Ingo

by Helen Dunmore

  “When you came down to the cove to find me the other day, and you said that I’d been away for seven hours, and it was already evening, I didn’t believe you at first. I thought you were making it up to scare me. But then I saw the sun going down in the west.

  “And then the very first time you went into Ingo, you were gone for nearly a day and a night. That’s how strong Ingo time was for you. But how long did you think you were away, Saph? I mean, while you were down there? What did it feel like?”

  I try to remember, but it’s not easy. What did I do in Ingo? Faro and I talked. We dived and swam. We surfed some currents; we saw a shark and jellyfish and spider crabs.

  But we didn’t eat, or drink, or sleep. And I’ve never in my life got through more than two or three waking hours without eating or drinking.

  “I don’t know. When I was there, time seemed to slip away.”

  “That’s what’s so scary,” says Conor. “If you go to Ingo again, how long do you think you’ll be there? How much of our human time will it eat up? It could be days. Weeks. Or even longer.”

  “That’s stupid, Conor. It can’t be like that. You’re making it sound like that story about Rip Van Winkle. You know, when Rip Van Winkle comes back and a hundred years have passed or something, and his family and friends are dead. That’s not going to happen. I won’t ever stay away that long. I’ll come back when I want to.”

  “But you won’t know how long it is! That’s the point. You’ll forget about our human time again once you’re in Ingo. You’ll want to forget. Look how strongly Ingo’s calling you now. You think I don’t know? You should have seen your face when you were looking into the mirror. But I couldn’t hear anything. You’re already much deeper into Ingo than I am, Saph. After only one visit. You’re changing. You don’t understand what Ingo’s doing to you—”

  “That’s not true! You’re the one that’s in deep, Conor. You’ve been there lots of times, and Elvira takes you everywhere. Faro told me.”

  But Conor shakes his head. “No. We don’t go deep. Elvira gets angry with me, because she says I can’t get the Air out of my head even when I’m in Ingo. She keeps saying I’m too human. Getting in deep means living in Ingo time, not ours. But you slipped into it straightaway. Why? And it’s you they’re calling for, not me. What if next time you’re away for weeks—or months? You’ve got to think about it, Saph. That’s why I’m scared.”

  Weeks—or months. The words chime deep inside me, like a bell. Gone for months without a trace, and no one would know where—

  “Like Dad,” whispers Conor.

  “You mean you think that’s what happened to Dad?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you ask Elvira?”

  “No. I couldn’t ask her that.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’d get angry. Would you ask Faro? When you were deep in Ingo and you didn’t know the way back? Would you want to make him angry? I mean, down there, we depend on them. They’re powerful. We can’t survive on our own.”

  I think about it for a while. A shiver goes over my mind.

  “Would you ask Faro?” Conor repeats.

  “Maybe not.”

  “They’re not human,” whispers Conor, as if someone might hear us, even inside my room with the window shut. “You’ve got to remember that. I keep thinking that Elvira’s—well, you know, that she’s just a girl, but then suddenly something happens—she does something or says something—and then I remember.”

  “What sort of thing do you mean?”

  “Well, once Elvira talked about someone drowning. A surfer, up at Gwithian. And I remembered it happening because everyone talked about it at school. But Elvira heard about it from one of her friends, who’d seen it happen. One of the Mer, I mean. The way Elvira described it made me feel strange. It was a bit the way we’d talk about a horse dying. We’d be sorry, we wouldn’t like it, but we wouldn’t care in the way we care about—about people. And then I thought, no, of course she doesn’t care about the surfer the way we do. When that surfer drowned, it was important, even though we didn’t know him. We’ve all been surfing up there; it could have happened to any of us. But it couldn’t happen to Elvira, and so she’s not—she’s not connected to it the way we are.”

  “Faro said they try to help people when they’re drowning. They call and call to them.”

  “Yes, but what do they call? Are they calling to save them or to—”

  “To what?”

  “You know. To pull them in deeper. You’ve got to remember they’re not human. It’s so easy to forget.

  “And they don’t want us to take too much knowledge of Ingo back into the Air. We might be a danger to them. Or they think we might be. And if they thought we were a danger, I’m not sure what they’d do.”

  “But Con, they’re our friends! Faro and Elvira are our friends, I know they are—”

  “But all their calling doesn’t save people, does it? They drown.”

  “That’s not their fault—”

  “These sausages won’t be fit to eat by the time you two get down the stairs!” yells Mum.

  I love sausages, but these don’t taste too good. Maybe they’re overcooked. I cut them up and push the bits under my knife and fork to make it look as if I’ve eaten more than I have. Mum hates it when we don’t eat our food. But she doesn’t seem angry this time. She looks worried.

  “Have some bread then, Sapphy, if you don’t want the sausages. It’s not like you not to be hungry.”

  But the bread tastes funny too. Much too dry and chalky—it’s as if I’m trying to swallow earth.

  “Have a drink of water with it,” says Mum. “Here you are.”

  She passes me a fresh glass of water, and I start to drink. But even the water doesn’t taste good. There’s something missing.

  Without knowing that I’m going to do it, I reach out to the saltcellar and tip a white stream of salt into my hand. I lick the tip of the index finger on my other hand and dip it in the salt. Then I taste it. It tastes so delicious that I dip my finger again. Salt. That’s what I need. No wonder the food didn’t taste good, and the water was all wrong. It needs salt.

  “Sapphire, for heaven’s sake, what are you doing putting salt in your water?”

  I drink down a long, refreshing gulp.

  “You can’t drink salt water! It’s bad for you!”

  Mum snatches my glass away. Never mind, I’ll make some more when she’s not looking.

  “Mum, what are those little brown fish called that you get on pizzas?”

  “Anchovies.”

  “Have we got any?”

  “You wouldn’t like them, Sapphy. One or two on top of a pizza taste all right, but they’re much too salty to eat on their own.”

  “But have we got any?”

  “I might have a tin in the cupboard somewhere. Now please, try and finish at least one of those sausages. You haven’t eaten anything.”

  Conor is watching me. Mum’s watching me. I cut up one of the sausages into small pieces and try to chew it.

  “I can’t, Mum. It tastes awful.”

  “Oh, dear, you are ill. You’re so pale. Maybe you’ve got a stomach bug. But I’ve got to go to work tonight—there’s no one to take over my shift. Maybe I could ask Mary to come in and keep an eye on you again—”

  “I’m not ill. I’m fine, Mum. I just don’t want to eat these sausages.”

  “Saph, cool it,” says Conor warningly. I make a huge effort and swallow the hot, angry words that are rising in my mouth. Of course Mum’s got to go to work, but I don’t want Mary here to keep an eye on me. I’m not a baby. I don’t want Conor spying on me either. Everyone’s trying to stop me from doing what I want to do.

  Mum goes to the sink to start washing the dishes. Normally I do it in the mornings, and Conor washes up in the evenings. Mum’s tired. She works so hard. I’ll get up in a minute and dry the dishes. Mum ought to be sitting down with a cup of tea.

&nbs
p; I watch Mum’s back as she scrubs out the frying pan. Everything seems different suddenly: safe. This is my home, the same as it’s always been. Mum’s radio is on as usual, Mum’s wearing her old jeans and a white T-shirt, and she’s got her hair pulled back in a ponytail. That means she’s not going to work until later.

  I’m in the kitchen, having a late—well, very late—breakfast with my mum and my brother during a normal school holiday. Maybe I am hungry, after all. I don’t want the sausages, but maybe a handful of salt crackers. I’ll make a mug of tea for myself as well as one for Mum. When she’s finished the dishes, she’ll sit down opposite me at the kitchen table and drink her tea and tell me funny stories about last night’s customers. What they said, and how much they drank, and how much money she made in tips. I love hearing about the weird things that customers do in the restaurant. A customer even snapped his fingers to call Mum over once, but Mum just said to him, “Have you lost your dog?”

  “Mum,” I begin, but just then Mum turns the cold tap full on, and the gush of the water hides my voice from her.

  And at that same moment I hear it again. A sweet sound, sweet but sharp, like a knife that can cut deep inside you. It’s like the sound I heard in the mirror, but this time it’s shaping itself into words. The song grows louder and louder, and the comfort of Mum’s presence fades like a dream, until she doesn’t seem important at all.

  I wish I was away in Ingo

  Far across the briny sea,

  Sailing over deepest waters

  Where love nor care never trouble me….

  “Saph, what is it?” whispers Conor urgently. “What can you hear?”

  “Listen, Conor. Can’t you hear them?”

  Conor listens. I wait for the sound to fill his ears as it’s filling mine. I watch his searching, suspicious expression. I can tell that he can’t hear a thing.

  I wish I was away in Ingo…

  “Conor, can you really not hear it?” I feel frightened, as if Conor and Mum are far away and I’m alone. The words are for me. Only for me, not for Mum or Conor. Conor can’t hear anything, and Mum goes on calmly doing the dishes.

  “Don’t listen to them, Saph,” whispers Con. “Close your ears. If you ignore them, they’ll go away.”

  He thinks it’s Faro calling me, and maybe Elvira, but I know it’s not them. These are the words Dad used to sing. But he is not the singer. Even Dad, my dad with his fine voice, couldn’t sing so sweetly. The sweetness draws me like a magnet, out of my chair, across the kitchen, through the open door, away from everything I know and into another world—

  But Conor’s following me. “Where are you going, Saph?”

  “I’ve got to go, Con. They want me to come. They want me to come now.”

  “You mean Faro and Elvira?”

  “No, not them,” I say. I feel as if I’m speaking in a dream. I can hardly hear my own voice, and Conor’s is thin and distant. “They’re Mer voices; that’s all I know. They’re trying to tell me something—I’ve got to go there again. They want me—”

  “I’m not going to let you, Saph,” says Conor. He stands in front of me and spreads his arms wide. “You’re staying here. I’m not going to lose you as well as Dad.”

  I can easily get past him. I’ve got Mer strength in me now. I could walk straight through Conor, as if he were mist instead of flesh and blood. But Conor’s gaze is fixed on my face, holding me back.

  “I’m not going to let you go, Saph,” he repeats, and this time his voice is stronger.

  “I’m sorry, Conor. You have to let me go. I know I can find Dad.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s there. You were right. He’s away in Ingo.”

  “Don’t you understand, Saph? They’re trying to make you think that! They want you to think you’re following Dad! That’s what this is all about.” Conor’s eyes blaze. “And then I won’t have a sister either. And Mum’ll lose you as well as Dad. Can’t you think of us? Can’t you think of anything except Ingo, Ingo, Ingo?”

  “I just want to find Dad, that’s all.”

  “What’s the good of trying to find Dad if we end up losing you as well as him? It’s dangerous. You know it is.”

  “We swore, Conor. We swore and promised. This is our chance. Maybe the only one we’ll have.”

  “All right then,” says Conor at last. “You win. I can’t watch you all the time. I can’t beat you and Ingo. But you’re not going alone. I’m coming with you.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “MUM, WE’RE GOING out for a bit,” Conor calls back casually through the open kitchen door. Usually Mum would shout, “Okay, see you later. Stay together,” but today she comes to the door, wiping her hands on a towel and frowning.

  “But Sapphy’s not well,” she says. “Don’t you want to stay at home with me, Saph?”

  “I’m fine, Mum! I’m okay now, really,” I say as brightly as I can. Mum looks puzzled and a bit disappointed.

  “Come here, love. Let me have a look at you.”

  Conor drifts away across the garden. I know he’ll wait for me. Mum puts her hands on my shoulders. She smells of the rose perfume she only wears on special days. Why is today a special day? Maybe she’s going to meet Roger, I think. I frown at Mum and try to pull away from her.

  “What’s the matter? Sapphire, look at me,” says Mum, gripping me tight as if she thinks I’m going to run away.

  Slowly, I lift my head. Mum’s eyes, close up, search my face. For once we’re really looking at each other. We’re always rushing around these days. Mum’s off to work, Conor and I are off to school, or else we’re going out somewhere, or there are loads of jobs to do. Mum worries about our clothes and our schoolwork and the house and money and everything. Sometimes it feels as if she hardly sees us. All she sees are her worries about us.

  I know it’s not Mum’s fault. She’s only one person, trying to do everything that two people used to do. She’s got to earn the money and look after us and keep the house. Even though we help as much as we can, she’s always rushing.

  We don’t even have our meals together very often, because Mum’s at work nearly every evening and often in the day as well. Mum tells us where she’ll be and what time she’ll be back and what time we’ve got to be in by, and she leaves lots of notes, and we have her mobile number. But it’s a different family from the one we used to have, and sometimes it’s not much like a family at all.

  We’re just three people who live in the same house, I think. We’re not a proper family anymore.

  I look down, in case Mum sees the thoughts in my eyes. She’d be so upset. She’d think I’m blaming her for working all the time and that I don’t understand that she has to earn the money, because Dad’s gone.

  If only I could tell Mum how strange the days are when she’s gone off to St. Pirans to work, and I know she won’t be back until midnight. The days are long, and there’s no shape to them. Mum gone, Dad gone, the house quiet. Sometimes I go down to the kitchen at night, when Conor’s gone to sleep and I can’t. If Mum was at home, she’d come up with a glass of water for me and sit on the side of my bed and say, Don’t worry, Sapphy. Just relax, and you’ll soon drop off. But when Mum’s not here, I can’t make myself stop worrying.

  I listen to the fridge purring. Every so often it gives a click and stops. I wait for it to start purring again, and when it does, I feel glad, as if the fridge is a friend—which is so completely pathetic that I could never in a million years say that thought aloud to anyone. Certainly not to Mum.

  Visitors say that where we live is like paradise. They pay a fortune to come here on holiday. They say we don’t know how lucky we are to live here all the time. This is the best summer we’ve had for years; everyone says so. It’s hot and dry, and there’s sunshine day after day after day. The road edges are brown from the heat. Mum says St. Pirans is jam-packed with tourists. The restaurant is full every night; that’s why she gets back so late.

  If only I could expla
in to Mum how empty the days are. How scared I get when Conor wants to go out without me, even if it’s only up to Jack’s for an hour. He always asks if I’ll be okay, and I always say, “I’ll be fine. I’m going to watch TV.” Mum thinks I go and see Katie or one of my other friends, but I don’t. I feel cut off from them, because their lives are going on the same as ever, but mine has completely changed.

  It’s all right as long as Conor’s here. When he’s at Jack’s, he’s not that far away. I could get on my bike and find him if I had to. But when he went away to Ingo without me, I was so afraid, I thought I would die.

  I won’t stay here on my own, being scared. I won’t be the one who is left behind. I’ll leave before Conor does this time. I’ll go far away, where I won’t need any of them.

  “You’re all right, Sapphy, aren’t you? You’d tell me if anything was wrong, wouldn’t you?” Mum asks. She smooths down my hair. “This hair’s like a tangle of seaweed. We need to brush it out,” she says.

  “Can you do a henna wax on it, Mum?”

  “I’m sorry, Saph. There isn’t time today.”

  I love it when Mum does a henna wax on my hair. It takes a long time. She washes my hair first and dries it a little; then she massages henna wax all over my hair, and she wraps my head in a hot towel, and we sit and chat for half an hour so that the henna has time to work. The henna’s not colored; it’s just to make your hair soft and shiny again after you’ve been swimming in the sea every day.

  “Maybe you should have your hair cut. It’d be easier to keep it in good condition if it was short.”

  “No, Mum!”

  “All right, all right. But if you want it long, you’ve got to look after it. Some of these knots are so bad, they’ll need to be cut out soon. And look how long it’s getting. It’s below your waist.”