Helen Dunmore - Ingo

He’s there. I can see the back of his head poking out of the top of the duvet. He’s fast asleep.

I climb down the ladder, go to the bathroom and then pull on my jeans and a sweatshirt. If I’m quick, I’ll get the chance to talk to Mum before Conor wakes up. Maybe I’ll be able to tell her what happened yesterday – ask her what we can do—

But as soon as I see Mum, I know I can’t say anything about Conor and the sea and the girl, and why it frightens me. In the daytime world, none of it makes sense. Mum won’t understand why I’m scared.

“She’ll have been one of Conor’s friends from school,” Mum would say. “Conor can’t spend all his time with you, you know, Saph. He’s growing up.”

Mum’s busy, making coffee, ironing a dress for work, and finishing off peeling the potatoes, all at the same time. She’s got the radio on and she’s humming to a song called Happy Days , which is getting played about twice an hour this summer:

Happy days babe ,

I got them for you ,

The morning sunshine

The sweet dark too ,

Yeah the sweet dark too …

It’s the kind of song people Mum’s age love. Her face has gone soft and dreamy, listening to it. She lifts the iron and the steam sizzles, then she smiles at me.

“Hi, Mum. Wow, is that strawberry tart for us?”

Mum brings leftover stuff back from the restaurant sometimes. But this is something special. A big tart stuffed full of shiny ripe strawberries, glazed with jelly. There’s only a quarter taken out of it.

“Have a piece for breakfast if you like, Sapphy.”

For breakfast? I stare at Mum. There is something completely different about her this morning, but I can’t work out what it is. Quickly, before she changes her mind, I divide the strawberry tart into three pieces and take my own.

“Mm, s’dlishus, Mum.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” says Mum, sounding more like herself. But she still doesn’t look like herself. What’s going on?

And then I see what it is. The tight lines around Mum’s mouth have melted away. She’s wearing her favourite jeans and her pink top. She looks happy . I swallow the mouthful of tart and ask, “Did you get good tips last night, Mum?”

“Mm.” Mum shakes her work dress and puts it on a hanger. “All right. Nothing special.”

So it’s not that.

My heart leaps. Suddenly I know what it is. “Mum, is there news about Dad?”

Mum’s face changes. “Sapphire, if there was news about Dad, I’d tell you both straight away. I wouldn’t keep it from you. But there isn’t. And—”

“What, Mum?”

Mum’s face struggles. “Even if there was news – even if they found… something… it wouldn’t be good news. You know that, don’t you? That’s why we had the memorial service.”

“You mean you want me to forget about Dad.”

“No. I’d never, never ask you to do that. But you’re not a baby, Sapphy. You can’t keep on living in dreams. It’s not good for you, it’s holding you back.”

She starts ironing again, and the subject of Dad is closed. I wish I hadn’t said anything. The lines are back around Mum’s mouth. Quietly, I make myself a cup of tea and start on the washing-up from last night. After a while Mum says, “Guess who we had in the restaurant last night, Sapphy.”

“Um – dunno,” I say dully, but that doesn’t stop Mum.

“A party of divers. They’re exploring up this way, looking for wrecks. They might call in here at the weekend.”

“Oh.”

“You wouldn’t believe the number of wrecks there are that have never been explored.”

“I know. Dad told us about it. There’s—”

“Your father never went diving,” says Mum. “Now Roger – he’s one of the divers – he’s gone all over the world. He was telling me about it. They have sonar equipment and everything. He’s discovered wreck sites in the West Indies, and off the coast of Spain, and all over. He got interested when he was just a boy. He saw them raising this old Tudor ship called the Mary Rose , on TV, and they showed how the divers worked. That got him thinking. He made up his mind he was going to be a diver.” The iron hisses as Mum attacks one of Conor’s shirts. “He had ambition,” she goes on. “He knew what he wanted to do with his life. He didn’t mess around.”

“Dad didn’t mess around!”

Mum turns to me with the iron in her hand.

“I never said he did. I was talking about Roger . I wish you wouldn’t be so touchy, Sapphy. Anyway, Roger was telling me about how they’re planning to explore the coast down here, off the Bawns—”

“You didn’t tell him about our cove, did you, Mum?”

“For heaven’s sake, Sapphire, it’s not your own private cove. That’s a public footpath that goes down by there.”

“I know, but nobody ever uses it except us and people who live round here. Usually there’s no one down there except me and Conor.”

“That’s the whole trouble with this place,” mutters Mum, zizzing her iron down the seams. “Nobody does come. Well, they’re welcome to explore off the cove as far as I’m concerned, and they’re welcome here too. It’s good to see some different faces. I do wish you’d be more friendly, Sapphy. You’re like a – like a sea anemone. If anyone comes close, you shut yourself up tight.”

“That’s how sea anemones survive,” I point out.

“But you do it to me too, Sapphy, and I’m your mum. It’s got to be a habit, that’s what it is. We’re spoiled out here, seeing no one all day long unless we choose. If you lived in town you’d have to learn to get along with all sorts of people. Maybe that’d be a good thing. You can’t stay in a little world of your own choosing for ever—”

“Mum, we’re not moving!” I burst out. Conor and I have a secret fear that Mum plans to move us all into St Pirans, close to her work, so that she can keep an eye on us. She keeps saying how much we’d enjoy the surfing, and how many nice shops there are, and how good the school is.

“Who said anything about moving?” asks Mum in surprise. Or maybe she’s not really surprised. Maybe she’s preparing the way, so that the idea of moving becomes something familiar…

But we can’t move. What if Dad comes back and we’re not here?

“All that’s happening is Roger’s coming for Sunday dinner,” Mum goes on. “I’ve got my day off then. You’ll like him, Sapphy. He’s very nice.”

“Just him?”

“Well, just him this time,” says Mum, bending over the board and guiding the iron very carefully.

“I hope you told Roger about how much you love the sea,” I mutter, quietly enough that Mum won’t hear me. “Maybe you could even go out in his boat?”

The strawberry tart isn’t as good as I thought when I took the first bite. The strawberries are mushy and the pastry’s soft. In fact, it’s disgusting. That must be why they let Mum take it home. I slip the rest of my slice into the bin and cover it with potato peelings.

“My God, Sapphy,” says Mum, looking up and seeing my empty plate, “I hope you won’t stuff your food like that on Sunday.”

“Don’t worry, Mum, I’ll do my best to impress Roger ,” I say.

“Roger,” says a sleepy voice. “Who’s Roger?”

Conor appears, with his duvet wrapped round him.

“Conor, please don’t trail your duvet on the floor,” says Mum. “How many times have I told you? This kitchen floor gets covered in mud with the two of you traipsing in and out all day long. Sapphy, what time did you go to bed last night?”

“Um – about ten o’clock, wasn’t it, Conor?”