Sea Dreamer

by Elizabeth Pulford

  ‘You mean leave the bay?’

  ‘Don’t you ever wonder what’s out there? Not just Bridgetown, but over the other side of the world. Don’t you ever wonder about that?’

  I shake my head. ‘Not really. I like it …’

  ‘I do,’ she says, without letting me finish. ‘I think about it all the time.’

  I’ve never heard Rana talk like this before. She’s always so casual about everything, so couldn’t-care-less.

  ‘I want excitement in my life. I want to go places. Do different things. Not be stuck in Rewa Bay for the rest of my life.’

  Daylight leaves the sky, the lingering glow fades. Now darkness settles around the hills, usually warm and comforting, but tonight cool and dark.

  We sit in a brooding silence. If I defend Rewa Bay, Rana will only get at me. If I agree, she’ll know I’m doing it to please her. I’ve learnt it’s better to say nothing when she’s in one of these moods.

  Rana tosses her head, makes a small ‘hmph’ then changes the subject. ‘What about the movies?’

  ‘I’m not going if it’s Denny,’ I say, determined not to let her bully me for once.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘You know.’ Beside me, I feel Rana trying not to laugh. ‘I’ve heard what the girls call him.’

  She turns and blinks her blue eyes at me. ‘Why Cassie Everston, whatever do you mean?’ Her tone is teasing.

  ‘I’m not going out with someone who’s been nicknamed Ferret Fingers,’ I say, stubbornly.

  Rana chortles.

  ‘Well,’ I retort, feeling cross, ‘it’s true, isn’t it?’

  ‘So what if it is? He really wants you to come.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why.’

  Rana tugs the side of my hair. ‘You should see your face. Lighten up, Cassie. Get to know some guys. Think of something else besides school.’

  I know she is pushing to talk about boys, but I’m not going to. As far as I’m concerned, there’s only Mac for me. And I couldn’t bear it if Rana made fun of him.

  Mac’s family has lived in the bay ever since it was settled. His great-great-grandfather was a whaler, his grandfather a fisherman and now his father owns the fishing shop in town. His family has always had links with the sea.

  Last year, during my first week in year nine, when Mac was starting year twelve, he politely asked me about the subjects I was taking. We had both arrived at the bus stop at the same time. For once Rana wasn’t with me. After I’d answered, he told me that if he had the choice to do exactly what he wanted, he would be a conservationist and his first project would be to save the whales, but as that was hardly a ‘proper’ career he had decided to do the next best thing and become a marine biologist. He said he’d always felt more at home with water than with land and I understood him completely. And standing, listening to him that day, with his dark, straight hair blowing across his face, his black eyes intent and knowing of his seafaring family, I could see him standing at the wheel of a ship, tall and straight and proud. Mac has never since spoken to me so intimately.

  ‘Here,’ nudges Rana, holding out a crumpled packet of cigarettes. ‘Try one.’

  Again I feel the unpeeling, the unravelling, start inside me.

  I had no idea she smoked. ‘Are they yours?’

  Rana shakes her head. ‘Dad’s. He’s always leaving half packets about.’

  ‘Why do you want to smoke?’ As soon as I’ve said it, I feel I’m judging her.

  ‘You’re no fun any more!’ exclaims Rana, jumping up and going to the end of the ramp.

  Looking at her, sadness wells inside me. We always seem to be arguing these days. It’s like I don’t know her any more. Like she’s a stranger. When did it happen? Was it overnight? Or has she been changing and I simply haven’t noticed? Where’s the old Rana?

  I get up, go down the ramp. Why can’t things stay the same forever? Why do people change? What makes them change? ‘All right,’ I say. ‘I’ll try one.’

  Rana hands me a cigarette.

  I take it, not letting my mother come near my conscience, knowing what she thinks about anyone who smokes. I put it in my mouth.

  Rana chuckles. ‘You’ve got to light it first, dopey.’ She pulls out a box of matches, strikes one. It flares in the black, silent night. I lean my head towards her hand, touch the end of the cigarette to the flame.

  ‘Suck,’ instructs Rana. ‘Quick.’

  I suck until I’m full of smoke, until the end of the cigarette glows wild and frantic. Sparks flit. I pull it out of my mouth. ‘I’m dying. I can’t breathe,’ I rasp.

  ‘Don’t be so dramatic, Cassie,’ says Rana, puffing away like she’s done it millions of times before. She taps the end, gentle, easy, while I snort smoke. My eyes feel as though they’re shrivelled peas, my head whirls.

  I work my way through half, taking small poodle puffs, then throw the rest into the water. Rana lies down on the ramp, the end of her cigarette glowing, smoke curling into the night, like a steam train in one of those old-fashioned films on the telly. The sort of films my mother loves and weeps over.

  I lie down beside her and look into the sky. ‘Great, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘The whole thing, I mean.’

  ‘So do I,’ she replies.

  We’re both quiet for a while, thinking our own thoughts, until I remember about going to Aunt Elenor’s. ‘I’ve got to go for a fitting of my bridesmaid’s dress on Friday, before the library,’ I tell her.

  Rana is silent.

  ‘But it’s okay. I’ll only be an hour.’ I open my mouth to tell her about the possibility of having a pirate in the family, urgently wanting to share it, forgetting about my earlier silent promise to keep quiet, when Rana spits out, ‘I hate my mother. She’s a hypocrite.’

  My breath stills, my heart too. Mrs Winters! I don’t understand. She’s always so nice, friendly and fun. I stare at the stars, at the wide expanse of the heavens, thousands of light years away. Perhaps Rana is right. Perhaps it’s not the sky at all. Perhaps it is the sea, and the stars are sailing ships.

  ‘And a liar.’

  Why would Rana suddenly hate her mother? It has to be more than treating her like a servant. But what?

  She jumps up, flicks the end of her cigarette into the inlet. ‘Gotta go.’

  ‘What’s the …’ My words fade.

  ‘Race you,’ she shouts, dashing off around the hump of rocks beside the boat shed. I don’t move. ‘Race you,’ she calls again and again, until her voice is far away. As far away as the stars.

  I love Mac Rollerston.

  I look at what I’ve written. Look at each word, then I panic. What if someone sees it? I strike it out, over and over, with my felt pen, until there is nothing but a thick, black coffin line.

  I should be doing my history homework, but Mac keeps hanging around inside my head. I roll over on my bed, stare at the half-round moon ceiling and close my eyes. Mac and I are dancing. I’ve got my head on his shoulder, he’s holding my hand tight. We are dancing real slow. Gentle, in candlelight. He’s whispering in my ear, his hair brushing my face. My hair is piled on top of my head, he touches it for a moment, presses it to his lips …

  ‘Cassie,’ calls Mum, banging on my door.

  I shoot up, leave my dream in mid-air, plunge towards my desk and land in the chair.

  ‘It’s way past lights out,’ she says, pushing open the door and coming in. ‘Everything all right?’

  I nod and stretch. ‘Nearly finished.’

  ‘I was thinking,’ says Mum, ‘how would you like to visit Grandma Sarah on Saturday? She may be able to help with your assignment.’

  ‘That’d be great.’

  ‘I need more doll supplies. I could drop you off for an hour while I get them.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  Sometimes I wish my mother had someone special in her life. And I don’t mean Ted, he’s too ordinary. Since she left my father, she’s never shown
interest in any man. All she does is sew dolls, watch television and jog. I told her once she needed someone exciting. She replied, ‘After your father, it’s the last thing I need. No, I want a steady, safe person.’ That’s Ted all right.

  She bends over, kisses the top of my head. ‘Books away soon.’

  After she has left, I sit and wonder about Rana. What can have happened to make her suddenly dislike her mother so much? Whatever it is, perhaps it’s part of the reason she’s been acting so weird.

  I shake my head and give up trying to guess.

  I look out into the night, stare through the darkened window and my own reflection. Beyond flows the water of the inlet, beyond sail the sailors in their phantom sloops.

  What if my ancestor really was a pirate?

  Chapter Four

  Next morning I can’t believe my eyes. When I get on the bus Rana is sitting up the front, talking and laughing with Clare like she’s her oldest friend.

  On seeing me, Rana flashes a gorgeous smile. ‘Been waiting for you,’ she declares, her lashes fluttering like the soft beat of a heron’s wings.

  The morning had started badly, even before I reached the bus. I couldn’t find my poetry book, then after hunting for it everywhere, taking precious time to search every centimetre of my cabin, I remembered I’d loaned it to Rana when she’d forgotten to bring hers.

  Mum was in one of her grumpy moods, complaining about the place being too small for the three of us, and Richard growing too fast. ‘I’ve only just bought you those gym shoes,’ she replied to his complaining about wanting new ones.

  ‘Maybe you could borrow a pair from Aunt Elenor,’ I teased, grinning at him.

  ‘Cassie, that’s enough.’

  Then I spilt yoghurt down the front of my shirt, because I was watching the clock and rushing. I tried to sponge it off, but instead of making it better it left a large mark down my front, and by then it was too late to change.

  Clare speaks, bringing me back to the present. ‘Do you want to sit here?’ she asks.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I reply, then directly at Rana, ‘I hope you’ve got my poetry book.’ My voice is cool.

  For a second Rana looks slightly put out, as I’ve never spoken to her with such a cold edge to my voice. Then she laughs. ‘Don’t panic, Cassie. It’s right here.’

  The driver closes the door. Swallowing hard and keeping my head stiff with pride, I walk towards the back of the bus. Before I know it, I’ve gone and sat down beside Mac.

  He stops reading and looks up. ‘Hi Cassie,’ he says, his eyes smiling.

  ‘Hi.’ His nearness makes me self-conscious. My palms begin to sweat, I look away, lower my eyes. The yoghurt stain has dried stiff like a piece of corrugated iron. I hastily cover it with my hand.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Fine.’ What must he think of a person who can’t say more than one word at a time? I shift my gaze to my legs. Why do they look so fat today? Like they’ve been pumped up. Other days they look okay, but at this very moment they look like fat, furry logs. Last year, Rana and I shaved our legs with my mother’s old razor. It took us ages and after we had finished we had lovely silky, smooth legs for a whole week. But it was during the winter so no one noticed.

  ‘Who’ve you got for Maths?’ asks Mac.

  ‘Mr Hinds.’

  ‘Isn’t he a bit of a tosser?’

  I nod, then say something about liking English better. After that, silence stretches between us, lengthens and tightens until it becomes as bleak and miserable as the shortest day in winter. Think of something to say, I order myself. But nothing comes, no sudden spark of brilliance, no line of poetry falls from my lips, nothing happens, only the continuing loud, embarrassed thunder of silence.

  In the end Mac picks up his book. ‘Did you know that the cetacean brain is more highly refined than the human brain?’

  The bus swings around the top corner.

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ I murmur, digging deep into my bag and thinking What on earth is he talking about?, at the same time guessing it is probably something to do with whales. I pull out a pile of papers so he won’t see my reddening face. What’s the matter with me? Here I am sitting next to the person I’m secretly crazy about, and I can’t even hold a decent conversation with him. Maybe I should do some reading about whales, then at least we’d have that in common. In disgust at myself, I glare at my photocopied Biology notes for the rest of the journey.

  About halfway through English, Miss McKenzie asks if anyone has started on the history of their family. The class is silent.

  ‘Very well then. You will start now.’

  A lot of the girls don’t like Miss McKenzie, they think she’s far too old to be teaching. But I like her. Just because she’s been a teacher forever doesn’t mean she’s no good.

  Every day she wears the same sort of clothes: jerseys and plain skirts. Her hair is pure white and she wears it in a bun at the back of her head. Little wispy bits float over her forehead. She has black, round-rimmed glasses. She never wears any lipstick or make-up. My mother told me she was engaged once, a long time ago, but the man committed suicide. Every time I look at her, I think about that and how awful it must have been and wonder why he did it.

  ‘I want you to write about one of your living relatives,’ Miss McKenzie says.

  ‘Now?’ asks a voice from the back of the class.

  The teacher nods. She looks over the top of her glasses. ‘You will hand it in at the end of the period.’ She folds her hands in front of her. ‘You’ve got twenty minutes, so you’d better get started.’

  A groan runs around the room.

  I fish out my pad and get my head down. I’m not sure who to write about. My mother’s not very exciting or interesting. There are lots of solo parents these days; they don’t all run their own rag-doll business and deal with craft shops all over the country, but it still seems dull.

  Aunt Elenor is even worse. Who would want to know about her tidy life? Her rows of shoes and perfect sponge cakes? No — she’s no good.

  Grandma Sarah isn’t like a grandmother at all. The sentence falls into my head. I write it down. Other words follow fast, and soon I’m scribbling flat out. She’s more like a tall sailing ship. She wears big, wide straw hats all the time. She wears them everywhere. And they’ve always got something streaming from them, tied around the middle. On windy days, when she is out in her garden, they remind me of high flying flags.

  Her hair is a bit grey now. But not much. It still has quite a lot of rusty red in it. Like mine. Mostly, she wears it clipped up at the back with a big pearl clasp. Grandma Sarah’s hair is full of wrinkles and wild waves. She has green eyes, a big booming laugh and she is the kindest person I know.

  She loves cats. Grandad hated them. He wouldn’t let her have any in the house. So after he died she went straight out and bought one from McBride’s Animal Shelter. It was a little grey kitten that someone had tried to drown. Now, once a year, she goes and gets another cat. She’s got five already. My Aunt Elenor thinks it’s disgusting. My mother doesn’t mind, she is only a bit worried in case Grandma Sarah lives for another twenty years.

  She also collects shells. She has some really beautiful ones. My favourite is a huge pink one. When I asked where it came from, Grandma Sarah told me she couldn’t remember, only that it was among my great-grandmother Rose’s belongings when she died. I love pressing the shell close to my ear and listening to the sound of the sea. It sounds so real. How is it possible? How can one hear the sea in a shell?

  Grandma Sarah’s favourite colour is green. Not any old green, but the green of leaves, bright when they are coming out in the spring, bright like new grass. I know this because she told me. Last winter she bought some green stockings. Aunt Elenor rang my mother and had a long talk about it. My mother didn’t think there was anything to worry about, but my aunt …

  The buzzer rings in the corridor for morning break. I sit back and take a breath, feeling as though I’ve bee
n going full on, like a laser printer at full speed. I’m not even sure that what I’ve written makes sense, but the flow felt good. I look at the amount and I’m surprised. I didn’t think it was so much.

  ‘Leave your work on my desk,’ says Miss McKenzie.

  I pack up, then add my work to the mounting pile on the corner of the teacher’s desk. Miss McKenzie looks up, nods and smiles. ‘I look forward to reading it, Cassie.’ I think she’s guessed how much I love poetry.

  ‘What a dumb thing to have to do,’ says Rana, coming up to me as I leave the room.

  ‘I liked it,’ I reply, trying to make my voice icy. We haven’t spoken since the bus trip. I turn away. If only she would apologise for this morning. Then maybe …

  ‘I was only teasing, you know.’

  I hesitate, half turn. I want to tell her to stop playing games with me. To find someone else to tease. But I can’t. ‘Why did you really do it?’ I ask quietly.

  Rana pouts. ‘What do you want me to say? That I did it to liven things up, because I’m bored out of my skull. I don’t know why. I just did.’

  ‘You hurt me.’ My words echo down the empty corridor. As soon as I’ve uttered them, I want them back. Like I want to be back in our cave at the head of the inlet, eight years old again, dancing and casting spells, pretending to be magical sea horses. Rana wearing a robe of seaweed and me galloping behind, holding up her cloak so it wouldn’t get full of sand.

  This is the first time in ages that I’ve really opened up to her. Why is it so painful? Tears well from some deep place inside me. Don’t cry. I blink, trying to push them down, but it’s no good. I scrabble for my handkerchief.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says Rana. She stands and looks awkward, like a lost child.

  And for that moment I think she really means it. ‘It’s not fair on Clare either,’ I say, blowing my nose and wiping my eyes.

  ‘She’s not so bad,’ concedes Rana, a small smile on her lips.

  I stare at her. ‘You’ve always said you couldn’t stand her.’

  ‘Maybe I was wrong.’ Rana starts walking. ‘You coming?’