by Sarah Webb
I have no idea what she’s on about, but she’s right about the smoke; there are thin wafts of it coming from their bonnet. They don’t seem to have noticed – or else they’re stubbornly ignoring it and refusing to stop.
Clover nips back in behind them and beeps, waving at them to stop. The boy in the back seat looks round, then makes a rude gesture with his arms and waggles his tongue at us.
“Yuck! What an evil leprechaun of a boy,” Clover says. She grips the wheel and checks her rear-view mirror. “If they won’t budge, I’m going to overtake them. Hang on to your hat, Beanie.” She presses her foot down on the accelerator, indicates and powers off, leaving the blue car in her wake.
I stick my head out of the window and wave at the three boys.
“Do you know them?” Clover asks.
“Not exactly. They threw crisps at me when Dave was changing the tyre.”
“I wondered what the smell was, but I didn’t like to say anything.”
“Clover! I hope you’d tell me if I had BO or doggy breath or something.”
She laughs. “Course I would. I’ll give them crisps, cheeky monkeys.” She reaches over and pulls something red out of her handbag, which is lodged in my footwell, and tosses it out of the window. It sails along in the air for a moment before slapping against their windscreen. “I’ll see your crisps, boys,” she yells, “and I’ll raise you a Goss special!”
The boys screech to a halt, peel something off the glass and stare after us in disbelief, their mouths wide open.
“What was that?” I ask as we zip away. The boys are now ants in the distance.
“An edible bra. I was going to give it to Sylvie for a laugh. There’s still a box of them in the office. They’re made of this gross chewy stuff – they use it to make edible cards for dogs.”
I stare at her in amazement. The mind boggles. “But what are they for? The edible bras, I mean.”
“Valentine’s Day. I included them in my ‘Original Presents for the Boy who Floats your Boat’ round-up.”
What can you say to that?
Clover flicks on her iPod speakers and Avril Lavigne’s voice rings out. “Remember this one, Bean Machine?” she says, belting out the chorus of “Girlfriend” while jiggling her upper body to the music and tapping the steering wheel with her left hand.
We steam on along the N8.
“Having fun yet?” she asks me when the song ends.
“I would be if I didn’t stink of cheese and onion.”
“Here.” She reaches into her handbag again and pulls out a chunky glass bottle. Old Rose by Jo Malone, one of Clover’s prized possessions. “Just one spritz, mind,” she warns. “I have to smell lush for Brains.”
“Thanks, Clover.” I put on my best American accent. “I love you, man.”
“Don’t blame you.” She grins at me. “I’m pretty cute.” Then she indicates left and pulls into the gravel lay-by with a squeal of tyres. “Now let’s get the top down, Beanie. West Cork, here we come.”
Chapter 7
Clover stops at a garage in Skibbereen to wait for Dave, as the directions to Haven House – the place we’re staying in – are pretty complicated. Following him out of the town, we drive down a small wiggling road, lined with bushy hedgerows, and through the pretty Lough Ine village – which is basically a pub painted tea-rose pink and a small ice-cream shop-cum-post office – until we reach a large lake. After another minute or so we pull up beside a small stone harbour surrounded by mossy old trees, their leaves suspended just over the water.
There are all kinds of boats bobbing on the lake – orange kayaks, old blue pedal boats with broken seats, yachts and lots of brightly painted wooden fishing boats with engines on the back. It’s so beautiful, it looks like a picture postcard.
We get out and stand beside Mum and Dave by the harbour edge. Evie and Alex are both asleep in the car. Alex looks as if he’s been let loose in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory; there’s a melty brown ring round his mouth, and his hair and fringe are brown too.
“How was your trip?” Clover asks Mum.
Mum shakes her head. “Don’t ask. Alex only fell asleep about ten minutes ago. If I ever have to listen to his nursery-rhyme tape again I swear I’ll shoot myself. Five hours of ‘The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round’. Aagh!”
Clover smiles gently. “We’re here now.”
“But where’s here?” Mum looks at Dave, who is gazing out at the water. “Dave, where’s the house? It’s not that one, is it?” She points at a white Georgian mansion to the far left of the harbour.
Dave shakes his head. “No, it’s over there.” He nods at a green patch in the middle of the lake.
Clover squints. “Isn’t that an island?”
Dave nods eagerly and grins. “Yes. Isn’t it cool?”
“An island?” Mum narrows her eyes. “You never said anything about an island, Dave.” She doesn’t look happy.
“It’s a surprise,” Dave says, the smile quickly dropping off his face. “Art thought it would be exciting. Romantic.”
(Dad booked the house – he’s a bit of a control freak.)
“Romantic? With all the baby gear?” Mum demands. “Is he deranged? I can’t believe you didn’t warn me.” She glares at him. “Tell me there’s a car ferry.”
Dave gives a hollow laugh. “Don’t be silly, Sylvie. There’s only one house on the island. We have our own boat. Two of them, in fact.” He gestures at the steps leading down to the water, and sure enough, a yellow fishing boat is tied to the railing. “The other one must be on the island with Prue and her lot. And there’s a private beach only three minutes’ walk from the house.”
Prue is Dave’s posh big sister. Her ferry arrived in Rosslare at six this morning. Dad and Shelly are following us down next week. Shelly has a hospital appointment on Monday, so it will be Tuesday before they get here. It’s a miracle they are joining us at all. Mum and Dad only started speaking to each other again a few weeks ago after Dad “forgot” to tell Mum about his and Shelly’s secret wedding in Barbados. Oh, and that Shelly’s expecting a baby. They’re all still a bit funny around one another.
Mum stares at the boats and then back at Dave. “And how exactly do we get the bags from the beach to the house? And if you say donkey I’ll thump you.”
“Wheelbarrow,” Dave admits. “Far more reliable than a donkey.”
Clover and I giggle, but Mum throws us one of her “wicked fairy from Sleeping Beauty” looks so we stop.
“David Marcus,” Mum says, her voice tight and her eyes flashing. “One of these days—” She stops, puts both her hands over her face and makes a muffled squeaking noise.
Clover pinches me and whispers excitedly, “An island! Famous Five stuff, Beanie. Isn’t it Fab City?”
* * *
In the end, despite Mum’s reservations, the trip over to the island isn’t all that bad. We load the boat up with all the bags and baby equipment, and after a quick refresher lesson from Dave, Clover helms it to the beach. She’s been in and out of fishing boats all her life with Gramps, so she’s pretty confident. My job is to stop Alex from jumping overboard, which takes quite an effort as he’s mad about any kind of water, especially deep water he can actually drown in.
Clover approaches the beach a little too quickly and grinds the bottom of the boat against the stony sand. It makes a sickening crunching noise, but no water comes in, so Dave says it’s OK; she hasn’t holed it – this time. Clover’s shaken at first, but after a few seconds she bounces back.
“Hey, Beanie, look – our own private beach!” She gives me a wicked grin. “You know what that means? Topless sunbathing and skinny-dipping.”
“What do you think, Sylvie? Fancy a bit of skinny-dipping later when the kids are in bed?” Dave grins.
Mum rolls her eyes at him. “Please. We’re not teenagers, Dave. And if you want to give Prue a heart attack, Clover, then going topless is a good way to go about it.”
Clover isn’t b
othered. “Hey, Dan’s a doctor, so heart attack, smart attack – he can always revive her. I for one intend to get an all-over tan.”
(Dan is Prue’s husband. He’s a GP in Hove, where they live – which according to Dave is a posh seaside town near Brighton.)
Mum plays with Alex and Evie on the beach while the rest of us load up the rusty green wheelbarrows. Dave and Clover take one each and begin to push them towards the house – correction, Dave does. The wheels of Clover’s keep getting stuck and she’s swearing so much that Mum says, “For goodness’ sake, help her, Dave. Quickly, before Alex picks up even more bad language.”
When we finally get to the house – a white two-storey Georgian house with huge sash windows, ivy growing over them like wiggly eyebrows – Prue and Dan are there to greet us. Baby Bella is on Prue’s hip, but there’s no sign of Ollie or Denis, her boys.
Denis is a nightmare! Last time they were over, me and Mills were sunbathing in the back garden and Denis soaked us with the hose. Another time he squeezed his feet into Clover’s favourite silver Converse so he could play soccer with Dave and Dan in the back garden, ’cos his own were wet. They came back muddy and stretched. Clover wasn’t impressed.
“Darling brother,” Prue says, throwing her arms round Dave. “How lovely to see you. Won’t this be fun?”
Dave must be smothered. I’m standing several metres away and her musky perfume is pongier than toilet cleaner.
Prue steps back. She’s wearing beige canvas to-the-knee shorts, navy Keds and a neatly ironed white button-up shirt. Her straight blonde hair is pulled back in a navy velvet Alice band.
“I hope you don’t mind, darling,” she says, “but I’ve allocated the rooms already. I thought it would make things easier.” (For someone who’s Irish, Prue has a very Home Counties accent.)
Clover slants me a look. “Sylvie’s not going to like that,” she whispers.
Prue starts to show us around. “This is the Blue Bedroom, where Dan and I are sleeping,” she says, waving her hands around a large room with three big sash windows, all with sea views; an enormous four-poster bed with eggshell-blue canopy; a squashy sofa with sky-blue cushions; wall-to-wall wardrobes; and a big en suite with a power shower and jacuzzi bath.
“And I thought the Yellow Bedroom might suit you and Dave, Sylvie.” She swings open the door to a much smaller room down the corridor with only one window, no sea views; a normal-size double bed; no sofa; only one small pine chest of drawers; and a tiny en suite with a view of the sea only if you stand on the loo seat and peer through the very small window above.
Mum doesn’t say a word. She throws Dave a look, but he’s studiously avoiding her gaze.
Prue gives me and Clover the Safari Room because of the French doors, but Clover has already christened it the “Room That Taste Forgot”.
“Denis isn’t very good with balconies,” Prue tells us. “I’ll put him in the Lilac Room until your boyfriend arrives, Clover, dear.”
Clover hisses in my ear, “I’m sure the spawn child is very good with balconies – trying to push people off them, that is.”
I giggle into my hand.
Chapter 8
As soon as Prue has skipped off, we troop downstairs to the kitchen. “It’s outrageous,” Mum says, propping her hip against the granite counter. Her eyes are flashing like Halloween fireworks. “Prue gets,” – she counts on her fingers – “a jacuzzi bath, a sea view and a four-poster bed. What do I get? A sickly yellow room, that’s what. And rubbish white curtains that let the light in. The room’s so small, Evie’s cot will just fit beside our bed, but we’ll have to put Alex’s travel cot in the en suite. Which means I won’t even get one flaming bath in the evening. All I wanted was a bit of peace and quiet and the odd bath.”
Dave looks confused. “Sylvie, I think you’re over-reacting. You can have your bath during the day. And the room’s the same colour as our bedroom at home. You like yellow; you think it’s calming.”
Hot red spots appear on Mum’s cheeks. “We’re on holiday,” she hisses; “I wanted a change. Not the same. Something different! Why did she get to pick the rooms, tell me that?” She thrusts her hands on her hips.
Dave seems a bit alarmed and I can’t say I blame him. Mum looks like a volcano about to erupt. She’s pacing the kitchen tiles, her lips pressed together, hard.
Just then Prue skips into the kitchen. (Can the woman not walk like normal mortals?) Unlike Mum she looks calm and happy, with baby Bella balanced on her hip and a jaunty red and white polka-dot nappy bag slung over her shoulder. “Hello, all,” she trills, tinkling her fingers at us. “Just making Bella a little snack. Does Evie-Deevie like organic rice cakes and carrot sticks? Carrots are so good for their teeth, don’t you think?”
Mum opens her mouth to say something, but before she gets a chance, Prue adds, “I’ve already stocked the fridge, Sylvie, so there’s no need to worry. Now, I don’t let my three near processed food or sugar.” She shudders and makes a funny face, as if she’s constipated, and I try not to laugh. “So it’s porridge for breakfast,” she continues. “I’m sure little Evie loves porridge, don’t you, angel?”
She crouches down and puts her finger out to stroke Evie’s cheek – but Evie’s too quick for her and gives it a little nip with her teeth.
Prue squeals and jumps back in fright, knocking over the kitchen bin with a clatter and almost dropping Bella.
Evie starts to wail. Mum picks her up and jiggles her around on her hip, but she won’t stop. She’s like a little fire engine.
Mum sighs. “I’ll just take Evie for a little walk around the garden to calm her down. And Prue, I’m sorry, but I can’t stand porridge. I’m more of a Sugar Puffs girl myself.” She gives a tight smile. “And I agree, there’s far too much sugar and salt in processed foods, but frankly, I don’t care. I’m on holidays and I plan to spend as little time as possible cooking. My lot will happily eat beans and sausages every day, so don’t worry about them. They won’t starve. And by the way, congratulations on bagging the biggest room for yourself. Way to go, Prue.”
Prue gasps but Mum ignores her and marches outside with a still bawling Evie in her arms. Prue puts Bella into a high-chair, then folds her arms across her chest. “Well,” she says in a breathy voice, staring at Dave; her eyebrows are so high they’re almost halfway up her forehead.
Clover hops up on to the counter, dangling her brown legs (fake-baked only last light, she told me in the car) and yawning. “Any chocolate or Coke, Dave? My blood sugar’s all over the place.”
Prue’s eyebrows rise even further.
Dave just smiles. “Nope. Fancy a shopping trip later? Amy can go with you to help, if she likes.”
Clover’s eyes light up. “Can we use the boat on our own?”
“Yep.”
“Excellent.” She puts her hand up to high-five me. “You on, Beanie?”
“You bet.”
Half an hour after Mum and Prue’s encounter in the kitchen, Mum still isn’t back from walking Evie. Dave is starting to fret. He’s already searched the whole house for them.
Clover is lying on the sunlounger, lapping up the rays, Alex is napping in his new en suite bathroom/nursery and Prue’s stooped over some sort of evil-smelling bean-and-vegetable concoction on the Aga, like a witch stirring a cauldron. I keep half-expecting her to start chanting “Hubble bubble, toil and trouble” like one of the old hags in Macbeth. I caught her stroking the Aga earlier – which is weird behaviour, if you ask me. Bella is sitting on a rug at Prue’s feet, chewing away happily on a cardboard copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar.
Dan is outside, watching Ollie and Denis on the trampoline. Denis is larger than the average nine-year-old (he’s the size of a small mountain!), so poor old Ollie, who’s small for three, is being boinged all over the place. Every now and then Denis suddenly stops jumping, making Ollie land awkwardly and wail in protest. No wonder Dan’s watching them so intently.
As everyone else is busy,
I offer to help look for Mum. There’s no sign of her in the garden, so I megaphone my hands and roar “Mum!” at the top of my voice.
Still nothing.
Then I hear a creaking noise to my right and notice a gap in the ivy-covered wall. A tall, dark-haired boy of about fifteen or sixteen walks through the old metal gateway, a green canvas sack slung over his back, a black and white dog at his heels. Through the gate behind him, I spot a hedge.
The boy dumps the contents of the sack into a wheelbarrow by the wall and wipes his hands on the front of his cut-off jeans. The dog waits obediently by his side. The boy lifts his head. “Lost yer mam?” he asks with a strong West Cork lilt.
He’s so good-looking my breath catches and I blush instantly. Unable to speak, I nod wordlessly, just gawking at him. I can’t help it. His face is nutty brown, and he has intense, hypnotic eyes, the colour of a stormy sea – a swirl of green, blue and gunmetal grey. I can feel my blood racing through my veins and thud, thud, thud, my heart pumping in my chest.
He’s not wearing a top, and his broad tanned chest is all sweaty and heaving, his arms strong and muscular. Judging by the tan on his legs, he must wear shorts all the time. His nose has a distinct bump and his jeans are grass-stained but, be still my swooning heart, he certainly has … something.
“She blonde? Carrying a baby?” he continues.
I nod again.
“Down there.” He jabs a thumb towards the sea. “On the beach.”
“Um, thanks,” I manage.
“No bother.” He walks back through the gate towards the hedge. Looking closer, I see there’s a gap in it. Then it comes to me – it’s not a hedge at all; it’s a maze. Wow! How cool!
I’m about to go and investigate when I hear Dan call from the garden. “Amy!”
Reluctantly I turn towards his voice, the strange boy’s face still swimming in front of my eyes.