Chapter Two

’What about here?’ Dad nods to a shop on the sea front which looks like it hasn’t been open since the war.

‘What are you hoping to buy with your ration book?’ I am the queen of sarcasm.

‘I’ll have to put my face on,’ Mam smiles, but it puts Dad on his guard. ‘Chill out, love. I just want to look my best.’ She turns and shakes her head at me in mock disbelief. I try my best to smile back.

This is the third shop we’ve stopped outside. Mam is afraid to go into some of them. She prefers small ones with no other customers when she is feeling ill. Sometimes she gets right to the entrance and then has to turn around. She was told off at one this morning because she froze on the spot which activated the automatic doors. I hope the shop-owner freezes to death after the way he spoke to her and I’m glad I told him so.

I’m sorry about their shocked faces. And I’m sorry that I made that little girl cry because I was shouting, and Dad had to explain that I have ‘anger issues’. But no one has a go at my mam and gets away with it. Especially not now.

I look at her profile and try to stamp it on my brain so that I will never forget the details. The bump in her nose, the way her hair curls next to her ear, the wrinkles at the edge of her eyes, the silver droplet earrings that she wears when she wants to look her best. I catch Dad looking in the rear-view mirror at me.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Why are you gawping at me then?’

‘Lark. Calm down, for goodness’ sake.’

‘I am calm. Supremely calm. But thanks for the advice.’

Dad looks at Mam and she nods. I think we are the only family in the world who need such an agonising decision-making process over going into a stupid shop.

Sherlock jumps up onto my lap and starts clawing at the door handle to get out, pressing his nose into the steamed-up window. He hates being cooped up even more than I do.

‘I’m taking Sherlock for a wee walk.’

Mam nods stiffly, rifling through her shoulder bag.

‘Snow, are you coming?’ My voice comes out sulky, even though I hadn’t intended it.

She’s too focused on her drawing to notice that we’ve stopped. She’s really good at art for a kid her age. I’ll tell her one day, when I am ready to say something nice again. She’s drawn us outside: Sherlock, with tufted ears and a rainbow of arrows above his tail to show it’s wagging; Dad, tall, smart and wearing his racing-green wellies; Mam, just an outline so far; me holding a bright purple bird as if I’m coaxing it to fly; and her holding the pen and paper that she’s using now. She’s used a light brown felt tip to make hers and my skin look right. Dad is a darker brown and she’s done Mam in pink. Mam says families come in lots of different colours and it doesn’t matter what colour you are. I agree. I glance at Snow’s picture again. She’s put straight lines for our mouths so none of us are smiling, which is about right too.

‘Earth to Snow. Come in, Snow.’ I wave my hand in front of her face and she looks up at me and shrugs her shoulders. There are tiny bits of dandruff all over them and speckled in her hair. I’ll have to make sure she gets some good shampoo, so the other kids don’t pick on her, because then I’ll have to punch them, and Dad will be disappointed again, and Mam will be upset again, again, again.

‘Snow can come into the shop with me and Dad will come with you.’ When Mam says something, nobody argues. She applies some lippy without looking in the mirror then wipes Paradise Pink from her front teeth with her finger.

Dad stretches and piano-player cracks his fingers. He smiles at me. ‘Bit of sea air will do us all the power of good.’

They’ve been talking about the sea air since we decided to come here. Like it will magic away Mam’s illness. Like it will blow through her body and make her fresh again.

‘Fine.’ Shoving my thumbs through the holes I’ve made in the cuffs of my favourite red jumper, I open the door, so Sherlock can take a great step for dog-kind. I get out grumpily, slamming the door behind me.

Sherlock lifts his leg against everything and then scampers off, tongue lolling, tail wagging, nose sniffing. Traitor. Mam climbs out of the car carefully but trying not to show it. She’s put on her sunglasses, so I can’t read her expression. Snow comes out squinting like a mole. She is small for her eight years and much too thin. I cross the lane to get a good look at the sea.

It’s cold enough for polar bears. If I saw an iceberg on the horizon I wouldn’t bat an eyelid. I wouldn’t be able to bat an eyelid because they would be frozen open. Sherlock makes a beeline for the far-off white-horse waves. Apart from him, the beach is empty. Bleached bunting flaps from a lamppost where they probably had a carnival a hundred years ago and a rusted sign reads: ‘Beware. Strong tides. Danger of Drowning.’ Cheerful stuff.

Because October half term hasn’t even started yet there is nobody about. I think that’s why Dad chose to come ahead. That’s why we got special dispensation to get out of school three days early. So we could slip in here unnoticed and not put any stress on Mam. It wasn’t so he could ruin my special day. It was for Mam because she’s really ill and I need to stop being selfish.

‘Well? What do you think?’ Dad comes up behind me and ruffles my hair, which I hate.

I tug it away from my eyes. ‘It’s practically Arctic here.’

‘You take some pleasing, Miss Lark.’

I scowl.

‘There’s only a tiny chill in the air.’

I double scowl and shiver. I wish I could cwtch him like I used to. He has that biscuity aroma because his clothes haven’t dried quickly enough. It’s one of my favourite smells.

He looks out over the water and breathes deeply like those yoga people do. To be fair, it is pretty. If I was in a better mood, I’d be splashing about with Sherlock by now despite the cold conditions.

‘Look, a gannet.’ Dad points to a white bird far off, and I watch it plummet headlong through the sky, corkscrewing its wings around its body as it dives, then plunging into the sea so fast I think it will never survive. It surfaces and takes flight and I imagine the water from its wings turning to rainbow diamonds as they fall. This is the kind of thing I used to love when I was the other me. The me I was before.

‘It’s just a bird.’

‘It’s a thing of beauty, just like you.’

I move before he ruffles my hair again. I’ll cry if he keeps being nice to me.

‘Shall I annoy you with some extremely educational facts about the place?’

‘If you absolutely have to.’ Facts are one of my weak points. I adore a good fact.

‘This coast boasts a third of the world’s population of Manx Shearwaters.’

‘All of the wows.’ I’m being difficult. I am the world’s biggest animal lover and birds are my favourite.

‘The remains of several bomber planes lie on the ocean bed. The Dead Eye wreck also languishes at the bottom of the bay.’ He does seriously incompetent dead-sailor acting, going sort of cross-eyed but not quite.

‘You can stop treating me like I’m stupid now if you like.’ I carry on acting super-bored.

‘Unexploded bombs have been known to wash up on the beach, so if you discover anything unusual you are asked to call the police immediately.’

‘Obviously.’

‘The number you should call is…’

‘Wait. How do you know all this?’

‘Lark, you know your father well enough to understand that he is just incredibly intelligent and knowledgeable on all subjects.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘Also, he can read.’ He points to a sign I hadn’t noticed.

‘Funny.’

‘I can tell you a few jokes too, if you like?’

‘No, thanks. Really. No.’

‘That would be a “no” then.’

Sherlock emerges from the sea and shakes himself as if he’s in a shampoo commercial. I whistle to him and watch his disgruntled return.

‘Not far now, mate.’ Dad has said this so many times I have stopped believing we will arrive anywhere at all. Ever. I tut. ‘Come on. Before we get frostbite in these “Arctic” conditions.’

Sarcasm runs in the family. All of us are good at it.

Mam and Snow are out of the shop and waiting with our hessian bags full. Snow has the shopping. Mam is fussing, trying to take the bags from her. They look heavy, but Snow isn’t giving them up. I love her for her stubbornness. Dad takes them, but Snow keeps a load of old tourist information leaflets, shoving them into her satchel. She’s always drawing things from leaflets − castles, flowers, Celtic crosses, forests, churches, graves. I grab one from her.

‘The Curse of the Witch Woods.’

‘It’s just another fabricated story to bring the tourists in.’ Dad’s expression darkens.

‘Childish.’ I fling it back at Snow. She has weals on her fingers from the bag handles. I should be able to protect her more.

I should never have told her that Mam was dying. I should have kept it from her, like big sisters are supposed to do. She is only eight and I have already bulldozed through her life with my extra massive gob.

Dad hops back into the driver’s seat like it’s the best place in the world and studies a map. Snow clambers into the back and starts drawing the bay in an accurate grey. Sherlock pulls at his lead trying not to get back in the car. I pick him up and cuddle him so that he’ll know I still love him, even though we are putting him through this torture. Mam tightens the belt of her vintage mac and breathes the sea air in deeply.

‘It’s going to be good here, Lark. I can feel it in my bones.’

She smiles that too-bright smile and there is a line of Paradise Pink between her two front teeth. I don’t tell her. A tear slides from behind her sunglasses. I pretend it is caused by the cutting wind. Perhaps she’s right. Perhaps the waters here hold healing powers. Perhaps I should be like Snow and believe in magic. It’s almost impossible when you’re thirteen. I get into the car with Sherlock and we both sulk. The springs in the seat stick into my legs and my cushion is soggy with condensation.

There’s a whole new, really weird smell now too. ‘Is something on fire?’

Dad is fumbling and cussing a bit in the front. He’s burnt his thumb lighting three tea-light candles, which he’s put on a Victoria sponge. They turn and hold it towards me, singing ‘Happy Birthday’ in the out-of-tune way we have perfected over the years. Snow conducts with her fingers instead of singing and Sherlock barks excitedly and tries to jump up to snaffle the cake.

‘I’m sorry you’ve had to be cooped up in here all day.’ The lipstick is finally gone. ‘But this place is going to be great. A lovely break. For all of us.’

‘It’s fine. I mean, I wouldn’t say it’s the best birthday I’ve ever had but, you know, it’s alright. I get it.’ And I do. I let go of all the things I hoped my thirteenth birthday would be and try to be an adult.

‘Don’t forget to make a wish.’

I blow out the candles, then avoid Mam’s gaze.

‘Not far now, kids. Not far now.’ Dad folds the map scruffily and starts the engine. We jerk to a start. I look out at the sea. Maybe I’ll go swimming, if I can get hold of a wetsuit. I look at my family. They are not so hopeless, take away the obvious weirdness. Not completely hopeless anyway. I glance back at the shop and wish I hadn’t.

Two girls stand in the doorway, clearly talking about us. My anger bubbles up straight away. I can’t stand it when people say things about me. I’m the only one to notice, so as we pull out, I put up my fingers and give them the sign of a curse I saw once on TV.

So much for it being alright here. I hate it already.