Helen Dunmore - The Crossing of Ingo

The wind blows. The door bangs. Granny Carne is gone.

At first the day went on quite normally. We went up to Jack’s, and his mum made one of her classic dinners with roast beef, Yorkshire puddings and what she calls roast-pan gravy. Jack’s dad talked endlessly about whether he would get a government grant for re-laying a stretch of Cornish hedge. Jack kept trying to change the subject. He thinks his dad is extremely boring most of the time, but I didn’t mind. Hedging is as good to talk about as anything when there’s a storm raging in your mind.

We’re back at the cottage now, and it’s almost ten o’ clock, the time when Mum usually calls on a Sunday. But it’s not Sunday for her, it’s already Monday morning. While we are still enjoying the last hours of the weekend, Mum is in a world that’s going back to work.

Mum’s face comes on screen. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail. She’s wearing a dark red T-shirt and she looks tanned and cheerful, but apprehensive too.

“I’ve got some news for you guys.” You guys. Mum sounds more like Roger each day. She pauses. We can see her taking a deep, steadying breath. “We’ve got the chance to take a big trip north, up the coast. It’s a mate of Roger’s who runs these trips into the bush. He’s offered us a freebie if we go as chief cook and bottle washer to the paying customers.”

“Bottle washer?” I ask.

“Doing all the stuff tourists don’t want to do for themselves,” says Mum succinctly. “It’s for two weeks, though, and we’ll be way out of contact. We won’t have access to a phone and anyway there’s no signal up there. How would you feel about not getting calls for a while? Listen, you can be straight with me about this, Sapphy. Nothing’s fixed yet. I won’t go if you’re not happy about it—”

“Of course you’ve got to go,” says Conor immediately. I know my brother well enough to be sure that he’s not even thinking about how brilliantly this all fits in with our plans. Mum and Roger not calling us for two whole weeks! Nothing could be more convenient. Conor goes on, “It’s the chance of a lifetime, Mum. A trip like that would cost a fortune if you had to pay for it. You have to go.”

“You’d love it out here, Conor. Next time you two are definitely coming with us.”

Next time? What is going on? Mum sounds so full of life, as if Australia has turned on a switch in her which has been off for years. Since Dad went, maybe. No, be honest, Sapphire. Mum wasn’t like this even when Dad was at home. She’s changed. She’s stronger, bolder, more alive somehow. I’m not sure that I want her to change too much more – I don’t want Mum to become someone I don’t even recognise…

I lean forward and open my mouth, but as I do Conor grabs hold of my wrist under the table, out of sight of the webcam. He squeezes tight, warningly. “Two weeks is nothing. We’ll be fine, won’t we, Saph?”

“Ye-yes.”

“Are you sure?” asks Mum eagerly. She really wants to make this trip, but she’s worried too. The deal was that she would see us and speak to us every day unless it was completely unavoidable. In a minute another switch will turn on inside Mum: the guilt switch.

A Call with as much power over the pair of you as that, it’ll make its own path through your lives.

It’s happening this minute through the Internet as Mum waits for our answer. The Call is making a path for us. Mum’s eyes search my face.

“Of course we’re sure,” says Conor. “Everything’s fine here. No problem.”

“Except that Conor needs to learn where the washing machine is,” I say. Mum’s face relaxes.

“As long as you’re both well and happy.”

“We had Rainbow and Patrick round last night,” says Conor with apparent casualness. Mum looks even happier. She likes Rainbow and Patrick more than any of our friends. She senses that Rainbow is like her, that’s what I think. Someone who will anchor us to Earth. And Patrick’s ambition to become a doctor is exactly the ambition Mum would love me to have. I’m sorry, Mum, but it’s never going to happen.

A big trip north, into the bush… Poisonous spiders, king cobras, crocodiles… “Be careful up there, Mum. Crocodiles are really cunning. They use their tails as levers to spring out of the water and get you. If a croc chases you, you have to run in zigzags because that confuses them. And there’s loads of snakes in the bush too. You can’t walk around in flip-flops.”

Mum is laughing. “Is this my daughter talking, or is it my mum?”

“I’m serious, Mum.”

“I’m sorry, Sapphy, I didn’t mean to laugh at you.”

Mum seems so real that I feel I could put my hand through the screen and touch her face. But I can’t, and in a minute her screen image will disappear. People get lost in the bush. They die because there’s no water. I take a deep breath. Mum will be with Roger, who probably knows how to dig a bore hole if need be, and kill a fighting cobra with one karate chop. Mum will be fine. What a role reversal. Mum spends her life worrying about us, and now I’m panicking about her.

“We’ll be completely safe,” says Mum earnestly. “Roger’s mate knows the bush. He wouldn’t take tourists anywhere dangerous.”

But Mum knows, as I do, that nowhere in the world is ever completely safe. Your life can change in the blink of an eye, on a calm and beautiful Midsummer night. You lose what you love while you think it is still safe beside you.

“I know, Mum,” I say. “You’ll have a great time.”

Mum smiles back, reassuring and reassured. “I know I can trust you two – to take care of everything,” she says, looking at Conor. He looks straight back.

“I’ll look after Saph, Mum, don’t worry.”

“And I’ll look after Conor’s underpants.”

“Is Sadie all right?” asks Mum quickly.

“She’s fine.” I nearly add, She’s just in the kitchen , but pull myself back. First rule of deception: Never lie when you don’t have to.

“I’m so glad you’ve got Sadie. A dog in the house is good protection.”

“For God’s sake, Mum,” says Conor, “you sound like the mum in that film of Peter Pan.” I nearly laugh, thinking of Sadie padding round the house like Nana, pulling us back from Ingo by the seat of our pyjamas. I know why Conor sounds sharp. Guilt. He’s not exactly lying to Mum, but he’s certainly misleading her. Mum, however, doesn’t realise any of this. She thinks that Conor’s just cracking a joke, and she laughs with her new Australian lightheartedness.

“Don’t go flying out of any windows,” she says.

“We won’t,” I say, looking Mum in the eye. Just for a second I feel a surge of guilt, as if I’m the parent lying to her child for its own good, so that the child won’t be afraid. The mark of the Call must be blazing across my face. Doesn’t Mum see? Can’t she guess?

But no. Mum notices nothing, and we say goodbye.

Conor lifts the globe from its place at the back of our living room’s deep windowsill. He pushes it with one finger so the globe turns a slow circle on its stand. The land is dark brown, with the names of countries written in close, spidery writing. The oceans must have been deep blue once but they have faded and now they are a pale blue-brown. The Indian Ocean… The Northwest Passage…

I used to trace the names with my finger when I first learned to read. They were the oceans Dad used to talk about when he said, “One day, Sapphy, I’ll take you to see the world. We’ll cross the five oceans. North Atlantic, South Atlantic, the Indian Ocean, South Pacific, maybe even the Southern Ocean. Or we might go north, way up here through the North Pacific until we come to the Arctic Ocean.”