by Paige Toon
‘What’s your dad like?’ I want to know more about his life now. Postcards and rare phone chats don’t cut it.
He takes a deep breath and pauses for thought. ‘He’s cool. He’s a lot younger than your dad, did you know that?’
I shake my head.
‘Mum was only twenty when she had me. She and Dad were the same age. I didn’t realise Mum and your dad had an age gap of fifteen years.’
‘Neither did I.’ I’m startled, to be honest.
‘She was in Australia on a gap year when she met my dad,’ Vian continues. ‘He was doing a stint up the coast, taking tourists out on a sailing boat, and she was a stewardess. They had a holiday fling. She didn’t know she was pregnant until after she’d returned to the UK. Her mum convinced her that she should raise me on her own – I don’t know why – but after my grandma died, Mum changed her mind. She and Dad hadn’t stayed in touch, but Mum hunted him down by ringing the pubs in Port Lincoln where Dad grew up, asking if anyone knew him. Apparently, she only remembered the name of the place after studying the seaside towns in South Australia on a map and trying to jog her memory.’
‘When was this?’ I ask.
‘Not long before we came to live with you.’
I’m lapping up these new facts that put things into perspective, things that I probably wouldn’t have understood when I was younger.
‘Had you always lived in Cornwall?’ I ask.
‘No, we were with my grandma in Somerset, but Mum used to visit Cornwall as a child, and after my grandma died, she rented a room in a B&B for the summer so she could paint. She met your dad at the gardens where he works.’
‘Glendurgan,’ I remind him.
‘That’s right. Mum used to paint there and I was so bored,’ he groans. ‘Your dad would chat to us and try to entertain me. He used to show me butterflies and bugs and stuff while Mum was working.’
‘They got serious so quickly. I wonder how that happened,’ I muse. ‘I mean, I love my dad, but he’s not what I’d call a catch. Mum always used to say he was a bit of a hermit. How did he pull your mum? She was so young and attractive.’
He smiles. ‘I think he used to make her laugh.’
I wrinkle my nose. ‘I wouldn’t exactly describe him as funny.’
‘I don’t know how he did it, but she was very fond of him. He was kind to her – and me – and he loved her, he really did. I don’t remember Mum having a boyfriend or anyone when we lived with Grandma. I don’t remember much of those days at all, apart from Grandma always telling me off,’ he says with a rueful smile.
‘Dad still works at those gardens,’ I say.
‘Does he? I’d like to go back. That maze! You were so annoyed the first time we did it together and I beat you to the middle.’
I crack up laughing, clapping my hand over my mouth to hold in the sound. ‘That’s right!’ I whisper loudly. ‘I was so pissed off! I was intent on beating you – I’d been in that maze more times than I could count and I thought I was such an expert, but you still managed to get to the middle before me!’
We were only five at the time.
He laughs. ‘I can’t even recall how many times I’d done it before you came to Cornwall that summer. Mum was at those gardens every freaking day for what felt like weeks. I could’ve done that maze blindfolded.’
‘Dad’ll be at work again after Christmas,’ I say. ‘We could go then.’
‘Yeah, I’d like that.’ He stares at me, thoughtfully. ‘I’m sad you don’t write about Fudge and Smudge any more.’
‘They were just silly stories.’
‘No, they weren’t. They were good.’
‘Like your artwork was good,’ I reply pointedly.
He rolls his eyes and looks up at the ceiling. ‘Where was that place that had the Fudge and Smudge tree?’
‘I’m not sure where you mean.’
‘It was on a cliff by the ocean, and you could see the river mouth. There was this old gnarled tree that had been split apart by lightning and you said it would make a perfect home for Fudge and Smudge, but then you set it by the river and made it a crab-apple tree so the Spriggens would have something to steal.’
‘You’ve got a good memory!’ I exclaim.
He turns his face towards me. ‘There was this cliff track – we’d gone to have a picnic and our parents stayed on the rug while we went off and explored.’
‘By a cliff edge?’ I ask with alarm. You wouldn’t catch Dad doing that now.
‘You couldn’t get to the edge because it was so dense with blackberry bushes,’ he tells me. ‘I scratched my arm on one and you licked off the blood.’
‘Did I?’
He laughs at the disgusted look on my face. ‘You were only trying to stop it from hurting, trying to make me feel better. You did that sort of thing a lot.’ His eyes are shining. ‘You still do,’ he adds with a sweet smile.
My heart expands inside my chest and I reach across and take both of his hands in mine, squeezing them hard. ‘I love you,’ I whisper.
‘I love you, too,’ he whispers back, and then he slides one arm behind my shoulders and I go to him, sensing that he desires as much as me to feel the kind of closeness we used to have as children.
But as I rest my hand on his chest and feel his heart beating strong and hard against my palm, a surreal feeling settles over me. Out of the blue, I feel wildly uncomfortable.
I hope he doesn’t pick up on my unease as I withdraw and sit up, pretending to yawn. ‘I should probably go back to bed. Do you think you’ll fall asleep again?’ I try to feign normality.
He shrugs. ‘I doubt it. Will you pass me my book? I’ll probably read for a bit.’
I reach for the novel on his bedside table. ‘The Power of One,’ I read aloud. It’s by Bryce Courtenay.
‘My aunt gave it to me before I left. She thought I’d like it.’
‘I forgot you have an aunt.’
‘I have two.’
I shake my head. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t know that.’
‘Lots to catch up on,’ he says.
Indeed.
I don’t know why, but the next morning I feel shy at the prospect of seeing Vian again. There was something about the dark and quietness of the night that had us opening up to each other. Now it’s broad daylight and, with Dad around, I’ve retreated back into my shell. Perhaps it’s the same for Vian, because he doesn’t make eye contact when we meet in the kitchen at breakfast time.
‘What would you like to do today, kids?’ Dad asks.
‘Do you want to go and find that track?’ I glance at Vian before turning to Dad. ‘It’s where the Helford River spills out to the sea,’ I explain. ‘I thought we could go for a walk and then maybe a pub lunch.’
‘What a wonderful idea,’ Dad says with a smile.
That night I bolt awake again. Once more, I get out of bed and creep downstairs, peering out of the hall window. I feel a rush of joy at the sight of light spilling from beneath Vian’s curtains. I hurry across and rap softly on his door and this time he opens it with a wide grin – the best smile I’ve seen on his face all day.
‘Again?’ he asks.
‘Couldn’t sleep,’ I lie, pushing past him and climbing into his bed.
I belatedly realise that he’s only wearing boxer shorts and a T-shirt, so I avert my gaze until he’s lying beside me in the same position as last night.
‘What are your friends like?’ I ask, blinking back tiredness. I went to bed early, but still… Dad said the sea breeze and cliff walk must’ve knackered me out. I don’t have the excuse of jet lag.
We found the track and it was exactly as Vian had described. My memory came flooding back as soon as I saw the Fudge and Smudge tree.
‘What do you want to know?’ Vian replies.
‘How many do you have?’ I’ll start with that.
‘There are about ten of us in our group.’
‘Boys or girls?’
‘Both.’
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nbsp; ‘Who’s your best friend?’
He thinks for a moment. ‘Probably Dave, but I go surfing a lot with Sebastian, too.’
‘Do you have any pictures of them?’
‘Yeah, I brought some with me.’
‘Can I see?’
He climbs out of bed and goes over to his suitcase, rummaging around inside and returning with an envelope of photos. He props up his pillow against the wall and edges closer to me. I do the same, jerking when his bare knee knocks against mine.
He shows me pictures of Port Lincoln, where his dad grew up and where they still live together in a two-bedroom house with a tin roof and a small front garden peppered with dry, scraggly looking weeds. His dad has a black beard and dark-blue eyes and is wearing a brown beanie hat in most of his shots. I recognise him from when he came to take Vian home, five years ago.
I like the look of one of his aunts more than the other, telling Vian that I think Aunty Pam seems a bit stern compared to smiley Aunt Nora. He agrees that she’s not the most fun. They alternated looking after him when he was younger and his dad was out on fishing trips. Since he turned thirteen, he’s been allowed to stay in the house by himself – a fact I find hard to believe, considering how protective Dad is of me.
He even has a grandad, although he’s a bit of a recluse, allegedly, and they only see him once in a blue moon.
‘That’s Herbert,’ Vian says when we come to a photo of the prawn trawler boat and crew. ‘He’s the skipper and he owns the boat. That’s Connor, my fellow deckie. Deckhand,’ he reveals when I glance at him for an explanation. ‘Dad’s the deck boss. There are four of us in total.’ The next two pictures are of him holding up huge fish. ‘That’s a snapper,’ he says. ‘And that’s a flathead.’ The first is red in colour and the second looks a bit like a crocodile. ‘Sometimes we hook up fish, and if they don’t look too happy, we’ll hang onto them and eat them for breakfast or dinner or whatever. They don’t go to waste.’
I come to a shot of a dark-haired boy riding a curling, blue wave. ‘Is this you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What are they?’ I ask with alarm, spying dark shapes in the water.
‘Dolphins.’
‘Oh, wow,’ I breathe. ‘Have you ever seen a shark?’ I’m still staring at the picture. His hair is black and wet and flying out from behind him as his board cuts down through the face of a wave.
‘A fair few bronzies.’
‘Bronzies?’
‘Bronze whalers. It’s rare to be attacked by one. I’ve only seen one Great White.’ He grins. ‘It was a few weeks ago. We’d come in from a surf and this enormous – and I mean enormous – black shadow went by. I don’t know how big it was, but it was gigantic. It probably swam past us while we were in the water.’
‘I don’t want you to go surfing any more,’ I state as cold fingers of fear clutch at my chest.
‘It’s fine,’ he replies dismissively. ‘Sharks are always on your mind, but you just have to keep an eye out and hope one never comes your way hungry.’
The next photo is of a whole group of teenagers sitting on white sand with streaks of green brush and blue sky behind them.
‘That’s at Sheringa Beach,’ he says, ‘one of my favourite places to surf. It’s almost a two-hour drive towards Elliston so sometimes we’ll go and camp out for a few days. That’s Dave,’ he points out. He’s tanned and good-looking with blow-away light-brown hair. ‘And that’s Sebastian.’ He’s broader and darker with a warm, friendly smile. The girls are all, without exception, long-limbed and gorgeous – every one looks like they could have stepped off the set of Home and Away or Neighbours.
‘Do the girls surf, too?’ I ask.
‘Some of them.’
I feel a pang of envy and try not to stare at them for too long.
‘Do you still surf?’ he asks.
‘Not since our one lesson.’
He falls quiet. Presumably he remembers that his mother died the day after we started.
‘Where did we do that lesson?’ he asks, as I realise I’ve come full circle.
‘Poldhu Beach,’ I reply, putting the photos on the bedside table. ‘We used to go boogie boarding there a bit. Do you remember? It’s not far from here – maybe we could go tomorrow.’
‘Sure. What are your friends like?’ he asks. ‘Is Ellie still your best friend?’
‘Yeah.’ I smile at him. I’ve told him about her in my letters.
He rolls on his side to face me. ‘She lives up in the village, right?’
‘Yes.’ Boy, I go into a lot of detail. ‘Do I bore the brains out of you?’
‘No, I like hearing about your life,’ he tells me with a smile.
‘It doesn’t make you sad?’
‘Sometimes.’ Pain washes across his features and he swallows. ‘Which beach did we build the sandcastle at?’
‘Dad and I think it was Kynance,’ I tell him softly, knowing he means the one in his mum’s painting. It was the only piece of him and me, aside from notebooks full of sketches. The other pictures were sold in Ruth’s last exhibition.
‘The beach is practically non-existent when the tide is in,’ I remind him, ‘but when it goes out, you can get around to another whole section of hidden beach. It’s magical. We could go there, too, one day?’
Vian nods and swallows again.
I reach over and hook my little finger through his. This is something else we used to do. Right on cue, he squeezes.
He’s becoming more and more familiar to me with every minute we spend together.
I don’t know how long we lie like that, but when the grey light of dawn creeps into the room from behind the curtains, I decide I’d better get back to my own bed.
‘Have I met your mum?’ Vian asks me on our third night together. We’re in his bed again and it’s almost five in the morning. I might have to set my alarm tomorrow as I’m waking up later and later.
‘I don’t think so, no,’ I reply. ‘She never comes to Cornwall.’
‘How did you used to get here, then, when you’d come for the school holidays?’
‘My nanny brought me – whichever one I had at the time. I went through quite a few.’
He recoils. ‘That’s so weird.’
‘Yeah, I guess my mum was tricky to work for.’
‘Does she still live in France?’
‘No, New York now, with her new husband, Robert. He’s American, but they met in France. Things weren’t working out with her last boyfriend, and they fell head over heels in love, apparently. He’s a boat salesman and was there on business.’
‘What sort of boats?’
‘Wouldn’t have a clue. Big, expensive ones, I think.’
‘Yachts?’
‘Probably. They travel together a fair bit. Mostly around Canada and the US, but sometimes to Europe.’
His expression merges into one of concern. ‘That must make it harder for you to see her, with her being that much further away.’
‘I prefer being here with Dad, anyway.’
‘How did she and your dad meet?’ he asks, seeming to sense that I don’t want to dwell on my relationship with my mother.
‘Dad was doing a stint in London as a landscape designer.’
‘Your dad worked in London?’ He seems surprised.
I understand. It’s kind of hard to imagine my dad being anywhere other than Cornwall.
‘Only for a year or so. A mutual friend introduced them and, when Dad’s mother died, they moved back here to live. I think Mum thought the idea of living in a cottage on the river sounded romantic, but she missed city life. They broke up the year after I was born.’
‘What does she look like? Your mum?’
‘She’s about my height, blonde, slim, beautiful.’
‘Like you, then.’
I laugh. ‘The beautiful part, too?’
‘Yeah, of course you’re beautiful.’
I snort, trying to cover up my self-consciousness.
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nbsp; ‘What colour eyes does she have?’ He chooses to ignore the fact that I’m blushing like crazy.
‘They’re similar to mine. Sort of a pale brown, I guess.’
‘My mum used to describe them differently.’ He inches forward. ‘She said they were like honey. In sunshine!’ he remembers. ‘She was right,’ he adds thoughtfully. ‘They’re exactly the colour of runny honey in sunshine.’
‘Are they?’ My voice wavers. I’m not used to being under such close scrutiny. ‘Do you have your dad’s eyes?’
‘Mm. Everyone reckons I look like him.’
‘You have your mum’s smile, though, and the shape of her face.’ I reach out and trace my finger along his jaw. He inhales sharply and my eyes cut to his lips. A second later they fly up to meet his gaze and suddenly my stomach is awash with butterflies. His stare is intense and the urge to look away is overwhelming, but I can’t seem to break eye contact. My heart is pounding ten to the dozen and then his gaze drops to my lips and I completely freak, scrambling out from under the covers.
Vian sits bolt upright and looks at me with alarm, shaking his head quickly as if to bring himself to his senses. ‘You going back to bed?’ he asks, and his words sound weird, like he’s got a chest full of water.
‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘It’ll be light soon.’
‘Okay! See you in the morning.’
‘Night night!’ I hurry out the door, pulling it shut behind me.
‘Everyone seems very tired today,’ Dad comments aloud the following morning when we’re in the car on our way to Bodmin Jail. The weather is atrocious so we’ve decided to save the beaches for another day.
‘Yeah, I didn’t sleep very well,’ I disclose over the sound of the pounding rain and the windscreen wipers on high speed.
Dad looks across at Vian. ‘Not over your jet lag yet, Van?’
I frown at the sound of his new name.
‘Not yet,’ he replies.
Once more, I’m finding it hard to meet his eyes, so I’ve taken to boring a hole into the back of his head instead.
The next morning, I wake at six a.m., but I don’t get out of bed. There was an odd tension between Vian and me yesterday. Luckily, as Dad was with us, we didn’t have any one-on-one time, but if we had, I’m sure it would have been awkward.