Ingo

by Helen Dunmore

  Everyone comes to the memorial service in dark clothes, with sad faces.

  “Oh, Jennie, Jennie dear,” they say, and they put their arms round Mum. Some women kiss me, even though I don’t want them to. Conor stands there frowning, with his arms folded so no one will dare to kiss him. Conor’s angry because everybody’s flocking to the memorial service like sheep, believing that Dad’s dead, even though no one has found his body. Most people think that Conor is being brave for Mum’s sake.

  “You’re the man of the house now, Conor,” says Alice Trewhidden in her creaky old voice. “Your mother’s lucky that she’s got a son to take care of her.” Alice only likes boys, not girls. In fact, girls practically don’t exist in Alice’s eyes.

  “Conor has his own life to live, Alice,” says Granny Carne sharply. I didn’t see Granny Carne arrive, but suddenly she’s there, tall and strong and wild-looking. People fall back a little, to give her room, out of respect. Everyone shows respect to Granny Carne, as if she’s a queen. “Conor has his own choices to make,” Granny Carne goes on. “None of us can make them for him.”

  Grumpy, sharp-tongued Alice Trewhidden says nothing back. She just mumbles under her breath and shuffles off sideways like a crab to find the best seat. She’s not exactly scared of Granny Carne, but she doesn’t want to cross her. Nobody does.

  I’m surprised that Granny Carne has come to the memorial service. I’ve never seen her inside the church before. Everybody else looks surprised too. Heads bob round to look at her as she comes in, and murmurs fly around the cool, echoing space.

  “Look who’s here!”

  “Who?”

  “Granny Carne. Can’t remember the last time we saw her inside the church.”

  “I never seen her inside this church in my life, and that’s going back many years,” mutters Alice Trewhidden.

  Granny Carne doesn’t go far inside today. She stands by the open door at the back, watching and listening. Maybe she hears all the mutters and murmurs, but she takes no notice. She wears her usual shabby old earth-colored clothes, but her poppy-red scarf is the brightest thing in the church.

  Granny Carne is tall and forbidding. People are still pushing their way into the crowded church, and they glance sideways at her as they come in, and a lot of them nod respectfully, just the same way as they nod to the vicar. The thought of Granny Carne being like the vicar makes my lips twitch.

  Granny Carne catches me looking at her. The faintest smile crosses her face. Suddenly I feel a flicker of hope and courage in the dark sadness of the church.

  Who is Granny Carne? Why is she different from everyone else?

  I remember asking Dad that when I was about seven. We were sitting on the beach on a day of flat calm, and Dad was skimming stones on the water with a flick of his wrist. Just Dad and me, on our own. The stones hopped on the silky-smooth water. One jump, two, four, six jumps—

  “Dad, who is Granny Carne? Why do they call her that when she’s not anyone’s real granny?”

  “Some say she’s a witch,” answered Dad.

  “I know,” I said. I’d heard that in the playground. “But there aren’t real witches now, are there?”

  “Who knows?” said Dad. “She has power in her, that’s for sure. If you want to put a label on it, you could call it witchcraft. Or you could call it magic.”

  “Does she do spells, Dad?”

  “Out of a great big spell book, do you mean?”

  “Or she might know them off by heart.”

  “She might. She has Earth magic in her. That’s why she’s so strong, old as she is.”

  “How old is she, Dad?”

  Dad shrugged. “She’s always been as old as she is now. If you ask her how old she is, she’ll say she’s as old as her tongue and a little bit older than her teeth. Maybe she’s been old forever.”

  “Are you scared of her, Dad?”

  “No, I’m not scared. There are two sorts of magic, Sapphy. I’d say that Granny Carne’s magic is mostly benign.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That her magic does good rather than harm. Most of the time.”

  “Not all the time?”

  “Magic’s wild. You can’t put a harness on it or make it do what you want. Even the best magic can be dangerous.”

  I remember being very surprised that Dad talked about magic as if it was a real thing. I knew that most grown-ups didn’t believe it was.

  “Always show respect to Granny Carne, Sapphy,” said Dad. “If you do that, and you don’t cross her, she’ll be a good friend to you. She’s always been a good friend to me. Never whisper about her behind her back, like ignorant people do. You think she doesn’t know, but she does.”

  Benign. Dad thought that Granny Carne’s magic was benign. I didn’t even know what the word meant then, but much later I looked it up in a dictionary. Characterized by goodness, kindness, it said. I thought about good magic and wondered what Granny Carne’s magic was really like.

  And here she is at Dad’s memorial service, dressed in earth colors and red like flame, not in best black, like all the others crowding into the church. Her face is deep brown from wind and sun, and her eyes are yellow amber, like an owl’s.

  Is there such a thing as owl magic? Maybe Granny Carne is really an owl, changed to a human and sailing high above the church and then swooping down on us. Owls are strong and powerful and wise, but they can tear you with their claws. Mostly benign, Dad said. Her owl eyes are piercing and full of light, as if they can see everything you try to hide.

  People have come to the church from miles around, in their dark clothes. Mum and Conor and I sit in the front pew. No one except the vicar can see our faces.

  The choir sings, but no one has a voice as good as Dad’s. I remember what Dad said about wanting to sing in the open air, instead of inside the church, in the choir. If Dad was here, he wouldn’t stay. He’d slip out of the open back door. He’d wink at Granny Carne as he went. I nearly laugh when I think of Dad escaping from his own memorial service, but I stop myself.

  “Oh hear us when we cry to thee

  For those in peril on the sea…”

  They sing this hymn because it’s the hymn for sailors and fishermen, and they believe that Dad has drowned.

  “And ever let us cry to thee

  For those in peril on the sea….”

  Mum doesn’t sing. She stares straight ahead as the song swells louder. Her lips are pressed so tightly together that there’s no color in them. If you didn’t know Mum was sad, you’d think she was furiously angry. She often looks like that since Dad went. It’s such a slow, gloomy, droning hymn. Dad would hate it. He likes music to have life in it.

  I close my eyes and shut my ears to the church hymn. I strain to listen to a different music. Yes, I can almost believe that I hear Dad’s voice:

  “I wish I was away in Ingo

  Far across the briny sea,

  Sailing over deepest waters…”

  Maybe that’s where Dad has gone, sailing over deepest waters. He’s away in Ingo, wherever Ingo is. That’s where we’ll find him. If I can just catch one note of his voice, I’ll be able to follow it. I’ll follow a single thread of his voice, to where Dad is.

  The hymn ends. People cough and rustle as they sit down, cramming themselves into the tight pews. Fat Bridget Demelza is spilling over the edge of the pew and into the aisle. I turn to Conor and whisper, “We’ll find him, won’t we, Conor?”

  “Yes,” whispers back Conor. “Don’t worry, Saph. Let them get on with their memorial service if it makes them happy. It doesn’t mean Dad’s dead. I know we’ll find him.”

  We’ll find Dad in Ingo, I tell myself. In Ingo, however long it takes. We’ll find Dad, however hard it is.

  No, I am not going to cry. I tip my head back, so the tears that are swelling in my eyes will not fall. They run down the back of my throat and into my mouth, tasting of salt. I swallow them. Dad’s still alive. He wouldn’t want me to cry.r />
  CHAPTER THREE

  IT SEEMS LIKE A HUNDRED years since the day of Dad’s disappearance. But really it’s a year and a month and a day. Three hundred and ninety-six days.

  Sometimes when I first wake up, I don’t remember. I think I can hear Dad downstairs or in the bathroom. Everything’s normal. And then it sweeps over me like a dark cloud.

  In the daytime I make myself forget. It doesn’t always work, even when I’m doing things I love, like swimming or eating chocolate cake or designing stuff on the school computers. The thought of Dad is always in my mind somewhere, like a bruise. It’s the same for Conor. We don’t talk about Dad in front of Mum, because she gets upset. We hate her getting upset. She’s a lot better than she was. She eats proper meals now, and she doesn’t get up in the night and drink cups of tea and walk about downstairs for hours.

  We never, ever tell Mum that we think one day we’ll find Dad again. She wouldn’t believe us anyway.

  I used to run to the phone every time it rang.

  Yes? Hello? Who is it?

  Each time it wasn’t Dad’s voice, I felt as if all the lights had been switched off. When the postman came, I’d try to get to the door first and grab the letters with my heart pounding. But it was never Dad’s handwriting on the envelopes. Even when somebody knocked at the door, my hopes would spring up again. But why would Dad knock at the door of his own house?

  I don’t do those things anymore. The phone ringing is just the phone ringing, the postman’s probably bringing another bill, and a knock on the door means a neighbor.

  You know how the sea grinds down stones into sand, over years and years and years? Nobody ever sees it, it happens so slowly. And then at last the sand is so fine you can sift it in your fingers. Losing Dad is like being worn away by a force that’s so powerful nothing could resist it. We are like stones, being changed into something completely different.

  If you looked casually at me and Mum and Conor now, you might think we were the same people we were a year ago, except that we’re a year older. But we are not the same people. We’ve changed where no one can see it, inside our minds and our feelings. I didn’t want us to change, but I can’t stop it.

  “Where’s Conor? Have you seen him?” Mum’s rushing round, getting ready for work. She’s always rushing these days, but at least that means that she never just sits, staring into space.

  Mum’s on the evening shift this week at the restaurant where she works in St. Pirans. She leaves at four, and she’ll be back after midnight.

  Mum stops in front of the living-room mirror to pin up her hair and put on her lipstick. She never used to wear lipstick every day.

  “Sapphire! Are you listening to me?” Mum snaps. I jump. Mum snaps quite a lot these days. She doesn’t mean it; it’s because she’s always tired. She works in one of the expensive new restaurants down by the harbor. The tips are good, but the hours are long in the summer season. Mum got a twenty-pound note from one party last week. Twenty pounds! Imagine having so much money you can give away a twenty-pound tip on top of paying for your meal. But then there are also mean people, who spend a hundred pounds on one dinner and think a pound tip is enough—

  “Sapphire! Will you please stop daydreaming!”

  “Sorry, Mum.”

  “For the third time, where’s Conor?”

  “Gone up to Jack’s.” I have no idea where Conor is, but I want Mum to go off to work happy.

  “I told him to be back by three,” says Mum. “I don’t like leaving you here on your own, Sapphy. Yes, I know you’ll be all right, but I feel safer if Conor’s here. Oh, dear, these school holidays, they go on forever.”

  “But they’ve only just started, Mum!”

  “It’s all right for the teachers. They get the whole holiday off work, to be with their own kids. They don’t have to go to work all summer and worry themselves half to death about leaving their children on their own—”

  “Mum, we’re not little kids. We’re really sensible, and anyway, Conor’ll be back in a minute. But Mum, I wouldn’t ever be on my own if we had a dog—”

  “Sapphire, please don’t start that dog business again. Oh, no, now I’ve messed up my lipstick.”

  “I think you look nicer without lipstick.”

  “The customers don’t,” mumbles Mum as she wipes off the smudged lipstick and puts on more. “Look at the rings under my eyes, Sapphy. I need a bit of color. Now, if Conor’s not back by five, call me on my mobile.”

  It is so unfair. Jack’s got three dogs, and we haven’t even got one. His mum said we could have Sadie, my favorite puppy, the one with the folding-down ear, but Mum wouldn’t let us. We kept telling Mum we’d look after Sadie and take her for walks and do everything, but Mum said what would happen when she was at work and we were at school?

  Sadie is so beautiful. She’s over a year old now, but Jack’s family hasn’t sold her to anyone else. Her coat is pale biscuity gold, and she has huge, soft brown eyes that look at you as if she knows all about you. And she understands when you tell her things. I take Sadie out for walks whenever I can. It’s a little bit like having a dog of my own when I’m out with her. She comes to heel immediately when I say, “Heel, Sadie!” People who go past in cars probably do think she’s my dog.

  Sadie is so very affectionate, but she’s not clingy. In fact, she has a perfect character. She always gets so excited when she sees me. Dogs can tell if you really love them. If Jack’s mum and dad ever sold Sadie to someone else, I don’t think she’d be happy. I know she’d miss me as much as I’d miss her—

  “Sapphire, listen,” says Mum. “There’s a pepperoni pizza in the freezer, and Mary’s lettuce, and those spring onions.”

  I nod. I hate spring onions. Why does anyone bother to grow them?

  “You’ll be all right, won’t you?” says Mum, frowning anxiously. She hates leaving me alone, and she’ll worry about it while she’s at work. She’s got to work, because we need the money. Dad didn’t have any life insurance.

  I hate Mum worrying.

  “Mum, we’ll be fine.”

  Mum gives me a quick rushing-out-of-the-door kiss, and she’s gone. I listen to the car starting, then Mum toots the horn, and I remember I’ve got to open the gate at the end of the track for her. I run outside, untie the orange twine from the gatepost, and swing the gate wide. Mum accelerates through, waving at me with a bright smile that doesn’t fool me for a second.

  Back into the cottage. It’s too warm inside, and so I leave the door open. I wonder where Conor is.

  He’ll be up at Jack’s, on Jack’s computer or playing with the dogs.

  But Conor usually tells me where he’s going. He doesn’t just disappear.

  No. Don’t think about that word. I’ll make our tea. We’ll have it early, and then we can watch loads of TV. I get out the pizza and put it on a baking sheet. I wash Mary’s lettuce, shake it dry, and carefully cut the roots off the spring onions for Conor. We haven’t grown any vegetables ourselves this year. Dad did all the gardening, and usually he grew everything: onions and potatoes and beans and peas and carrots and our salad stuff. I used to help him. But now our garden is tangled and overgrown and weedy, and I don’t know where to start clearing it. Dad would hate the way it looks.

  But then I remember something. Deep in the weeds there are three gooseberry bushes. I wonder if any of the gooseberries are ripe yet.

  They are. They are fat and juicy, and when I hold them up to the light, I can see the dark seeds inside the yellow skin. I run into the kitchen, get the colander, and start picking. We’ll have gooseberries with sugar and cream. There’s half a carton of clotted cream in the fridge, which Mum brought back from work yesterday.

  I pick and pick. Brambles scratch my legs, and gooseberry thorns jab at my hands, but I don’t mind. I’ve got nearly a whole colander full now. There’ll be plenty for tomorrow as well, so Mum will be pleased. Conor’s going to love them—

  Conor. Where is he? Worry stabs through
me again. I look at my watch, and it’s twenty-five past five. Mum said to call her if he wasn’t back by five, but I can’t do that. She’d be so scared. She might have an accident from driving back here too fast. And she’d lose a whole night’s pay.

  I look around. Everything’s still. Way in the distance I can see Alice Trewhidden watering the geraniums by her front door. Even from a distance you can see the crabbed way that Alice moves. She has to peer up close at things before she can see them. No good asking her if she’s seen Conor.

  I could ask Mary.

  No, I won’t. Conor hasn’t disappeared. He’s late back, that’s all. If I ask Mary, it will make Conor’s absence seem serious, like the night when Dad—

  No. Don’t think about it. I never, ever want to visit that awful night again.

  I could phone Jack’s house. Maybe a bit later. But what if his mum answers and says, No, Conor’s not been up here today. Is everything all right, Sapphire?

  I go back inside and put the colander of gooseberries on the kitchen table. I’ll top and tail them later.

  The cottage seems quieter than ever. I can’t settle anywhere. I turn the TV on and then quickly turn it off, in case it stops me hearing Conor’s bike. Suddenly I think that maybe Conor is up in his bedroom, asleep.

  “Conor?” I call. “Conor?”

  Maybe he can’t hear me because he’s got the duvet over his head. I run up to my room and climb the loft ladder to Conor’s room, almost sure by now that he’ll be curled up under the duvet.

  The bed is empty. The duvet is on the floor. I wonder if he’s left me a note on his pillow, the way people do in books, but of course he hasn’t. I end up searching all round the loft, as if Conor might have left a clue somewhere. I even bend down to peer out of the little window that Dad made. I remember him making it, after he boarded the loft for Conor. He let me sit on the floor and watch and pass his tools to him—