Last summer
August 12th
It’s raining. Evie’s gone shopping on Main Island and Gramps has disappeared off somewhere too. Joe’s making floats. He cuts off a small chunk of wood, carves it into a rough oval with a penknife and sandpapers it until it’s completely smooth. He drills a hole at either end, makes two wire loops and glues them in. He fixes a swivel hook at one end and a treble hook at the other. He paints the fish shape with silver and blue like a tiny mackerel. He gives it an eye of epoxy resin. Last of all he varnishes it. Every step, he takes his time. His hand with the fine paintbrush is steady and meticulous. He lines up the fish floats on a sheet of newspaper on the kitchen table.
‘Can I do one?’
Joe pauses mid-brushstroke; he looks at me, amused. ‘How bored are you, Freya?’
‘On a scale of one to ten, ten.’
Joe goes back to concentrating on getting the markings right.
‘How do you remember?’ I ask.
He shrugs. ‘Seen enough mackerel,’ he says.
He has an almost photographic memory for some things. When he wants, that is. I can imagine him building boats. Beautiful wooden ones, that cost thousands of pounds. Mum says he’s been like this – clever at making things – since he was really little.
He hands me a chunk of wood. I pick up the penknife and start whittling the shape. Slivers of wood curl off the knife and drop on to the table.
‘Hold the knife so you’re cutting away from your hand,’ Joe says.
I don’t do too badly. Once I’m sandpapering, it’s almost the right shape. Joe does the wire bits for me, and the glue. Painting is more fun. I copy one of Joe’s, to get the pattern right. Only my brush must be bigger or something, because the lines are a bit thick and fuzzy. I lay it next to Joe’s.
‘It’s not as good.’
‘It’s fine,’ Joe says. ‘The fish won’t mind, anyway.’
I fidget about for a while longer. Joe makes me wash the brushes. I stare out over the wet garden. The rain’s stopped. ‘Shall we go and see the puppies at the farm?’ I say to Joe.
‘You can.’
‘Do you think they’ll let us have one?’
‘Who?’
‘Mum and Dad.’
‘No.’
‘Will you say you really, really want one too? Please?’
Joe sighs. ‘But I don’t.’
‘You used to.’
‘That was ages ago. I won’t even be at home after next year. There’s no point.’
Sally’s made a special pen for the puppies in the scullery just off the farm kitchen. The mother dog, Bonnie, can easily jump over the side but it keeps the puppies safe. They’re heaped together in one corner, half asleep, a squirming pile of puppies. ‘Help yourself,’ Sally says. She’s sorting piles of papers at the table.
Bonnie comes wagging over. She knows me well, so she doesn’t mind me stroking her puppies. They are Border collies: black and white and very furry. My favourite is the smallest female, with a black face and hardly any white patches. I play over this scene in my mind: when Mum and Dad arrive at the end of August they see me and the puppy together and they say, ‘Well, you’re obviously made for each other,’ and we take her back with us. My own puppy like I’ve wanted ever since I was about five.
I’ll do all the looking after – the walks and food and grooming and everything. I’ll call her Tilly. I’ll train her properly because Border collies are really intelligent and need to be busy, learning stuff. Bonnie is a working dog on Sally’s farm. Our garden at home is a bit small, but there’s a wall round it so at least it’s safe, and there’s the canal towpath really nearby for walks. She can round up the ducks.
I pick up my puppy and she squeaks. She’s so warm. I bend my head over her and she licks my face with her rough pink tongue and wags her tail which makes her bottom wiggle too. Puppies can leave their mother when they’re eight or nine weeks, which is about perfect timing for the end of August when we’ll go back home at the end of the summer holidays.
Bonnie jumps up to check her puppy’s OK. She’s such a good mother. Tilly gets so excited and wriggly I nearly drop her so I put her down quick. ‘There you go, Tilly-Little.’
The puppy pushes up against Bonnie who flops over so she can feed. All the puppies plough in for a share. They paddle with their paws to make the milk come. Bonnie lets out a huge sigh.
‘She’s had enough. We need to start weaning the pups soon,’ Sally says. ‘And find them homes.’
Evie’s unpacking a huge box of groceries when I get back. There’s no sign of Joe or the fishing floats.
‘Wouldn’t you like one of the farm puppies?’ I ask her.
‘I’ve got enough to be looking after already,’ she says. ‘With your gramps!’
‘I’d do all the looking after her when I was here,’ I say. ‘Every summer.’
‘For how much longer, though?’ Evie says. ‘You won’t want to be coming here for ever, Freya. You’re growing up.’
‘I’ll never stop coming here,’ I say. ‘It’s my favourite place anywhere in the whole world.’
Evie makes a sound, a sort of hmmm. ‘The world’s a big place,’ she says. ‘And it’s all just waiting for you and Joe. You’ll see.’