Helen Dunmore - The Complete Ingo Chronicles - Ingo, The Tide Knot, The Deep, The Crossing of Ingo, Stormswept

“Conor?” I call from beneath the trapdoor, softly in case Mum hears and asks what’s going on. “Conor? Con, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. It wasn’t true, what I said.”

But there’s no answer from Conor. I feel crushed inside from fear and loneliness. There’s Mum again, laughing, and now she’s saying something, but I can’t hear what it is. Conor’s right. Mum does sound happy. And there’s Roger, laughing too, joining in.

I have the strangest feeling that, already, Roger belongs here more than I do. In a while, when he knows I’m not standing here waiting any more, Conor will come down the ladder. He’ll play cards with Mum, and Roger will talk to them about diving. I can see the three of them together, belonging to one another, and the pain inside me grows stronger.

Why was I so stupid? Why ever did I say that Conor didn’t care about Dad? I wish I could bring the words back. If only I knew how to make time run backwards. If I did, all the mistakes I’ve made could be undone.

Mum and Roger are laughing again. Mum is happy. Is she happier because I’m not there? Maybe Mum doesn’t want me here, reminding her of Dad every time I open my mouth. I look like Dad. Everyone has always said so.

If only Dad was here.

But just as I think that, for the first time a small, bleak voice inside me whispers, “Maybe they’re right, and you’re wrong. Maybe he’s never coming back.”

All the loneliest thoughts I’ve ever had crowd into my head. I feel cold and tired, and I don’t know what to do. If only there was someone to help me. But there’s only emptiness, swirling inside my mind.

Until I feel something. A pull, a tug, faint at first and then stronger, stronger. I know what it is. The tide is falling fast.

It’s already an hour past the turn. I know it without knowing why I know it. I can feel the tide inside me, as if my blood has turned to salt water. There’s the pull of it again, stronger, almost lifting me off my feet. Now . I’ve got to go now .

Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. You’ll miss the tide .

“Where are we now, Faro?” I ask. We’re swimming lazily side by side, our bodies wrapped in the warmth of a slow current that’s taking us northwards. I’m back in Ingo. Safe. It doesn’t seem strange any more, or dangerous. Everything has a familiar feeling about it, as if part of me has always lived here.

“We won’t go too far this time. We might dap off the current westward,” Faro says. “There’s land there, another country of Air People, and then beyond there’s the Great Ocean.”

I can see it in my mind as if I’m reading a map. The ocean off our part of Cornwall is the Atlantic, then north-westward there’s Ireland. West of Ireland the Atlantic spreads out again for thousands of miles, until you reach America.

Dad taught me about the oceans long before I studied geography at school. He drew a map of the oceans for me on the firm white sand of the cove, with a pointed stick. He said we’d sail them all one day. The Pacific, the Atlantic, the Indian Ocean, the Arctic and the Antarctic Ocean. The five oceans of the world, Dad said.

I loved the sound of their names. I believed Dad when he said we would sail them all one day. Dad said Conor and I could come out of school for a year, and we’d all go travelling.

Mum said, “Don’t put that stuff into her head, Mathew. Where’s the money coming from for us to sail the five oceans? We can barely pay the phone bill.” But I knew Mum was wrong. She was always worrying about bills, but they got paid in the end. If we wanted to sail the world, the money would come from somewhere.

“Are you talking about the Atlantic when you say the Great Ocean, Faro?” I ask now. “Is the first land Ireland, and then there’s the Atlantic again, and then America?”

Faro shrugs and his eyes sparkle wickedly.

“The Atlantic? Sorry, Sapphire. Never heard of it.”

“You’re swimming in it right now this minute, Faro!”

Faro spreads his fingers and lets the water spill through them.

“I can’t seem to see the word Atlantic here anywhere,” he murmurs, pretending to search. He flips on to his back and stares upwards. His tail flicks lazily, glistening in the deep green underwater light. “No, nothing’s written on the surface either. Maybe the words washed off?”

“Don’t be dumb, Faro, things like sea and sky don’t have words printed right through them, like sticks of rock.”

“Then how do you know this is the Atlantic?”

“Well, it just is.”

“Not to me, it isn’t.”

“It’s called the Atlantic on every map I’ve ever seen,” I say firmly. Why can’t Faro ever admit that he’s wrong?

“Only people who don’t know where they are need maps,” answers Faro smugly.

“You’d get lost quick enough on land.”

“Maybe. But who wants to go on land?”

“ You did. That’s where I first met you, on that rock.”

“Ah, but then I had a reason.”

“What?”

“I’ll tell you one day. When you can speak full Mer.”

I never argue when people say things like that. It only makes them more annoying. Changing the subject works much better.

“I suppose it doesn’t have to be called the Atlantic,” I say. “It’s what we call it, that’s all. It’s got to have a name. The Great Ocean doesn’t mean much. All the oceans are great, so you wouldn’t be able to tell which one you were talking about. Is that really what you call it?”

“It’s a name, that’s all,” shrugs Faro. “We don’t carry maps around with writing on them, and everything with a name label on it. What do you think happens when the Atlantic meets the Pacific, Sapphire? Is there a thick black line on the sea?”

“You do know their names! I knew you did.”

“I know all about your maps and your writing . You think I’m ignorant as a fish, don’t you? Living in the sea, playing all day long, never thinking about anything, no car, no credit card—”

“Hey, do you really know about cars and credit cards? How do you know?”

“I listen,” says Faro modestly. “It’s surprising what you can hear when people are swimming or sunbathing or out in their boats. They talk a lot about their credit cards. Anyway, to go back to the subject, fish aren’t ignorant. I’ve told you before that they share their memories. The memory doesn’t die when a fish dies. It stays in the shoal. And because the memories are shared they get stronger.”

“Do you do that, Faro?”

“What? Die?”

“No. Share your memories like that.”

Faro sculls gently with his hands against the draw of the current. A frill of tiny bubbles bursts around his fingers.

“In a way. We share what we know,” he says at last. “We don’t keep our knowledge to ourselves, as if it’s money we want to keep safe in a purse.” His smile flashes at me triumphantly. You see! I know all about ‘money’ and ‘purses’ . The smile vanishes and he’s serious again. “We have separate memories but sometimes they run in and out of us. I can touch Elvira’s memory sometimes.”

“Can you touch mine?” I ask suddenly, surprising myself.

Faro rolls towards me. We are face to face, with the same current holding us both. The inside of the current is so calm and still that it’s only when I look sideways and see the fish flashing by that I know how fast we’re travelling.

“I don’t know,” he says.” Let’s try.”

“What do I have to do?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t know how it happens with Elvira and me. It just happens.”