North of Nowhere (2 page)

I dragged my bag down the hallway. “I’m not
Amelia,
” I mumbled.

Mom touched my arm. “Please, darling, don’t make a fuss. She’s got enough on her plate. We don’t need to add anything else. Can’t you just put up with it for a week?”

She was right. Grandad had disappeared into thin air. The last thing Gran needed was me fussing over what she called me. “OK,” I said glumly.

Mom smiled. “Thank you. Now, get yourself unpacked and I’ll see you downstairs, OK?”

I pushed open the door to guest bedroom number five. It was about half the size of my bedroom at home. The bed took up most of the space, with just enough room to squeeze in a nightstand on either side, a wardrobe in one corner, a sink in another, and a window on the opposite wall.

I pulled back the curtain and looked out the window. It was drizzly and gray out, and little spots of moisture dotted the windowpane. I rubbed my arm over them, wiping a space so I could see the line of roofs and chimneys sloping down to the small harbor. Beyond the harbor was the sea, stretching on forever. There was a blurry line where the sea met the sky, but on a gloomy February day, it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

I stood in the window, watching the grim stillness. After a few minutes, someone appeared in front of a house and scurried, head down, along the harbor front. Then nothing. No noises. Nothing moved. Nothing happened. The loudest sound was the window shutter creaking in the wind.

A whole week without talking to my friends?

For the fiftieth time, I checked the signal on my cell phone. Still nothing. The room suddenly felt a bit smaller, and the air a bit thinner.

Mom knocked softly as she popped her head around the door. “Amelia, are you coming down?”

“Mom, it’s not Amel —” I began.

“We agreed,” she said firmly. “It’s just for a week. Come on.”

I rubbed my sleeve over the breath marks I’d left on the window, and I left the claustrophobic room behind me.

Mom linked her arm with mine. “We’ll be OK, sweetheart,” she said. “Let’s just make sure your gran is too, eh?”

I nodded. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be selfish,” I said. “It’s just . . .”

“I understand,” Mom said, patting my arm. “I know how much this week meant to you. I’m sorry I had to drag you away. But we’re here now; let’s make the most of it.”

“OK,” I agreed. “We’re here for Gran.”

“That’s the spirit,” she said. “I’ve just called Dad to let him know we’ve arrived safely. He sent you this.” She planted a kiss on the top of my head, and smiled at me. “Come on, then,” she said, and I followed her downstairs.

We went through the door to the bar at the back of the pub. I ducked under the counter and followed Mom through to the lounge, where we pulled up a couple of seats at one of the big wooden tables. Three men were sitting at the bar, talking and drinking pints. An older couple was sitting at a table, heads close together as they shared a bottle of wine. Gran came through from the kitchen with a pot of tea.

“Fetch the rest of the things, will you, Amelia, dear?” she said to me, pointing at a tray of teacups on the bar.

I bit my tongue and didn’t say anything about my name. “Sure,” I replied with a “Be Nice” smile. I caught Mom’s eye and she gave me a grateful nod.

Gran poured three cups of tea and we sat in awkward silence. Mom tried to look Gran in the eye, I tried to think of something to say, and Gran tried to pretend nothing was wrong as she slowly added milk to the cups.

Finally, Gran sat back and put her hands in her lap. “So,” she said. “I suppose you’re wondering what this is all about.”

Um. Well, that
is
why we’ve traveled all day to be here.

“In your own time,” Mom said softly.

“Well, I can’t say I understand the half of it,” Gran said, “but I’ll start from the beginning, and I’ll tell you what I can.”

Mom picked up her cup of tea and took a sip. I noticed her hands were shaking. As she caught my eye, I realized I was just as nervous. What were we about to hear? What kind of a week was in store?

And what exactly
had
happened to Grandad?

“It started last weekend,” Gran began. “He woke up on Saturday morning and announced that we were going away. Said we needed a break, and he wanted to take me on a romantic vacation.”

“Did he have somewhere in mind?” Mom asked.

“He said I could choose. Anywhere I wanted.”

“So what was the problem?” I asked.

“The problem was that it had to be this week, when we had three rooms already booked out. For the first time in Porthaven’s history, the town council has gotten it together to run a few events for tourists, and we’ll probably have our biggest takings in the pub since last season. Grandad expected me to cancel everything and run off on a silly whim with him.” She paused and took a breath. “Plus, we’ve had one disastrous vacation this year already,” she added tightly.

“What trip was that?” I asked.

Gran sighed. “That was a silly whim of his, too. It was just before Christmas. Oh, I remember now — it was the day the new brochures had come out.”

“What new brochures?”

“The brochures advertising Porthaven’s scheme to become some kind of wonderful vacation destination — as if!” she snorted. “Harry from the town council came around to ask if we’d help distribute them. Your grandad snatched a brochure and practically shoved Harry out of the house. Next thing I knew, he’d disappeared upstairs — then he came down half an hour later telling me he was taking me away for the weekend.”

“So what was the disaster?” Mom asked.

“Well, we went away and it was all very lovely — for the first night. Then Grandad went out for a walk the next morning and came back with a migraine like I’d never seen before. He spent the entire day lying in our room in the dark. I was quite worried about him, but thankfully it passed. Some vacation, though!”

“So he was trying to take you away for a better weekend?” I asked.

“Seems like it.”

“But you said no,” Mom put in.

“Of course I did,” Gran said sharply. To be fair, she does say a lot of things sharply, so it wasn’t that unusual. Then she frowned. Also not unusual. Then she said, “Do you know the strange thing?”

Mom and I both shook our heads.

“I don’t think he meant it,” Gran said quietly.

“Why not?” I asked.

“He must have known I wouldn’t just shut up shop and run away from home. He can’t seriously have thought for a moment that I’d say yes.”

“What are you suggesting?” Mom asked.

Gran sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t know
what
I’m suggesting. But he knows what I’m like. It’s all very well for him to have these silly ideas. He’s the one who sits drinking with the regulars, telling jokes, and sharing stories and laughs. I’m the one who keeps the books, and plans ahead, and makes sure that we stay afloat. He
knows
that. He must have known I wouldn’t do something so childish and irresponsible.”

She was right. Gran ran their lives like a sergeant major. “So why did he ask you if he knew you’d say no?”

“I don’t know,” Gran said. “I can’t help wondering if he’s just fed up. We’ve talked about retiring lately — but I can’t see how we could do it. Maybe this is his solution: run away from it all.”

Then she paused. There was something else troubling her. I could see it in her eyes — not that she’d ever admit it. Gran sees admitting to problems as a sign of weakness. “Of course, there is one other possibility,” she said.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“That he wanted an excuse to get away from
me.
Pretending he wanted us to take a vacation that he knew I would never agree to. Then when I said no, I was the baddie and he could go off with a clear conscience, telling himself he gave me every opportunity to go with him.”

Mom reached across the table to take Gran’s hand. “He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t just leave you like that.”

Gran looked at Mom’s hand on hers for a second, then she slipped her hand away and smiled a brittle smile at us both. “I know, dear. I’m sure he wouldn’t. There’ll be an explanation for the fact that I woke up yesterday morning in a cold bed, with my husband nowhere to be seen. I’m sure there will.”

When she put it like that, I had to admit it didn’t sound too good.

Just then, one of the men at the bar leaned forward and shook the bell on the counter. “Service, please!” he called, smiling across at us as he waved his empty pint glass above his head.

Gran stood up. “Right. I’ve got a pub to run. Lynne, let me show you the ropes while we’re relatively quiet. Then if we get busy later, you can look after the bar while I sort out everything else. Amelia, why don’t you take the dog out? He’s in the back. I’ve not had a chance to give him a proper walk yet today, what with . . . well, you know. It’s not easy running the whole place on your own.”

Mom followed Gran to the bar. I was only too happy to walk the dog, so I went through to the living room, where Flake, their five-year-old border collie, was lying on a rug in front of a gas fire. As soon as he saw me, he started wagging his shaggy tail, flapping it happily on the rug.

I knelt down and stroked his tummy. “Hey there, Flake,” I said into his ears as I gave him a big cuddle. “You’re the first happy face I’ve seen since I got here.”

He jumped up and followed me out of the room. I poked my head around the door to the pub. “I’ll take him down to the beach,” I called.

Mom looked across and smiled. “Thank you.”

“Don’t let him eat any dead crabs,” Gran added. “They make him sick.”

“I won’t.”

I ran upstairs to get my coat. When I came back down, Flake was waiting for me by the back door, wagging his tail furiously.

“Come on, boy, let’s get out of here,” I said, grabbing his leash from the back door and clipping it on to his collar. I buttoned up my coat and we scuttled down the road toward the beach and the harbor.

As I walked down the street, Flake trotting happily beside me, I couldn’t help thinking again about the day I was supposed to have had today. I’d have been at the movie theater by now, eating popcorn and sharing gummy bears with Jade and Ellen. Instead, I was walking along an empty, narrow cobblestone road down to a harbor with five fishing boats and a bunch of seaweed for company.

I checked my phone as I reached the harbor. Still no signal. I shoved it back in my pocket and walked around the edge of the beach to the slipway.

Flake ran happily down onto the sand, yapping delightedly. I couldn’t help thinking how nice it must feel to be a dog. They’re always so happy, so easy to please. I’d always wanted one, but Mom and Dad had said no. They said it wasn’t fair to have a dog when we’re all out at work or school all day, so I’ve had to make do with two gerbils and a guinea pig. All of which I adore — but it’s not the same. You can’t take them for walks, and they don’t wag their tails with delight every time you come into the room.

I used to have pictures of kittens and puppies and rabbits all over my bedroom walls. I took them down last year when I had a sleepover at my house with my new friends. I decided it was time to leave fluffy bunnies behind. Since then, it had been mostly boy bands and actors on my walls, but in my secret heart of hearts, I still missed the bunnies.

I picked up a stick, and in a flash, Flake was sitting in front of me, his tail thumping on the sand, his eyes focused on the stick. I threw it, and he raced off down the beach. A second later, Flake and stick were back at my feet. We played as we wandered along the beach, throwing and fetching sticks and bits of driftwood. For a moment, I almost forgot how miserable I was supposed to be. I couldn’t help being influenced by Flake’s perpetual happiness.

We reached the end of the beach. Now what? I didn’t want to turn back. I couldn’t face sitting in the pub for the rest of the day, listening to the old fishermen talking about their catches, or seeing Gran’s pained face, or watching Mom’s attempts at being a barmaid, while we all tried not to show how worried we were.

So, instead, I threw a few more sticks for Flake. At the end of the beach, there were three arches that led to a tiny spit of sand and an old concrete wall that was once a jetty. It hadn’t been used for years. At high tide, it was cut off completely as the arches filled up with water.

I did a bad throw and the stick got carried along by the wind and went flying into the last archway. The tide was out, so Flake darted into the arch after the stick, and I waited for him to return, stick in mouth, tail wagging furiously. But he didn’t.

A whole minute passed.

“Flake?” I walked down to the arch and poked my head around the edge of it. He wasn’t in there. “Flake?” I called again, louder. No reply. No Flake.

I ducked down and walked through the arch to the other side. It was more exposed on this side, and I turned my collar up against the cold. The wind was blowing sand across the surface of the beach, and carving tiny ripples across the tops of the waves farther out. I finally saw Flake, right at the end of the old jetty. He must have been chasing after the stick and lost track of where it had gone.