Cicada Summer (13 page)

‘Okay,’ said Eloise after a minute. ‘This is what happened. I don’t know how, but I think I went back in time.’ She shot a look at Tommy, but his face was still, listening politely. ‘I went back into the past to when the house was new, and I made friends with a girl called Anna. And . . .’ She took a deep breath. ‘Anna was my mother, when she was a little girl. She died two years ago,’ whispered Eloise. ‘But in the house, she was alive. We were friends. We did stuff together. She was a little girl.’

For a moment Tommy didn’t say anything. Then he said carefully, ‘Are you sure the little girl was your mum, Eloise? Because Mo is your dad’s mother, right? And it was Mo’s house.
Her
family lived there.’

Eloise stared at the chessboard.

‘It was your dad who grew up in Turner, wasn’t it? But he didn’t live in the big house either. He lived next door, here, with Mo.’

‘But Anna,’ faltered Eloise. ‘I met her. She was a little girl. I went into her time.’ But even as she spoke, she knew that Tommy was right. Her other grandparents had come from Hobart. Mum was from Hobart. Not Turner. Her throat thickened so that she could hardly swallow. She choked out, ‘You must think I’m so dumb.’

‘Hey,’ said Tommy. ‘You think that’s dumb, you should try falling into an empty swimming pool.’

‘But . . . she
was
called Anna. And I
did
go back in time, I must have. The house was all different and there were people living there. And the garden . . . We painted pictures in the summerhouse, and the pool was full of water, we swam in it. I saw it; I did, lots of times!’ Eloise angrily dashed tears from her cheeks.

‘Maybe it was a different Anna,’ suggested Tommy. ‘Not your mum, another Anna. Was there someone called Anna in Mo’s family maybe?’

‘But she
looked
like me!’ insisted Eloise. ‘I always looked like Mum, the only bit of me that looks like Dad’s family is my stupid hair! And then when I went to find her yesterday, it was all different. It was all gone. The house was gone. Everything was ruined . . . Maybe I’ll never find her again . . .’

Tommy’s eyes widened, and he sat bolt upright. ‘I got it.’

‘Got what?’

‘You got a pen? I’ll show you. Never mind, there’s one here somewhere.’ Tommy scrabbled around under the coffee table with his good arm and surfaced with a pen and the back of an envelope. ‘Look, look. You say you went into the past, right?’

‘Right . . .’

‘Okay, well, just suppose you did travel in time, but you went the
other way
? What if you didn’t go back? What if you went
forward
?’ Tommy drew emphatic arrows on the envelope.

Eloise stared. ‘You mean . . . into the future?’

‘Yeah, into the future.’

‘But the house was all new. There were builders there and fresh paint, and the garden was all neat and tidy . . .’

‘Were the plants small or fully grown?’

‘Well . . . they were tall.’

‘The builders, the painters and that, they were fixing the place up!’ said Tommy excitedly. ‘Not building it, they were fixing it up again, see? But when you went yesterday to find her, this Anna girl and everything was all gone?’

Eloise nodded.

Tommy tapped the envelope. ‘So what happened yesterday to
change the future
?’

‘Dad,’ whispered Eloise. ‘Dad and Lorelei. They’re going to knock the house down.’

‘So when you went into the future last night, you went into a
different
future,’ said Tommy triumphantly. He scribbled wildly on the envelope and thrust it at Eloise. All she could see were arrows, looped and branching, tangled ribbons. ‘It’s an alternative reality, see?’

Eloise looked at him blankly.

‘Okay,’ said Tommy patiently. ‘Maybe it’s like this. Maybe time is like a piece of string. But instead of being in a straight line, the string’s got looped; it’s crossing over itself. So when you travel in time, it’s the place where the string crosses itself, get it? Where the two points on the string touch.’

‘Ye-es,’ said Eloise uncertainly.

‘So yesterday, it was like the string frayed into two threads. What was the plan before your dad decided to knock the house down?’

‘We were going to live there. He was going to turn it into a hotel or something.’

‘Well, that’s one thread. Down that thread the house is a hotel or whatever. You live there and sometime Anna gets born, so she’s there when you meet her in the future. But down the
other
thread there’s no house, no hotel and you move away. There’s no Anna – she never gets born. You get it?’

‘Um,’ said Eloise, feeling slightly dizzy. ‘But then – if Anna’s not my mum . . .’ She swallowed. ‘If she’s in the future, who is she? Do you think she might be . . . She might be my daughter.’

Tommy sucked in his breath. ‘Wow.
Freaky
.’

‘So, that would mean Anna’s father was my . . .’ Eloise went pink and changed the subject. ‘So you
do
believe that I switched times?’

‘I’m not saying I
believe
it.’ Tommy frowned. ‘It’s just a hypothesis, right? A theory. It might be true, it might not. But, you know, scientists talk about time travel and wormholes, cuts in the fabric of the universe, alternative worlds, stuff like that. Hey,’ he looked up at her suddenly. ‘Did you ever see Anna’s mum? Did you see if she was you?’

‘No. She was away. Anna was really missing her.’

‘Well, she got to see you anyway, didn’t she? That’s freaky. It’s as if she was calling you and you came.’

But Eloise was thinking about something else. ‘But what’s
happened
to Anna? Where’s she gone?’

Tommy shrugged. ‘Gone. Unless you can get the alternative reality back.’

‘But how can I do that?’

Tommy looked at her as if she were an idiot. ‘That’s easy. You’ve just got to stop your dad knocking the house down.’

Eloise stared at him for a minute, and then she jumped up. The chessboard crashed to the ground and Tommy started to pick up the pieces.

‘Don’t worry about that!’ cried Eloise. ‘Quick! We have to talk to Mo.’

16

T
hey found Dad in the dining room, gloomily typing an apology to Lorelei Swan on his laptop.

‘Never been any good at grovelling,’ he said without looking up. ‘You’re a writer, Mo, want to give me a hand?’

‘I have better uses for my talents,’ said Mo. She pulled out a chair across the table, sat down and folded her hands in front of her. Eloise sat down beside Dad. They both stared at him intently until he looked up.

‘Hello!’ He gave an uneasy laugh. ‘What’s all this?’

‘A business proposal,’ said Eloise.

Dad laughed and ruffled her hair. ‘Taking after the old man, are you? I hope you have better luck than I’ve had.’

‘We’re serious, Stephen,’ said Mo crossly. ‘Be quiet for once in your life and listen.’ She looked at Eloise. ‘Go on.’

Eloise took a deep breath. ‘Dad.’

‘Yes, Ella Fitz— Yes, Eloise?’

‘You don’t
have
to knock down the house, do you?’

‘I meant what I said about the National Trust,’ warned Mo. ‘You demolish that house over my dead body.’

‘Won’t have to wait long then, will I?’

‘Very amusing.’

‘But come on, what else can I do with the place? I can’t convert it to a hotel, it’d cost a fortune. And Lorelei won’t fund it. She wants something new.’

‘Let’s put Lorelei to one side for the moment,’ said Mo. ‘Eloise has an idea.’

Eloise knew she had to get this right. Their whole lives, Anna’s very existence, depended on it. She clasped her hands together and tried to keep her voice steady. ‘I heard about this artist place. Where artists and writers and musicians can go to stay and work.’

Dad looked startled. ‘You mean an artists’ retreat.’

‘Where
did
you hear about that, Eloise?’ asked Mo, with genuine curiosity.

‘Um, on TV. But I thought . . . couldn’t you make the house into one of those?’

Dad rubbed his chin. ‘I don’t know . . .’

‘Artists might not mind things being a bit rough around the edges,’ put in Mo. ‘Sharing bathrooms and so on.’

‘As long as it was peaceful, and they could get on with their work,’ said Eloise.

‘Plenty of room, decent food,’ said Mo. ‘They’d like a bit of character to the place, all the old fittings. Adds to the charm.’

‘It’s not such a bad idea,’ admitted Dad. ‘Wouldn’t be able to charge as much money, mind you, but the overheads would be lower . . .’ Then he shook his head regretfully. ‘Lorelei would never go for it.’

‘Is money all you ever think about?’ said Mo.

‘No,’ said Dad. ‘But I do
have
to think about it. I’ve got a daughter to provide for, you know.’

‘I’m okay, Dad,’ said Eloise. ‘As long as I’ve got pencils and paper and paint, I’m happy. And a pool,’ she added.

‘If it would help,’ said Mo, ‘I could sell this place.’

Dad stared. ‘Are you serious? But where would you live?’

‘She’d move in with us, of course,’ said Eloise happily. ‘In the big house.’

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ said Mo. ‘You’ll need help running the place if this scheme’s going to work, and you won’t have to pay me.
And
I’m a writer. Aren’t you going to have writers there? Maybe a change of scene is just what I need to get my damn book finished. I’m sick to death of it, to tell you the truth. And you can’t organise your way out of a paper bag, you’ll need me. You can do the talking part, that’s what you’re good at, and I can run the office, do the accounts and so on. Like I used to do for your father. Wouldn’t mind doing that again.’

‘Mo . . . I don’t know what to say.’

‘Just say you’ll do it. I dare say I can even find you some clients. Lots of my friends are artists and writers and that sort.’

‘But Mo,’ said Eloise hesitantly, ‘I didn’t think you . . .’

‘You didn’t think I had any friends?’ Mo sniffed. ‘What an old-fashioned child you are. I’ve got hundred of friends
online
. Ever heard of blogs and chat rooms? You don’t think I spend all day slaving away at
A Brief History of Sea Voyages
, do you? A girl’s got to have some fun.’

‘Blow me down,’ said Dad blankly, then he jumped up and began to pace. ‘Basic structure’s pretty sound, just a few repairs – painting, obviously – maybe six rooms upstairs? Self-contained cabins in the grounds. All eco-friendly of course. Have to look into digging for bore water.’ He stopped suddenly and shook his head. ‘You really think we can do this?’

‘I know we can,’ cried Eloise. She snatched up the picture of the house she’d drawn for Dad and pushed it toward him. ‘Look! See how lovely it can be.’

Dad took the drawing and stared at it. ‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘Maybe you’re right . . .’ A dreamy look came over his face, a look that Eloise had seen many times before, as if he were peering into the future, as if he could see the writers and musicians and artists moving across the terrace, waving at him from the windows.

‘No one has conventions any more,’ said Mo. Eloise thought she looked crafty. ‘That’s all old hat. It’s all videoconferencing these days. No, no, you need to focus on the creative industries. They always do well when the economy gets a bit shaky.’

‘Hm,’ said Dad. ‘I guess so . . .’

Suddenly his phone began to buzz, and they all jumped. Dad flipped it open.

‘Ah, Lorelei,’ he said. ‘I was going to call you.’

Eloise and Mo looked at each other. The insect whine of Lorelei’s voice hummed from the phone.

‘Yes,’ said Dad. ‘Yes, but . . . the thing is, Lorelei, there’s been a change of plan. Mo and Eloise have come up with a new scheme – an artists’ retreat.’

There was an explosion at the other end of the phone.

‘Really?’ said Dad. ‘I thought it was a pretty good idea, myself . . . Oh? You need to be flexible, Lorelei. Go with the flow . . . Mm, it’s a shame you feel like that. But actually, I don’t think we’re going to need your money after all . . .’ He winked at Eloise and Mo and kept talking. ‘Have to run the figures, but factoring out the projected construction costs . . .’

Mo stood up and laid a hand on Eloise’s shoulder. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s leave him to it. You can give me a hand with dinner.’

17

I
t was a couple of weeks before Mo felt ready to walk to the big house, with Tommy on one side and Eloise on the other. Dad was going to pick them up later, so they only had to walk one way.

Eloise had been back to the house with Dad, helping him to measure and take photos and make plans. But she hadn’t been there alone, so there’d been no chance to try to slip through into the other time. Eloise wondered if she could go through, even if she tried, and wondered what would be waiting if she did.

They walked very slowly through the empty back streets. Mo couldn’t face the main road yet. But Tommy’s father said it probably wouldn’t be long. Three times a week he and Mo sat out in the garden and talked about things. ‘Clever man, your father,’ Mo told Tommy. ‘I always said so.’ And Eloise had started talking to him too, once a week, and even Dad had said he’d think about it.

But today none of them talked much as they walked along through the summer morning, under the high blue sky.

At last they arrived at the sagging gates and the tunnel of pines. When the house came into view, Mo stopped in the middle of the driveway and peered ahead, fanning herself with her battered straw hat.

‘Gloomy old pile, isn’t it,’ she said. ‘I’d forgotten how depressing it is. No wonder I ran away from it. Maybe this artists’ colony-retreat-whatsit isn’t such a good idea after all.’

‘No!’ cried Eloise. ‘It’s not depressing! It looks sad now, but when it’s fixed up, and the garden’s full of flowers, and those big windows are all clean, it’s lovely. It
will
be lovely, I mean,’ she corrected herself hastily. ‘You’ll see.’ She adjusted her sunhat and said softly, ‘I just wish Mum could see it. She would have loved it here.’

Mo glanced down at Eloise. ‘She did see it, you know. She came here with your father, years ago, before you were born. She said it was a beautiful old house.’ Mo squeezed Eloise’s shoulder. ‘You’re right, she would have loved it.’