The Summer of Secrets (13 page)

The sun itself felt stale, its tricks exhausted. She tried to relax, to let her mind float away, but she couldn’t find a comfortable position, and there were ants and tickling grass. The sound of an engine trickled through the air and she sat up to listen, waiting for it to turn down the lane and bump over the track in the field, but it faded away. She gave up on the garden and wandered inside, flicking the television on and then off. Nothing. In her bedroom, the curtains were drawn and the air was fusty. How long had it been since her bed had been changed? Doing anything about it was too much effort, though. Finding sheets, tucking in corners … She pushed the idea away, and sat at her desk, pushing over the pile of books that waited on its otherwise clear surface. What if they didn’t come back? They’d arrived so suddenly. What was there to stop them leaving in the same way?

The wall in front of her was covered in rosebuds, tight and complacent on their white background. They wobbled, vibrating slightly as if to say they’d warned her nothing good would come of having friends like the Dovers. She’d always hated those rosebuds, she realized, sitting in the background with their endless conformity and pink smugness. There was a zipped-up case of felt-tips in the desk drawer. She started off with black. The first rosebud disappeared behind a neat, black circle. As she went along, changing colour at random, the circles grew bigger and the colouring-in less exact. When the whole area in front of her was complete, she drew a breath. It was a start.

She was in the kitchen when she heard Mick’s car. As she waited for him to reach the door, she felt herself tense, picking up something, either anger or frustration. There was a feeling of excess in the air, something she hadn’t been aware of since Piet had started working on the boat with him. Had he noticed Piet’s absence as well? It was a different emotion, though, that pushed in with him.

‘Get some newspaper on the table quick, before I drop it!’ Her dad had the door open and was coming in backwards. She automatically went to close it behind him, her hands trembling with reaction. ‘Newspaper, girl, hurry!’

The surfaces were all clear for a change.

‘I don’t …’

‘Box, cupboard, open your eyes!’

His voice was impatient. There was newspaper in the box, but it was covered in a layer of slimy potato peelings and tea leaves.

‘This is the compost …’

‘I don’t bloody care if it’s the crown bloody jewels, get it on the table.’

With the extreme ends of her fingertips, Helen shook loose the lower sections and spread them out, and he dropped his armload with a grunt and a thud.

‘How about that, then?’

It was a propeller that must have been underwater for a long time. The flaring edges of the blades were thickened with what appeared to be shellfish, and the rank smell of water and weed hung over the tabletop.

‘It looks … old.’

‘Quality engineering, this.’ Mick ran a palm along the length of the shaft. ‘Needs a bit of work to get it back into condition, that’s all. Nothing that can’t be fixed.’

‘Where did you get it from?’

‘I told you about the shrimpers, didn’t I? Saw it the other week, but they had someone else interested. Fell through, though.’

‘Are you planning to work on it in here?’ It was as if her mother were in the room. She fished around for a palliative. ‘Because I could find you some more newspaper.’

He wasn’t listening anyway. ‘I’ll take it through to the garage.’ He heaved the propeller up from the table and gestured with his head for her to open the door. ‘Bring me out a sandwich, will you?’

Helen held the door wide, making sure she was out of range as he sidled through.

‘Will cheese and pickle be OK?’

‘Yes, fine, anything.’ He crossed the path to the side door of the garage and stopped. Belatedly realizing he was waiting for her, Helen ran to open it for him. As she went back to the house, he called something after her.

‘What was that?’

‘That youngster was round earlier.’ His voice sounded impatient. ‘Her and another one.’

‘Who was it with her?’ Not Moira, she thought. Please not Moira. She gripped the door handle, willing him to make the right answer.

Mick’s reply was muffled.

‘What was that?’

There was a heavy thump from the garage, and Mick’s head came back out.

‘Don’t go setting me up as your social bloody secretary.’ He was cleaning grease from his hands with what looked like one of her mother’s old blouses. ‘Go and find her yourself.’

Victoria was sitting on the canal bank, throwing stones across the water, as if she’d never been gone. She was wearing her tie-dyed sundress as well, the one she’d worn on the first day. It was an omen, a good one, but Helen paused, trying to hold down the bubbles of hope saying everything could go back to normal. A pair of seagulls swooped down, screeching in their oddly seaside way, and the noise sent her onward.

‘Hey, what’re you doing?’ She’d already decided not to ask where they’d been. Much better to pretend not to have noticed.

Victoria skimmed another stone out with a practised flick of her wrist. It bounced four times before sinking below the surface, and she scooped up the rest of her pile in one hand, throwing them out in a wide arc.

‘Nothing.’ Victoria stood up, reaching her arms over her head and leaning back into the stretch. ‘I’m so bored.’

Did that mean Moira had already left? Helen waited for Victoria to say something about her, but she remained silent, her face turned to the water, her expression dissatisfied and closed off. Helen had an unsettling thought: what if Seth had gone somewhere with Moira? She could imagine the conversation only too well: the dropping of a remark about a place to visit, a shared interest, then rucksacks packed and buses taken. Victoria would be angry at being left behind. Or perhaps the empty day could be explained by a trip to a port, the waving off of the ferry. Had there been enough time? Helen tried to remember where the ports were. Liverpool? And wasn’t there one in Wales? At the back of her mind was the dull weight of never seeing Seth again. She tried to think of ways to ask without giving herself away, but whatever she came up with seemed to have a big red flag waving her intentions. The silence stretched out, and she heard herself babbling.

‘Dad got a propeller for the boat. They’ll have it all done soon and we can go sailing.’

Victoria’s face turned, her expression briefly engaged. ‘Will he let us take it out?’

Helen felt the tangles of opposing loyalties grab at her again. Could she say yes? She pictured her dad’s face, heard the lengthy reasons why he would never agree.

‘I doubt it, not by ourselves.’

‘A lot of fun that’ll be.’ Victoria scratched at her ankle. ‘We need a boat of our own.’

‘What about the dinghy?’

‘Still needs fixing.’

Victoria tossed another stone before making an abrupt turn. After a moment, Helen followed her under the bridge. There was a small ledge on the inside and, if they sat down, they could edge along sideways into the shadows. Victoria scooped up some more stones and started to throw them at a patch of hanging moss where the bridge curved down on the opposite side.

‘Where does it go, anyway?’

‘The canal?’ Helen slid her thumbnail under a bloom of lichen. ‘Along there,’ she nodded to the right, ‘it takes you to Liverpool. And the other way is Leeds.’

‘How come you don’t know more about it? I mean, how long have you lived here for?’

Helen shrugged. ‘Took it for granted, I suppose.’

‘But you must have wondered?’

‘No.’

Victoria made a disapproving teacher’s face. ‘What’s the good of an expensive education if you don’t think?’

‘It was a comprehensive!’ Helen gave her a shove, forgetting their precarious position. Victoria grabbed at her in mock terror before speaking again.

‘Shall I tell you what I know?’

‘Can I stop you?’

Victoria started to shuffle along to the far side of the bridge. She waited for Helen to catch up, then led the way around the wall to clamber up on to the bridge itself. At the top she stopped, and swung herself up to sit on the rough stonework, her legs hanging down above the water. Helen leaned out. It wasn’t particularly high, but even so, the drop made her stomach clench.

‘So.’ Victoria pointed back over her shoulder. ‘Down there is Liverpool, but when you get there you’re stuck in a dock. This way,’ she pointed ahead, ‘goes, as you said, to Leeds, which means, technically, you can sail from the sea on one side of the country to the sea on the other.’

And reach ports and ferries. Helen couldn’t bring herself to ask. Instead she fell in with Victoria’s mock solemnity. ‘Very handy, if you don’t have a car. And why did you ask me if you already knew?’

Victoria held a finger to her lips. ‘I haven’t finished. A short distance along, there’s a branch that connects with the Ribble and therefore with the sea. Which makes the sea, quite literally, within our reach.’ She swung her legs back over the wall and jumped lightly on to the road. ‘Which Uncle Piet says would be foolhardy in our dinghy, especially if we can’t fix it. But your dad’s boat …’

‘You’ll have trouble convincing him.’

‘We’ll see.’ Victoria ran down the bridge. ‘Let’s see how far we can get down the bank.’

The towpath on the far side of the bridge was well trodden at first, the grass flattened by walkers, most of them with dogs. Here, the canal swung round in a slow curve before straightening out next to open, flat fields. It wasn’t long, though, before the track petered out and was lost under a swell of brambles.

‘Do you suppose the path got covered in weeds because there were no walkers, or did the walkers stop walking because of the brambles?’ Helen crouched down at a point where the bank had collapsed, forming a bite-shaped hollow. The water was hidden beneath a thicket of reeds and a rustling sound caught her ear. She turned, but whatever it was swam away too fast to be seen, a ring of ripples the only sign left.

‘What?’ Victoria glanced up from her contemplation of the overgrown path, then resumed her scrutiny. ‘If we cut through the field we can get round this, after that it’s clear for a bit.’

‘Why are we doing this?’ Helen stood up with a sigh.

‘Because we can. Come on.’ Victoria put one foot on the top strand of barbed wire which made up the boundary of the field. ‘You first.’

The path did open up and, once they were back on it, Victoria picked up her pace. Helen had a scratch on her arm from the wire and nettle stings on her legs. She was thirsty too. It was a shame the canal was so dirty. She picked a dock leaf and rubbed it hopefully on the rash. It didn’t do much.

Victoria had vanished around another wide bend. When Helen caught sight of her again, she had stopped and was squatting by the water, studying an old boat tied up on the far bank.

‘How can we get across?’ She didn’t look around and, without waiting for an answer, suggested, ‘Swim?’

Helen sat down next to her and pulled at a stalk of grass. The green moss spreading out along the sides and over the windows made the boat look abandoned. She slid the joints of the grass stem apart, nibbling at the white centre.

‘You can get diseases from the water if you swim in it.’ She threw the nibbled stem to one side, and picked another.

Victoria snorted. ‘You can get diseases from everything, according to you.’ She fell silent, considering options. ‘If we go back to the bridge we can get to it from the other side. The bank over there’s not too bad.’

‘I’m not fighting my way through another lot of brambles.’ Helen had tingles running up both legs from the nettles they’d come through. ‘It’s empty, anyway.’

‘That’s it – carry on being positive.’ Victoria’s head had sunk between her shoulders like a cross tortoise.

‘Why do you want to get to it, anyway?’

Victoria stayed in the same position, not answering. Then, with her usual single motion, she stood up. ‘I’m going to carry on down. There’s probably another bridge or something.’ She looked back at Helen. ‘You can come too, if you think you can manage it.’ She didn’t wait for an answer.

The boat’s name was partially visible. Was it an I? Or an R? Helen pushed herself up with a sigh and followed in Victoria’s wake.

The lock was around the next bend, sitting like a secret under a canopy of trees.

‘When do you reckon these were used last?’ Victoria went up to the nearest gate and gave its heavy wooden beam a shove, first with one arm and then with her whole bodyweight. It didn’t budge.

‘Built in 1857,’ said Helen, reading the inscription carved into the massive crossbar of the gate. ‘And it doesn’t look like much has happened since.’

They made their way to the lower gates. The far one was tilted, the timbers at the base crumbling away from their frame, and the remains of a footbridge sending skeleton shadows across the mottled stone walls. The water level in the lock was low, and a steady leak pushed its way down from the upper gates, a constant running sound into the fern-filled chamber. Their approach had disturbed a cloud of midges.

Victoria drifted further up.

‘Not much point putting your dad’s boat in the water if he can only get to here.’

Helen stood gazing at the water, heavy and dark under its ceiling of greenery. She was trying to remember if they had ever walked down this far, her and her dad, back when they used to come here for their boat-spotting expeditions. She was sure she could remember boats travelling up and down, and they’d definitely watched a lock working. Could it have been this one? It didn’t seem possible. She visualized time passing in fast-forward, like a nature programme, the lock disintegrating whilst she stood beside it, in a progress of birth and death.

‘He must know about this. It might not be as bad as it looks.’ She followed Victoria up to the other gates, and they both stared at the V-shape of the massive frame, pushing against the water to hold it back. Unmoved by the dereliction behind them and unmoveable. Helen leaned against the arm, as Victoria had done on the other set, bracing her feet against the old stone grips underfoot. It was like pushing against a house.