Bringing the Summer (5 page)

About three conversations are happening at the same time, one about books, one about cows, and the other about babies, as far as I can tell because I'm hardly following any of them, just lapping up the warm feeling of being included in this relaxed, open family, and feeling sleepy, now, because it's already late, and I've eaten too much.

Maddie pushes back her chair. She wipes her hair from her face with the back of one hand. Her hair has dried to a dark, wavy mass over her shoulders. She's changed into a white embroidered top and linen trousers. She looks far too young to have two such grown-up daughters. Nick's a lot older than her, his messy dark hair streaked with grey. He's tall, solid; comfortable-looking in a soft blue cotton shirt and faded jeans.

‘Pudding, everyone?' Maddie says. She starts clearing the plates, and Laura and Tom get up to help.

I feel I should do something too. I look at Maddie and she smiles back. ‘Would you get the cream from the fridge, Freya? Thanks.'

I help carry the dirty plates and serving bowls over to the sink. I open the fridge to find the cream.

‘Plum crumble, with Victoria plums from our orchard,' Maddie announces as she puts the big bowl in the middle of the table. ‘And fresh raspberries. You might need to pick them over. The late-fruiting ones get little worms inside, sometimes.'

‘Extra protein,' Nick says. ‘All the worms eat is raspberry, so it doesn't matter if you eat them.'

Gabes laughs. He's seen my face. ‘Just have the plum crumble, Freya, then you'll be safe.'

‘How's the book coming on, Maddie?' Laura asks.

‘Slowly. Just started chapter six.' She sighs. ‘There's never enough time. I should be sitting down to it every morning, soon as you lot have gone off.'

‘You should stop doing the garden,' Beth says. ‘Think of all the extra hours that would give you for writing.'

‘The garden is my lifeline,' Maddie says. ‘It's the one thing I do that keeps me sane. And anyway, what would we eat?'

‘Food from supermarkets, like normal people,' Kit says. ‘Can I go, now? I don't want pudding.'

‘At this hour? Where?'

‘A party,' Kit says.

‘And how are you proposing to get there? And back?'

‘I've got a lift, if I go now. Alex's mum.' He leaves the table, and no one stops him.

Maddie and Beth are already deep in a discussion about some children's book about an elephant and a baby. I half listen. A wail starts up from upstairs, and Beth gets up to go and sort out the crying child, and Laura and Tom get up to make coffee and little by little the table empties, as people take drinks and coffees into the sitting room, until finally just Gabes and I are left.

‘Well,' he says, when he's finished stacking plates and bowls and cups into the dishwasher. ‘You've met almost everyone, now. The big happy family.'

‘I loved it,' I say. ‘Thank you.'

Gabes rinses the pans and leaves them to drain. I watch him moving around the kitchen, methodically clearing up. He does it as if it's a perfectly normal thing for him to do.

‘What time do you have to get home?' he says as he dries his hands.

‘Eleven, at the latest. How shall I get back though?'

‘I'll take you.'

‘I thought you'd run out of petrol?'

‘Dad'll have some, in the garage.' He comes over and stands behind my chair. He rests his hands for a second on the chair back, right up close to my shoulders.

I shiver.

‘Come and see the rest of the house, first,' Gabes says.

He takes my hand, and I follow him, heart thumping, trying to take in the stone-flagged floor and the oak staircase and the creaky wooden boards on the landing that he presents me with, as if he is giving me a guided tour at a stately home. We pass three closed bedroom doors, and then go down one step.

‘Mind your head,' he says, ducking under a beam and through a low doorway. ‘People used to be smaller, in olden times.'

But I don't need to duck.

‘And this is my room.'

It's small with white walls. A square window with a deep stone sill is set into the wall under the roof at one end. There's a single bed with a red cover, and a red and gold wool rug on the floor, bookshelves and a dark wooden desk and chair. A tabby cat curled at the foot of the bed lifts its head and stares, blinking, as Gabes switches on the light.

The cat purrs as I smooth her head. She pushes her paws at the bedcover, flexing her claws. Gabes leans over and strokes along her spine, and the cat turns to let him stroke her belly.

He lies back against the pillow and watches me. I'm still sitting at the foot of the bed, with the cat.

‘You could stay over, if you wanted,' he says. ‘There's plenty of spare beds. Then tomorrow I could show you the other cool places round here. The orchard, and the stream. There's a place we go swimming.'

I flush. ‘No, I said I'd be back. My parents . . .'

‘Another time, then. Come for the whole weekend.'

I hear voices, laughter, as people come upstairs – Laura and Tom, I think. No one seems bothered that I'm here. I'm just accepted: Gabes' friend Freya.

‘What sort of books does your mother write?' I ask him.

‘Novels. Short stories.' He stretches across to the bookshelves and pulls out a book with a dark green cover and the title
What We Love
in white lettering, and her name:
Madeleine Fielding
.

‘What's it about?'

‘No idea. Haven't read it.' He laughs.

 

All the way home on the bike, I sit pressed close to his back, my arms tight round his waist. It's much colder now that it is dark, and damp under the trees. The sound of the stream is louder than I remember on the way here. The beam of the headlight seems to fade into the dark too quickly. We don't pass a single car until we get to the first main road, and then there are orange streetlights, and people staggering home, and it's a different kind of journey altogether.

He drops me at the top of my road, in case my parents are looking out of the window: there's no way I'm letting them see me on the back of the bike!

‘I'll see you Monday, then.'

‘Yes. Thanks for the lift, and everything.' I hand him back the helmet and he straps it behind his seat.

‘We could go for coffee,' he says. ‘After college next week.'

‘Yes. Great.'

I almost run down the hill, my heart singing. This is the beginning of my new life at last.

Eight

‘Freya?' Mum calls down the stairs, the minute I get into the hall. ‘Everything OK?'

‘Yes. All good,' I call back. I wait for her to get into bed again, before I go through to the kitchen and sit down. I don't want to have to talk to anyone. I want to savour my whole evening.

Our kitchen looks stark, overly neat and clean and organised, compared to where I've just come from. Dad being an architect, he's got strong views on how things should look. He likes functional, clean design: straight lines, no clutter. Since Joe's death, Mum seems to spend many more hours each day cleaning and tidying and sorting, to stop her sitting and thinking too much. Being active keeps the feelings at bay, she says. It's what swimming does for me. I swim every day during the summer holidays when I'm on St Ailla.

My clothes are still damp from the ride home. My reflection in the kitchen window shows messy hair curling round my face and over my shoulders, and I smile. I don't belong in this too neat, too perfect house. I'm a changeling child, and my real family are somewhere else . . .

A quick rush of guilt comes over me. I stand at the window, staring into the blank darkness outside. I think of the train accident girl,
Bridie
. I meant to ask Gabes more about her, and I completely forgot. Next time. I fill a glass with cold water from the jug in the fridge, and sip at it as I go upstairs to bed. I lie on my back for ages, my head whirling.

When I close my eyes, I can see green leaves, and golden evening sunlight, and the swoop and curve of swallows, diving for flies.

 

‘Phone, Freya!' Mum's yelling up the stairs.

I've only just woken up. I can hear her talking to whoever it is, while she waits for me to come down. Someone she knows. Or she's being embarrassingly chatty to one of my friends. But who would use the house phone?

‘Danny,' she says, when I reach the bottom stair. She passes me the phone.

‘Hi, Danny,' I say, cautiously.

‘You haven't been answering texts or emails.' Danny launches straight in. ‘So I thought I'd phone your house. About you maybe coming up to London next weekend?' His voice goes up at the end, like a question.

‘It's nine thirty on a Sunday morning, Danny!'

‘Is it? Sorry. Did I wake you?'

‘Never mind that now.' I sigh. ‘The thing is, Danny, I've got way too much college work at the moment. I've got a huge Art project, and coursework for Biology and English . . .'
And there's Gabes
. . . But I don't say that to Danny.

The first summer I went back to St Ailla after Joe died, Danny was amazing. Bit by bit, I told him everything. He was the first person who really listened to what it was like for me, losing Joe. It was Danny's first visit to the island: I showed him round; shared all the special places with him. I taught him how to snorkel; introduced him to all my other friends. We stayed in touch between summers: emails, the odd phone call, but that's all. And then this summer, the weather messed up everything.

The things we do together are all connected with being on the island: swimming and snorkelling; evening games of football on the field above Periglis with everyone from the campsite . . . parties on the beach round a fire . . . It's hard to imagine what it would be like to see him in London.

‘You've gone very quiet,' Danny says.

‘Sorry. I was thinking.'

‘And?'

‘Maybe I could come to London later on, when I haven't got so much work. You must have loads too. The Christmas holidays, perhaps?'

Danny sighs.

‘Danny?'

‘It doesn't matter,' Danny says. ‘I guess you're too busy with all your new college friends, now.' He sounds hurt. ‘So I'll see you some time. Around. Whatever.' And before I can say anything he puts the phone down on me.

Mum's hovering. Because of the open-plan layout, there's no privacy downstairs. ‘Such a lovely boy!' she says. ‘I know Evie's very fond of him. Are you going to meet up with him?'

‘No.' I
so
do not want to talk about Danny with Mum. I go over to the window and stare at the sunny garden with my back to her.

She takes the hint. ‘I've made coffee, if you want some. And how about an egg? Toast?'

‘Just coffee. I'm still full from last night.'

‘Did you have a good time?'

‘Yes.'

‘You were very late back.'

‘Mum!'

‘I know, but you're only sixteen, still.'

‘It was Saturday night!'

‘So, what are your plans for today?'

‘I've got college work, then I'm meeting Miranda.'

We take our coffees out into the garden. Dad's away, on a work thing, so it's just the two of us. Mum talks on and on about what she's planning to plant next, and I drift off, not really listening, because there's nothing I can say but yes, and good, and well done, Mum. But I'm glad it makes her happy. I peel back my top, to let the sun get to my shoulders.

 

Miranda's waiting for me at the bridge over the river, at the start of the track leading up to the canal. I'm already sweaty from cycling from our house; she looks perfectly cool and collected.

‘How was it? Your evening with Gabes.' She hugs me.

‘Amazing!'

‘Tell me everything!'

We cycle single file up the footpath to keep clear of the overgrown stinging nettles either side, but once we're up on the flat towpath there's room for us to cycle side by side and it's easier to talk.

‘He lives in this ancient house, in the middle of the countryside. He's got a huge family, and his mum and dad are really cool and relaxed about everything. We all had supper together.'

Miranda pulls a face. ‘It doesn't sound much like a proper date, though. I mean, a family meal! Freya! Why didn't you two go off somewhere, together?'

‘It was fine. Honestly. I wanted to meet them all, that was the whole point, because we'd been talking about families. That's all. It's no big deal, Miranda.' I swerve to avoid an overhanging bramble. A baby rabbit shoots back from the grassy verge into the undergrowth. All summer you see them, nibbling at the grass beside the towpath, and as the summer wears on they get fewer and fewer, as they meet their untimely deaths: foxes, or bikes . . .