Hannah Emery - Secrets in the Shadows

She turned back to the room. ‘Yes, please,’ she answered quietly, her words flying out amongst the exotic colours.

Rose knew little about fortune tellers: she knew little about anything. She did not expect her life’s story to be told, or for Gypsy Sarah to smell of a strange combination of burning wood and lavender and raw meat, or for her hands to be grabbed and squeezed, or for Gypsy Sarah to cry out in a scratchy voice:

‘You must find the boy with purple eyes, for he will give you your life! He will give you a gift!’

‘A gift?’ Rose asked, intrigued and wide-eyed.

A gift, Rose thought as she carefully placed every coin of her holiday pocket money into Gypsy Sarah’s quivering hand, as she shuffled out of the shadows of the room and blinked in the bright sunlight, as she sneaked back to her place on the bench and sat as though she had never moved while her parents continued to talk to their friends, as she slept by the side of her snoring mother and father in Room 35 at The Fortuna Hotel.

Puppies and hair ribbons and books and dolls filled Rose’s mind each time she thought of Gypsy Sarah and the boy with the purple eyes. For what else, to an eleven-year-old girl, could a gift mean?

Rose thought of the boy with the purple eyes as she was swept along the crammed promenade, as she ran her hands through the gritty beige sand on the beach, as she sat up straight in the hotel restaurant. She looked into the eyes of the boy who helped the man holding the donkeys, of the boy selling oysters in the little white hut, of the boy who was staying in the room next door at The Fortuna Hotel. But she saw no purple eyes.

On Saturday, Rose bathed in the sea as her parents snoozed on the sand. She paddled at the water’s edge for some time, and then walked out until the water reached her shoulders. Although Rose wasn’t a very good swimmer, she managed to propel herself a little by kicking her legs haphazardly and waving her arms against the cool waves. The water was calm and lulled her gently out to sea. The swarms of people bathing and splashing and shouting became more diluted as Rose moved away from the water’s edge. The silver water blurred around her.

And then, everything shot into a burst of magnificent colour.

He was swimming towards her, shooting through the water like a fish. His eyes were not the purple that Rose had imagined. They weren’t a pale, striking lilac as she had thought they would be, but a deep, velvet violet. When he smiled at Rose, she began to tremble and lost her momentum beneath the water. She fumbled, her legs kicking wildly, bitter salt flying into her mouth and making her want to spit and cry out.

‘Well! What’s the matter with you?’ the boy giggled, treading water expertly. His voice was a twinkling bell, light with laughter.

Rose frowned. ‘Nothing’s the matter, you just frightened me.’

The boy held out his hand, which was brown, and shiny with water. Rose took it, and they moved towards the shore. She continued to kick and the boy pulled her along, so that she moved almost gracefully through the waves.

‘What’s your name?’ the boy asked as they felt sculpted sand appear beneath their feet.

‘Rose. What’s yours?’

The boy laughed again, his dark face screwing up in pleasure. ‘I’m not going to tell you.’ He stuck out his tongue, then smiled. His teeth, although crooked, looked white against his skin. He rubbed his black hair from his face as they walked away from the water.

Rose stiffened, and wished that she hadn’t told the boy her name. She felt hard little goosebumps prickle her skin as the sea breeze washed over her, and wondered again what her gift from him might be.

‘What are you doing tomorrow afternoon, Rose? I have something exciting planned,’ the boy said, wiping his nose with his hand and leaving behind a streak of water on his cheek.

‘I’m—’ Rose squinted over to where her parents lay on the sand. Tomorrow was their last day: their train home was at 6.30 tomorrow evening. She thought about how long and bleak the day would seem, knowing that it was their last. ‘I’m not doing anything, really. But we have a train home to catch tomorrow evening, so my parents might want me to stay with them all day.’

‘Stay with them all day? But you’re not a baby,’ the boy, who didn’t look much older than Rose, said.

Rose puffed out her shiny wet chest. ‘No, I’m not. What have you got planned?’

The boy shrugged and moved closer to Rose conspiratorially. ‘I’m going to sneak into the Pavilion. You should come.’

‘On the North Pier? But won’t it be closed in the afternoon?’

‘Yes, that’s why I have to sneak in. If I manage it, we’ll have it to ourselves.’

Rose frowned as she thought about this strange boy’s plan. She had watched a concert in the Indian Pavilion on the North Pier a few nights before with her parents. It was a beautiful, exotic hall full of blue and green and red decorations that reminded Rose of other worlds, ones she would probably never even see. The Pavilion had been filled with people and perfume and hats and music when Rose had visited. She imagined being there when it was still and quiet, and a delicious shiver coursed through her body.

‘I’ll come. Where shall I meet you?’

The boy leapt with joy, high into the air, and Rose smiled, glad that she had made him happy.

‘I’ll meet you on the pier at 4 o’clock. Outside the sweet kiosk. We’ll take some fudge in with us.’

Rose nodded, wondering what she could tell her parents, and thinking that she had perhaps made a terrible mistake, but before she could change her mind, the boy with the purple eyes had shot off through the crowds.

At 3.30 on Sunday, Rose’s mother was folding clothes very carefully back into the suitcase, and Rose’s father was sitting in the hotel lounge reading his newspaper. Rose sat on the bed, swinging her legs forwards and backwards. She stood up, then sat down again. The boy with the purple eyes would be expecting her soon. Rose didn’t want to let him down, and she didn’t want to get the train back home to Yorkshire’s black streets without her gift.

‘Mummy?’ she said after a little while, her legs kicking furiously against the bed. She had practised her speech in her head over a hundred times in bed last night, but now that she had to say it, she didn’t feel very confident.

‘Yes, Rose?’ her mother replied, as she held up a stained blouse to the light and shook her head.

‘I made a friend yesterday. And I’d like to see him again before we leave. He has something for me.’

‘I see. I wonder if this is vinegar?’ Rose’s mother lay the blouse on the bed and scratched at the stain gently with her rounded fingernail. ‘I don’t remember spilling anything.’

‘So, can I visit my friend?’

Rose’s mother turned, distracted from the blouse for a moment. ‘He’s staying here, is he?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Rose remembered the boy’s tough skin and long hair, and doubted that he was staying anywhere like The Fortuna.

‘Ah!’ her mother said, her eyes suddenly becoming wide. ‘I remember! It’s a wine stain! My glass was a little too full and I spilt some. Well, that should wash out without too much of a problem.’

‘Mummy?’

‘Well, that is a relief. This was new for the holiday. Yes, Rose?’

‘Can I go and see him? Quickly?’

Rose’s mother folded the blouse, and placed it in the case. ‘Yes, yes. But be quick.’

Rose sped out of the huge front of the Fortuna Hotel, clattering down the wide steps and tearing along the promenade towards the North Pier. She wound in and out of jostling bodies, past the refreshment rooms and the portrait studios. When she reached the end of the pier, she saw the pink and blue sign hanging above Seaton’s sweet kiosk. There were two girls who looked about Rose’s age waiting to be served, and Rose hung back, feeling as though she didn’t want anybody to see her. She watched the girls take their paper bags from the man in the stall, and then looked around her. Everybody seemed to be in a group, bouncing from one person to the next, and Rose suddenly felt very alone.