Once I’ve collected Miss Gee’s things, we go back to ours. I’m assuming Joel’s in his room because the door’s closed. This time, I hope he’s unpacked his bag for good. Miss Gee’s in the kitchen with us, pretending not to listen in on our conversation.
‘Megan should’ve just accepted it,’ Sasha admits to me. ‘She didn’t get chosen. End of.’
Miss Gee lowers her book. ‘What is this about choosing?’
I tell her briefly what’s happened.
‘Huh!’ She rolls her eyes dramatically. ‘I had a friend who didn’t get chosen for something she should’ve been picked for. We didn’t get all shirty about it.’
‘What did you do?’ Sasha asks.
‘My dear, we took action to put it right.’ 283
Across the hallway, I notice the door to the sitting room is open. The curtains are closed, and the only light is from a small reading lamp. It takes me a second to realise Joel is in the room. All I can hear is his breathing. He’s wearing his headphones, and dancing. I get up from the kitchen, creeping closer for a better look. Sasha follows.
‘Wow, he’s good, isn’t he?’ she gasps.
He is. He really, truly is. I’ve never seen my brother dance like this. This swaying and swirling, as if he’s not a human at all, but is made of something else entirely, like mist or smoke. I move into the doorway, leaning against the jamb. I can’t take my eyes off him. He twists, spins, reaches his arms up to the ceiling. There’s no denying it – he’s incredible. Of course he should go to dance school. But properly, sensibly, with the scholarship and our parents’ blessing. He doesn’t have to run away.
Miss Gee joins us in the doorway.
‘So that’s what’s been making all the noise up here,’ she says. ‘Sounds like a Clydesdale when you’re in my kitchen.’
‘A what?’ Sasha’s confused.
Perry and Sage, I want to say – they were Clydesdales. I’m surprised Miss Gee knows about working horses: it’s not what you’d call common knowledge. 284
Or maybe I should’ve trusted my hunch last night. Maybe I’m not surprised at all. I’m pretty sure she’s said enough already – about weak chests and India, Brighton and Clydesdales, and not being chosen for things. Still, I’m suddenly nervous.
‘What does the G in your surname stand for?’ I ask her. ‘Is your name Lena, by any chance? Lena Gill?’
Miss Gee’s eyes go very wide. ‘Who wants to know?’
‘Nellie Foster,’ I say.
I’m standing so close I hear the breath catch in her throat.
‘Nellie? What, my Nellie?’ she whispers.
And she does something I’ve not seen Miss Gee do, at least not with me.
She smiles.
*
This, I think, is the ending I’ve been hoping for: secrets revealed, friendships restored, and the heatwave finally broken. Now all we have to do is put Mary and Lena in touch. Neither has the internet, so it takes longer than you’d think. Everything goes via Jessie, who’s still trying to persuade Mary she needs extra support at home. Because of her flooded kitchen, meanwhile, 285Lena has moved to a care home further along the seafront. I’m dying for them to video-call each other or talk online, but when Jessie’s email eventually arrives, she’s taken it one step further. Mary has agreed to come to Brighton, she tells us, to see a lovely sounding care home on the seafront. It also just so happens that Lena is already there.
*
The care home is called Channel View. As it’s a weekend I go with Jessie and Mary to see the available room. Lena is expecting us: we told her last night. It’s only Mary who’s not fully in the picture. If it was up to me I’d have told her too, but Jessie insists that this way’s best, and she’s the nurse.
Inside, the care home smells like the dining hall at school, though it’s far quieter. I’m half expecting Lena to be waiting for us in reception: instead we’re met by a young man, lanyard around his neck, who introduces himself as Sunny.
‘You must be Miss Foster,’ he says to Mary.
Jessie beams at the man. ‘She is, yes, hello.’
‘I can talk,’ Mary tells her, and shuffles closer to Sunny so she can shake his hand. 286
‘They think I’m daft, but I’m as sharp as a tack,’ she informs him.
He laughs. ‘I can tell.’
Sunny suggests taking off our coats and having a cup of tea in the sun lounge, which, he says, opens directly on to the beach.
‘This is amazing!’ I gasp as we walk in. The room is huge and light, and though there are handrails, a ramp, buttons to press for help, the bright cushions, the driftwood art on the walls make it feel cosy.
Then there’s the view.
The glass doors slide back to an area of decking, and beyond that is the shingle, which drops down to the sea. Even with the doors shut you can hear the shushing of the waves, the pebbles rattling.
‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ Jessie whispers to me. ‘Though it won’t be here in twenty years’ time, not with sea levels rising.’
‘Nor will I be,’ says Mary, who hears.
As Sunny goes off in search of tea, there’s still no sign of Lena. I’m getting anxious. Has anyone told her we’re here?
We wait. I fidget in my seat. Jessie chats to Mary about the view. When the door to the lounge swings open, I jump. But it’s only Sunny with a tea tray and biscuits, 287which he leaves with us before slipping out. Jessie gives me a reassuring look.
When he returns again, this time Lena is with him. She’s wearing a lovely paisley shawl and a pair of green velvet slippers. Mary’s still gazing out at the sea.
‘Mary?’ I tap her gently on the arm. She looks first at me, at the teapot, then up at Lena.
For the longest, tensest moment no one moves.
Then Mary gets up without her sticks. One slow step at a time, she makes her way across the carpet to Lena. There’s a look on her face – determined, joyful – that makes me think suddenly of what it felt like to see the coast of France after all that time at sea.
There are tears streaming down Lena’s cheeks and dripping off her chin on to her shawl.
‘What’s the story, morning glory?’ Lena asks, her voice cracking.
Mary doesn’t miss a beat. ‘What’s your tale, nightingale?’
Neither woman moves: they’re too busy staring at each other.
‘I’ve waited a long time to hear you say that again,’ Lena says. ‘What kept you?’
Mary shakes her head. ‘Always bossy.’
‘Always stubborn,’ Lena retorts. 288
Worried this isn’t going to plan, I glance at Jessie. But she’s smiling. As is Sunny. They’ve both got tears in their eyes.
‘I take it you still want to see the room, Miss Foster?’ Sunny asks.
‘Nellie,’ she corrects him. ‘Call me Nellie.’
Lena rushes towards her then, closing the last bit of distance between them. They both start laughing, then crying, then laughing again. They hold each other so tightly their knuckles go white. This, I think, my heart swelling, is their proper ending, though to call it that doesn’t feel right, either, when really it’s another beginning.