CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Sunday morning. No one else was awake. Snow on the lane was rutted and stained rusty with car tracks. Melting snow slid from bramble branches and grasses along the road edge. On the footpath, shaded all day by overhanging trees, the snow still lay untouched. Mia’s boots crunched. Each creaking step took her back. They hadn’t had snow like this for years.
She was four or five years old. Mum stood at the open window, watching her three small daughters playing on the snow-covered lawn.
‘What are you girls doing? You’ll be wet through!’
‘We’re making angels, Mum. We’re showing Mia how.’
‘Again!’
‘Find a new space, Mia. Fresh snow. That’s better. Then a big step, into the middle. There. Now flop straight back. Put your arms out. Swish them up and down for the wings. Now, carefully. Up. Don’t tread on your angel.’
‘I did an angel!’
‘You did! All by yourself. A little one.’
‘The garden is full of angels. There’s no more spare snow.’
Their field – Will’s and hers – lay untouched by footsteps. Just the light tracks of birds, and the deeper prints of a fox, perhaps. Will would know. That was the sort of thing he did know about.
The air was sharp on her face as she came out of the tree-sheltered path on to the track above the beach. She couldn’t remember seeing snow on pebbles before. The sea was grey, moving in and out with a gentle shushing sound. Further along the beach towards Whitecross a child stood at the water’s edge, chucking pebbles into the sea, too far off for her to hear the sound of stones plopping in, or boots crunching over shingle. A flock of gulls swerved round in an arc, light reflecting off their wings as they turned.
Mia scuffed along the tide-line like she always did, half searching for treasures washed up by the tide, not really expecting anything. A pretty shell perhaps, or a bright skein of rope, a dried-up skate’s egg pouch. Mermaid’s purses.
The child had disappeared. Mia had the whole strip of beach to herself.
Her hands and feet were freezing. She walked faster, feet slipping on wet stones and seaweed. The tide was running out fast over the flat beach. As the sea drew further back, a gleaming strip of gravely sand was left behind. Mia’s boots left soft prints that filled with water almost immediately and disappeared.
The clouds were thinning above the grey water. Between them stretched a slice of turquoise sky, fading to the palest, most delicate pastel blue. Baby blue. A thin curve of new moon floated just above the horizon.
Sometimes it turns out OK, of course. Once in a blue moon.
She bent down to pick up a small white feather, brushed it against her cold cheek. Soft as a new-born baby’s downy head.
When she looked up she saw the child again, perched on a rock at the edge of the sea. Now she recognized the small, slight form, the wispy hair. Lainey! Her heart lifted. She waved and called out, but the wind snatched her voice away.
Mia began to run, her feet splashing up wet sand. She stretched her arms out wide, feeling the rush of cold air in her lungs. She was part of it all, the beach, the sea, the sky. Faster and faster she ran, right along the beach towards Lainey, the wind icy on her cheeks. For just this moment, Mia felt almost light enough to fly.
But once in a while the odd thing happens,
Once in a while the dream comes true,
And the whole pattern of life is altered,
Once in a while the moon turns blue.