Helen Dunmore - The Tide Knot

Sand could easily bury these houses. Imagine waking up one morning and finding the room dark because sand had blown right up to the top of your windows. Or maybe it wouldn’t be sand at all, but water. You could be looking at the inside of the waves breaking on the other side of the glass. And then the glass would break under the pressure, and the sea would rush in.

“I wonder how the sea always knows just how far to come, and no farther,” I say to Conor. “It’s so huge and powerful, and it rolls in over so many miles. But it stops at the same point every tide.”

“Not quite at the same point. Every tide’s different.”

“I know that. But the sea doesn’t ever decide to roll a mile inland. And it could if it wanted, couldn’t it? With all the power that’s in the sea, why does it stop here when it could swallow up the whole town?”

“Like Noah’s Flood.”

“What?”

“You remember. God sent a flood to drown the whole world and everything in it, because people were so evil. But Noah built his ark and he survived. And when the flood was over, God promised he’d never do it again.”

“Do you believe in God, Conor?”

“I don’t know. I tried praying once, but it didn’t work.”

“What did you pray about?” But I already know. Conor would have prayed for Dad to come back. I know, because I did the same. I prayed night after night for Dad to come back, after he disappeared. But he never did.

“You know, Saph.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“Did you pray as well?”

“Yes. Every night for a long time.”

“But nothing happened.”

“No.”

“You know what the story says that the rainbow is? The Noah story, I mean.”

“No.”

“It’s a sign that there’ll never be another flood like the one that drowned the world.”

“Hey, Con, I forgot to tell you. I met a girl called Rainbow.”

But Conor isn’t listening. He’s shading his eyes and staring into the distance, out to sea. At first I think he’s looking for surfers, but then he grabs my arm. “There! Over there by the rock! Did you see her?”

“Who? Rainbow?” I ask, like an idiot.

“Elvira,” he says, as if that’s the obvious, only answer. As if the one person anyone could be looking for is Elvira.

He never talks about her. Never even says her name. But she must have been in his mind all the time, since the last time he spoke to her. That was just after Roger and his dive buddy Gray were almost killed, when they were diving at the Bawns.

I remember how Conor and Elvira talked to each other, once we’d got Roger and Gray safely into the boat. Conor was in the boat, leaning over the side, and Elvira was in the water. They looked as if there wasn’t anyone else in the world. So intent on each other. And then Elvira sank back into the water and vanished, and we took the boat back to land.

“I can’t see Elvira,” I say. “I can’t see anything.”

“There. Follow where I’m pointing. Not there – there. No, you’re too late. She’s gone.”

“Are you sure, though, Conor? Was it really Elvira?”

“It was her. I know it was her.”

“It could have been part of a rock.”

“It wasn’t a rock. It was her.”

“Or maybe a surfer—”

“Saph, believe me, it was Elvira. I couldn’t mistake her for anyone else.”

I still don’t think it was. I have no sense that the Mer are close. Neither Faro, nor his sister, nor any of the Mer. But in Conor’s mind, a glimpse of a rock or a seal or a buoy turns into a glimpse of Elvira.

“I keep nearly seeing her,” says Conor in frustration, “but then she always vanishes. I’m sure it was her this time.”

“You can’t be sure, Conor.”

“She was out in the bay earlier on, when the dolphins came.”

“Are you certain? I didn’t see anything.”

“She was there; I know she was. I saw her out of the corner of my eye, but when I turned she was gone. I expect it was because Mal and his dad were there. Elvira wouldn’t risk them seeing her.”

“Do you think they could?”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe it’s only us who can see the Mer. Because of what Granny Carne said, you remember, about our blood being partly Mer. Maybe even if Faro or Elvira swam right up to the boat, Mal and his dad still wouldn’t see them.”

I remember the words Faro said to me: Open your eyes. Maybe that doesn’t just mean opening your eyelids and focusing. Maybe it’s to do with being willing to see things, even if your mind is telling you that they can’t possibly be real—

“Of course they’d see Elvira if she was there,” Conor argues. “You’re making the Mer sound like something we’ve imagined. Elvira’s as real as… as real as… Saph, why do you think she’s hiding? Why won’t she talk to me?”

“I don’t know.”

I don’t think I should say any more. Our roles seem to be reversing. Suddenly I’m the sensible, practical one, and Conor is the dreamer, longing for Ingo. No. Be honest, Sapphire. It’s not Ingo he’s longing for; it’s her. And maybe that’s what is making me so sensible and practical—

“We’d better go home, Conor. It’s starting to rain.”

“Saph, you said it!” Conor swings round to face me, smiling broadly.“You said it at last. I had a bet with myself how long it would be before you did.”

“Said what? What are you talking about?”

“Didn’t you hear yourself? You said, ‘home’.”

“I’m just taking Sadie out, Mum!” I call up the stairs. It’s Sunday night. Mum and Roger are painting the skirting boards in Mum’s bedroom. They have stripped off the dingy cabbage-rose wallpaper, and now the bedroom walls are bare to the plaster. Our landlady says we can decorate as much as we like, and I’m not surprised. Her paint and wallpaper are not only hideous, but also old and covered in marks. When we got here, Mum wanted to paint all the rooms white.

“It’s a new start for all of us, Sapphy!”

I’ve painted my room blue and green, so that it looks like the inside of a wave. Our landlady, Mrs Eagle, has been up to see it, and she says it is ’andsome. Mrs Eagle is old. Her name doesn’t sound at all Cornish, but that’s because she married a man who came to St Pirans from upcountry during the War, she says. He died long ago. She must be about eighty, and she owns six houses in St Pirans, all of them full of cabbagey wallpaper, I expect. But the rent is low, Mum says, and that’s all that matters. Rents in St Pirans are terrible.

Mum appears at the top of the stairs. “It’s late, Sapphy. Can’t Conor take Sadie out?”

“He’s doing his maths homework.”

This is strictly true, but I haven’t asked him anyway, because I want to go out on my own. St Pirans is different when the streets are empty, and it’s dark, and there’s no one at all on the wide stretch of Polquidden Beach. I feel as if I can breathe then.

“All right, but don’t be long. Let me know when you’re back.”

Lucky it’s Mum, not Roger. Although he hasn’t known me very long, Roger is disturbingly quick to grasp when he is being told only a part of the truth, or indeed none of the truth at all.

The wind has died down over the weekend. It’s a cold, still night and the air smells of salt and seaweed. The moon is almost full, and it is riding clear of a thick shoal of clouds. I decide to take Sadie away from the streetlights on to the beach, where she can chase moon shadows.

I head down to Polquidden. The bay is full. It’s high tide. An exceptionally high tide. It’s not due to turn until eleven tonight, but look how far it’s come up the beach already. It reminds me of the autumn equinox, when the water came up right over the slipway and the harbour road.