by Sarah Webb
We stop at a McDonald’s along the way, in a place called Cashel. The food tastes just the same as back home, which is kind of weird but reassuring too. We wouldn’t have stopped here if Mom was with us. She hated Mickey Ds, as she used to call it. Said the food tastes of cardboard and all the packaging waste isn’t good for the planet. She’s right, of course, but I’m so hungry today that I eat two veggie wraps with my fries. Like Mom, I’m a vegetarian.
Thirty minutes later we reach the outskirts of Cork city and find a sign saying “N71 West Cork and Redrock”. After a while, the road narrows to one laneway and goes all small and twisty. I start to feel car sick, my head and stomach both spinning, so I lie down across the rear seat and close my eyes again.
When we finally stop, I open my eyes – I must have dozed off again − and sit up. The sky is clear and the sun has finally started shining.
We’re parked in front of a tiny harbour, where a small, red car ferry is docked. Behind us is a row of brightly painted shops, cafes and bars. It all looks old-fashioned and quaint, like a picture postcard. There are people sitting outside one of the bars, smiling and chatting. Mom would have gone straight up to them, sat down and started chatting. She must have loved this place. It’s so pretty.
“You’re awake,” Dad says, turning round in his seat.
“Where are we?” I ask, stretching my arms over my head.
“Redrock. Your mom’s relatives live over there.” He points out to sea.
“In the ocean?” I ask with a smile. “They’re mermaids?”
He laughs. “No. On the island, of course.”
“I was joking, Pops. Little Bird, right?” I remember the name from Mom’s stories.
“Correct. Although there is selkie blood in your mom’s family, if you believe in that kind of thing.”
“What’s a selkie?”
“They were seal people. Half human, half seal. There are old Celtic myths about them. Fairy tales.”
I’ll bet Mom believed in selkies. She was a scientist, but that didn’t mean she ruled out things that science couldn’t explain, like the Loch Ness Monster in Scotland or Ogopogo, the Canadian lake monster. Unlike Dad. “If there was something that big in the water, don’t you think we would have found it by now?” he was always saying.
“Oh, Aidan.” Mum would sigh, her eyes twinkling. “‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’” (It was her favourite quote – Shakespeare, I think.) “They only discovered the giant squid in 1925, remember? And we’ve only explored five per cent of the ocean. Who knows what else we’ll find? I’m keeping an open mind.” And so am I.
Dad gestures out to sea again. “The waters around the island are full of marine wildlife, and it’s one of the best places in Ireland to study dolphins.”
“Perfect for some research then,” I say and Dad smiles. Mom told me all about the island’s dolphin, Click, and how she used to swim with him. She’d be so psyched to visit Little Bird again. Thinking about her and how much she’d adore being here with us makes me sad. Mom’s happy freckled face floats in front of my eyes and I blink to drive it away.
“Is there a pool on the island?” I say, trying to distract myself. “I want to keep fit for the swim team.”
Dad gives a laugh. “Rory, it’s an island. It’s surrounded by water. You can swim every day if you like. With supervision. In a wetsuit, because the water will be very cold and I don’t want you getting hypothermia. And you need to be careful of barnacles when you’re getting in and out of the water. They can give you a nasty cut.”
I roll my eyes. “Dad! Quit worrying. It’s a tiny Irish island. Nothing’s going to happen to me. I’ll be just fine.”
I stand against the railings of the ferry, the wind whipping my hair, watching the grey and green island get bigger and bigger. Not that it gets much bigger, it’s pretty small. There’s only a smattering of houses on it, some with metal buildings beside them – farms, maybe.
According to the guidebook I found in the cabin of the ferry, we’re in Dolphin Bay and the boat will dock in Dolphin Harbour. I breathe in the air. It’s cool and fresh like Canadian air and it catches at the back of your throat. Mom always said the air in West Cork smelled and tasted different – tangy like the sea – and she was right.
As the ferry pulls in alongside the pier, I spot a woman sitting on the harbour wall. She’s wearing faded denims with blue paint splattered down one leg and a white shirt tied at her waist. She has a heart-shaped face, with a slightly pointed chin, a button nose and a mop of wild, curly blonde hair.
Mom?
I shield my eyes from the sun and look closer. Of course it’s not Mom − but this woman could be her twin. It must be Mattie, Mom’s cousin. I feel that familiar lump in my throat, and I take a deep breath and then blow it out slowly, trying to make the wave of sadness stop. This is the island where Mom spent all her summers, where she first fell in love with dolphins. It’s a special place. Of course being here when she’s not is going to make me sad. I have to accept that. It doesn’t make it any easier, though.
The woman catches the thick rope that one of the ferrymen is throwing at her and loops it over a bollard on the edge of the pier, as if she’s been doing it all her life. She probably has.
“Ready?” Dad appears beside me. “That must be Mattie up there,” he says. “She said she’d be here to meet the ferry. She sometimes works on the ferry, but she’s off today. She’s the image of your mom, isn’t she?”
I nod.
Mattie spots us then and waves. “Aidan?” she cries, squinting. “Is it Aidan?”
Dad waves back a bit awkwardly. He’s shy. The opposite of Mom, who would have hollered over and introduced herself. I can hear her happy, excited voice in my head. “Hey, is that you, Mattie?” she’d say. “We’re here − your awful American relatives.” She would have leapt off the ferry, dashed up the stone steps and thrown her arms around her cousin, hugging her tight.
“And you must be Rory,” Mattie shouts, breaking into my thoughts. “You’re very welcome to Little Bird, both of you. Let’s get you off the ferry and up to the house. Cal’s dying to meet you.”
Driving the heavily laden jeep off the ferry – over a thin metal ramp that looks ancient and rusty – is terrifying. I can tell Dad is anxious too. He’s blowing his hair out of his eyes in little puffs and he’s gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles are white. But it all goes without a hitch, and once we’re safely on dry land, Mattie pulls open the front passenger door of the jeep and swings herself in.
“It’s so great that you’re both here,” she says, shutting the door. “Now, let’s get you home. I’m dying for a cuppa. We can do all the hugs and kisses when we get there. Do Americans do kisses? Maybe that’s just the Italians. French too, yes? Some of them do two kisses, don’t they? Now which is which, I wonder? I can never remember.” Mattie is clearly a talker, just like Mom.
“I’ve never been to France or Italy,” Dad says. “Only London and Germany and Norway. They’re not big into kissing at dolphin conferences.”
Mattie gives a hearty laugh. “Good one, Aidan.”
I don’t think Dad was joking.
“So, which way?” he asks.
“That-a-way.” She points at a white stone house on the hill overlooking the water. “It will take us all of two minutes. There aren’t too many roads on the island. This is Harbour Road. We live at Harbour Cottage.” She chatters on as Dad drives. “How was the flight? OK, I hope. And the drive? I did warn you the road from Cork city to here was kinda twisty, didn’t I?”
“You did,” Dad says. “And you weren’t wrong. But we’re here now.”
“That you are,” she says. “That you are. Safe and sound.”
There’s a silence then, and I know we’re all thinking about Mom, who didn’t make it safe and sound.
Mattie starts to tell us about the island and how big it is (tiny – only seven kilometres squar
ed, which she says is about five and a half miles squared) and how many people live here (one hundred and eighty-nine at last count, but that swells in the summer, apparently, with the tourists and the families who stay here during the holidays. She calls them “summer people”).
It doesn’t take long to get to Harbour Cottage. It’s small − just one storey − and it looks ancient. The window surrounds are painted cornflower blue and there’s washed-out blue and green sea glass and midnight-blue mussel shells set in an arch around the front door, which is one of those old-fashioned ones you see in books, with a horizontal split halfway down. I’ve never seen one in real life. There are funny-looking pots, made of green plastic netting, in a pile to the left of the door, and beside them two long red kayaks are tucked against the garden wall.
After I’ve jumped out of the jeep, Dad parks it. Then he and Mattie unhook the RIB from the back. Like Mom, Mattie seems pretty handy. When they’re finished, and Dad has checked and double-checked the RIB’s brake and put rocks under the wheels just to be sure, Mattie leads us towards the house.
“Leave your bags in the jeep for the moment,” she says. “We can move them later. You must be gagging for a sip of tea. Sorry, the garden is a bit of a mess.” She kicks one of the net pots with the toe of her work boot. “Cal was supposed to be mending these lobster pots, but they’ve been sitting here all week. You know what boys are like.” She smiles at me. “Although it’s not just boys. Margo was messy too as a teenager. Did she change?”
“No,” Dad says, answering for both of us. “Margo never liked cleaning up. Said it was a waste of time. Didn’t she, Rory?”
I shrug. I’m still thinking about the empty space in the car where Mom should have been.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Mattie says. “I’m just sorry Margo isn’t with you. You must miss her desperately.”
The truth of this hits me so hard that I don’t know what to say. Dad looks close to tears too. People back home aren’t usually so direct about Mom.
“Sorry,” Mattie says quickly. “My mouth is running away with me again. I didn’t mean to upset you, Aidan.”
“No, it’s all right,” Dad says. “We should talk about Margo more. It’s just … you know. It’s very soon.”
Mattie gives him a gentle smile. “I understand.”
The door swings open then and a boy comes through it.
“Cal, this is Aidan and Rory,” Mattie says.
“Hiya,” the boy says easily. He’s carrying a pair of board shorts and a towel. He has jet black hair and olive skin and looks nothing like Mattie, apart from his chocolate-brown eyes.
“You’re into swimming, aren’t you, Rory?” Mattie asks.
“Yes,” I say. “That’s right.” Dad must have told Mattie all about me. Or maybe it was Mom.
“Cal’s going swimming with his friends in a while,” she says. “Why don’t you take Rory with you, Cal? Show her the island?”
“Sure,” Cal says, with a weak smile.
He doesn’t seem that keen on me tagging along and I feel embarrassed. Dad makes it worse by saying, “I think I should come with you.”
“I’ll be fine, Dad,” I say, cringing. He’s treating me like a little kid.
“But you don’t know these waters, Rory,” Dad says. “We’ve talked about this, remember? You need to stay safe.”
“She’ll be fine, Aidan,” Mattie says. “Cal’s a good swimmer and he’ll keep an eye on her, won’t you, Cal?”
“I will,” Cal says. “I promise, Aidan.”
“Then I guess it’s OK,” Dad says reluctantly. “But make sure she doesn’t stay in the water too long, Cal, and if you see any jellyfish—”
“Dad!” I say. He’s so embarrassing.
Harbour Cottage is small but cosy. There’s a kitchen to the left of the hallway, with a big pine table, an old black range and a window overlooking the sea. To the right is a small living room; there’s also a study and some bedrooms. The floors in the hall and kitchen are tiled with grey slate, and the bedrooms have old wooden floorboards.
“I hope you’ll be comfortable in here, Aidan,” Mattie says, showing him a bedroom with sunny yellow walls. “It was mine when I was a girl. I’ve put Rory down the hall. You know, Rory, your mum and I used to sleep in this yellow room during the summer. It had bunk beds in those days. This was my parents’ house. They left it to me when they died. Margo used to spend most of July and August here. She loved this island. It’s changed a lot since those days, but, look, I found this when I was clearing up.” From the wooden dresser, she picks up a faded photo of three girls in a silver frame. The girls’ arms are thrown around each other’s shoulders, their hair is damp, and they’re all wearing plain navy or red swimming costumes.
I recognize Mom immediately. I’ve seen pictures of her as a girl before. For some reason, she’s the only one not smiling.
“That’s you, isn’t it?” I ask Mattie, touching the head of the girl with the same curly hair and brown eyes as Mom.
She nods. “Sure is. And the girl with the red hair is Ellen McCarthy. She lived on the island too. She’s dead now, bless her. She was Mollie’s gran. You’ll meet Mollie when you go swimming. She’s one of Cal’s friends. That photo was taken after our annual swimming race on Horseshoe Strand. I won and Margo wasn’t too happy about that, as you can see from her expression. She was pretty competitive. Speaking of swimming, let’s go and find Cal.”
He’s sitting at the kitchen table and jumps up as soon as we walk in the door. “Can we go now, Mum?” he says.
“Where are you headed?” she asks him. “Horseshoe Strand?”
“Yes,” he says. “Mollie and Landy are probably there already.”
She smiles at him. “Hold your horses. I need to get some tea and a snack into Rory first. She’ll need the energy to fight off the cold.”
Cal sighs. He’s definitely not keen on taking me with him.
“You can go on without me,” I tell him. “I don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Mattie answers for him. “He’ll stop being so impatient and he’ll wait politely for you to eat, won’t you, Cal? Don’t roll your eyes at me, young man. And while you’re swimming, Rory, I’ll help your dad unload the jeep. You can check out the rest of our humble abode later.”
“Dad, stop it, all right,” I say when we’re waiting for Cal on a wooden bench outside the front door of Mattie and Cal’s house. Cal is inside, fetching a towel for me. “Please don’t come with me, it would be really embarrassing. I’m twelve, not two. I’ll be careful, and Cal said he’d keep an eye on me, remember? We’ve already been over this.”
Dad touches my arm. “I know, but I just want to keep you safe. What’s so bad about that?”
I shake off his hand and hug my swimming bag harder against my chest. “I’ll be fine. I’ll stay within my depth. You’ve got to stop all this worrying.” Dad’s always been a bit of a worry wart, but since Mom’s accident, he’s got so much worse. He won’t let me do anything. It’s like being back in kindergarten.
“Are you serious, Rory? It’s the Atlantic Ocean, not a swimming pool. Jellyfish for a start. And sharks.”
“Dad, even I know that sharks don’t generally attack people. Aren’t you supposed to be the expert?”
“What about hypothermia then? It’s not like Stony Brook. The water around here comes from the Arctic. You’ll freeze if you stay in it for more than a few minutes. People die from hypothermia. It’s no joke.”
“It’s sunny. Well, sunny-ish.” There are a lot more blue bits behind the clouds than there were in Dublin. “I’m not going to die of hypothermia. Are you for real? Please, stop worrying, OK? Just let me go swimming, alone, without my dad watching − like a normal girl.”
Cal walks out of the house then, a rolled-up blue-and-white striped towel under his arm. He smiles as he hands it to me. “Ready?”
“Thanks, Cal.” I shove the towel into my bag and then jump to my feet. I’m dying to get aw
ay from Dad. He’s starting to seriously bug me.
“It’s going to be cold, I warn you,” Cal says.
“I did try to tell her—” Dad begins.
“Dad!” I say. “I’m a strong swimmer. You know that. Please?”
“Like I said, I’ll keep a good eye on her, Aidan,” Cal says.
“You make sure you do that,” Dad says firmly. “OK, Rory, you can go on your own. Cal, I’m relying on you.”
How humiliating! Cal must think I’m such a child.
“Sorry about that,” I say, as we walk away. I can feel Dad staring after me. “Dad can be a little overprotective sometimes.”
Cal gives a dry laugh. “Parents, eh? My mum drives me crazy. She never stops talking. Sorry,” he adds quickly. “I didn’t mean to remind you of … you know… And I’m sorry about the accident and everything. I heard what happened.”
“Do you mind if we don’t talk about it?” I say, my voice coming out small and strangled.
“Yeah, of course, sorry.” He stares down at his feet.
We don’t say a word to each other the rest of the way. I can’t think of anything to say and he’s probably afraid he’ll upset me again or offend me or something. I’m such a klutz.
As soon as I dip my toes in the water on Horseshoe Strand, I squeal. I hate to say it, but Dad was right − it’s icy. I pull my foot out quickly. “Is it always this freezing?”
Cal laughs. It’s less awkward between us now that we’re on the beach with his friends.
“No,” he says. “It’s usually much colder. It’s balmy at the moment.” He’s already been in the water. He swam the whole length of the bay twice. He’s a strong swimmer. I have to admit I’m impressed.
“It’s not so bad if you run in quickly,” Mollie says. She’s small, with friendly blue eyes and the most amazing shock of curly red hair I’ve ever seen. Like Mattie, she’s very chatty. She’s wearing green-and-white flowery surf shorts and a turquoise rash vest, not a tiny string bikini like some of the girls back home wear on the beach. Bikinis are no use for swimming in and I’m not into sunbathing. What’s the point of sitting around on your butt when you could be in the water?