I woke up, damp-cheeked and blinking. Our bedroom was full of summer sunshine, so bright I had to shield my eyes. Yesterday Ma Blackwell had taken down the curtains in order to pack them. Anything that wasn’t for wearing or eating had been boxed up for the short journey to the new cottage at Marley’s Head. Today, I remembered with a heart thud, was our last morning at Combe Grange. It hit me again how quickly everything was happening.
‘What’s the story, morning glory?’ Lena mumbled from under her bedclothes.
It was a comfort to hear her voice.
‘What’s your tale, nightingale?’ I answered.
Getting up, I stepped over Lena’s suitcase lying open on the floor. Ma Blackwell had fetched it from the attic 179so she could start to pack her own things, and the sight of it gave me a sudden attack of nerves. Everything was in place for the swim swap to happen. Everything, so far, was going to plan, yet that didn’t stop me worrying about how difficult it was going to be to pull off. And that was before I faced a gruelling twenty-mile swim that no child my age had ever managed.
A quick wash, a comb of my hair and I felt better. Or at least strong enough to face what I had to do next. Down in the kitchen, Ma Blackwell was making porridge. Since I’d started the new school at West Birchwood last week, she was more insistent than ever on the benefits of a solid breakfast. That morning, though, I hurried past her to go straight outside.
‘Don’t forget you’ve the school bus to catch,’ she called after me.
Today was the day Perry and Sage were going to their new home, and it was time to say goodbye. The yard felt strangely empty. The late lambs and laying hens had gone to market, the early hay harvested, a dozen Cox’s Pippin apple trees moved from the orchard and Mr Blackwell’s farm equipment had been sold. All that was left were the horses.
A patter of feet behind me, and there was Lena, still tucking her blouse into her skirt. 180
‘Don’t say goodbye without me,’ she pleaded, then, seeing how sad I was, linked arms. ‘Come on, let’s get them looking shipshape, shall we?’
The horses, expecting breakfast, appeared at their stable doors. Perry made his lovely whickering sound and Sage, ever impatient for her oats, stamped her hoof. Once they were fed, we brought them out into the yard, and groomed them until their summer coats gleamed like polished conkers. Lena also insisted on plaiting their manes and tails. By the time we’d finished they were as smart as show horses.
‘You be good for your new owners, won’t you?’ I said to Perry, scratching behind his ears.
He must’ve heard the break in my voice, because he rested his chin heavily on my shoulder, and huffed his sweet hay breath into my hair.
‘Ah, the dear boy, he’s giving you a horse hug,’ Lena observed.
It did feel that way. I’d never known a creature as gentle and sensitive as Perry. If a horse could count as a best friend, then he was certainly one of mine.
‘I’d take you with me if I could,’ I whispered to him.
He nuzzled my cheek, which was now salty wet with tears.
‘I won’t ever forget you, boy. I promise I won’t.’ 181
I’d saved him a carrot for this moment, but he wouldn’t eat it, instead keeping his chin on my shoulder until Ma Blackwell came to tell me that if I didn’t get a move on I’d miss the bus.
I cried all the way to school. And again at break time when I realised I still had Perry’s carrot in my pocket.
I’d been amazed how well Mr Blackwell was bearing up, but later that afternoon, when he returned from the sale, his eyes were raw from crying.
‘It fair broke my heart, it did,’ he confessed. ‘They knew I was leaving them there. They followed me right to the gate.’
Hearing this had me in tears all over again.
*
With the horses gone, everything felt final. All day cartloads of our furniture had been taken from Combe Grange up to the new cottage at Marley’s Head. At teatime, we left Combe Grange for good. I couldn’t believe I’d never wake up in our bedroom again, or listen to the wireless of an evening in the cosy, cluttered parlour, or turn the handle on the front door, and walk into the lovely old hallway.
A Channel swimmer like Gertrude Ederle, I 182reminded myself, would always be looking ahead. You kept your eyes on the horizon, and instead of thinking of all the miles behind you, you focused on how incredible it was going to feel to arrive on dry land. More than that, Lena was with me. My lucky mascot. Everything, I told myself, was going to work out for the best.
*
The cottage at Marley’s Head was indeed much, much smaller than Combe Grange. In my room there was only space for one narrow bed, so for the next couple of nights neither Lena nor I got much sleep. Late on Saturday a redirected letter arrived for Lena. She hurried upstairs to read it – she always liked to read her post alone – but not before I’d noticed the London postmark on the envelope. It was a reply from her father to the letter she’d written a few weeks ago. He’d never minded her staying on after her TB treatment, so I’d not given it much more thought. Now, though, I felt surprisingly nervous, and waited anxiously at the foot of the stairs.
‘Well?’ I demanded when she reappeared. ‘Will he let you stay? Can you come on the boat?’
‘Yes, and yes,’ she replied. Yet I didn’t think I’d imagined the hesitation before she smiled. 183
*
On Sunday morning, St Mary’s held its final church service. The churchyard was heaving with people who’d come back to the village specially: most of them I recognised, like Mr Barnes the butcher, Neville the sheep farmer, Captain Farley, Mrs Lee, Jim, Maudie, Bill, Miss Setherton. Even Nate and his family had braved the crowds. It surprised me how some of the locals already looked more like town people, with new hairdos and smart shoes that would’ve never managed Syndercombe’s muddy lanes. At least the churchyard had been tidied up since I was last here, though most of the headstones had gone, and there wasn’t a yellow rose in sight.
Lena, I’d become increasingly aware, was out of sorts. I hoped it was mostly down to our rubbish sleeping arrangements, though I’d a feeling her father’s letter was the more likely reason.
‘Say, are you all right?’ I whispered as we squeezed into the church. ‘You’ve been glum since your dad’s letter came.’
‘Have I? I’m tip-top, honest.’
I wasn’t convinced. Once we’d taken our seats inside, I couldn’t even nudge her into a sly game of Mamas 184and Papas which would’ve helped pass the time. The service, thankfully, was relatively short. Poor Reverend Matthews tried to keep things joyful, with hymns and readings more suited to a wedding or a christening. But when the sun came streaming in through the beautiful stained-glass windows, his voice cracked.
‘Forgive me,’ he said, getting out his hanky.
It set off everyone else, and the church was suddenly a sea of white handkerchiefs, as if we were waving off an ocean liner, not a vicar and his church.
Abruptly, Lena stood up.
‘Blow this for a lark,’ she said under her breath, and, squeezing past everyone on our pew, went outside.
Something clearly was the matter, and ignoring Ma Blackwell’s glares, I followed her into the churchyard, where I found Lena re-reading her father’s letter. When she saw me coming, she folded it up. She was wearing a dress without pockets, so kept folding the letter, over and over, until it was small enough to hide inside her hands.
‘You won’t have a letter left at that rate,’ I joked, but it fell flat. ‘All right, out with it. What did your dad really say?
She winced. ‘He says I’ve to come home tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’ I stared at her in horror. ‘But the swim’s next week! Didn’t you tell him you’re on the pilot boat?’185
‘Course I did!’ she cried. ‘And before you say it, Nellie, I know how much you want me there. Believe me, I want to be there too.’
I didn’t understand.
‘Why can’t you tell him you’ll be back after the swim? It’s only a few more days.’
‘He says he’s got this big surprise planned, just for me, and it can’t wait. He’s told Ma Blackwell. And …’ As she opened her hands, the folded paper pinged apart, ‘… look what he sent, paid for and everything.’
Tucked in the letter was a train ticket. Lena held it up so I could see the details: a third-class seat on the ten o’clock train to London Waterloo, dated Monday the sixteenth of June.
I couldn’t believe it.
‘You … you … can’t!’ I cried.
We’d got this close to the Channel swim – just a week until it was due to happen – and now Lena’s father, who’d not minded her staying on at Ma Blackwell’s this past year, was suddenly expecting her home.
‘Why so sudden?’ I demanded, my frustration rising. ‘What’s the big rush for you to be back in London?’
‘I don’t know.’ Lena was fighting back tears. ‘I mean, I love Baapu, but I want to be with you … Oh, Nellie, what are we going to do?’ 186
I tried to think. ‘Well, I can’t come with you to London, not this close to the swim, so—’
‘We could run away, though, couldn’t we, just for a few nights?’ she cut in.
I thought she was joking. And I was about to say so when the church bells began ringing and it was suddenly too noisy to be heard. People had started leaving the church, standing in clusters on the path, or walking down to the White Lion where cider and sherry were being served on the pavement outside.
‘We’ve got to do something,’ I agreed, feeling hot and flustered. Then I spotted Nate. ‘And we’ll need to tell him.’
Clearly glad of an excuse to get away from his parents, Nate hurried over to us before I’d even tried to attract his attention.
‘Morning, all. Everything okay?’ he asked brightly.
‘No,’ I replied miserably. ‘We’ve got a problem.’
On finding a quieter spot with fewer people and less bell-ringing, I explained about the letter and the ticket. Lena stayed stony-faced and silent until I’d finished. Then, again, she mentioned running away.
‘Where, though?’ I asked, a bit baffled as to why she thought it might work. ‘We’re setting off from here with the captain for the drive to Dover next Sunday. 187What would we tell him?’
Nate cleared his throat. ‘Speaking as someone who has run away, you need two things: somewhere to go, and money.’
All I had in my piggy bank was two shillings and a spare pyjama button. And I was pretty sure Lena didn’t have any secret funds stashed away.
‘I could lend you some dosh, if you like,’ offered Nate.
I glanced at Lena, who was looking interested.
‘But where would we go?’ I pressed.
‘Brighton,’ Lena said, and quite boldly too. ‘It’s on the way to Dover – sort of. I’ve got an aunt who lives there. She’s always wanted me to visit.’
‘And the captain?’
‘We’ll send him a note.’ Her mind, now it was on to something, was working whippet-fast. ‘We’ll ask the captain to pick us up from Brighton on Sunday, telling him we’re going there to squeeze in some last-minute sea training—’
‘While staying with your beloved aunt,’ Nate added.
Lena smiled weakly. ‘I hardly know her, to be honest.’
‘But it sounds better if you do,’ insisted Nate. ‘Also, the Blackwells: it’s best if we pretend they already know you’ve gone to Brighton.’
‘But they won’t know, will they?’ I admitted guiltily. 188‘And they might worry and get in touch with the captain themselves.’
‘Well, if they do he can put them straight, and they’ll stop worrying—’
‘Yeah, and be furious instead.’
I didn’t know what to think, to be honest: but I couldn’t bear for Lena to go home. If I stood the remotest chance of swimming the Channel I needed her there, not to mention the life we’d promised ourselves once this was all over.
‘Okay,’ I said, rather shakily. ‘Let’s give it a go.’
Lena hugged me. Nate agreed to lend us five pounds, which would more than cover two train tickets to Brighton. What I wasn’t expecting was him to ask if he could come with us.
‘Why not, old thing?’
‘Well …’ I spluttered. ‘Your parents, to start with.’
The Clatworthys were the sort who’d kick up a massive stink and get the police on to us straight away. It might well blow our entire plan.
‘Not if we’re keeping the captain informed,’ Nate reasoned. ‘At least then the grown-ups won’t panic.’
‘Ha! Won’t they?’ I wasn’t so sure, but Nate kept on.
‘Really, Nellie, it’s because of you and Lena that I’ve not been marched straight back to school. You’re two 189of the finest chums I’ve ever had, so whatever it is you’re doing, so am I. I’m part of this, remember?’
I chewed my bottom lip, thinking over what he said. The captain, Mrs Lamb, Nate’s parents, the Channel Swimming officials all expected the swimmer on the sixteenth of June to be Nate himself. Part of the reason why it wouldn’t be was me: I wanted this swim more than he did. I wanted it more than pretty much anything, and he was giving me my dream. So it felt quite shabby to not include him. We’d be better off facing the next few days together.