I know. Have you seen Izzy swim?'

I realise with surprise that I haven't. All those times we've been on the beach together, she's never actually gone into the water.

‘Race you!' He starts running, and I join him. He's much faster than me, but I do my best, and I manage to dive in straight away, rather than my usual slow wade out, and once we're in I'm easily as strong a swimmer as he is: stronger, even. He can swim fast for a short while but can't keep going like I can.

The water's freezing on my sun-heated body, but it's exhilarating.
Waterbaby
, Mum used to call me. I get into a steady rhythm, my breathing deep and regular. There are only the smallest waves: the wind's dropped for once. I could go on and on for ever, further and further out. The water gets deep very quickly off the bar, but it's crystal clear, so you can see right down to the wave-ridged sand beneath. I turn on to my back to float. Above me the sky is blue blue blue, fading at the edges to white.

Matt's treading water, beckoning me back. I flip over, swim slow overarm strokes towards him.

‘OK, you win!' He grins, and shakes his wet hair out of his beautiful tanned face. ‘Don't go out any further. The tide's coming in and the currents start to pull you out.'

‘I know,' I say. ‘I've swum here every summer since I was little.'

‘I can't stay long,' Matt says. ‘I said I'd row in the gig race tonight. They're one man down.'

‘Have you done it before?'

‘Not here, but back home, yes. Don't look so worried! I'm not that bad at it!'

‘Race you back to the beach?' I do my best crawl, and just to show off, when I see how far ahead I am, butterfly. The sea seems unnaturally still, as if it's holding its breath.

I walk up the beach to get my towel, turn to watch Matt stride out of the sea. He shakes himself like a wet dog. His wet shorts cling to his body.

‘Here!' I hand him his towel.

‘Thanks. That's better.' He rubs his head and his chest. He turns to me. ‘You're still dripping wet! Come here!' He leans over and wipes the water from my face with his towel. He's so close I feel his breath warm on my cheek.

Does he have any idea what he's doing to me? I'm like melted butter. My head's all muzzy. But he seems oblivious to the effect he has.

‘Any idea of the time?'

I reach down for my watch.
Joe's
watch. ‘Twenty to seven.'

‘Just time to phone Izzy before I get going. Should be helping down at the boathouse. Do you want to come?'

I shake my head. I can't speak for a minute.

He chatters on. ‘Thanks for the swim. You
do
swim like a fish. Izzy was right.'

He has his back to me now. He's fished his phone from his pocket and he's dialling her number. I see him smile as she picks up. I lie down on the warm sand, on my tummy, so he can't see my face. Not that he's looking.

I pull myself together. What else did I expect? What would I have thought, really, if he'd done anything else? He belongs to Izzy and Izzy belongs to him. It's so stupid, feeling like this. He's just being friendly. There are different kinds of touch. I shouldn't take everything so . . . literally. But it's like my head knows one thing, and my body feels another. They don't quite match up.

 

Once Matt's gone, I get dry and dressed and start walking back. I pass the pub and glimpse the team, down below at the boathouse slipway, getting the gig ready. Six blokes: Luke, Ben's dad and uncle, two of Dave's mates, whose names I don't know, plus Matt. Over at the jetty Dave's steering the
Spirit
round to pick up a queue of people. Perhaps I should go, after all?

I hesitate, at the top of the track, dithering over what to do. Danny turns up just at that moment. ‘Good!' he says, when he sees me.

‘I'm on my way back,' I tell him. ‘Not coming on the boat.'

His face falls. ‘Oh well,' he says. ‘I guess you've been a million times before.'

‘Yes.'

‘They're doing the long race, right out to the Bird islands and back to Main Island.'

‘The triangle.'

Danny fishes around in his pocket and pulls out a scrap of torn paper. He hands it to me rather sheepishly. ‘I got this for you.'

I turn it over. Numbers, handwritten. ‘What is it?'

‘Her phone number. That girl, Samphire. Her mother's phone, anyway.'

‘Danny! How come?'

‘I saw Sally. I asked her. I was right, see? She did have it.'

‘What did you say?'

‘Just that you wanted to get in touch with a girl who was here last year. She wasn't bothered. Well, she was a bit busy at the time, but I said it was important.'

‘Oh, Danny!'

‘What? Was it wrong?'

‘I don't know . . .'

The ship bell rings. Dave revs the boat engine. People have started boarding. ‘Sure you won't come?' Danny asks.

I shake my head. ‘But thanks for the number.'

 

Do I really mean that?

I'm touched that Danny got it for me. Really. He's quite shy; it would have been a big effort: finding Sally, asking, all that. I stare at the paper in my hand. Now it's a reality, I don't know what to do. I could actually phone. Leave a message. Speak to Sam, even. I finger the numbers, carefully written in Danny's hand in black ink on the scrap of lined paper.

Shouts and whoops echo out over the Sound. The race hasn't started yet, but all the gigs from the off-islands are making their way to the starting buoy, followed by the flotilla of supporting boats. I almost wish I'd gone after all.

I dump my wet towel and swimsuit on the draining board in the kitchen. Evie's talking on the phone in the front room. She waves at me through the open door.

‘It's your dad! Don't go anywhere!'

I sit on the arm of the sofa.

Evie's nodding and looking pleased. ‘Goodbye, Martin,' she says, and hands the phone to me.

‘Hi, Dad.'

It's weird hearing his voice, so close and clear in my ear. He sounds fine. He says he's missing me.

‘What's the house like?' I ask.

‘Not bad, for a rented place. It'll do for now. Your mum's still looking for somewhere else, though.'

Panic grips my belly. ‘What do you mean?'

‘For us to buy,' Dad says.

I let out my breath. For a moment I'd thought he meant just Mum, a house by herself . . .

‘There's one here for sale,' I blurt out. ‘The one attached to the old lighthouse.' I don't even know I'm going to say that until the words come bleating out of my mouth.

‘Oh, Freya!' Dad says, after a bit of a silence. ‘Not practical, I'm afraid.'

‘It'd be a great project,' I say. ‘Doing it up and everything. Imagine.'

Why am I saying this? It's totally crazy.

The architect bit of Dad comes to the fore. I know he
is
imagining, just for a brief moment, what a great time he'd have designing something round the actual lighthouse. ‘You're right,' he says. ‘But no. Your mum wouldn't ever contemplate living there. You know that, Freya.'