Ingo

by Helen Dunmore

  I’m growing it.

  Mum lets my hair fall. She looks at her watch.

  “I’m sorry, Sapphy. I’ve got to—”

  You’ve got to go. I know. But I don’t say it. I want to keep the soft look on Mum’s face.

  “Will you do my hair on your day off, Mum?”

  “Mm, maybe, Sapphy, we’ll have to see—”

  I forgot. On Mum’s day off, on Sunday, Roger is coming. Maybe that’s why Mum’s got to go now. Maybe she’s meeting Roger before work, and that’s why she’s wearing the rose perfume.

  “Conor’s waiting for me, Mum. Got to go,” I say, pulling away from her. But again she holds me tight. She strokes her hand over my rough, tangly hair again.

  “Your hair,” she says. “I really ought to do it,” and she glances again at her watch. “Come on, Sapphy, we’ve just got time.”

  But I don’t want Mum doing my hair in a big rush, glancing at her watch. I like it when we’ve got loads of time, and we sit and chat. Henna hair waxes are one of the best things I do with Mum, just the two of us.

  But not now, not while she’s really wanting to be in St. Pirans, with Roger. I draw myself out of Mum’s grasp.

  “We’ll do it another time, when you’re not so busy,” I say. For some reason Mum’s eyes go shiny, as if she’s about to cry. I’m so alarmed by this that I gabble, “Got to go, Mum, see you later, have a good day,” and turn and run across the garden, so that for once it’s Mum who is left standing at the door, watching me go.

  “You didn’t tell her anything, did you?” asks Conor.

  “No.”

  “Make sure you don’t, Saph. Mum’s got enough to worry about. Besides, she’d think we were crazy. No one is going to believe any of this stuff.”

  Our shoes scuff up dust and pebbles as we run. The pebbles rattle, and that’s when I realize what the sound is that I’m not hearing. There’s no sweet sound anymore, no singing voice. There’s no pull from the sea either. When did it stop? Was it while Mum was talking to me? There’s no hurry anymore, no pressure. Conor and I might go down to the cove, or we might not.

  As we come round the corner of the track, between the tall granite hedges, we see someone standing in the middle of the track. It’s Granny Carne.

  “What’s she doing down here?” mutters Conor. And it’s true that you don’t often see Granny Carne so close to the sea. She belongs up on the Downs, in her cottage near where the Midsummer bonfire’s built. Her cottage is half buried in the side of the Downs. Half buried, or maybe half growing out of the earth. That’s why her Earth magic is strong, maybe, because she lives so close to it.

  “I don’t know,” I answer. I feel uneasy. Granny Carne’s eyes always make me feel as if she knows things about me that I don’t even know myself.

  Granny Carne stands waiting for us to come up to her. She is tall and straight and full of dignity, like a tree growing from deep earth.

  “How’s your mother?” Granny Carne asks. Her amber gaze sweeps over our faces.

  “She’s all right,” says Conor.

  “Is she? Let’s see, it’s more than a year since Mathew went now.”

  The way she says Dad’s name reminds me that Granny Carne was his friend. Dad knew—Dad has known Granny Carne ever since he was a boy. He used to say she always seemed just as old as she is now. Granny Carne doesn’t change like other people change.

  “My dad drowned,” says Conor abruptly. “That’s what they say.”

  “But they never found him,” says Granny Carne. “Strange. A drowned man usually washes up somewhere, no matter if it takes weeks or months. Do you think your father drowned, Sapphire?”

  “I don’t know, I—”

  I don’t know what to say, but strangely, I don’t mind Granny Carne’s questions. They’re not like some people’s questions about Dad, which drip with rumor and inquisitiveness. Granny Carne is asking for a reason. Conor draws close to her, as if he wants to ask her for help.

  Granny Carne’s called “Granny,” but she has no grandchildren. I don’t think she ever had children. She lives her wild life alone. She’s always lived in her cottage under the Downs. Sometimes people go there, when they need help. They go secretly. They don’t even tell their friends or their families. They knock on Granny Carne’s door and wait for her to answer. People say Granny Carne has the power to know the future, and sometimes she can look into your future for you. I don’t know how she does it or what it’s like. It sounds scary to me.

  Dad once told me most people round here have been up to Granny Carne’s at some time. When they had need of her.

  “What kind of need, Dad?”

  “To help you make a decision, maybe. To resolve a question that’s troubling you. To see beyond the present.”

  “How can anyone see beyond the present?”

  “They say she can,” said Dad. I had the feeling he was hiding something from me.

  “Have you ever been to see her, Dad?”

  “I’m always seeing her.”

  “You know what I mean. To ask her about the future, like you said.”

  “I did once.”

  “What was it about, Dad?”

  “Well, it was about that dummy you still had when you were nearly three years old, Sapphire. I wanted to know if you would ever give it up, or if you would be taking it to school with you along with your packed lunch.”

  “Dad!” It was so annoying. But he wouldn’t tell me any more, no matter how much I asked.

  “Mathew knows this coast like the back of his hand,” says Granny Carne. “And the sea was flat that night he disappeared.”

  She said Mathew knows. Not Mathew knew. That means for Granny Carne, Dad is still in the present tense. Just as he is for me and Conor. And if you’re in the present tense, then that means you must be alive. If Granny Carne really can see into the future, maybe she knows he’s alive. Maybe she can see that Dad’s going to come back.

  “So where is he if he didn’t drown?” asks Conor.

  “He’s away somewhere, I believe.”

  “Away in Ingo,” I say immediately, without knowing that I was going to say it. Granny Carne’s amber eyes flash on me. I feel like a mouse or a vole when the eyes of a hunting owl light on it.

  “Ingo,” she says. “In Ingo, you say? It’s strange you should say that, Sapphire, because when I saw you coming down the lane, I thought you had a look of Ingo on your face. There’s a bit of it on Conor’s face too, but not as strong as on you.”

  She knows, I thought. How can she know? How much does she know?

  “What’s Ingo?” I ask her.

  “I think you know that,” says Granny Carne. Now I feel like a vole when the owl’s rushing down toward it, talons spread. “Ingo’s a place that has many names,” says Granny Carne. “You can call it Mer, Mare, or Meor. And it has its own Morveren name, but we don’t say that name, not while we’ve got our feet planted on the earth. Earth and Ingo don’t mix, even though we live side by side. Earth and Ingo aren’t always friends. Do you know the old name of Ingo, Sapphire? The old Morveren name?” Granny Carne asks the question casually, but now the owl is so close, I can hear the rush of her wings. She really wants to know how much I know. But what would it mean, if I did know the Morveren name?

  “No,” I say, reluctantly, because now I wish I did know it. I wish I was truly part of Ingo and knew everything about it.

  “But you know who the Morveren are?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “Ah.”

  I think she’s pleased that I don’t know. Suddenly her eyes lose their fierce, owllike glitter, and she’s an old woman again. Granny Carne turns, pulls a bramble out of the hedge, and gives me a plump, shiny blackberry. Even from the look of it you can tell it’s warm and ripe. But surely it’s too early for blackberries to be ripe; it’s only the end of July. I walked up the lane yesterday, and I didn’t see any.

  “You have that one, Sapphire, and I’ll find another for Conor.”
She searches the hedge and brings out another ripe berry. I hold my blackberry. I want to eat it, but at the same time I don’t.

  “Eat it, Sapphire,” says Granny Carne. I put the blackberry into my mouth. It tastes of earth and sunshine and spicy fruit. It reminds me of fields, woods, the farm, the puppies, Mum cooking apple and blackberry pie, autumn, woodsmoke, lighting the fire, kicking through fallen leaves with Conor when we were little….

  “There’ll be plenty of fruit this year, with all the sun we’ve had,” says Granny Carne. “Now, Conor, tell me. Were you thinking of swimming today down at the cove?”

  “Maybe,” says Conor. It doesn’t sound rude. He smiles across at her, and I think that Conor and Granny Carne look a bit alike. Both of them have strong brown skins that love the sun and shiny dark eyes.

  “I wouldn’t go today,” says Granny Carne. “There’s a strong current running. You might be able to swim against it, but not Sapphire. It would carry her away. She should keep inland today.”

  “But I want to go,” I say.

  “I know you do. Believe me, Sapphire, I know how much you want to go. I can feel it in you.” Granny Carne reaches forward and grasps my wrist. Her hand is strong and warm. “I can feel it running in you. But we lost the first Mathew…and then your father…and now who knows what’s going to happen? The story’s not ended yet. There’s a pattern, and it’s got to work itself out. Ingo’s growing strong. We’ll have fish from the sea swimming up the stream to my cottage next. But that’s not right. If Ingo breaks its bounds, then Earth will break its bounds. Ingo should stay in its place, and then I can stay in mine.”

  She stands tall and stern. Her voice is a voice I have never heard from her before. Deep and powerful and not caring about anything but saying what it wants to say.

  If Ingo breaks its bounds. I don’t understand what she means. The sea comes in to the high-tide mark, but no farther. The cove fills with water, and then it empties again. That’s what has always happened, so how can it change?

  Granny Carne is standing between me and the sea. She’s stopping me from getting to it. She’s planted in my way like a tree or a rock. Suddenly I’m sure that if I can only get to the other side of Granny Carne, I’ll hear the sea singing again. Her body is blocking out the music of Ingo. I know it, and she knows it too. She’s standing there on purpose.

  “You’ll have heard about the other Mathew Trewhella,” Granny Carne goes on. “The first one. He was a fine man. Handsome as a prince, and he sang in the church choir. People used to say that he had a voice like an angel. You know the nonsense people talk. One person says it, and then they’re all repeating it. But it’s true that he had a fine voice. Your father’s voice is the only one I’ve known that ever matched the first Mathew Trewhella’s.”

  I feel as if an electric current’s flowing through Granny Carne’s hand and into my wrist. It’s the same story, the story Dad told me when we were in the church years ago. The mermaid, the wooden mermaid they slashed with a knife. Here she is again.

  Granny Carne won’t let go of me. Her voice rises louder. “But of course the story got told wrong over the years,” she goes on. “Stories get mixed up as they’re passed from mouth to mouth, down the years. It wasn’t just one mermaid that enchanted Mathew Trewhella. He fell in love with Ingo. It was Ingo that captured him. Mer…Mare…Meor…Ingo…That’s what took Mathew from his friends and family. And he’s never returned in all this time.”

  Why are you telling me all this? I think fiercely, trying to resist the current of Granny Carne’s story. You’re trying to stop me from going to Ingo. You’re trying to frighten me.

  “You mean—are you talking about the Mathew Trewhella in the old story?” asks Conor in a strange, doubting voice.

  “Yes, the first Mathew Trewhella. I’m going back a way now.” Granny Carne’s face is stern. She looks as if the things she’s remembering aren’t easy or peaceful.

  Conor asks no more questions. He takes hold of my other hand, which is something he never does, and keeps it in a firm grip. And then he touches Granny Carne’s arm, so that the three of us are joined together in a circle. Earthed. The lane smells of dust and blackberries. I don’t want to get to the other side of Granny Carne anymore. I only want to stay here, safe with her and Conor, with the sun warm on us.

  Granny Carne’s brown face creases into a smile. She likes Conor, I know that. And Conor likes her. Like, like—do I really mean that? No, it’s not that Conor likes Granny Carne. It’s that Conor is like Granny Carne.

  But how can that be? Granny Carne’s as old as the hills. Conor’s my brother. She’s tall and wrinkled and strange, and when Dad said she was full of Earth magic, it wasn’t hard to believe him. Conor’s just a normal boy. But all the same, they are two of a kind.

  The circle holds. It seems like a long, long time that we stand there, the three of us, but probably it’s only a few seconds. And then a dog barks. I glance up quickly, because it sounds like Sadie. What’s Sadie doing down here?

  Yes, it is Sadie! She races down the track toward me and skids to a halt on her front paws, looking pleased with herself. I run to her, kneel down, put my arms round her neck, and rub my cheek against her face. She’s quivering all over with excitement, and her coat is hot from the sun.

  “Sadie, what are you doing down here? Did you come all on your own? You bad girl, stravaiging over the countryside, you’ll get hit by a car.”

  But Sadie doesn’t care. She’s panting from her long run and wriggling with the pleasure of finding us. She’s done it on her own, clever Sadie, finding our scent in the middle of all the other smells of cows and foxes and chickens and cars. The world of smells is like a library with a million books in it, for Sadie.

  “Good girl, clever girl, now take it easy; you’ve been racing much too fast in this hot sun.” I give her one last hug and then stand up, slipping my hand through her collar in case she runs off again. She presses against my legs, looking up with her intelligent brown eyes and giving short, sharp little barks.

  “We must take her home,” says Conor.

  Suddenly I realize that Conor and I are alone with Sadie. Granny Carne’s gone. When did she go? Conor shrugs. “You know what she’s like.”

  “Sadie, come on, Sadie girl, let’s go on up to the cottage, and I’ll find something for a lead, and then we’re going for a long walk, all the way back home. They’ll be worrying about you. They’ll be wondering where you are.”

  Sadie bows her head consideringly. She loves the word “walk,” but it’s still the end of her freedom, and she knows it.

  “And we’ll get you a bowl of water. It’s uphill all the way back; you’re going to need a drink.”

  We walk on up to our cottage, Sadie close at my side and Conor behind.

  I’m so hungry. Why ever didn’t I eat those sausages? If Conor calls Jack to tell him we’ve got Sadie, we can eat before we walk her up to the farm. What food have we got? I bring up a mental picture of the fridge’s contents. There’s spaghetti sauce, and half a tub of chocolate and pecan ice cream, a bag of peaches Mum brought back—

  Suddenly Sadie stops dead. Her rear legs are stiff; her body quivers. Her head goes up, pointing toward the sea. She whines, deep in her throat, then lets out a volley of barks.

  “What is it, Sadie? What can you hear?”

  “Whatever it is, she doesn’t like it,” says Conor. “Hold on to her.”

  I grasp her collar with both hands. She’s rigid, trembling. She’s not trying to escape; she’s flattening herself against me. She’s scared.

  “It’s all right, Sadie, come on, girl. Come on in the house.”

  Sadie shivers and backs away, pulling me with her. She whines and stares at me as if asking why I’m not hearing what she hears.

  I can’t hear anything. I’m not going to hear anything. I put my hands over my ears. Stop it, stop it. I’m not listening. I can’t hear anything. Chocolate and pecan ice cream, spaghetti, chocolate and pecan ice cream,
spaghetti, CHOCOLATE AND PEC—

  “Saph, why’ve you got your hands over your ears?”

  “Quick, Con, Sadie’s going crazy. Open the door; let’s get her in the house.”

  We’re in. Sadie races around the kitchen, her claws skittering on the tiles. Suddenly she’s just a dog going wild, and I’m just a girl trying to stop her. Calm down, Sapphire, and stop imagining things. You’re home.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I HATE SAYING GOOD-BYE TO Sadie. I kneel down beside her, and she pushes her head against me. Her funny folding-down right ear has grown straighter as she’s grown older, but if you look closely, you can see it’s not the same as her left ear. I stroke her ears gently, the way she likes it.

  “It’s a blessing you two found her,” says Jack’s mum. “Jack won’t be back till late, and I’ve got people arriving for bed and breakfast, so I couldn’t have gone looking for her.”

  Sadie whines and presses against me again. She doesn’t want me to leave. Jack’s mum bends down to pat her, but Sadie takes no notice.

  “You’d think she was yours, the way she carries on. Or else you were hers. Sometimes I think dogs know who they ought to belong to,” says Jack’s mum.

  “We should get back,” Conor says quickly. “Come on, Saph.”

  “Why did you drag me away like that?” I complain as we set off for home. “Jack’s mum was being really nice. She’s made loads of scones for the bed and breakfast people too. I saw them on the table. If we’d stayed, she might have given us a cream tea.”

  “We need to get home. You shouldn’t be outside. It’s not safe.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s calling you, isn’t it?”

  “What’s calling me?” I know the answer, but I’m going to make Conor say it.

  “You know.” He looks around and lowers his voice. “Ingo. Saph, were you listening to what Granny Carne said?”

  “Of course I was.”

  “All that stuff about the first Mathew Trewhella. Granny Carne was talking as if she’d known him.”