Mary answers her door surprisingly quickly. She’s wearing a pink jumper and matching knitted gloves. She looks tired.
‘Yes, dear?’
‘Hello, Mary, it’s Polly. I’ve brought your tablets.’ I’m doing my best to be cheery and friendly, when really I’m dying to get straight to the point.
She looks at me. At the pharmacy bag.
‘I met you the other day when my aunt Jessie and I brought you home?’ I try.
My heart sinks as I see the confusion in her face. She doesn’t recognise me, or Jessie’s name.
‘I’m sorry … I don’t take … who are you? What do you want?’ she says.
‘No, please, it’s all right.’ I’m muddling her, and 208that’s the last thing I want to do. ‘You told me about swimming, about Shakespeare Beach.’
She wracks her brain for the memory, then, when she finds it, suddenly lights up.
‘Polly!’ she cries. ‘Of course! Jessie’s niece! Why didn’t you say so?’
And she invites me in.
The cottage is only slightly cooler than outside. As we edge along the hallway, past the bin bags, I’m certain this old woman is Nellie. I feel it in my bones. It’s not just about the date of birth or the name: it’s the sense I’ve met her before. Not that she looks like younger Nellie: she’s small, bone-thin, with white hair tied back in a tortoiseshell clip. But her voice, the way it goes up at the end, and her eyes – steady, level – are so familiar. It’s as if I’ve known her for years.
‘My legs aren’t what they used to be,’ Mary says. ‘Shall we sit down?’
We go into the sitting room, and amongst the thermal vests and newspapers locate a pair of armchairs. Though the curtains are open, the room is so dim Mary switches on a lamp. I sit on the edge of my chair, trying not to be too eager.
‘I should offer you some tea,’ Mary says. ‘But I haven’t 209seen the kettle since Monday. It’s getting a bit much these days, living here.’
I nod. All I can think is: she’s Nellie! But sharing my time-travel experience might be a bit much straight off, so I keep going with the polite chit-chat.
‘Have you talked to Jessie about moving?’ I ask. ‘She says there are some nice places where you can get the help you need.’
Mary gives me a killer glare. ‘You’re a bold one, aren’t you?’
‘Oh. Umm … Sorry.’ I’ve said the wrong thing. ‘It’s none of my business. Everyone in my family thinks I talk too much when I’d be better keeping quiet.’
‘And I’ve a reputation for being stubborn and set in my ways, so there we are,’ she replies. ‘So …’
‘Polly,’ I remind her.
‘Polly. Are you staying long with your aunt?’
‘I’m going home today because of the storm. My mum’s worried about us – she’s having a baby, or will be in a few months. It’s a bit of a surprise, actually. Jessie thinks there are too many people on the planet already.’
‘Babies, eh? They do complicate things, that’s what my mother used to say.’
‘Did she? Why?’ 210
‘Oh, you know.’ She wafts her hand vaguely. ‘So you’re going home today, eh? By train?’
Grown-ups always like discussing journeys; I’ve no idea why.
‘My dad’s on his way,’ I say. ‘Though our van’s quite old so it’ll probably take him ages to get here.’
‘Where’s he coming from?’
I pause: now this should be interesting.
‘Brighton,’ I tell her. ‘It’s where we live, right on the seafront.’
I watch her reaction: she frowns, mulls it over, taps the arms of the chair with her fingers.
‘I’ve always wanted to go to Brighton,’ she says, with a sad sigh. Then her eyes are back on me. ‘Are you a swimmer?’
‘Not really. I mean, I can stay afloat, but I’m not that good at it.’ I steer the question back to Mary: it’s her I want to know about. ‘Why, are you?’
‘Oh, dear me!’ She laughs. ‘It’s hard to imagine it, isn’t it? But I was a swimmer, yes, a long time ago, and I was quite good at it, as it happens.’
I shut my eyes for a second. Breathe deep. Open my eyes again. She IS Nellie Foster. I’m so happy I want to hug her, but that would probably freak her out.
‘Where did you swim?’ Though I know the 211answer, I’m desperate to keep her talking. ‘In Truthwater Lake?’
Mary rolls her eyes. ‘I expect Jessie’s told you the story, has she?’
Not Jessie, I think. You, Mary, you’ve told me the story.
Mary covers her mouth as she yawns. ‘Excuse me. I’ve had awful trouble sleeping these past few nights.’
‘It’s been really hot.’
‘It’s not the heat. I’ve been waking up, bang on two o’clock in the morning for some reason. It’s very odd.’
It’s not odd to me. I know exactly why she’s been waking up at that time. Unable to hold back any longer, I take the plunge.
‘You’re called Nellie, really, aren’t you? Or you were when you were a girl.’
She blinks. ‘Good gracious! It’s years since anyone’s called me that.’
But she remembers, all right. Encouraged, I keep going.
‘Why did you stop swimming if you were good at it?’ I ask.
Now she looks confused.
‘You were training to swim the English Channel with a boy called Nate, who got picked by the selectors but didn’t want to do it,’ I remind her. 212
‘The Channel? Did I say that?’
‘Lena, then,’ I try instead. ‘She was your best friend, wasn’t she? But then she went back to London with her father.’
I’m saying too much. I’m overwhelming her.
‘Why are you asking me this?’ Mary scowls. ‘Is this some sort of test? Did Jessie send you here to prove I can’t remember things properly?’
‘No, of course she didn’t!’
Mary folds her arms. She’s silent. And so am I, frustrated and worried that I’ve blown my one chance to hear the end of Nellie’s story. As I shift in my seat, something knocks uncomfortably against my hipbone. It’s the old door handle. I’d brought it with me in the hope Mary might remember it. Surely it’s worth a try.
It’s jammed deep in my pocket, but with a tug and a grunt I pull it out.
‘Do you recognise this?’ I ask, holding it towards her.
Mary keeps her eyes on me. She’s not willing to look at what I’m showing her. I wait, trying my best to be patient, holding the handle in my palm until my arm starts to ache. Still, I don’t move. And eventually, her eyes flicker from my face to my hand. It’s the quickest of looks – a swoop. A glance. 213
‘Combe Grange! Oh, sweet heavens!’ she gasps. ‘Where did you get that?’
As she takes it from me, the handle clicks open, and Nellie, smiling, begins to remember.
‘I always regretted not taking this as a keepsake,’ she says. ‘I might be old, but it all still feels like yesterday.’
I don’t ask her anything else. I don’t need to go swimming or time travelling. Nellie Foster is here, alive, sitting in front of me, and what better way to find out what happened than from the person whose story it is. All I have to do now is listen. And for a talker like me that’s challenge enough, but I’m ready for it.