Scarlett

by Cathy Cassidy

  I sneak out of the cafe while Dad is looking for clues in a rundown shoeshop filled with fur-trimmed slippers and shamrock-print wellies. Buy one, get one free, the sign says. I cut down an alleyway and follow a footpath along the edge of some fields until I’m well clear of the village, climbing higher and higher up into the hills. Without the cash for bus fare, it looks like I’m walking to Dublin. Maybe I can stow away on a ferry back to England?

  I walk until my feet hurt, over the crest of the hill and down into the valley, past small blue loughs that shimmer in the afternoon sun. I climb up the far side of the valley, walk on along the ridge, then drop down on the far side, edging my way down the slope. The gorse and bracken gives way to a woodland of silver birch. My stupid shoes slip and slither, and blisters bubble beneath my toes.

  I take cover in the trees, wedge heels crunching over dead leaves and broken twigs. I find a path, then the path fizzles out and I’m back to stumbling over tree stumps and fallen branches, squidging through soggy bits, slipping on mossy stones. Twigs stroke my face like scratchy fingers.

  The trees thin out and I find myself on the shores of another lough, a long, dark blue stretch of water that glints and shines. Inside the fluffy red rucksack, my mobile erupts into life. I fish it out, snap open the cover.

  ‘Hello?’ I say.

  ‘Scarlett! Where the hell are you?’

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ I reply. ‘Nice to speak to you too.’

  ‘Scarlett, don’t get clever with me,’ she snaps. ‘Your dad’s just been on the phone. What d’you think you’re playing at?’

  I sit down on a tree stump, cradling the phone. ‘I’m not playing, Mum,’ I tell her. ‘I’m coming home.’

  ‘Scarlett, that just isn’t on,’ Mum says. ‘We agreed this was the best solution, and you won’t even give it a fair trial!’

  We agreed?

  ‘I’ve sent you six text messages,’ I tell her. ‘And a picture, today. How come you only reply when Dad calls you?’

  ‘I had an important presentation yesterday, and then dinner with the clients,’ Mum says icily. ‘I’d have called tonight, obviously.’

  ‘Well, thanks,’ I quip. ‘It’s great you can fit me into your busy schedule.’

  I can hear Mum fizzing with anger. ‘Actually, Scarlett, I was in the middle of a meeting when your dad called. I could do without having to deal with this kind of stunt on your very first full day in Ireland. You can’t just walk out of school!’

  ‘I did,’ I point out. ‘It’ll save them the trouble of expelling me.’

  ‘You’re going back,’ Mum says.

  ‘I’m coming home,’ I reply. ‘Please, Mum. I hate it here. Nobody wants me. It’s a dump. Don’t make me stay.’

  ‘Scarlett, don’t be ridiculous. Where are you exactly?’ Mum asks. ‘Are you still in Kilimoor? Chris is out of his mind with worry. Promise me you’ll stay put. Just stay still, wait for Chris. He’ll sort things out.’

  ‘Mum?’ the word comes out kind of mangled. I close my eyes, press my fist against my mouth.

  ‘Scarlett?’ she says shrilly. ‘Are you still there? Listen to me. It’s time you stopped acting like a kid with a tantrum and started to make the best of things. Just grow up and get on with it.’

  I snap the phone shut, run down to the water’s edge and throw the mobile in one perfect, curving arc right out into the lough. It glints silver as it breaks the surface with a splash, then sinks without trace.

  I turn away, furious, marching along the shore, but within minutes I trip, scrambling over a knot of gnarled tree roots, falling heavily I’ve torn one of the ribbon ties on my sandal, and a hot, burning pain shoots through my left ankle. My eyes prickle with tears of anger, but I won’t cry. I never cry – not since Dad left, anyhow. It’d be like letting him see how much he hurt me. Crying is for kids. I scream instead, a bloodcurdling yell that startles the birds and shakes the treetops before tailing off to a whimper.

  I pull off my wedge heels and fling them away into the trees ahead of me, because they’ve ripped my feet to shreds and I don’t care if I never see them again as long as I live.

  I hobble along the shoreline, my black tights all ripped and holed, but I can’t put any weight on my twisted ankle and I have to give up. There’s a tree up ahead, a little twisty tree with soft green leaves that sits at the head of the lough. A bubble of water trickles through its bony roots, and little flashes of red peep through the leaves as I approach. Scarves and rags are tied into its branches, like ribbons in a little girl’s hair. Weird.

  I blink. Up in the foliage, one of my red and pink wedge sandals hangs, dangling from a tangled loop of ribbon. I sit down, leaning my back against the trunk, letting the icy water run over my toes, looking out across the lough.

  My ankle is hurting like crazy, and now I can see it’s swollen too. Perfect. I close my eyes, wondering how I have managed to make such a mess of my life. If it’s all about choices, I guess I just pick the wrong ones, time after time after time.

  The light is fading, streaking the sky with icecream colours – vanilla, strawberry, raspberry ripple. If I’m not careful, I’ll be spending the night here, burrowing down into the dry leaves, resting my head on a fallen branch. It doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.

  If this was a kid’s fairy tale, birds and dormice would fetch me magical blankets woven from spider’s web silk or velvet moss, because it’s getting chilly now. I wouldn’t be sitting alone by a deserted lough in the middle of nowhere, hacked off, clueless, hungry, cold. I’d have met wolves and woodcutters, witches and dwarves and handsome princes to make my dreams come true.

  Yeah, right. Even the birds and the dormice are staying out of my way.

  I wish I didn’t feel so alone.

  Suddenly, on the edge of my vision where the shoreline curves round towards a distant rocky headland, something is moving. I can’t see clearly at first, because of the fading light and the soft pink glow of the sunset, but then my eyes stretch wide with disbelief.

  The horse comes out of the sunset, galloping along the edge of the lough like something from a dream. I can hear the thud of its hooves on damp mud, see the water splash out around it. It’s a stocky black horse with a flash of white at its forehead, hooves feathered with cream-coloured hair that’s damp and crimped from the lough. It slows as it turns from the water’s edge and comes towards me, shaking its head and blowing hot air through flaring nostrils.

  The rider looks down at me, his dark eyes shining, black hair flopping across his face. His T-shirt is faded and worn, his jeans are frayed and one brown hand is twisted into the horse’s mane.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he says.

  Of course, a boy from the lough could look right into my soul and turn it inside out. He wouldn’t need to ask questions. He’d just pull me up beside him on the big black horse and we’d gallop into the water, splashing through the shallows and out towards the silver-pink horizon.

  That doesn’t happen. When he says ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ I snarl right back with ‘Yeah? Well, looks like you’ve found me now.’ He raises one eyebrow, just a fraction, and I cover my mouth with my hands so that nothing else mean and spiky can leak out.

  ‘You’re the English girl,’ the boy says. ‘Half of Kilimoor is talking about you. Figured you’d be halfway to the airport by now.’

  I shrug. ‘I’m heading for Dublin.’

  ‘So,’ he says. ‘You’re going in the wrong direction.’

  The black horse wheels around a little, scuffing up the mud. ‘You must have walked six or seven miles over the hills,’ the boy tells me. ‘You’re on Lough Choill, not far from your dad’s place.’

  ‘No way!’ My cheeks burn until I guess they’re about as red as my hair.

  ‘Did you hurt yourself?’ he asks, looking at my swollen ankle. ‘What happened to your shoes?’

  ‘Lost them.’

  The corners of his mouth twitch into a smile. ‘Don’t tell me, red stilettos?�
�� he asks.

  ‘Funny. Red wedge heels, actually, with ribbon ties.’

  ‘Ah. Much more sensible, obviously’ His eyes flicker up to the leaves above my head, where one sandal still hangs from a branch, spinning slightly. ‘You found the wishing tree then? Most people tie on rags or scarves, not sandals.’

  ‘Wishing tree?’ I echo. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘This tree,’ the boy says, wheeling the black horse round in a circle. ‘The old hazel that marks the spring, the holy well. The water has healing properties, and people come and tie cloth on to the branches to ask for a wish, a prayer, a favour. It’s either very holy or very magical, depending on who you believe!’

  ‘I don’t believe any of it,’ I say coldly. ‘It’s rubbish.’

  ‘Sure.’ The boy laughs. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never made a wish.’

  ‘Wishes are for losers.’

  ‘No, wishes are for dreamers,’ he says. ‘My name’s Kian, and the horse is Midnight. I’m guessing you’re Scarlett, right?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I reply carelessly.

  ‘Red hair, fluffy bag, a scowl that could turn milk sour.’ Kian considers. ‘Yeah, you’re Scarlett. Want a lift back to your dad’s?’

  I look at him carefully. He can’t be much older than me – thirteen, fourteen at most. His eyes are darker than the lough, his grin is wide and lazy, and his accent dips softly like a whispered song. I love the sound of his name – Kee-an, soft and lilting. There’s something strong about him, something cool. He peers at me through a tangle of black, jaw-length hair.

  ‘So. You wanting a lift or not?’

  ‘Not back to Dad’s,’ I say. ‘How about Dublin?’

  He looks back at me steadily, his lips twitching into a smile. ‘You’re joking, right?’

  ‘Do I look like I’m joking?’

  I get to my feet, trying for a don’t-care attitude, but my ankle gives way and I grab on to Midnight’s bridle for support. I breathe in sweet hay and the thick, warm, treacly smell of horse, and somehow it reminds me of a little girl with big dreams and a shedload of wishes that didn’t come true. Midnight pushes his nose against my neck, nuzzling gently. It tickles.

  ‘Don’t think you’re running far on that ankle,’ Kian says. ‘Better get it X-rayed.’

  He wheels the horse round and I look for a saddle to grab on to, but there isn’t one. Instead, he leans over and hauls me up in front of him like a sack of potatoes, and I wriggle and yelp and fold one leg over until I’m facing forward. It’s way higher up than I imagined.

  Midnight sways dangerously beneath me, moving off along the path. ‘I don’t like this,’ I say.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ Kian says. ‘We’ll go slowly. Relax.’

  ‘Dublin then?’ I ask hopefully.

  Kian laughs. ‘I don’t think so – not with that ankle, and half the countryside out looking for you. Another time, OK?’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ I huff. The truth is, though, I don’t even know where I’m running to any more.

  I take a deep breath in. Kian wraps his arms round me and buries his fingers in the horse’s mane, and I see that his wrists are threaded with bracelets made of plaited leather, braided cotton, beads. We turn away from the twilit lough at a slow walk.

  Midnight knows the forest paths, picking his way through the undergrowth while twiggy trees ruffle my hair and clutch at my legs. By the time we’ve pushed out through the trees and into the tiny lane, I’m leaning back against Kian, relaxed enough to let go of the tight knot of hurt that’s been eating at my guts for days. The sound of Midnight’s hooves on the road is like a heartbeat.

  ‘Your dad’s cottage is just along the way,’ Kian says into my ear.

  All that walking, and I just found my way back here.

  ‘Not Dublin?’ I ask Kian.

  ‘Not tonight, Scarlett.’

  When we get to the cottage, the dream is shattered. A weird kind of police car is parked outside in place of the Morris Traveller.

  ‘Is that the police?’ I gulp.

  ‘The Gardaí,’ Kian whispers. ‘The Irish version. I told you your family were worried. No need to mention me, OK? Let them think you made your own way back. I’ll see you around.’

  ‘Will you?’ I ask.

  ‘Sure I will.’

  As I slip down from Midnight’s back, he reaches out and touches my hair, so softly, so quickly, I wonder if I imagined it. Then he wheels Midnight round in the lane and heads into the shadows. As I push open the gate, the door opens and Holly runs down the path and into my arms.

  ‘Scarlett!’ she squeals. ‘I thought I heard something! We were so worried, we thought you’d run away forever and ever.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t,’ I mutter. ‘Obviously’

  ‘Oh, Scarlett, I’m so glad you’re back!’ She clings on to me so tightly I can barely breathe, which is kind of annoying, but not as bad as you’d imagine. It’s nice to feel wanted.

  ‘Scarlett, thank goodness,’ Clare says, smiling from the doorway, and Holly drags me forward, towards the bright hallway. When I look over my shoulder, Kian and Midnight are gone, and there’s nothing but the quiet clack-clack of hooves on the lane, fading into the distance.

  Once the Gardai have gone, we are left alone in the cottage kitchen, Clare, Holly and me. Dad has been driving around the lanes in the Morris Traveller, looking for me, but Clare called him on his mobile to tell him I was safe and he’s on his way back now, so I guess I have yet another round of questions to look forward to.

  ‘Better call your mum too,’ Clare says. ‘She’s been worried sick.’

  ‘Scared I’d turn up in London again, more like,’ I huff.

  ‘Scarlett, don’t,’ says Clare, dialling the number, her face all sad and anxious. She offers the phone to me, but Mum is the very last person I want to speak to right now. It’s far more entertaining to watch Clare tackle the woman who’s hated her so much, for so long.

  ‘Sara?’ she begins, clearing her throat and twiddling her hair with one nervous hand. ‘Yes, she’s turned up, quite safe. She walked from Kilimoor, over the hills and along the lough. She was heading here all the time!’

  Well, not exactly. I planned to walk to Knock or Dublin, or else gallop across the lough to a magical land where nobody is ever sad or lonely. If Clare wants to think I was heading for home, though, that’s fine. Why should I care?

  ‘Yes, we’ll talk to the school in the morning. I’m sure they’ll understand. It’s a big upheaval for her, Sara, but she’ll be fine, don’t worry. She’s too tired to speak just now… I’ll get her to call you tomorrow. Bye, Sara.’

  Just then there’s a noise like a tractor dragging a couple of dozen old tin cans in the driveway outside.

  ‘There’s Chris,’ Clare says. ‘Thank goodness. I’ll run you a bath, Scarlett, then we’ll get some dinner on. You’ll be starved!’

  I manage a weak smile. I know she’s just pretending to be kind, like that witch in the fairy tale who fattens up children before she cooks and eats them. I know I shouldn’t trust her, but right now I’m too tired to fight back.

  ‘Come on, love,’ she says, hustling Holly out of the room. ‘Let’s give Scarlett some time with her dad.’

  I’m alone in the kitchen when Dad comes in, and when I see his face, there’s a little stab of pleasure inside of me. You see, running away wasn’t just about shaking the dust of Kilimoor National School off my red-and-pink wedge heels. It wasn’t just about trying to make it back to London, to Mum. Maybe, deep down, all I really wanted was to lash out, hurt Dad the way he’s hurt me.

  And I’ve done it.

  Last night I had a bath and ate macaroni cheese, and Clare bandaged my ankle and Dad hugged me and told me never to frighten him again like that. Then I went to bed in the little sky-blue room with the nursery border and slept for the first time in a week, dreaming of the woods and the lough and a boy called Kian on a shiny black horse.

  Today, though, it’s back to normal. Dad i
s pacing up and down the kitchen, seriously stressy. Clare sits at the table, stitching at some patchwork and trying to keep the peace.

  ‘OK, Scarlett,’ says Dad. ‘Talk. Let’s hear it – how the last, last chance fizzled out before you even gave it a proper try. Do you know how hard it’s going to be to get that school to take you back?’

  ‘I’m not going back,’ I tell him.

  ‘Oh yes, Scarlett, you are. Don’t you see how much you scared us last night? What happened to the mobile you were carrying?’

  ‘It fell into Lough Choill,’ I mutter.

  ‘Your shoes?’

  ‘Can’t remember.’ I chew my fingernails absently, chipping off a flake of shiny black lacquer.

  ‘Scarlett?’ Dad says. ‘You have to talk about this, surely you realize that? You can’t just expect us to ignore things the way your mother does!’

  ‘She doesn’t ignore it, does she?’ I fling back at him. ‘I wouldn’t be here if she did.’

  Dad slumps against the kitchen sink. ‘Your mum is at the end of her tether, Scarlett,’ he says. ‘Things were difficult for her after the divorce, and I expect she let you get your own way too much. You started behaving badly and now it’s a habit, a habit that’s going to ruin your life. Doesn’t that mean anything?’

  ‘My life is already ruined,’ I tell him. ‘You saw to that.’

  Dad takes a deep breath in, face creased with guilt. ‘Scarlett, your mum and I got divorced. People do,’ he says tiredly. ‘In the long run it was for the best. We weren’t happy, either of us –’

  ‘I was happy,’ I interrupt, my voice a little shaky ‘Divorce wasn’t “for the best” for me. It was the worst, OK? And it’s all your fault. So don’t start telling me how to behave and don’t start telling me what I can and can’t do. You don’t have the right, Dad, OK? You gave up on all that stuff when you walked out on us!’