Cate Shearwater - Making the Grade

All this had happened in the last few dizzying weeks, and Ellie could still barely believe it was true.

‘You know you’ll be behind the other girls there,’ said Fran. ‘It could be tough trying to catch up.’

Ellie nodded, feeling butterflies dance in her stomach.

‘Maybe I was wrong to hold you back.’ Fran looked more serious now. ‘I don’t know. But, whatever happens, there’s something I want you to remember.’

‘What’s that?’ Ellie looked up at her coach eagerly.

‘Well, there are three kinds of gymnasts,’ said Fran. ‘There are power gymnasts – all muscles and strength. There are technical gymnasts, capable of executing moves with an incredible degree of difficulty. And then there are the artistic gymnasts.’ She smiled. ‘Artistic gymnasts perform with their heart. Think of Nadia Comăneci, Sian Edwards – your Aunt Lizzie. When each of those gymnasts steps on to the floor, she tells a story. They are breathtaking to watch, not just because of the skill they exhibit, but because they turn gym from a sport into an art.’

Ellie thought of the footage she’d watched of her aunt, springing across the blue floor at World Championships. She really looked as if she was dancing over the creek, her arms moving like the swaying of the trees.

‘I think you have the soul of an artistic gymnast, Ellie,’ Fran said with a smile. ‘Remember that. You have strength too – from all the rowing and sailing you do. And wonderful poise – although you need to improve your balance on the beam . . .’

Ellie nodded. She knew the beam was her weakest piece of apparatus.

‘But most of all you have heart.’

Ellie felt as if her heart might actually burst. Fran expected a lot of her gymnasts, so compliments from her really meant something.

‘So it doesn’t matter that you’re behind the other girls at the Academy,’ Fran was going on. ‘Stay true to who you are and who knows how far you can go.’

‘But how do I do that?’ asked Ellie.

‘Hang on to all this,’ said Fran, gesturing around her at the little sandy beach, the boathouse, the wooden pontoon stretching out into the lapping waves. ‘The creek is part of you. Don’t let it go.’

Two

‘There you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere!’

Ellie turned to see her little sister come flying down on to the beach, bouncing across the sand. She came to a breathless stop by Ellie and Fran.

‘I told Mum you’d be here,’ Lucy squeaked excitedly. ‘She says you need to get a move on or you’ll miss the train. Ooh – did you say goodbye to Jorian ? And Diablo ? And little Roo ?’

Ellie grinned. ‘Not yet, no.’

Lucy frowned and put her hands on her hips. Ten years old, with wild red hair and a rosy face full of freckles and dimples, Lucy looked nothing like pale, sandy-haired Ellie who was three years older than her. People sometimes refused to believe they were sisters – until they noticed their eyes, which were the exact same shade of cornflower blue, framed with startling black lashes.

‘Well, you need to. They’re going to miss you,’ Lucy insisted. ‘But I’m going to look after Jorian . I’ll take her out every single day for you, keep her in good condition.’

The way Lucy spoke, you’d have thought she was talking about her pet dog or horse. But Jorian was Ellie’s old rowing boat. Living on the creek, both girls had learned to row pretty much as soon as they could walk. Dad was a boat-builder, so for Ellie’s seventh birthday he’d made her a beautiful ten-foot dinghy from salvaged wood, painted blue and white. She couldn’t imagine a day going by without going out in Jorian , with Lucy beside her in her boat, Roo .

‘And I’m going to miss you too,’ said Lucy, her bright face filled suddenly with sadness. ‘But I’ve decided I’m going to work really hard at gym so I can come to the Academy one day. Aren’t I, Fran?’

‘So you keep telling me,’ said Fran, who had a soft spot for Ellie’s crazy sister. Then she glanced at her watch. ‘But I think you should get going, Ellie. You don’t want to miss that train.’

‘Ooh, no,’ said Lucy, slipping her hand in Ellie’s and tugging her up towards the cottage. ‘You can’t be late for your first day at the Academy!’

Ellie took one last look around. She’d grown up on the creek, spent every day of her life messing around on the water, rowing, crabbing, collecting shells with Lucy, helping Dad in the boatyard or Mum in her painting studio. She tried to drink it all in, as if she could carry it with her – just like Fran had said. Then she turned and made her way back up to the cottage.

‘Darling, I’m so sorry we can’t come up to London with you,’ Mum was saying as she darted around the kitchen searching for her mobile phone and her car keys. ‘This exhibition is so important. If I could sell a few more paintings it would make all the difference. You know.’

‘I know, Mum,’ said Ellie. ‘Sending me to the Academy is expensive.’

‘Oh it’s not that. You’ve done so well to get this scholarship,’ said Mum. ‘There’s just a lot of other things to get – what with uniform for your new school – and all the things you’ll need because of transferring in the middle of the year . . .’

Ellie’s stomach did a flip and she stopped listening for a moment. She’d almost forgotten she was starting at a new school. She’d been so focused on the new gym she hadn’t given it much thought.

‘Of course we’ll muddle through like we always do,’ Mum was saying. ‘It’s just . . .’

‘I understand,’ said Ellie. It wasn’t that they were poor exactly. Dad had always made enough to get by with his boat building and Mum’s paintings sold well to tourists in the summer months, but gymnastics was an expensive sport and, though they never said so, Ellie knew they’d already given up a lot to help her follow her dream.

‘And the train fares, you know,’ Mum went on, still searching for her mobile phone. ‘It’s astonishing how much it costs for a return ticket these days.’

Next to her two petite daughters, Mum seemed like a giant – and a very strange giant at that! She was nearly six feet tall with a cloud of frizzy red hair and an extremely odd dress sense. Today, she was wearing an orange tie-dye kaftan with green patent boots and what looked like a feather boa wrapped round her waist. She had a paintbrush stuck in her hair, which was spattered with tiny blobs of coloured paint.

‘Looking for this?’ asked Lucy, pulling Mum’s ancient phone from out of the fruit bowl.

‘Of course. I knew I’d put it somewhere safe!’

Ellie grinned at Lucy. They were used to finding their school books in the dishwasher, or Mum blowing up the microwave because she’d accidentally tried to nuke her car keys.

‘Now. Where’s your dad?’ Mum said, squinting as if she might find him hiding in the fruit bowl too.

‘I bet he’s down at the boatyard,’ said Ellie. ‘He’s probably totally forgotten I’m leaving today.’

‘Would I ever do a thing like that?’ said Dad, appearing at the back door, wearing a faded fisherman’s jumper and a chauffeur’s cap covered in sawdust. It was easy to see where Ellie got her looks from – Dad was small and wiry with sandy hair and eyes the colour of the sea. ‘Your carriage awaits, Gymnastic Princess,’ he said with a flourish of his cap.