‘I thought I’d go on the boat trip tonight,’ I say at teatime. Evie and I have grilled the mackerel and we’re eating it now, picking out the small bones.
Evie shoots a look at Gramps, and then at me. ‘Well,’ she says slowly. ‘I’m not sure . . . your mum and dad might not think that’s a good idea . . .’
‘Please?’ I say. I know why they fret about me going on boats. Even so.
‘I suppose we could come too,’ Evie says.
Gramps snorts. ‘Whatever for? I’ve seen enough seals to last a lifetime.’
‘It’s not just about the seals,’ Evie says. ‘It’ll be fun.’
‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘I’ll be perfectly safe. Please. I want to go by myself. I’m fourteen, you know. Not a baby.’
I can see her wavering, trying to decide.
‘All right. But be very careful. Hold on tight. And take my waterproofs,’ she says. ‘You’ll need them.’
She’s right. Out of the shelter of the islands the sea’s still rough and churned up from the big storm. The waves seem huge, the boat suddenly tiny. But everyone’s just laughing as waves break and spray drenches the deck. People start singing. It is fun, once I stop thinking too much about how far out we are, how deep the water is beneath. And everyone’s there: Izzy and Matt and Danny. Maddie and Lisa from last year come up and say hello and no one mentions Joe or last summer, thank goodness, because it’s obviously not the right time, and somehow it all feels easier to handle today.
‘I’m freezing!’ Lisa crosses over to sit on the slatted bench behind the wheelhouse. Maddie joins her, huddled up in her quilted jacket, and Danny plonks himself down in the space next to me.
Matt and Izzy are leaning out at the front of the boat, Izzy laughing as usual. Dave yells at them from the wheelhouse and Matt pulls her back. He kisses her. She closes her eyes. I can’t look away. There’s something magnetic, magical even, about them. What does it feel like, being kissed like that?
‘There! See? Loads of seals!’ a voice calls out, and everyone surges to one side. The boat rocks.
‘Sit down! Keep her balanced,’ Dave growls. ‘You’ll all get a look. Stop panicking.’
‘They look almost human,’ Danny says. ‘Those eyes.’
‘Whiskery humans,’ I say.
Two come right close up, heads high above the waves. They’re watching us watching them.
‘These are grey Atlantic seals. Another month or so and they’ll start giving birth . . .’ Dave begins the usual patter. I’ve heard it loads of times, but I still love looking at the seals. I can imagine each seal is a person, treading water. I watch one dive, begin counting. I start to feel dizzy: I can’t help holding my own breath, waiting for the seal to come back up. My lungs push against my ribs till they hurt.
‘How do they stay under so long?’ Danny says.
‘Mammalian diving reflex,’ I say. ‘They store oxygen in their blood and muscles, instead of in the lungs like we do.’
Matt and Izzy listen too.
‘But people have the same reflex, up to a point,’ I tell Danny. ‘Your body goes into oxygen-saving mode when your face goes under. Heart rate slows down and everything. You can practise holding your breath.’
Not for ten minutes, though. Not for half an hour, like seals. Not for long enough, if you’re trapped underwater.
‘She’s clever, that Freya,’ Izzy says to Matt. He kisses her again and this time I’m looking away, suddenly sick and cold to the bone.
‘You’re shivering,’ Danny says.
A small girl squeezes in next to him. He puts his arm round her. His little sister. She’s the little girl I saw before on the beach, playing with Rosie.
It begins to rain.
‘Back to the pub?’ Dave asks and a cheer goes up from the boat. He revs the engine and the boat begins to turn. Only Izzy and Matt stay at the front, oblivious to the rain and the spray, hands clasped together, yelling with each roll and tip of the boat as it rides the waves back to our island. They look like people in a film. Izzy’s hair is plastered to her head, sodden, and yet she’s still beautiful, radiant. Matt sees it, and so does everyone else.
‘Camping in the rain again,’ someone says. ‘Oh joy.’
‘It’ll blow out by morning,’ Dave says. ‘Tomorrow will be fine.’
I don’t go to the pub with everyone. I come straight home, peel off the waterproofs – which aren’t – and the layers of wet clothes underneath and get warm in the bath. Rain’s still battering the window when I’m lying in bed. I think about the tents in the field, the sound of rain drumming on nylon, the damp seeping up from the grass. I imagine Izzy and Matt curled round each other in their nest of duvet and blankets. I’m almost asleep, half dreaming.
Am I asleep? In my muddled dream-thoughts, Joe is outside in the wind and the rain. Not a spirit Joe, but a real flesh and blood Joe, cold and wet and alone. And it’s my fault. Why don’t I do something? I need to find someone to help. I need to call him back. I’m caught in a nightmare maze and every turning takes me further away from where I want to be. I’m hotter and hotter and something tight is winding round my chest, smothering me.
I wake with a start, my heart thrumming under my ribs. I’m bound tight by the twisted sheet. Outside, the wind is shrieking, pulling at the window latch, trying to get in. I untangle the sheet and sit up. It’s just after midnight. I’m so thirsty. I make my way downstairs. The light’s still on.
Evie’s reading on the sofa. She looks up. ‘Freya! You look hot! What’s up?’
I ease myself next to her so she can feel my forehead. I’m shivering now, my feet freezing. She tucks me under the garden rug, next to her.
‘I was dreaming,’ I say. ‘And the wind woke me.’
‘It makes such a strange noise, sometimes,’ Evie says. ‘Like it’s moaning. It sounds almost human, doesn’t it? I was wide awake too. So I came back downstairs to read. I don’t like to disturb your gramps. He’s terrible if he doesn’t get enough sleep.’
Evie strokes my hair back from my face. ‘Perhaps you’ve got a temperature. You caught a chill, maybe, from the boat. I’ll get you some water. You stay there.’
She gets me a drink, and makes tea for herself, and I listen to the sounds from the kitchen of the tap running, and the kettle going on, and her feet padding round on the tiles, the chink of the cup on the table. I start to feel safe again. It’s like being very little, when someone else is looking after you and you don’t have to think or do anything for yourself. It hasn’t been like that for me for a long time.
When Evie comes back she tucks the blanket round me again. She sort of pats me, and we sit together in the circle of light from the lamp on the side table, and we don’t say anything. Evie finishes her tea.
‘You’re missing Joe,’ she says at last. ‘Of course you are.’
I look at her. She’s lost in her own thoughts. There are tears on her cheeks. It’s a comfort, sitting together like that, without having to say anything.
I don’t even remember going back up to bed, but I must have, because that’s where I am, next thing, and it’s the morning: bright sunlight is flooding through the window and my phone says 11.06.