But if Clara Travers fell in love with a gypsy boy, he must have been at least seventeen, like she was. Maybe older. Definitely not thirteen or fourteen, or whatever the boy in my dreams seems to be.
This means Finch can’t be the ghost of a long-dead gypsy boy … he must be made-up.
I know it doesn’t make any difference whether he once existed or not. I know the facts are the same; I can never meet him, not outside my dreams. But even so, a little stab of sadness twists inside me at the thought that Finch was never real, never as alive as he appears to me.
I sigh in the darkness, and Alfie sighs with me.
21
‘Wake up, Skye!’ Coco yells, dragging my duvet off. ‘Summer, wake up! It’s Christmas!’
‘It’s still dark!’
‘It’s half eight!’ Coco insists. ‘We have never slept so late on Christmas Day before! Come ON!’
‘I’ve been awake for hours,’ Cherry says from the doorway. ‘I’m so excited … my first Christmas at Tanglewood!’
Coco runs off to wake Honey, and there really is a Christmas miracle because she gets up, short blonde hair sticking up all over the place, and slinks out on to the landing with an outsized jumper pulled over her mini nightie. ‘Happy Christmas,’ she says sleepily, and we all go downstairs together.
Mum and Paddy are already up. All traces of last night’s party have been cleared away; Paddy has lit the fire, switched on the Christmas tree lights and put a CD on in the background. The knitted stockings we hung from the mantlepiece last night are lying down on the hearth, bulging with little presents, and the mince pie and the whisky Paddy said we should leave out for Santa are gone, leaving nothing but crumbs and an empty glass.
I can’t help smiling.
We open our stockings, which are filled with little things like oranges and chocolate coins and glittery eyeshadow and stripy socks. Honey gives us all an instant makeover with the glittery stuff, even Cherry, and we sit in front of the fire eating chocolate coins and segments of orange and wearing our stripy socks. Then Coco begins to eye the prezzies under the tree and Mum shakes her head and says that we need to eat first, and we have half an hour to be dressed.
There’s a scramble for the bathrooms but we are all ready in time, me in layered cotton petticoats with a moss-green jumper, the silver bracelets from Clara’s trunk jangling, Summer in a pretty chiffony dress and pink cardi, and Cherry and Coco in variations of jeans and outsize jumpers. Honey is model-girl cute in a flower-print minidress and purple tights, her sad eyes rimmed with eyeliner.
Paddy has made pancakes for breakfast, which was one of Mum’s special requests, and we eat them with sugar and lemon juice and chocolate spread, which is normally outlawed but is allowed today because it’s Christmas and because Cherry asked for it specially.
Then it’s present time.
Mum gets a dress and a pair of suede boots and Paddy gets new jeans and a scarf and a bunch of CDs. Cherry gets a string of cherry-blossom fairy lights for her room, and a cute mini-kimono wrap and a little blue Netbook to write her stories on. Honey gets poster paints, sketchbooks and a mobile phone to replace the one she dropped into a rock pool on the beach, back in the summer. Coco gets a book of violin tunes, a riding hat and a voucher for six riding lessons, and just about brings the roof down with excitement.
Summer gets the pointe shoes she tried on last week in town, along with a gauzy practice skirt and a fluffy pink jumper, and I get the black fringed shawl with roses embroidered on it and a huge, heavy, weirdly shaped parcel wrapped in giftwrap and tied up with ribbon.
‘Careful,’ Paddy says. ‘You need to be gentle.’
I peel the paper away to reveal what looks like a giant shell or a horn of some kind.
‘What is it?’ Coco asks, screwing up her nose.
‘No idea!’
My eyes widen as I pull off the rest of the wrapping to unveil an ancient gramophone with a little stack of elderly jazz records.
‘Wow!’ I say. ‘This is amazing … it must be really old! I’ve seen pictures of things like this!’
‘It’s old all right,’ Paddy says. ‘I looked it up, and I reckon it could be from round about 1910. The records are called 78s … they’re fragile, so be careful. There was a whole box of them, but most were broken.’
‘You said you wanted a surprise,’ Mum said. ‘Something vintage. It’s a real collector’s item, I reckon!’
‘I love it!’
Paddy shows me how to lift out the little handle and fit it into the side to wind up the gramophone, place a record on the turntable and lift the heavy arm across. Suddenly the disc is spinning round beneath the spiky needle and a crackly tune, surprisingly loud, spills out of the horn-shaped speaker.
‘It’s awesome,’ I grin. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘You won’t believe it, but it was in with all that stuff from the attic,’ Mum says. ‘Paddy had it in the workshop storeroom, and when you mentioned wanting something special, something vintage … well, we thought you’d like it, so we got it fixed up!’
‘I do!’ I say, and I let my fingers trail across the glossy walnut casing. 1910. If this gramophone has been around since then, the chances are that Clara used it. Did her fingers stroke the wood, wind up the turntable, choose a record from the collection? I imagine her laughing, dancing in her flapper dresses, before the walls closed in around her and the dancing stopped.
Summer catches my eye, her face pale.
‘It was hers, wasn’t it?’ she says tightly, touching the glossy walnut case. ‘Clara’s. I can tell. You can feel a sadness around it … like the dresses, the violin. Am I the only one that can sense it?’
Mum laughs. ‘A sadness? I don’t think so, Summer.’
‘Spooky,’ Coco says.
Honey rolls her eyes. ‘It’s just a piece of junk,’ she says bluntly. ‘No offence. Quite pretty, maybe worth something, but trust me – there is nothing spooky about it.’
Mum puts an arm round Summer’s shoulders. ‘They’re just things, love, beautiful things – they don’t hold memories or feelings. I think that silly ghost story has upset you. It’s nonsense, you know that, don’t you?’
‘I don’t believe in ghosts,’ Summer says firmly. ‘I’m not crazy! But I’m telling you, there is something weird about all this stuff. It makes me uneasy.’
The record comes to an end, and I take it off and slide it back into its slipcase. ‘I love it,’ I tell Mum and Paddy. ‘Really I do. But I won’t play it when you’re about, Summer, not if it upsets you.’
An awkward silence settles around us.
‘There is one more present for you two,’ Mum tells Summer and me. ‘You mentioned that you’d like a birthday party. And thirteen is a landmark age, so we thought … why not? We haven’t had birthday parties for years because of the B&B, but Paddy’s suggested hiring the village hall so there’d be no problem of disturbing the guests …’
‘No way!’ Summer squeals, her subdued mood evaporating instantly. ‘A party! A proper, grown-up thirteenth birthday party! Seriously, that is the best present ever! Thank you!’
‘Thank you,’ I echo as Summer flings her arms round Mum and Paddy in turn. I dredge up a smile, but it’s a shaky one. I feel like I have just unwrapped a badly knitted cardigan in bobbly orange and turquoise wool, two sizes too small, from a well-meaning great auntie. A Christmas gathering is one thing, but a birthday party – where Summer and I are centre of attention? It’s the last thing I want, and I am pretty sure I said so too, when Summer first mentioned the idea. The thing is, when Summer is around my feelings and opinions seem to fade into the background.
‘We can plan it all out,’ Summer is saying. ‘Draw up a guest list and ask everyone … decorate the hall. Oh, it’s going to be amazing! I cannot wait! Skye, isn’t this awesome?’
‘Awesome,’ I say, trying to inject at least a little enthusiasm into my voice. Mum and Paddy are trying to be kind, I know. And it has chased the shadows from
Summer’s face and put her in a great mood, which means I can stop feeling so guilty about the gramophone.
Mum starts folding up wrapping paper and Paddy says he’s left something out in the workshop and slips away, and when he gets back he winks at Mum which means they are definitely up to something.
‘Coco?’ Mum says. ‘There’s one present left for you … it’s in the kitchen.’
Coco’s eyes open wide. ‘What is it? Is it a pony?’
Paddy laughs. ‘In the kitchen?’
‘You never know,’ she says. ‘My friend Amy says that you and Mum are quite eccentric, so anything is possible, right?’
She runs to the kitchen with us at her heels, and right at the door a thin whickering sound peals out, and we begin to wonder if the pony idea is actually as far-fetched as it sounds.
And then we’re inside, and there is no pony, but a big cardboard box has appeared in front of the Aga and we crowd round and the sound peals out again and this time it is very definitely a bleat.
‘A lamb!’ Coco squeals. ‘A baby LAMB!’
‘An orphan,’ Paddy says. ‘She was born down at Joe’s, yesterday. He has some New Year’s lambs every year, but this one was extra early and her mum didn’t make it. Joe says he doesn’t have a foster-mum for her, or the time or the space to raise her by hand. So we thought that maybe you might –’
‘YESSS!’ Coco yelps, leaning down to wrap her arms round the tiny lamb. ‘Oh, thank you! Thank you!’
22
It’s chaos after that, with Coco learning how to make up little bottles of milk to feed the lamb and Mum cooking and Paddy chopping vegetables for lunch and Fred the dog sticking his head over the top of the cardboard box every few minutes to suss out the newcomer.
Paddy tries to explain that the lamb can’t actually live in a box in the kitchen once the B&B is open again, and that he’s cleared out one of the old stables next to the workshop, but Coco isn’t listening. She manages to wrap the lamb in a blanket and brings it into the living room where we’re loafing about eating chocolate coins and trying to think up names for her while watching A Christmas Carol on TV.
‘What about Holly?’ I say. ‘It should be something Christmassy!’
‘Woolly Jumper,’ Summer suggests. ‘Because she is.’
‘How about Mint Sauce?’ Cherry teases, and Coco throws a cushion at her.
The lamb lets out a long, plaintive baaa and that’s when the onscreen Scrooge says ‘Bah, humbug,’ and we all agree that the only possible name for a lamb born at Christmas is Humbug.
We’re having so much fun it’s like we’re a proper family. I can almost forget the weirdness of the past few months. Almost.
Then Honey yells at us from the breakfast room. ‘Hey! I’ve got Dad on Skype! Quick, come and talk to him!’
Summer, Coco and I run through – Coco with Humbug still in her arms. Honey has Mum’s laptop on one of the breakfast tables, and filling the screen is an image of Dad, tanned and smiling in a blue shirt. My heart hurts, suddenly, unexpectedly.
‘He wanted to talk to you,’ Honey says, as if she might have hogged him all to herself otherwise.
‘Dad!’ Summer says. ‘How are you? Is it hot there?’
‘Happy Christmas!’ Coco says. ‘I’ve got a lamb!’
Honey nudges me, but all I can do is smile and bite my lip and hope that I won’t cry.
‘My girls!’ Dad grins. ‘Let me have a look at you!’
He leans forward and the picture dissolves, then reappears again. ‘Summer! Skye! You’re looking so grown up! What are you, almost twelve now?’
‘Almost thirteen,’ I whisper, and the words seem to stick in my throat because my own dad doesn’t know how old we are.
‘Amazing,’ Dad says. ‘And Coco … still animal mad, I see! Where did you get that lamb from?’
‘It was a present!’ Coco says, and Dad shakes his head and says Mum must be crazy.
‘What time is it in Australia?’ Summer asks.
‘It’s evening now … Christmas is almost over, here. We had Christmas lunch down on the beach! You’d love it here, girls! Always sunny, and a real land of opportunity. You’ll have to come out and visit!’
‘We will!’ Honey says, all smiles. ‘Did you get your presents?’
‘Yeah, yeah … great, thanks, girls!’ he says, as if he can’t even remember the gifts we each spent so long making, choosing, buying. Dad’s parcel was wrapped and ready on the first of December, ready to go long before the last posting date to Australia because we didn’t want any chance of it being late.
‘I didn’t have time to get you anything,’ Dad adds apologetically. ‘Still settling in … I’ll send some money!’
‘Could we come out to visit soon?’ Honey presses. ‘I’d love to see Australia, it has to be better than this dump. When would be a good time?’
He laughs. ‘Better wait until we’ve settled in a bit,’ he says. ‘Give your mum a chance to save up the air fares!’
Honey’s face falls. We all know that Dad has plenty of cash to spare, but Mum has hardly any, and what she does have is spent on us or ploughed back into the business. If we have to save our own air fares, it’s going to take a very long time indeed.
Dad yawns. ‘Girls, it’s been great talking to you, but I have to go … things to do … Merry Christmas!’
‘Do you want to speak to Mum?’ Honey says. ‘I’ll go and tell her –’
‘No, don’t bother,’ he says quickly. ‘I’ll give her a ring in a day or two …’
There’s the sound of someone talking in the background and Dad smiles and waves and the screen goes dead as he cuts the connection. We stare at the silent laptop, slightly stunned.
‘Things to do?’ Summer says. ‘What things?’
I put an arm round her shoulder and she wipes a hand across her eyes, then smiles bravely. It’s the first time in months where I look at her and think maybe we are not so different after all.
‘There was someone there with him,’ Coco frowns. ‘And did you notice, he kept saying “we”. Like, we had Christmas lunch down on the beach. And wait until we’ve settled in a bit. Do you think he’s got a girlfriend?’
‘No way,’ Honey says. ‘He wouldn’t.’
I’m pretty sure he would.
After Christmas dinner, minus the sprouts and with added nut roast in honour of Coco, the awkward, sad feeling of talking to Dad begins to fade. We decide to use Skype again, this time to talk to Grandma Kate and her husband Jules over in France.
Mum sets the laptop on the coffee table, and we crowd round, still in our paper hats from the crackers we’ve pulled, perched on the squashy blue sofa, Humbug included. Last year Grandma Kate and Jules came over for Christmas, but this year they won’t be over until the wedding so we won’t see them properly for ages.
Grandma Kate has sent over a little parcel of presents with Do not open until instructed written on the back. She says she wanted to see our faces and we can open them now. Grandma Kate and Jules munch on the chocolates we sent them, modelling the hats and scarves that made up the rest of their prezzie.
It is kind of chaotic, with everyone talking at once and wishing each other a Happy Christmas and Humbug bleating loudly. We open our prezzies, which turn out to be silver charm bracelets – Honey’s has an artist’s palette charm, Coco’s a little horseshoe, Cherry’s has cherries, Summer’s a pair of ballet shoes and mine a little silver bird.
My heart flips over.
‘I’m sorry yours isn’t very inspired, Skye,’ Grandma Kate says. ‘I was looking for something with a vintage feel, but then I saw the bird, and somehow I thought of you. There’s no particular reason, but … well, it just felt right!’
The little bird is exactly right, more right than anything else she could have chosen.
‘I love it!’ I tell her. ‘It’s perfect!’
It is, because it reminds me of Finch.
23
It’s almost sunset and Finch and
I are climbing the hill behind the village, the tawny lurcher racing on ahead, our shadows trailing behind across the daisy-strewn grass. The day is warm and the walk is steep, and somewhere along the way Finch takes hold of my hand, pulling me along, and we finally make it right to the top.
The breeze lifts our hair and ruffles our clothes and we look right out over the village, over the bay, at the silver-blue ocean that stretches on forever. We sit for a while and talk, still holding hands, watching as the light turns to pink and yellow and gold, as the sun drops gently into the sea.
In my dreams, there are no unwanted thirteenth birthday parties to plan, no boy-crazy best friends, no stroppy, off-the-rails older sister, no boy mates who just happen to be in love with my too-perfect twin. No wonder I’m hooked on being there. My dream world is a whole lot less stressy than the real one.
On New Year’s Eve, while the rest of the family are curled up on the squashy blue sofas watching back-to-back Harry Potter DVDs, I am in my room, hunting for the lost letters – again. For the hundredth time I check the desk, the trunk, the dressing-table drawers. I search under the beds, in the wardrobe, on the bookshelf, but find nothing. It’s as if they never existed.
Summer puts her head round the door. ‘Skye?’ she says. ‘You OK?’
‘I’m searching for Clara’s letters,’ I sigh. I have asked Summer about them a couple of times since the day they went missing, but she has always said she hasn’t a clue where they might be. She’s so weird about everything to do with Clara I don’t want to push it, but I have to ask one last time. ‘Summer, are you absolutely sure you haven’t seen them?’
‘I don’t know.’ She shrugs. ‘I don’t remember, OK? Could Mum have chucked them out?’
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