Finn had brought himself up without much help from his dad. Every now and then, Mr McFee would come back from the store in Stromhead with a bag of food and some cans of beer, and sometimes he noticed that Finn’s clothes were too small for him and he’d find some second-hand ones from somewhere or other.
It wasn’t that he didn’t love Finn. Sometimes he’d get up out of his greasy old chair, pick Finn up, holding him too tight, and say embarrassing things like, ‘You’re all I’ve got, Finn! You won’t ever leave me like she did, will you?’ Finn would wriggle away as fast as he could and run out of the cottage, leaving his dad slouched in his chair once more with tears trickling down his face.
People muttered when the McFees went past, and crossed to the other side of the street. Finn was used to seeing suspicion and rejection in every closed face he passed. Stromhead was a gossipy place, where everyone was interested in their neighbours’ business. Finn knew that people found them strange, but no one had ever told him that they thought his dad was a murderer.
Finn couldn’t remember anything about his mum, except for one thing. She had whistled while she’d rocked him to sleep, and the sound was so beautiful, so clear and haunting, that he had never forgotten it. It made him think of the distant shh shh of waves rippling on the beach below the cliff. He’d learned to whistle himself when he was only five years old. It was a private thing for Finn, and he did it only when he was alone. In his secret heart, he hoped that by whistling he might call his mother back to him. But she never came.
It was a few days after Dougie’s party, and Finn, with the usual feeling of sullen dread in his heart, was getting ready to go to school.
Only two more days to get through before the weekend, he told himself, rummaging round in his schoolbag to check if he’d put his homework in it. He felt something at the bottom, and fished out a note from Mrs Faridah. His heart sank as he glanced through it. He’d been dreading giving it to his father, but with the holiday looming, he had no choice. He put it into his dad’s hand.
‘It’s from school, Dad. It’s about swimming lessons. There’s a minibus going to take my class to the pool in Rothiemuir. All the others are going. You’re supposed to give me the money today.’
His father looked at him blankly.
‘What letter? Give it here.’
Mr McFee stared at the crumpled paper in his hand; then he stared at his son.
‘What’s this load of tripe?’ he said. ‘Swimming? Pounds and pounds they want. Just for a bunch of kids to paddle around in some water! It’s a disgrace!’
‘Do you mean you won’t pay?’ said Finn, not at all surprised.
‘It’s not won’t pay, son; it’s can’t pay,’ said Mr McFee, scratching at the bald spot on top of his head. ‘It’s one thing after another at that school of yours. Uniform, shoes, a schoolbag – what do they think I am? A millionaire?’
His voice had started low, but it was beginning to rise ominously.
‘Mrs Faridah said we’d have to have swimming costumes too,’ said Finn in a small voice.
Mr McFee banged his fist down on the arm of the chair.
‘Whatever next? They want you flying off to the moon? They want me buying you a spacesuit?’ He wagged a grubby finger in front of Finn’s face, making Finn back away. ‘I won’t have it, do you hear? I won’t have you going swimming at all. Deep water’s a killer. It’s what took her. I’ve told you before, a hundred times – you’ve not to go near the beach, and if ever I catch you down at the harbour, I’ll . . .’
He was working himself up into a froth of anger, but Finn was no longer listening. What was that his father had said? The sea had taken her? Did he mean Finn’s mother? Had she drowned? Was that why his father hated the thought of deep water so much, and would never let him go down to the beach?
It wasn’t until his father was by the door, putting on his boots, that Finn started listening again.
‘I’ll tell that Mrs Faridah!’ Mr McFee was saying. ‘I’ll go down to the school myself and get it sorted. I’ll . . .’
Finn jumped with fright.
‘It’s all right, Dad. You don’t need to,’ he said hastily. ‘I’ll just explain that I’m not allowed.’
He held his breath, watching his father’s face. The last time his dad had burst into the school, he’d stood ranting away at Mrs Faridah in front of all the other children, who’d sat giggling behind their hands. In the end, Mrs Faridah had had to call the caretaker to take him out through the school gates. Finn had been so embarrassed, he’d wanted to die.
To Finn’s relief, his father kicked his boots off again and subsided back into the chair, his anger gone.
‘Mind you do, son. You stand up to them. No swimming, do you hear? It’s you I’m worried about. I only want what’s best for you. You know that, don’t you?’
‘I know, Dad. I know,’ Finn said sadly, watching his father’s face fall again into its usual sadness. He’d known he wouldn’t be allowed to go in the minibus with the others, but he’d allowed himself to hope.
He sidled past his father, stepped out through the front door, and began to run along the cliff top towards the village. He hated being late for school. He liked to get into the classroom first, and to be sitting quietly in his corner before the others came tumbling in. The best thing was not to be noticed at all.
Heavy summer rain was falling by the time he arrived at school. His dad had never got around to buying him a raincoat or boots, but the rain didn’t bother Finn. He hardly noticed it.
Stromhead Primary School was big and spacious, but the classrooms were half empty. Years ago the village had been full of children, the sons and daughters of fishermen, farmers and the families who ran the pub and the shops in the village. But nearly all the fishermen had gone now. The only trawler left in the harbour belonged to Charlie’s dad, who used it for lobster potting. The shops had closed too, except for the General Store where Mrs Lamb worked. There had been some incomers to the village, like Jas’s dad, Professor Jamieson, who had moved into the lighthouse, which had stopped working years ago. Amir and his parents too had settled in Stromhead from Pakistan, though Amir’s father worked in Aberdeen for a ferry company and rarely came home.
There were only eleven children in the school altogether, split into two classes. The five little ones in the Infants were in a separate building on the other side of the playground, and the remaining six were in Mrs Faridah’s Juniors class. They were Charlie, Jas, Amir, Kyla, Finn and Dougie. Charlie, Amir and Jas were eleven, and Kyla was ten. Dougie was only eight, but he was too old to be with the little ones, and he had to struggle along with the others as best he could. Finn was eleven too, but he seemed somehow older than the three older ones, and at the same time younger than the younger children. He didn’t quite fit in with anyone. Mrs Faridah kept trying her best to help him join in with the class, but Finn was so used to being by himself that he was as relieved as the other children when he was allowed to go back to being on his own.
He was watching warily now as Charlie blustered into the classroom. He’d learned long ago that Charlie was like an energetic dog on rainy days. He hated being cooped up in a small space. It made him all twitchy and ready to snap. The best thing was to avoid him.
Today Charlie looked more thunderous than even a wet day could explain. Finn couldn’t know, of course, that Charlie had dropped his toast on the floor at breakfast time, sticky side down, his big sister had laughed at him and called him a butterfingers, and his dad had growled something that he wished he hadn’t heard. Then he’d stubbed his toe really badly while running round the house looking for his second trainer, and trodden on the cat, who’d scratched him.
All day long, during wet break and wet lunchtime, Finn managed to keep out of Charlie’s way. The afternoon was always the worst on rainy days. The children were bored and fed up with being indoors. Today things were even worse than usual, as the rain had found a hole in the roof, and water was coming into the classroom. It
had dripped down the wall and ruined a picture of the Stromhead lighthouse that Finn had drawn. He’d been really proud of it too.
He spent the last half-hour of the day ignoring the rest of the class, sitting on his own, staring up at a poster that Mrs Faridah had pinned up on a dry bit of the classroom wall. It was about dolphins. There was one big picture in the middle of a dolphin leaping out of the water, with silvery drops catching the light against the blue of the sky, and lots of smaller pictures surrounding it of different kinds of dolphins, with maps and information about where they lived and what they did.
The poster fascinated Finn. As he looked at it, he felt as if he could almost see the streamlined creatures travelling for miles through the deep ocean, calling to each other with their calves by their sides, diving and playing, leaping in the foam, slapping their tails down on the water. The classroom grew dim as he imagined himself out there with them in the sea, the water running smoothly along his body, the calm presence of friends around him.
Mrs Faridah broke into his daydream.
‘The school will have to be closed tomorrow, children, so that we can get this leak fixed,’ she said. ‘As it’s a Friday, and there’s a Bank Holiday on Monday, you’ve got a nice long weekend to look forward to.’
Finn groaned to himself. He never knew which was worse, the dread of going to school or the lonely emptiness of the holidays. On balance, he thought he really preferred going to school.
‘Finn? Finn!’ Jas was nudging him. ‘Didn’t you hear? It’s your turn to put the books away. I’ll help you if you like. And look, it’s stopped raining at last. It’s really nice out there now.’
Finn came to with a start. The end of the school day had come, and he hadn’t even noticed it. She was right. The rain had stopped, and a bright square of sunlight shone through the classroom window on to the floor. He nodded at Jas awkwardly. He could tell that she was trying to be nice to him.
It’s only because she’s feeling guilty about the party, he thought grudgingly. But he knew that wasn’t fair. Jas was the only one who did talk to him sometimes. She’d even volunteered to do a project with him once, on the Romans, though he could tell she’d been relieved when it was over.
The others were collecting their things and making for the door. Finn hastily gathered up all the books that had been lying on the tables, and Jas took them from him and put them back on the shelf. Then, still half in a dream, he picked up his bag and went towards the door.
‘Here, Finn – you’ve forgotten your homework,’ Jas said, picking up a sheet of paper that he’d left on his desk and handing it to him.
He stared at it.
‘Weren’t you listening? It’s the poem we’ve got to learn over the weekend. You know – the one Mrs Faridah was talking about. The selkie story.’
Finn started reading the poem as he walked slowly towards the classroom door – and as he read, something turned in his stomach.
A fisherman sat on the lonely shore,
Mending his nets and sighing.
Far out to sea, a dolphin heard
The love song he was singing.
She swam like an arrow, straight and true
And out from the water did run.
No dolphin now! A woman fair,
Her hair from pure . . .
He was so far away as he read, he forgot all about Charlie, whose temper had got worse and worse as the day had gone on. By now, after hours cooped up indoors, he was like a volcano, with hot rocks and steam and lava all bubbling around inside him, ready to burst out.
It was pure bad luck that Finn, still engrossed in the poem, happened to be walking past the classroom door just as Charlie tried to barge through it. Finn didn’t move quickly enough, and Charlie gave him a shove. Finn, still in a dream, lost his balance and fell backwards, knocking over the table on which Mrs Faridah had set out a display of shells to start the class collection. They landed on the floor with a horrible crash, and some of the big old ones broke.
Finn gave a cry of distress. He loved shells. He liked to pick them up, look at their colours and stroke them, holding the big ones to his ear so that he could hear the sea. He was so upset, he forgot to be cautious. He stuffed the poem in his pocket and bent down to pick up the shells.
‘Look what you’ve done, Charlie!’ he blurted out. ‘They’re all broken.’
Charlie’s eyes seemed to bulge out of his head.
‘Look what I’ve done? Who knocked the table over? Who wouldn’t get out of the way? Who’s a sneaky wee – a sneaky, slimy . . .’
Mrs Faridah came hurrying out from the little staffroom to the side of the classroom.
‘Charlie! What have you done now? I’ve had enough of you today. Look at this mess. My shells!’
The lava inside Charlie boiled right over.
‘It wasn’t me! It was him! Finn! I didn’t touch your stupid table!’
‘Finn?’ said Mrs Faridah disbelievingly. ‘I’m disappointed in you, Charlie. It’s not like you to put the blame on someone else.’
It was the last straw.
‘It’s not fair! You always pick on me! It was Finn!’ he shouted.
He stuck his face right into Finn’s, and he looked so like a tiger, snarling and ferocious, that Finn gasped in panic. His heart beating wildly, he turned and darted out through the school door and began to run, through the gates and down the hill.
‘Aagh!’ roared Charlie, dashing after him. He was outside at last, and there, trying to escape, was the person who’d ruined his day. With the red mist clouding his eyes, every thought went out of Charlie’s head except for the goal of catching his prey, and – and –
‘Come on!’ Jas yelled to the others. ‘Charlie’s in a rage! We’ve got to stop him before he does something awful!’
‘He’s going for Finn!’ shrieked Kyla.
And leaving Mrs Faridah standing at the school door anxiously shaking her head, Jas, Amir, Kyla and Dougie raced after Charlie and Finn, the six of them streaking down the hill like a pack of hounds.
Finn didn’t have any time to think about where he was going. The grass on the hillside beneath his flying feet gave way to the tarmac of the village street, then, suddenly, he was on the rough cobbles of the harbour wall. Too late, he realized that he’d made a terrible mistake. There was nothing ahead of him but the blunt end of the harbour wall and the sea beyond it. He was trapped.
He turned round. Charlie was almost on him.
‘You knocked the shell table over!’ Charlie was yelling. ‘You made me get the blame! You . . . !’
Finn took a step backwards. Then another. And another. And then there was nothing beneath his feet. Arms and legs flailing, he fell off the harbour wall, down, down into the cold green sea.
Chapter Three
For a moment, Charlie was too shocked to do anything. His face, scarlet a moment ago, was turning a sickly white.
Jas came running up ahead of the other three.
‘What have you done, Charlie? Where’s Finn?’
‘He – he fell into the sea,’ stammered Charlie, and burst into tears.
Kyla gasped in fright.
‘He can’t swim! He’ll drown!’
The others arrived.
‘What’s happened?’ asked Amir.
Jas was peering down into the sea from the harbour wall. There were several little boats bobbing about near the steps that led down from the top of the wall to a little wooden platform below.
‘Finn fell in,’ she said shortly. ‘I can’t see him down there. He must be behind one of the boats.’
‘Perhaps he’s stuck,’ said Kyla, who was always looking for disasters. ‘Perhaps he’s drowned, and his lifeless body will float out to sea and—’
Charlie gave a wail.
‘You shouldn’t have chased Finn, Charlie,’ said Dougie reproachfully. ‘You might’ve killed him.’
Charlie wrapped his arms round his head and sank down on to a bollard.
A clanking noise
made Jas look up. On the far side of the harbour Charlie’s dad was heaving lobster pots around on the deck on the Janine. Jas cupped her hands round her mouth.
‘Mr Munro!’ she shouted. ‘Help! Finn’s fallen into the sea. He can’t swim!’
Mr Munro didn’t hear. He went into the wheelhouse of the trawler and started up the engine.
‘Shout louder, Jas,’ said Kyla helpfully.
Charlie lifted his head.
‘He’s deaf. He can’t hear you. It’s all my fault. I’m a murderer. I’m . . .’
‘What are you taking your shoes off for, Amir?’ said Dougie.
Amir had kicked off his shoes, tucked his glasses into one of them, and was throwing off his sweater. He didn’t answer Dougie. He was already halfway down the steps towards the platform at the bottom.
Charlie jumped to his feet and began to wrestle his sweatshirt over his head.
‘Come back, Amir! I told you, it’s my fault! I’ll go in,’ he shouted.
Jas caught his collar in a strong grip.
‘Let him go, Charlie. He’s the best swimmer of all of us. He’s done life-saving. You’ll only get in his way.’
Charlie started to fight her off, but Dougie shouted, ‘Look! Amir’s jumped in!’
The four children leaned over the harbour wall again to look down. Amir was standing up to his chest in water between two small motor launches, looking surprised.
‘It’s really shallow here,’ he called up to them. ‘The tide’s right out.’
‘Can you see Finn?’ Jas called back.
Amir didn’t answer. He was wading round between the small boats, looking carefully behind and under each one.
‘He must be down there somewhere,’ Kyla shouted down to him. ‘Are you sure he didn’t knock himself out? Perhaps he’s under the water. Perhaps he’s already drowned.’
‘Shut up, Kyla,’ said Jas, seeing the look on Charlie’s face. ‘Of course he hasn’t drowned. Amir would have seen him. We all would have.’
Song of the Dolphin Boy Page 2