by Sarah Webb
Chapter 9
The following morning I’m sitting on the patio with Clover. I didn’t get much sleep last night. Clover snored all night, like a slobbery dog with adenoid problems, and I’m hoping to have a nice snooze in the sun after breakfast. The sky is cornflower blue with only a few high, wispy clouds, and we’ve already planned to cut loose from the noisy babies and their even noisier mums later and hit the beach.
It’s a bit nippy to be eating outside, but we’re avoiding the mayhem in the kitchen. We picked up our cereal bowls and skedaddled just after Mum and Prue launched into a heated argument about television-watching during mealtimes.
It’s their second disagreement of the morning and it’s not even nine o’clock yet. The first was over being dressed at the breakfast table. This morning Prue is once again perfectly turned out in pristine jeans with a crease ironed down the front, a crisp white shirt and another velvet Alice band, red this time. She looks like an American soccer mum from the telly.
She insisted on her brood being washed and dressed before they ate. Mum’s still in her raggedy grey PJs and pink towelling dressing gown with wild Amy Winehouse hair. She hasn’t fully woken up yet, let alone washed and dressed either herself or Alex and Evie.
They’d barely finished that argument when the great telly debate began. They’re still at it. The French doors are open and their heated voices are carrying all the way out here.
“But it rots their brains, Sylvie,” Prue is saying. “And it over stimulates them. I only let my boys watch educational programmes.”
Through the open doorway I see Mum grab the controller off the kitchen counter and channel-hop until the D-D-D-D-D-Dora the Explorer theme tune rings out. “Now!” she says triumphantly. “Dora’s very educational. All that Spanish and map-reading.”
Prue presses her lips together into a tight line and says nothing.
“Do you think they’ll be bickering for the entire holiday?” Clover asks me in a low voice, stretching her legs out in front of her and crossing them at the ankles. (We’re sitting on spindly-legged metal chairs. Mine nearly froze my bum when I sat down, but it’s warmed up a bit now.) Clover gives a huge yawn and I can see her wisdom teeth. “It’s very tedious,” she adds, then winks. “But quite entertaining. Hey, in a mud wrestle, who would you bet on, Sylvie or Prue?”
I don’t even have to think about it. “Mum! Prue would be afraid of getting filthy. And I bet she’d do that girlie slapping thing.” I demonstrate for Clover, flapping my hands in the air like a seal’s flippers and making high-pitched girlie squeaks.
Clover cracks up and falls about laughing. “You’re probably right. But I think old Prudie has hidden depths. After all, she did shoot Denis out from between her legs. He must have been a giant baby.”
“Clover!” I scrunch up my nose. “Do you have to be so graphic?”
“Sorry, Beans. Changing the subject, do you think Denis will break his vow of silence?”
So far Denis hasn’t uttered a word – not yesterday, not this morning. Not a peep. When Clover tried tickling him earlier, to make him laugh or even just squeak, he only scowled, grunted and squeezed her hand so tightly he nearly broke it. Then he made a rude sign with his fingers and waggled them in her face.
I snorted into my hand and even Clover looked a bit shocked. She tried to wrestle his hand down and, of course, Prue caught her at it.
“What are you doing, Clover?” she raged.
Quick as a flash, Clover said, “Teaching Denis sign language.” She crossed her hands in front of her body and tipped her hips, giving Prue a sugary sweet smile.
I laughed so much milk went up my nose and I spat my mouthful of Rice Krispies all over the table. I couldn’t help it. You see, we’ve been watching this CBeebies programme with Alex – Something Special. The smiley presenter is teaching children how to sign. (We’ve been trying to make Alex copy the gestures, but he’s far more interested in his toy trains.) And Clover had just told Denis to change his nappy.
“What did you just say in sign language, then?” Prue asked suspiciously, one hand on her hip as if she was about to do “I’m a Little Teapot”.
“Put on your shorts,” Clover lied effortlessly before signing again. “Put on.” She crossed her arms. “Your shorts.” She touched her hips. “He’ll boil in those heavy combats.”
“That’s really cool, Clover,” Mum said, genuinely impressed. “I didn’t know you could sign.”
Prue just sucked in her cheeks. I don’t think she’s taken to Clover.
“Do I look like I’ve got the plague?” Clover asks. She’s stuck soggy Rice Krispies all over her face. She puts her hands out in front of her like a zombie, closes her eyes and moans like one of the evil undead.
“Hello! Anyone home?” A singsong voice suddenly pierces the air. A girl a few years older than Clover is walking towards us. She has a short crop of hair, the colour of blackberries. A stocky grey Labrador with a bit of a limp is following closely behind her. When I look at his bright, loyal eyes, I think of our old dog, Timmy. He was a black Lab too. He died just after Mum and Dad’s separation. Great timing. I was devastated. First my gran died, then my parents split up, then Timmy died – bang, bang, bang, one after the other – and my whole life came tumbling down like a run of dominoes. If it wasn’t for Clover and Mills, and Mum, I suppose, I would have gone crazy. I still miss Gran and Timmy.
“Hi there.” The girl smiles, coming to a stop in front of me and Clover, her friendly garnet-blue eyes crinkling at the corners. She’s staring at Clover’s face, but is clearly too polite to say anything about Clover’s disfiguring skin disease.
Clover wipes the cereal off with the back of her hand. It drops to the floor and the dog starts to wolf it down.
“Dante!” The girl pulls him back by his collar. “Bad boy.”
Clover laughs. “It’s only Rice Krispies.”
“Oh, ay? Good for the skin, is it? Like a face mask?” the girl asks.
“Something like that. I’m Clover, by the way. And this is my niece Amy. We’re staying here for two weeks. Do you live on the island?”
“Ah no. More’s the pity. Beautiful, isn’t it?” She waves her hand around the garden. “I live on the Baltimore Road. Sorry, I’m Martie. I look after Haven House for Esther; she owns the place.”
“Does Esther have a son?” I ask. I’m dying to find out more about the boy from the maze.
Martie shakes her head. “No. Why?”
“There was a boy here yesterday. With a dog.”
She looks at me for a moment as if deciding what to say. “That would be Kit Harper. He’s the gardener. He wasn’t rude to you, was he?”
“What? No. Not at all. Didn’t say much, really.”
“That’d be Kit all right.” She smiles gently. “Best left to his own devices.” She sighs. “We’ve had a few complaints about him from the people renting Haven. Nothing serious. But some people round here think he’s trouble.”
I can almost see Clover’s ears prick up at the word trouble.
“But he’s a brilliant gardener, that’s for sure,” Martie continues. “The place has never looked better. Esther has a bit of a soft spot for him. Says he’s—” She stops as Gramps walks out through the French doors.
“There you are, girls,” he says. “It’s like World War Three in there, so I thought I’d join you.”
Gramps drove down on his own late last night to avoid the traffic. I think he was also trying to avoid being lumped with either Alex or Evie; there was talk of separating them to make the trip easier for Mum and Dave, but in the end it didn’t happen. Much as Gramps loves his youngest grandchildren, he likes peace and quiet while he’s driving.
“Hello.” He puts out his hand politely to Martie. “I’m Len Wildgust. Clover’s dad and Amy’s grampa.”
Martie shakes it heartily. “Martie Coghill.”
Gramps stares at her, still gripping her hand. “Did you say Coghill, my dear?”
S
he nods and smiles. “That’s right. It’s a funny name, isn’t it? My family came from England originally.”
Gramps realizes he’s still clutching her hand and lets it go gently. “You don’t know an Esther Coghill, by any chance?”
Martie nods. “Aye, Esther’s my nan. Owns this place, in fact. Lived here for years with my grandad before he died. She moved off the island a few years back, when it got too much for her. Not that she’d admit it, of course. I’ve taken over most of the rental work, but she still deals with the bookings and the paperwork.”
Gramps staggers a little and then sits down on a chair beside me. He looks very shaken. “Esther,” he whispers. “Fancy that.”
“Do you know Nan?” Martie asks him.
“Was her maiden name Smylie?”
Martie nods. “That’s right.”
“Then I do.” He smiles softly. “I met her when she was nursing up in Dublin. She was my first love.”
Clover gasps and nudges me with her elbow. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she whispers.
“Operation Emma?” I whisper back.
She looks at me blankly.
“Jane Austen,” I add.
Still nothing. She clearly doesn’t know her Austen very well. If she did, she’d know that Emma Woodhouse was one of Austen’s best-ever heroines. Much more interesting than those drippy Bennet girls from Pride and Prejudice. Emma was a matchmaker. It all went a bit wrong in the end, but her heart was in the right place.
“Operation matchmaker!” I hiss back.
Clover grins. “My thoughts exactly, Beanie.”
Chapter 10
“Gramps hasn’t seen his sisters for over forty years. Isn’t that amazing?” Clover stops, puts a hand on my shoulder, lifts her flip-flop and shakes it. A pebble plops out, and we start walking again. The sun is shining and we’re on our way to one of the island’s private beaches.
“I think it’s kind of sad,” I say. “And the whole business with Esther is sad too.”
As soon as Martie left, Gramps told us the whole story. He met Esther Smylie forty years ago at a tea dance in the Royal Marine Hotel in Dun Laoghaire. She was there with a gang of nurses from the Adelaide Hospital and he was at a farewell celebration. His twin sisters, Mabel and Tully, were emigrating to Australia; he hasn’t seen them since.
“Should we ring Esther now?” I say. “See if she’ll go for dinner with Gramps?”
“I’m not sure, Beanie. They parted on pretty bad terms. She might not be all that impressed with the idea.”
“She can’t still be angry after all this time, surely?”
She shrugs. “Some people hold grudges all their lives. And Gramps did stand her up… Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”
“He just got the time wrong.”
Clover sucks in her breath and shakes her head. “But she waited for over an hour. In the pouring rain. And then he disappeared for a week without any real explanation.”
“For work! And that’s not true, anyway; he left her a message. She’s more to blame than he is. And he called in to the hospital to see her the minute he got back from his trip – she refused even to speak to him! It wasn’t all his fault, Clover.”
“Maybe,” she says slowly. But after a moment, she hands me her mobile. “Go for it, Beanie.”
I find the yellow sticky note in my pocket and tap in Esther’s number. It was rather conveniently written in the house’s big blue folder of instructions. Clover leans right in so she can eavesdrop.
“Hello?” a woman’s voice answers.
“Hi, Mrs Coghill. My name’s Amy Green and I’m staying in Haven House with my family.”
“Hello, my dear. And do call me Esther. Anything wrong? Water hasn’t gone off again, has it?”
“Oh no, nothing like that. This might seem a bit out of the blue, but we were talking to Martie earlier and it turns out Gramps – sorry, my grampa – knows you. He’s staying with us. He got chatting to Martie, who mentioned your name, and he remembered you from years back…” I pause and take a breath. “Len Wildgust?”
I wait for Esther to say something. Finally she says, “Len, eh? Now there’s a blast from the past.” She gives a short laugh. “What a coincidence. I can’t believe Len’s staying on the island.”
I take another deep breath. “Gramps, sorry, Len, would love to see you again, Mrs Coghill – I mean, Esther.”
“Would he now? … Well, why not? I’d love to catch up with him. He always was such a tonic. And a very accomplished dancer. Would he like to call over for tea? Or maybe something stronger? Does he like sloe gin? I make my own.”
“How about dinner in Skibbereen?” I suggest. “Thursday night? Around eight?”
“Perfect. And he must come here, Autumn Cottage. I insist. I’ll cook up something very special. Martie can give him directions. She’s up at the house most mornings, talking to the gardener. But I have to ask, my dear, why is it you ringing and not Len?”
“He was a bit nervous,” I say, not wanting to give away how much I know. “He hasn’t been on a date since my granny died.”
“A date?” She laughs. “Oh my. No wonder he’s nervous… Thursday it is. Tell Len I’ll see him then.”
I click the mobile off.
“Yeah!” Clover says, clapping her hands together and doing a little wiggly dance. “Way to go. Gramps has a hot date. And talking of ‘hot’, I’ve been dying to know all morning – what does he look like? Kitty Kit. The one who’s trouble.” She puts on a dramatic deep voice when she says “trouble”, like someone from a movie trailer.
“Utter swoonsville,” I admit. There’s no point trying to hide things from Clover. She’ll see him herself soon enough, anyway. “Black hair, tanned. Amazing body.”
“Do I detect a mini-crush?”
“Not at all.” I try not to sound too defensive. I had a dream about him last night. He was running with his dog on the beach. Then the dog turned into Billy, Seth’s dog, and Kit turned into Seth. It was all very weird.
Clover chuckles. “I’m only teasing. I know you’re hopelessly devoted to Sethy baby. But it’s an added bonus having a bit of eye candy in the garden, don’t you think? Trés Desperate Housewives.”
We reach the beach and lie down on our towels to soak up the sun. I close my eyes and wonder what Seth’s up to in Rome right at this minute. I’m starting to miss him.
Chapter 11
On Tuesday afternoon there’s a letter waiting for me on the kitchen table. It’s from Seth; I’d recognize his sprawling handwriting anywhere. I rip open the plump-as-a-pillow envelope, and small black razor-thin stones fall on to my lap. I pick them up and pile them on the table in front of me, where they wink in the light. Then I pull out a crumpled browning leaf and two squashed and bruised white flower-heads.
The letter is on white paper with a torn, wiggly left-hand side as if it’s been ripped out of a notebook. I start to read:
Hey babe,
A little bit of Italia, just for you.
Missing you already. It’s not bad here, but a bit snoresville. We’re staying in a villa in the hills, just outside Rome. Mum is teaching twice a day, in the morning and then again in the early evening. Too hot to concentrate in the arvo, apparently.
The olds in Polly’s class are way dodgy-looking: lots of men in big baggy shorts you could hide a whole kennel of dogs in, and women in Jesus sandals with gnarly yellow toenails. There’s one girl who always wears bikini tops and rainbow tie-dyed skirts with bells on the hem which makes her sound like Tinker Bell when she walks. She winked at me this morning and she’s at least seventeen! She’s here with her mum.
I saw a firefly last night – amazing! Wish you’d been here to see it too: flitting around the place with its own little light source. Mad to watch.
What’s the house like? Is it old and haunted? Whoooooooooooo! (That’s a ghost, by the way.)
Spookily yours,
Seth XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
&nb
sp; XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Tinker Bell winked at him, did she? Cheeky minx. I read the letter again. Nothing about him ignoring her. In fact, he sounds proud of himself. Yikes! She could be cheerleader material with big wobbly boobs straining out of that skimpy bikini top. For all I know, he could have winked back. Maybe he fancies her.
I throw the letter down on the table in annoyance. Then I notice a second page, peeping out from under the first, like a shy twin.
It’s a poem. Written out carefully and neatly. It must have taken him ages.
For Amy
You Make Me Smile
The denim night sky stretches out in front of me,
The spikes of the stars jut into my senses.
I remember sitting under a tree, just the two of us;
I remember silence.
I remember warm arms, warm lips, warm hearts.
Oh, wrap me up in the comfort of those arms
And take me home.
I am yours
Because you make me smile.
Seth X
For a second the world stops dead; all I can hear is the sound of my own heart beating. Thump, thump, thump. Seth wrote a poem – for me! It’s the most romantic thing that has ever happened to me in my whole entire life. I clutch the page to my chest, close my eyes and give a big swoony sigh.
I click into my email account to write back to him:
Hi Seth,
Thanks for your letter; it arrived today. Super-speedy delivery. Must have cost you a fortune. I didn’t know you were a poet!
Missing you loads too. And give Tinker Bell a good slap from me.
I delete the last sentence and calm myself down. I try again.
Probably best to steer well clear of Tinker Bell. Just in case she gets the wrong idea.