I’ve been on the edge of my seat the whole time, listening.
‘Did you see Lena again?’ I have to ask Mary.
‘No.’
‘Oh!’ I’m surprised. Disappointed. ‘Why not?’
‘Because—’ Mary falters as if she’s not sure, either. ‘Because I was travelling so much, I suppose. Lena was in India, I was all over the world. We did write for a while, but …’ She trails off.
I think about Sasha, and how we’ve lost touch too.
‘I guess some friendships don’t last for ever,’ I say.
‘Nonsense!’ Mary replies sharply. ‘We’re still the best of friends. It’s not about writing letters or remembering birthdays or that sort of thing, it’s about what you feel inside.’
‘But wouldn’t you like to see her again?’ 271
‘Like to?’ Mary’s face lights up. ‘If I knew exactly where she was, I’d still drop everything—’
‘To be with her,’ I finish.
There’s a long, thoughtful pause.
‘You know, it’s cleared my mind, talking to you,’ Mary says.
Good, I think, because I still want to hear more.
‘What about Nate?’ I ask. ‘What happened to him?’
‘Ah, dear old Nate.’ Mary sighs wistfully. ‘He was such a clever lad. You know he went to university?’
‘Did you marry him?’
‘Marry him?’ Mary looks horrified, then howls with laughter. ‘I’m sorry … but that’s the funniest idea.’
‘You were good friends, though,’ I point out.
‘We were,’ she says, still giggling. ‘But come on, Polly. You’re the modern one. You know us girls don’t need a man to be happy.’
Fair.
‘Who did he marry?’
‘Well.’ She takes a hanky from her sleeve to dab her eyes. ‘First he became my manager when Captain Far – my father – got too old to travel with me. It was Maudie Jennings from the village who caught Nate’s eye in the end. She became Mrs Clatworthy.’
‘Wow!’ 272
Mary chuckles. ‘He always did like strong-minded women, that one.’
‘Is he still—’
‘Alive? No, he died a few years ago,’ she says sadly, but still smiling. ‘He had a big family with Maudie. A happy life. He deserved it – he was a lovely soul.’
I’m still taking in all Mary’s told me, how these three friends stayed loyal to each other pretty much all their lives. I can’t quite imagine the same for Sasha and me, somehow.
There’s more to Mary’s story, even now, I’m sure of it. This isn’t the end. But the talking’s worn her out. She’s fallen asleep in her chair, mouth open, the door handle closed in her lap. The clock on the mantelpiece says it’s lunchtime, though it’s as dark as evening outside. I’ve been here ages: time hasn’t stood still, and I’ll be in trouble if I don’t get back to Jessie’s.
*
Dad has already arrived to drive us home. Just before we climb into the van and Jessie waves us off, I insist on saying say goodbye to the lake. The outlines of the houses are still visible. Further down the valley what’s left of the reservoir lies grey and still. Soon, when it 273rains, the valley will start to fill up, and everything will be hidden again.
‘Funny old holiday, wasn’t it?’ Joel says, joining me. ‘Full of secrets.’
‘Like you running away, d’you mean?’
He stiffens slightly. ‘I meant, like my dancing, like Mum having a baby, like Sasha posting that clip online. We didn’t know any of it before we came here, yet it all came out in the end.’
‘Talk to Mum and Dad about school,’ I urge him. If Nate and Mr Clatworthy could patch up their differences eventually, then I’m pretty optimistic about our parents listening to Joel. ‘Please?’
‘I’ll try,’ he promises.
I stare out at the lake bed. There are secrets everywhere, aren’t there, not just from people we know but the world we live in. Often we’re told an idea is progress, that everyone will benefit from it because it’s modern and for the future. That’s what happened in Syndercombe.
What we’re not told is that everything comes at a price. Joel, me, the new baby when she arrives, we’re living in the future that Syndercombe gave up its valley for, and I wonder, is it progress when millions more people around the world have since lost their homes to 274flooding? Who pays them compensation? Who finds them new places to live?
This isn’t just Nellie’s story: it’s everyone’s.
*
We make it home to Brighton as the first fat drops of rain start speckling the pavements. On the seafront, the ice-cream shacks are closed, the hotels with the biggest windows have boarded them up against the storm. Out over the sea the sky is a livid orangey blue. The air’s so thick you can almost taste the thunder.
‘There you all are!’ Mum’s on the doorstep, looking very definitely pregnant. She laughs when she catches me staring at her bump.
‘It’s such a relief not to have to hold it in,’ she admits.
After Jessie’s, our flat feels small and cluttered, but a few days away has made me glad to be home. Mum’s made veggie pizzas which we eat on the sofa as rain streams down the window. She tells us more about our baby sister, who’s coming in time for Christmas, and it’ll be Mum who goes back to work afterwards, running the garden business: Dad will look after the baby.
‘It suits us that way,’ Mum says.
I think of Nellie’s mum, on her own with a baby, and 275choosing to be. It must’ve been tough.
‘Was it unusual for people to be single parents like eighty-odd years ago?’ I ask.
Joel laughs. ‘Random as ever, Pol!’
‘Why are you asking?’ says Mum, interested.
‘Oh, you know …’ I can’t explain the door handle, the late-night swims, so I plump for the homework task I’ve still not done. ‘It’s a thing for school.’
Joel pales as I mention it.
‘I think getting married was the normal, respectable thing to do,’ Mum answers. ‘You had the wedding first, then the honeymoon, then you moved in together.’
‘And if you had a baby on your own?’
‘Then you were a strong woman,’ Mum says, with admiration. ‘You were way ahead of your time.’
I wish Mary could hear this: she’d be proud of her mam.
*
That evening, the storm worsens. The thunder’s so loud it hurts my ears and the rain, harder than gravel against the windows, makes the gutters gurgle and drains overflow. Outside, our street looks like a river, and the seafront isn’t a road any more but an extension of the beach. 276
Just before bedtime, the electric goes out and with it the internet, and our phone signal. Downstairs, our neighbour Miss Gee’s kitchen is underwater. By midnight, she’s up with us, on our sofa, drinking tea and telling Dad all about some super-cool sports car she used to own when she was younger and lived in India. She’s got the longest white hair I’ve ever seen.
‘What brought you to Brighton?’ Dad asks.
‘Ah, the sea air – for my lungs, you see: I had TB in childhood.’ She pauses to rub her eye. ‘I’ve family here as well, who’ve always wanted me to visit, and I’ve always wanted to come. You could say I’ve a special attachment to the place.’
I can’t help thinking Miss Gee’s life story sounds an awful lot like Lena’s. Sure, the chances of our neighbour actually being Nellie’s friend are ridiculously small, but this summer has been so weird in all sorts of ways.
Is it possible she’s Lena?
I doubt it, but the thought doesn’t entirely go away.
*
By morning, the worst of the storm is over. It’s still raining, though, and there’s no electricity. Dad gets out his wind-up radio, and we listen to the news of flooded 277roads and rail lines, power cuts, damaged houses, and how the emergency services are coping. Miss Gee asks if we can fetch her pills and some clean clothes from downstairs.
‘I’ll go,’ I offer.
Miss Gee’s basement flat has its own entrance on the street. It’s as I step out on to the pavement that I bump straight into Sasha.
We both start gabbling at once.
‘Hi, Pol, I tried to—’
‘What are you doing?’
I stop. ‘You go first.’
‘Um, okay.’ Sasha stuffs her hands in her pockets, which makes her shoulders hunch. She’s nervous. But I’m not going to make her feel better, not after what she’s done to Joel and me.
‘I came to say sorry,’ she says, staring at her feet, then up at the sky.
For once, I don’t say anything.
‘The thing is, it wasn’t me,’ she says. ‘That account—’
‘Sasha_Torte20?’ I interrupt.
She goes red. ‘Yup, that one. I know you won’t believe me, but my sister set it up, not me. It was her who posted the clip of Joel. Megan filmed it too.’
‘In your name?’
‘My account’s SashaTorte20, remember? No gap or 278underscore. Megan posted the clip, then freaked when she saw how much attention it was getting and changed her username. She made it look like I’d done it, but it wasn’t me, I promise.’
Sasha’s in tears.
I’m confused. If what she’s telling me is true, then Megan has done something horrible – not just to Joel and me, but to her own sister.
‘Why post the clip in the first place? What’s Joel to her?’ I ask. My brother’s a bit ‘out there’, always has been, though it’s only recently he’s been bullied like this.
‘Dancing.’
I look at her. Then glance past her as our front door opens. Joel slips out, head down, bag over his shoulder. Something thuds in my chest. He’s running away: despite everything we’ve said, everything we’ve shared, he’s still going to go.
‘Hey! Joel!’ I cry out.
He freezes. There’s a split second where I think he might run for it, but instead, slowly, stiffly, he turns to face me.
‘You!’ His gaze goes straight to Sasha.
‘Where are you going, Joel?’ I ask.
He ignores me, still staring at Sasha. ‘Who asked you round?’ 279
Sasha reddens. ‘I came to see Pol – and you – to—’
‘It was Megan,’ I interrupt. ‘She set up a copycat account.’
‘Megan? Your sister?’ Joel rubs his head, laughs bitterly. ‘Yeah, I did wonder. Because of the dance teacher choosing me for the scholarship, not her, right?’
‘Right.’ Sasha nods, then says to me, ‘Your brother and my sister were both up for a scholarship to dance school.’
‘The place in London?’ I ask Joel.
He nods.
‘You said you’d applied,’ I remind him. ‘You didn’t say you’d actually got the scholarship.’
‘Because I didn’t know whether to take it or not. Honestly, Pol, I got so much grief for it at school. It would’ve been easier just to disappear to London and pay my own way.’
I glance at Sasha, who seems to confirm it.
‘Megan was massively upset about not getting the scholarship. She’s so competitive – honestly, it’s scary, sometimes. That’s how everything kicked off.’
Now we know. Joel’s been bullied for months and Megan was behind it. It’s a shock and a relief. Joel leans against the basement railings, still trying to take it all in.
‘Why’s it taken all summer for you to tell me?’ I ask Sasha. 280
‘Because.’ She takes a slow breath. ‘When Mum and Dad found out what Megan had done – they heard us fighting about it – they shut down our social media accounts. Well, all but one. They grounded us both.’
‘For the whole holidays?’
Her chin crumples slightly, a sign she’s upset. ‘My mum and dad haven’t been getting on for ages, and all this … umm … well, I think they’re splitting up.’
I’m shocked: it’s the first time she’s ever mentioned her parents not being happy. ‘Gosh, I’m sorry, Sash.’
‘It’s only today that I’ve been allowed out. I came straight over, through floods and everything.’ She holds up a foot to show me her soggy trainers and the wet hem on her jeans. ‘I couldn’t wait to get out, to be honest – and I wanted to apologise for—’
‘Laughing at me swimming? Calling me a poodle?’
She goes red all over again. Hides her face in her hands. ‘Arrrgghh, I’m horrible, aren’t I?’
‘You are. But you’re also my friend, and it sounds as if you’ve had tough summer too.’
‘It’s not been the best. I’ve missed you.’
‘Me too. And for the record, I’ve been practising my swimming. Not that I’m suddenly super talented or anything, but I’m getting better.’
Joel looks up at the sky: he’s smiling. 281
‘Can we talk about this inside?’ he says.
It’s raining again, and the smell is fresh and clean and wonderful.