There’s more I want to ask, but Jessie bustles in, hot, apologising, and immediately starts talking about tablets and blood pressure. She does a few checks on Mary, then taps the results into her screen.
‘Blood pressure’s up,’ Jessie says. ‘You feeling all right?’
Mary sighs. ‘I’m not sleeping too well.’
Jessie nods sympathetically. ‘That’ll be the weather. We need to keep an eye on you while it’s this hot, my love. Make sure you’re drinking enough.’
She takes a jug to the kitchen to fill with water, leaving me and Mary alone. I seize the moment.
‘Did you ever know a girl called Nellie Foster?’ I ask.
Mary gives me an odd look. Then Jessie’s back in the 86room, shooing me away from Mary’s chair, and saying her patient’s had enough excitement for one day and we should leave her in peace.
On the short walk home, I ask Jessie what she knows about Mary as a girl.
‘Nurses aren’t supposed to talk about their patients,’ she warns.
‘Maybe I could talk to Mary, then? We’ve got this homework to do where we have to interview an old person. Mary might be up for it.’
‘Talk about what?’
‘Proud moments, regrets, that sort of thing.’
‘I don’t think so, Pol. Mary’s an old lady, not coping very well with living on her own,’ Jessie says.
‘It’d only be a few questions. She might like a bit of company.’ I realise I might too. Joel’s in a huff with me; I’ve still not heard from Sasha. And I’m hoping Mary will be able to tell me more about Nellie.
But Jessie’s firm. ‘She’s not well, flower. Her blood pressure’s worrying me.’
‘I’d only—’
Jessie stops. Turns to face me. ‘Mary needs peace and quiet, okay?’
I sigh, disappointed.
‘Is that doctor’s orders, then?’ I ask. 87
‘Nurse’s orders, actually.’ She cups my cheek fondly. ‘Which are far, far more serious.’
*
By midday, as predicted, the government alert ping-pings. We have to stay indoors until a single ping tells us the temperature’s dropped. Joel slopes off to his room, still moody. I suppose he’s worried about going back to school next week on top of everything else. Jessie and I close the blinds, shut the windows, and retreat to our rooms to rest. It’s too hot to do much else.
‘Polly?’ Jessie calls a while later. ‘Do old people use social media? I mean, is it a thing?’
What a weird question. ‘Ummm … maybe?’
Jessie appears in my doorway, hair pinned up, wearing a sundress. She carries on talking as she moves to the kitchen. I get up and follow her, watching as she makes us both a cold drink.
‘If you had a friend, say, and you lost touch over the years and wanted to track them down – this friend would be seriously old by now, like, over ninety – what’s the chance you might find them online?’ she asks me.
‘Is this about you?’ I say. ‘Because you’re not that old.’ 88
Jessie laughs. ‘You’re a charmer. And no, for the record, it’s not about me.’
‘Mary, then?’
‘Polly,’ Jessie warns. ‘What did I tell you?’
Begrudgingly, I suggest the sites Mum and her friends use.
‘Can you put out a message, saying “X is looking for Y”?’ Jessie wants to know as she hands me an apple juice so cold the glass looks like it’s sweating.
‘It’s easier just to search the person’s name.’
I get out my device.
‘We could try it,’ I say, thumbs hovering over my screen. ‘Who’s Mary looking for?’
Jessie hesitates. Takes a sip of her drink.
‘I didn’t say it was Mary,’ she says.
My aunt’s a rubbish liar. It is Mary, I’m sure of it. Could the friend she has lost touch with be Nellie? I’m dying to give the search a try.
‘Let’s put a name in,’ I say again, but Jessie waves the idea away.
‘Don’t worry, flower,’ she says. ‘Thanks for the advice, though.’ She goes back to her room.
Taking my drink into the living room, I lie on the sofa. It’s frustrating the heck out of me that I can’t just go back to Shakespeare Cottage and talk to Mary 89straight out about Nellie. And while we’re on old friends, I’m beginning to realise how much I’m missing Sasha. Before, I’ve just felt upset and angry. I’ve not wanted to speak to her. But Nellie’s closeness to Lena has made me remember how important good friends are. Maybe it’s Sasha I need to talk to most of all.
I take a deep breath, scroll down through my device. The last message she sent me was just before we fell out at the swimming pool.
‘Watcha, P. Got your water wings for later?’
Joel reckons Sasha’s texts read like they’ve been written by someone’s dad. It’s true – no one texts quite like her. I’m smiling as I type in a message.
‘Hi Sash. You there? Want to chat? Miss you. x’
It comes back straight away: ‘Number not found’. I try again and get the same.
Has she blocked me?
I stare at my screen, feeling slightly sick. She’s my best friend. She wouldn’t.
Yeah, says a voice in my head, but best friends speak to each other, don’t they? Where’s she been all summer, eh?
Maybe she’s changed her device, I tell myself. A lot can happen in a few weeks of not speaking.
One by one, I try all her social media accounts, and 90get a similar message – ‘Account doesn’t exist’ or ‘User name not recognised’.
‘Oh, come on!’ I mutter. Now I can’t get hold of her I want to speak to her more than ever.
Yet there’s no sign of Sasha online. She’s either blocked me or all her accounts have disappeared. Both possibilities are very weird. I’d ask Joel what I can do to find her, but his bedroom door is closed: I can hear him in there moving about, counting to three out loud, over and over. I’ve no idea what he’s doing.
*
The rest of the day drags. Waiting to go back to Syndercombe tonight is worse than waiting for Christmas, only far, far hotter. At teatime the heat alert is still in place. I drink more water. Lie back on my bed and start browsing the internet. I type in Mary’s name and address. Nothing comes up.
Next I try ‘Shakespeare Beach’ and get pictures and links to swimming clubs and blog posts. It’s not really what I’m after. On a new search page, I type in ‘Truthwater Lake’.
The first link is to the official South West Water Board’s site, with information about dog walks and 91opening times for the café, as well as a few lines about the history of the dam. It’s like reading a glossy holiday brochure, and says nothing about the people of Syndercombe who had to leave their homes behind.
Back in the search results, there’s a recent newspaper article about the reservoir drying up. Some of the photos show the crumbling walls and dried mud. Others are of the old village, and it’s these that make me sit up. There’s the main street, thatched cottages running along either side, the pub called the White Lion, the shop with bags of coal outside. There’s a picture of a man who I’m sure is Mr Blackwell, standing proudly between two huge horses. Another shows the little village school, and behind it, St Mary’s church.
The pictures make me almost homesick for old Syndercombe. If I can’t speak to Mary, then I have to go back there, otherwise I’ll never know how Nellie’s story ends, or what it means for me.
*
At last it’s evening, and the temperature drops. We sit in the garden, eating the tomatoes, peppers and cucumbers Jessie grew and has made into a huge, tasty salad. I’m 92talking too much and eating hardly anything. I tell Joel about Sasha’s online accounts.
‘Weird,’ he murmurs.
‘Can you have a look?’ I press. ‘See what you think?’
He yawns. ‘I’ll do it later, yeah?’
Under the apple trees, a group of sparrows squabble in the dust. The dog fox comes early to drink from the water bowl Jessie puts out every night. Each time I check my device the clock has barely moved.
Yet slowly, oh so slowly, the blue of the sky fades. And just after ten, I say goodnight and hurry off to bed, and hear Joel and Jessie turning in not long afterwards: footsteps, the creak of the compost toilet’s door, then a hush as the house settles down for the night. Now all I have to do is keep awake until two. The way I’m feeling, it shouldn’t be hard.
In the quiet of my bedroom, I lift my pillow and take out the door handle. The brass-yellow colour of it looks grubby and worn, like a piece of ancient treasure. The handle is still in the closed position. I had wondered if it was from St Mary’s church door, but now I’m pretty sure it’s from the house in Syndercombe where Nellie Foster lives – or lived.
All this thinking keeps me alert. Finally, just before two o’clock, I ease myself off my bed. I pull on the same 93shorts and T-shirt and push the handle deep into my pocket. I even tie my hair back with the same band. I’m doing everything I did last night in the hope it works.
On tiptoe, I cross the kitchen and once I’m out in the garden, I run. The moonlight makes everything look grey. I hurry down the steps, on to the dried-up lake bed. I keep running until the ground dips and I see the lake up ahead, glistening. The nerves hit me then – it’s the thought of that deep, dark water that makes my stomach clench.
‘What are you doing out here?’ says a voice I know.
I freeze.
Joel is at the water’s edge, just as I’d dreaded. I’m annoyed and dismayed all at once.
‘Couldn’t sleep. Same as you, by the look of it,’ I mutter.
Joel faces me, big-eyed and apologetic.
‘Sorry, Pol,’ he says. ‘I was horrible to you today.’
I stare at him. Past him.
‘S’all right.’ Really, all I’m thinking is, You have to tell me this NOW?
‘I’ve been on one, haven’t I?’ He prods the water with his toe. ‘I want to tell you about it, if that’s okay?’
But I feel a click against my hip. The handle in my pocket is turning. I’m desperate for Joel to go back 94to bed, or disappear, or just not be standing in front of me at this precise moment. He’ll try and stop me going in the lake, I know he will, and the seconds are ticking away. If I don’t swim now I’m afraid it won’t work at all.
‘Sorry, but can we have this conversation later?’ I say, and stride into the water with such determination, Joel steps aside in surprise.
‘Don’t go too far in,’ he warns.
‘Yeah, okay,’ I call over my shoulder. ‘I’m a rubbish swimmer. You’ve told me.’
‘Just be careful,’ Joel cries. ‘Hey! Are you listening?’
Not any more.
The water rises up around me. When I’m chest deep I take the handle out again to check – sure enough, it’s in the open position. Not wanting to miss another moment, I start to swim. And when I reach the middle, I dive down and down until the gravestones appear, and it’s daytime.