Chapter Three

‘Please tell me this is a joke.’ I check my phone again. There’s still no signal. ‘I hate this place with a passion.’

We have turned off the main road − the bit that was actually nice − onto a lane full of warnings about not going to the beach without an adult, as if we are three years old. If I crane my neck, I can just make out the sea in the distance.

‘You haven’t even got outside the door yet, Lark.’

‘You’re right.’ I get out of the car. ‘I still hate it.’

With no signal, I don’t know if Gwenni has texted me for my birthday. We aren’t ever talking again ever, ever, but it’d be good to know if she’s at the grovelling stage. I try to send a text. A bleep, followed by a nothing exclamation mark. I triple hate it here.

The other families that are staying with us will arrive in a couple of days, and I’ll have to see Gwenni whether I like it or not. Dad said we’d be the only people staying at the caravan site, which is a bit weird. I suppose nobody else wants to be out here in October. I can’t say I’m surprised, it’s so far from anything and will be more than a bit spooky after dark.

I put a brave face on and turn to my sister. She looks ragged with tiredness and completely crumpled. It doesn’t help that she has one of my old coats on, the pale blue puffa with the hood. It’s far too big for her and now Mam has sewn snowflakes all over it it’s even more obviously shabby. Times are hard for everyone nowadays and Mam has tried to upcycle our clothes. We don’t want to tell her it hasn’t worked. Dad is a mechanic but since he’s been laid off we are all trying to do our best.

‘Come on, Snow. Let’s check out if there’s anything to do here.’

This holiday with Mam’s friends is the stupidest idea anyone ever had. They had this stupidest idea at one of their parties, which explains a lot. I’d rather be on a plane with a passport, going somewhere nice on our own, but I guess Mam wants to make the most of her friends now, so we just have to lump it. Mam-gu suggested we choose this particular site. She still knows people around here and used her connections to rent us all caravans cheaply. Though why anyone would pay much to stay here is beyond me.

A black-backed gull laughs cronkily overhead. Perhaps the wildlife will be interesting at least.

‘Come on, this way.’ I grab Snow’s hand and she comes gratefully. Neither of us wants to help unpack. We stagger to where we can get the best view, our muscles aching from being cramped up for so long. A whistle escapes my mouth. ‘Now that actually is pretty good.’

We’ve picked the best caravan, the one overlooking the small path down to the stream. The others are going to be gutted they didn’t arrive first. ‘Look at the way the current runs. The reflection makes the sky look like it’s wobbling.’

Snow points in the other direction.

‘The Forbidden Beach?’ The first on Dad’s list of warnings on having respect for the sea. ‘How do you fancy a bit of cliff climbing?’ I’m only half joking. ‘And the way the water glitters is just so…’

It hits me suddenly − why we’re here, why Mam needs a holiday. I turn away from Snow, so she won’t see there’s anything wrong. I am always turning away to hide my feelings. I’m a human roundabout.

‘I just love these yellow flowers.’ I act like I’m engrossed in smelling them, even though they have thorns that could lacerate your nose. ‘They smell like coconut in the sun.’ In this howling wind they don’t smell of anything at all. ‘Shall we go along the stream to the sea?’

Of course, I don’t expect an answer from Snow, but I can’t help asking her questions, hoping she’ll say something. Anything. Her voice is locked deep down inside her, like all my happiness is in me.

My left sock falls down inside my jeans. I pull it up and myself together.

Snow has moseyed off in the wrong direction, which is just completely typical. Even though the Forbidden Beach is beckoning me, I have responsibilities and I can’t leave her. She has taken to wandering off too many times of late. It can be difficult to find her again since she stopped answering our calls. ‘Snow, wait for me.’

The caravan site is nestled in a dip. She is walking into the chirruping woods behind. I follow her, feeling sorry for the poor kid. When you are eight, you never get to be alone. Rule.

It’s beautiful in here. The trees have dipped themselves in autumn colours, reds and yellows, russets and rusts, dusky purples and blues further in, the lightest mint fringes behind. I can imagine the owls that hunt in these woods, the falcons and kestrels and kites. I see the peach flash of a nuthatch’s belly and know that it will be a bird lover’s paradise.

‘Let’s not go too far in, OK?’ I do the big-sister thing. ‘Not right now anyway.’

We’ve all heard the stories of kids who wandered off and ran into bad luck or worse.

‘Just in case Mam needs us.’ Saying this makes us feel less like cowards.

I can hear Sherlock barking back at the caravan, but he stays with Mam most of the time now.

Snow is just ahead of me, weaving her way through the trees. This is the problem with little sisters. You are always expected to watch out for them, and stand up for them, and give them all the best opportunities and a better place to sleep.

‘Ouch!’ Something sharp cuts into me through my jeans. Bending down, I see a shard of glass, still attached to a metal window frame. A bead of bright red oozes through my denim. I wipe it, then lick the blood from my fingers. It tastes of copper and pain, and is a way gross thing to do, so I check around that no one saw me.

Only a squirrel, who stares at me then pretends to eat the acorn he’s holding. I know he’ll be stowing that nut away somewhere for later.

‘Snow. Can we go back now please?’

She doesn’t answer, naturally.

I decide to quit talking myself, while I pull apart the already broken pane. It feels good to shatter something. I crack it to bits and feel in control for once.

Panting, I start my countdown from ten to get rid of my anger.

Ten, the wind in the trees sounds angry.

Nine, I’m cold and really fed up.

Eight, my sleeves are silver with snot.

Seven, nothing is fair.

Six, seriously, nothing is fair.

Five, there’s a hollow in the tree in front of me.

Four, I could squeeze into it and hide from everyone.

Three, it would be nice to disappear for a while.

Two, I need to grow up and stop acting like I’m twelve.

One.

I imagine a girl crouched in a ball in this hollow place, hiding, desperate not to be seen. The girl isn’t me. A buzzard whistles high above. I look for Snow.

For a moment I can’t see her, then I spot her snowflakes sparkling further into the woods. I think I hear her laugh. I listen hard. Snow hasn’t laughed in months. It feels like years.

There is nothing but the shush of the branches, the sound of the leaves crackling on the wood floor. I watch her disappearing through the trees ahead. I let her go. I want to see what it feels like to lose someone.

When she is almost out of sight, I bottle it, and run after her as fast as I can. Mam and Dad will be well annoyed if I lose her on Day One.

‘Snow!’

She’s stopped with her back to me, staring at something.

‘What could possibly be interesting here?’

Out of nowhere I’m too hot. I pull the neck of my jumper away from my throat. It feels like it’s constricting my airways. An odd burning shivering washes over me, like a fever. The world tilts, there’s a jigsaw of sky, the flash of something out there in the woods. Gone, as quickly as it came.

Snow ignores me.

‘Why didn’t you wait for me? Seriously. You are such a nightmare.’

I sound crosser than I mean to. Snow doesn’t react, but keeps staring straight ahead. Unusually, she’s smiling. I should be glad but I’m not.

‘I said, you could have waited. I’m not your keeper.’

She comes up close to me, scrutinizes me, then presses my cheeks with the pads of her thumbs before squashing my face like I’ve got stuck in the doors of a lift. It’s something we’ve done since we were kids.

‘It’s alright. Just hang on for me next time. OK? Can we go now? I feel odd.’

Shaking her head vehemently, Snow points at something hidden through the trees.

It’s the ruin of a house. It’s pretty well camouflaged, almost completely covered in ivy creepers, dead branches and brambles.

Snow takes the small notebook she always carries with her out of her pocket and writes. Her tongue sticks out at the side. A tiny speckled moth lands on the page right next to her fingers and she stops to let it beat its wings undisturbed. When it flies off, it leaves a delicate trail of wing dust next to her words: ‘Owr new den.’