by Suzi Moore
And a voice shouted back from inside the van, ‘Well, I thought I was the accident, MOTHER.’
Everyone was staring and some people were whispering to each other too. I looked up at my dad. He raised an eyebrow and whispered, ‘Ooh, nothing like new people to get everyone talking, eh?’
He looked at me hopefully, but I just frowned and thought, Couldn’t even if I wanted to.
Then the voice from inside the van appeared. A boy. He had his back to us and was carrying a large lamp in one hand and a kettle in the other. He stopped just in front of the house and this time he shouted not just so the harbour could hear, but the whole of the vale too.
‘I didn’t ask to be born, you know!’
I thought that was going to be the end of it, but a tiny upstairs window opened and the woman stuck her head out.
‘Zachariah Ethan Drake, if I had known you’d be a selfish, spoilt little brat, I can tell you now, young man, if you had asked to be born, I WOULD HAVE SAID NO!’ she yelled.
I gasped, but my dad sort of laughed. I had never, ever seen people shout at each other like that. Not ever, and I know I shouldn’t say so, but it was kind of fun to watch. I think that every single person in the harbour was waiting to see what happened next. I almost held my breath and, as if he could sense us all staring, the boy suddenly turned round.
‘WHAT ARE YOU ALL STARING AT?’ And, with that, he went inside and slammed the front door. It was difficult to see his face, but I could swear it looked like the boy on the beach. If it was him, what did he mean when he said he was the accident? How could a person be an accident?
‘Oh dear,’ said Dad. ‘He looks like trouble.’
And, as we drove home, I thought of the letters that I’d seen on the map. Was Jane the J?
12
Alice
Today is the first day of the summer holidays and guess what? It’s raining. I haven’t been down to Culver since my secret excursion, but we’re going on holiday at the weekend. Well, we’re going up to Scotland for a week to see Aunt Agatha, Uncle Alistair and my cousins Florence and Casper.
Florence and I get on like best friends, even though she’s over a year older than me, but Casper is just about the most annoying little toad you ever met. He’s seven years old and the last time he came to visit us at Culver Manor he locked himself in the playroom and wrote on the walls. Every night he had a massive tantrum about going to bed so that Aunt Aggy had to chase him all over the house, up and down the hallway, until he hid behind one of the red velvet curtains and when she tried to drag him away he held on to the curtains and pulled them down.
The thing about Casper is, apart from his whiny, screaming, whingy voice, apart from his horrid, pasty white face that gets redder and redder when he has a tantrum, apart from all of that, he’s a telltale. And he makes stuff up, like, all the time. He once gave himself a Chinese burn and blamed it on me. He once said I’d pushed him off the sofa and Mum actually believed him so I got sent out of the television room. One day he slapped himself across the face, smiled at Florence and burst into tears. Florence and I watched in horror as he ran down the hallway shouting: ‘Mummy! Mummy! Florence slapped me!’
‘I’m telling Mummy,’ he’ll say if he sees me and Florence doing anything out of the ordinary. ‘I’m telling Mummy on you and then you’ll be sorry.’
And guess what? If we don’t get told off like Casper had hoped then he really loses it. Last time it happened he actually kicked, spat and swore at all the grown-ups. In the end Uncle Alistair, who is bigger and broader than any man you have ever seen (when I was little I thought Uncle Alistair really was the giant from Jack and the Beanstalk), picked Casper up, tucked him under his arm and carried him straight up to bed – it was the middle of the day. Florence and I had found it really hard not to laugh as we watched Casper being carried upstairs like a parcel, but I bet the grown-ups just thought, ‘Thank goodness.’ I actually think that everyone is much, much happier when he’s not around.
I’m not making it up; he really is THAT BAD.
Problem is we’re going to his house and Mum says that me not talking at all might be a bit of a problem with Casper, especially when he’s in his own kingdom or at least his own castle. And guess what? Casper really does live in a castle. Aunt Agatha is my dad’s sister and she married Lord Pengarden of Pengarden Castle. So when Caspar sings: ‘I’m the king of the castle and you’re the dirty rascal!’ it’s completely true. Although he’s the horrid little ‘King Brat Rascal’ as Florence calls him.
We packed the car and set off at five o’clock in the morning when it was still dark because it takes all day to get there. Last time we went I slept most of the way and this time, with Mum being really pregnant, she wanted to have space to spread out on the back seats, so I got to sit in the front instead. I love Dad’s car; it’s one of those high-up truck-type cars that you can take off–road, and Dad had promised me and Florence that he’ll take us out of the castle grounds and over to the glen.
On the way up Dad came up with a plan. He said that, so everyone would understand, perhaps we could say I had lost my voice instead and, seeing as Dad’s a doctor, they’d believe him. But, as soon as we arrived and Dad told them, I could tell from Aunt Aggy’s face that she and Uncle Alistair knew that wasn’t true. But at least it meant that toady-faced Casper wouldn’t be more of a toad than he already is.
The first thing I noticed was that Florence had changed a great deal since last Christmas when they came to stay at our house. Florence looks just like the rest of the Richardson family: fair, tall and skinny. But the last time I saw her she had braces and she still liked to play the sort of games that I do. We were still sort of best friends and we loved to stay up late in her bedroom at the top of the castle’s east tower.
This time it was different. Florence was even taller and she no longer had braces. She was wearing make-up too, and spent the whole time checking her mobile phone and was always on Facebook. In the end it seemed to me that it didn’t matter that I wasn’t talking because Florence didn’t want to talk to me much at all and, when Dad said we could go off-road in the car, she just rolled her eyes and said she didn’t want to. She was really interested in Mum and her enormous pregnant tummy though, and even wanted to feel it when the baby was kicking again which I thought was just stupid, stupid, stupid.
So Florence didn’t spend much time with me and we never stayed up late together, not even once. Casper was the exact same horrid, pain-in-the-neck, pasty-faced toad I remembered from Christmas time. I saw him pull the cat’s tail, kick the dog on purpose and, when Aunt Aggy told him he had to eat his vegetables or he wouldn’t grow big and strong like the rest of us, he just pointed at me and said: ‘Alice always eats her greens and she’s still really small!’
It’s true, I am small. I looked round the table. I looked at the ‘real’ family, at how alike they were and how I am nothing like them at all. I thought of my soon-to-be-born little sister and how she’d probably look just like them all too. I felt like an alien or at least a cuckoo. As I looked round the table of pale, freckly faces, I felt the tears trickle down my cheeks so I pushed my chair away from the table and slowly walked out of the kitchen. Maybe I was the one everyone would be happier without.
I wandered down the castle hallway, past the suits of armour and the tapestries that hang down from the walls. I felt the cool of the stone floor on my bare feet and it seemed to me that the corridor just got longer and longer. As I climbed the stone stairs to the west tower, it felt as though there were more steps than there had been before, as though I’d never reach the top, and when I finally got to my bedroom I closed the door behind me softly.
I sat down on the bed and pulled out my book, turning to the back where I’d put the photograph of my other mother. I stared and stared at her and didn’t stop crying until I felt arms round my shoulders. I didn’t stop when she kissed my forehead and tried to hold me close, and at first I laughed because Mum’s bump is so big now that
she couldn’t really cuddle me properly; it sort of got in the way. Then I stopped laughing and a frown began to grow deeper and deeper across my face until I felt a little angry feeling begin to twist inside my tummy. My stupid sister was already coming between us.
‘Alice,’ Mum said slowly. ‘Do you think you might like to talk a little bit? Just try a little for me, would you do that?’
I shook my head.
‘Can I tell you a secret?’ she said, stroking my hair, and I nodded. ‘Your dad was about four years old when Aunt Aggy was born and, when she was a tiny baby, do you know what he said to Grandma and Grandpa?’ I shook my head and waited. I loved hearing about what my mum and dad were like when they were little, especially if they were naughty. ‘Well, your dad got a bit cross and he marched into the kitchen, looked over at his little sister and said, “Can we take her back now?”’
I laughed.
‘And now your dad and Aggy are like best friends, aren’t they?’
She was right, but I couldn’t imagine that I’d want to be best friends with the new baby.
‘You’re going to be a brilliant big sister, Alice, I just know it. Are there any names you like?’
I shrugged.
‘Would you like to help me and Dad choose a name?’
I shrugged again.
‘Maybe you could try just saying the first letter?’
I wanted to tell her there and then. I wanted to tell her how I had tried really hard, but the words kept getting stuck, and now every time I wanted to talk I got so scared that it felt as though my throat was being squeezed tightly. But I didn’t say anything and that night, our last night at Pengarden Castle, I slept beside my mum and my soon-to-be little sister, and I prayed that she wouldn’t be anything like horrid, toad-faced Casper.
Nothing could be worse than a screaming pale pink brat who took over, changed everything and made my life much worse.
When our week away came to an end, I was so glad to be going home. Aunt Aggy’s cook made us the most delicious car picnic that I had ever eaten. Smoked salmon, roast beef and chicken sandwiches on the fluffiest, softest white bread, but Mum didn’t want any of it. She wasn’t feeling sick or anything like that; she had her very own very weird picnic. She’d been eating some strange things lately and Dad said that sometimes pregnant women have these cravings for a particular food and, no matter how disgusting it sounds, it tastes really amazing to them. So, while Dad and I tucked into our normal picnic, she was eating a peanut butter, beetroot and ketchup sandwich and my mum NEVER eats ketchup. When Dad and I had the lovely slices of rich fruit cake, Mum ate Cheesy Wotsits dipped in strawberry yoghurt which almost made me feel sick.
We had to stop the car six times so that Mum could go to the toilet. Somewhere between Birmingham and Bristol, somewhere between this life and the next, I watched my mum waddle like a duck back to the car. It made me realise just how large her bump was and I thought about my other mother again. What was she like when she was pregnant with me? Did she have to eat lots of crazy foods? Did she get hot one minute and cold the next? Did she burst into tears because her favourite jumper wouldn’t fit? Did she get really cross because her feet had swollen up so much all her shoes were too tight? Did she fart ALL THE TIME? Did I kick her tummy as much as my soon-to-be little sister? Did she have someone like my dad to look after her?
It made me feel sad again. It made me wonder all the bad wonderings. Like, if my mum is going to love my soon-to-be little sister like she loves me, why couldn’t my other mother love me like that too?
Why was I adopted?
I thought about it all the way home so, when we got back to Culver Manor, I went up to my bedroom and took out the photograph. I sat down on my bed and stared once more. I held the photograph up to my face to see if there was anything I’d missed, any little clue that might tell me more than I could see, but there was nothing; it was just a photo of a beautiful girl with long black hair standing outside some shop that could be anywhere.
I wanted to sleep, but I kept turning the questions over and over and over again. It felt as though I wouldn’t ever sleep again until I knew the answers, but how could I find out if I couldn’t talk? How could I ask if I was too scared to speak? And now I had even more questions that I wanted the answers to it was like my head was bursting with mysteries I might never solve. So I got up, switched the light on, grabbed the notebook and, turning to a clean white page, I wrote a list.
Questions I want the answers to
Why was I adopted?
Where is my other mother now?
When my little sister is born, will we still have a family birthday and will she get presents too?
Why did Mum and Dad lie about the footpath to Culver Cove?
Why does Dad never talk about his brother Tom?
What do the letters on the map all stand for?
Who is the boy in the cottage and why is he an accident?
Will Dad build the tree house like he promised?
I drew a few little doodles too and when I heard footsteps on the hallway I quickly switched off the light and climbed back into bed.
I still couldn’t fall asleep, so I lay awake, listening to the owls hooting in the woods behind the house. I listened to the waves crashing on the shore and I decided there and then that tomorrow I’d go to the beach once more.
13
Zack
If I said our new cottage was half the size of our old house, I’d be telling a massive lie. It wasn’t half the size or even a quarter either. It was so small that you could fit the entire downstairs of the cottage into our old kitchen and there’d still be room for a car. The upstairs was a bit bigger, but there was only one bathroom and a shower that had a slow, drip-like trickle that meant washing one leg would take about a week. My room wasn’t so bad. It was just big enough for the double bed that Hannah had given us and, when I lay down on it, I could just look out of the window and see the sea.
After our big argument outside with everyone staring at us, I’d flopped down on my bed and lay there for ages. Then Mum knocked softly on the door and came in.
‘Zack, I’m sorry. I know this is a lot to take in. I know you’re mad at me, but if I’d told you that the beaches were not really good for bodyboarding, it would have made you even madder. There is another beach though.’
I immediately thought about the little cove I’d found, but Mum didn’t mean that one.
‘I’ll take you on Monday if the weather stays like this. Woolacombe is about an hour’s drive away and that really is a surfers’ paradise.’
‘Isn’t there one I could maybe just walk to?’
Mum looked at me funnily. ‘No,’ she said, looking worried. ‘Well, there is a beach just round the headland, but you can only reach it at low tide and it’s private. Do you know what that means, Zack? It means you do not ever go there. Ever.’ She pointed at me seriously. ‘Ever!’ she said even louder.
‘How come?’
‘Because . . . when I was younger . . .’ She paused, turning her wedding ring round and round. ‘When I was a bit younger than you, we . . .’ She stopped suddenly again and looked down at the floor, bit her bottom lip and rubbed the corner of her jumper as though she was trying to get rid of an imaginary stain. I waited, but she didn’t say anything more. She turned and left the room quickly, but came back a minute later with a large map.
‘I got this for you. You like maps, don’t you?’ I nodded and she unfolded the map and laid it out on the bed. ‘Look, here’s Porlock Weir. That is where we are, that’s the village and the road into town. That’s where I stopped the car and the hill we walked up.’
I read the words ‘Porlock Hill’. My eyes scanned the map down across the vale to the sea. I liked that I could see all the places I’d seen from the hill. I read all the names until I got to the headland at the far side of the beach. The place I’d been. The secret, hidden beach.
‘Culver Cove,’ I read and Mum nodded, but when I looked up at her she
seemed kind of sad or something.
I traced my finger along the map where I’d seen the waterfall and when I stopped at a square symbol Mum turned to me.
‘That’s Culver Manor. Culver Cove belongs to that big house and you can only get there by the path above it or when the tide is really low and Zack,’ she said, looking at me very seriously, ‘you mustn’t ever go there.’
She didn’t say anything for a while, but I watched her turn and look through the window and out to sea. She sat like that for ages and when she spoke again it was in a voice I hadn’t ever heard before, like it didn’t really belong to her at all.
‘There’s a very, very dangerous current just there,’ she said, turning back to the map and pointing to the spot where I’d climbed up on to the massive rock. ‘I know you’re a strong swimmer, but that undercurrent is dangerous. You can’t see it, you can barely feel it and before you know it you’re being dragged out here,’ she said, pointing to the other side of the bay, ‘where you’ll be smashed against the rocks.’
‘OK, OK, Mum, I get it. I promise.’
Mum leaned forward and kissed the top of my head.
‘Now, how about we get ourselves some fish and chips?’
I grinned at her and the two us left the cottage, crossed the little stone bridge and headed out towards the glorious vinegary smell that filled the street.
14
Zack
The next day me and Mum had an extra-long lie-in. Actually, I can easily stay in bed until lunchtime, but Mum said we had to try and do all the unpacking which, on a scale of one to ten of total boringness (ten being picking my toenails), was about a fifteen. And even though we didn’t have much stuff, and even though the cottage is really small, it took us ages to get everything unpacked. Even then stuff still seemed to be missing because two days later I still couldn’t find the earphones for my iPod.