Sea Dreamer

by Elizabeth Pulford

  By the time I reach the Rollerston’s house I’m out of breath. Their place is three tracks and five corners from ours, high up, with the most stunning view of the bay. I walk slowly, stirring the bracken path, sending small insects scurrying, thinking about Mac. As I come in sight of the house Mrs Rollerston appears, pulling a sack.

  ‘Hello Cassie,’ she says.

  ‘Hi. Is Richard here?’

  ‘Round the back in their secret den,’ she says, winking.

  ‘Thanks.’ I walk along the side path. Mrs Rollerston’s cool. She’s into saving the coastline and environmental issues. Perhaps that’s where Mac gets it from. And she loves gardening. Most years she wins some award or other for her vegetables or flowers. And she’s had a book published all about the benefits of using seaweed in the garden.

  At that moment I hear Mac’s voice. Who’s he talking to?

  There she weaves by night and day

  A magic web with colours gay

  Clare! Clare’s here! What’s she doing here?

  They are sitting on the front verandah. When I appear they turn in my direction. Mac gives a sheepish grin, Clare smiles wide and gracious. She is wearing skimpy shorts and a bright green t-shirt.

  ‘Hi Cassie.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘You looking for Richard?’ asks Mac.

  I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

  She has heard a whisper say

  A curse is on her if she stay

  Why are they sitting so close?

  ‘You want me to get him?’ asks Mac.

  I shake my head, walk past them

  They heard her singing her last song,

  The Lady of Shalott …

  Not stopping until I come to the secret den.

  ‘Richard,’ I call. ‘Mum wants you home.’

  The secret den is an old chicken hut, well hidden behind a small orchard of plum trees. On hearing my voice, Richard sticks his head out through a hole in the side. ‘Can’t I stay a bit longer?’

  ‘Nope. She said now.’

  He disappears back into the murk.

  ‘Don’t be long,’ I say, turning and taking the side path, the path that doesn’t go anywhere near the front verandah. Richard catches me up.

  ‘Are we still having the barbecue?’

  ‘Of course we are.’

  ‘Cool. Mum said I could cook.’ He races down the slope. As he’s about to vanish from sight, I call out, ‘Tell Mum I’ve gone to Rana’s to collect something. I won’t be long.’ With all that’s been going on I’d almost forgotten about the t-shirt promise.

  When I arrive at Rana’s place, I find her lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling.

  ‘What do you want?’ she says, turning away so I can’t see her red-rimmed eyes.

  I hesitate, not sure what the matter is, but guess it’s probably something to do with the discovery of her real father. Perhaps she’s had it out with her mother. I decide to give away asking for the t-shirt. Somehow it doesn’t feel right. What’s it matter anyhow?

  Before I can make up some excuse as to why I’ve come, Rana jumps off her bed and rushes over to her chest of drawers.

  ‘I suppose you’ve come for this,’ she says, pulling out her new top and throwing it at me.

  ‘It doesn’t …’

  But Rana’s not listening. She’s pulling out more and more clothes from the drawers and throwing them at me. ‘Here, have them all.’

  One minute I’m standing beside her, next it feels like we’re hundreds of kilometres apart. Together, but in different places, different spaces. In the same room, but not. I try to reach her, but she is too far away.

  Rana slumps back down onto the bed. ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’

  ‘I wasn’t really going to wear it,’ I lie.

  She is silent.

  ‘Are we still going to the pictures?’ Half-hoping we’re not, half-hoping we are for her sake.

  Rana shrugs. ‘Why wouldn’t we?’

  I pick up the clothes scattered about the floor and place them on the bed with the new top. There’s no way I want to wear it now. ‘I’d better get going. See you about seven then?’

  Rana doesn’t reply. I close her door and leave the house. Walking home, I think about everything and everybody. Poor Rana. Poor Miss McKenzie. And at the thought of the teacher, I feel guilty. I haven’t said anything to her about Rana, and if I don’t, she will go to Rana’s parents and then there’ll be even more trouble. But how can I tell her what Rana told me in confidence? I kick at a stone and send it flying down the track in front of me. When did everything get so complicated? When did it all change? Was it yesterday, last week or last year?

  A memory slips into my head. I’m back on the beach with Rana, eight years old.

  ‘From now on I’m King Neptune,’ she announces.

  ‘That’s not fair,’ I blurt. ‘Last week you said I was.’

  ‘It’s not last week any more,’ says Rana, picking up a piece of driftwood and pointing it at me. ‘Now kneel and kiss my feet.’

  Our gate slams behind me. Oh, how right you are, Rana. It’s not last week any more and never will be again.

  Chapter Nine

  The Strand Cinema is packed. The four of us are sitting downstairs, near the front. Bevan and Denny have gone off to get something to eat. Rana has hardly spoken since we met at the bus stop, her pretty face like a minced lemon. I haven’t tried to find out what’s upset her so much, I figure she’ll tell me when she’s ready. Between her mood and the other rakish company, I’ve got the feeling the evening isn’t going to be too successful.

  I glance around to see if there’s anyone I know. Then, out of the blue, Mac appears with five other guys, laughing and talking, making their way down the aisle. I cringe down into the seat. He mustn’t see me. Not when I’m with Denny. Oh, why did I say I’d come? Why did I let myself be talked into it by Rana? Apparently, at the end of last year, Mac had caught Denny and a few of his friends trying to ‘borrow’ a boat from the bay. They’d been drinking. In Rana’s opinion, Mac had gone totally ‘overboard’ at the time; after all, it wasn’t his bay.

  ‘Hi Cassie,’ says Mac, breathing warm on my thoughts.

  Pretending to be surprised by his sudden appearance, I put a startled look on my face. ‘Oh! Hi,’ I say. Rana leans forward and asks, ‘Who are those guys?’

  ‘Mad scientists from school,’ he tells Rana. But oh! See how he is smiling at me.

  After he’s gone and sat with his friends, two rows in front of us, Rana turns to me. ‘You’re blushing,’ she says, not missing my mounting colour.

  ‘I am not. It’s hot in here.’

  ‘You don’t fool me, Cassie. You …’ Before she can get into telling me what my blush means, she’s interrupted by the return of Denny and Bevan, carrying packets of popcorn and drinks.

  Both are wearing jeans, hoodies and sneakers, like a uniform, and both have a star earring in their right ear.

  As Denny sinks down beside me, the lights dim. I feel thankful. Under the cover of darkness I feel safer, free from Mac seeing who I’m with, at least for a little while. ‘Want some?’ asks Denny, handing me the popcorn.

  I take it. Suddenly I feel starving, realising I haven’t eaten anything since lunchtime. ‘Thanks.’ The sticky toffee coating is moreish. Perhaps Denny isn’t as bad as he’s made out to be. But no sooner has the thought entered my head than he leans close, starts feeling around in the dark for my hand.

  Taking no notice, I continue to eat the popcorn and watch the screen. The trailers for the next film flash on. A bleeding man staggers over a pile of rubbish bins, clutching his chest. He falls groaning to the ground. As one of the bins tips over, I feel something squeezing my leg. The ferret is loose.

  ‘Hey,’ he whispers, ‘I hear you’re up for it?’

  I stop eating, take his hand and give it firmly back to him. During the first half of the film he tries three more times, and three more times it is returned. After that he
gives up.

  Just before the lights come on at the end, I excuse myself and disappear into the toilets. There’s no way I want to face Mac. Not that he probably cares who I’m with, but after Denny’s behaviour at the bay and knowing of Denny’s reputation, he might wonder about me.

  ‘What’s with you?’ whispers Denny in a cross voice when I finally reappear.

  ‘Too much popcorn,’ I say.

  Outside the cinema, it’s raining. Warm and soft like a summer rain.

  ‘Now what?’ says Bevan, pulling Rana close, his arm around her waist, nuzzling his face into her neck.

  I turn away. Surely she doesn’t like him that much. ‘Our bus leaves soon, Rana.’

  ‘You go,’ she says.

  ‘Yeah,’ sneers Denny, pulling on his hood. ‘You go. Why don’t you?’

  I glare at him, then turn to Rana again. ‘Come on, otherwise we’ll have to walk home.’

  Rana shrugs. ‘I’m not going,’ she says, avoiding my eyes.

  Inside my head a small tide starts running. Back and forth. Little waves across damp sands. My eyes sting. ‘But,’ I say, blinking back the ocean, ‘how will you get home?’

  ‘That’s my problem. Nothing for you to worry about.’ Rana threads her arm through Bevan’s, leans her head against his shoulder.

  Denny edges close to me. ‘See! That’s how it’s done.’

  I take no notice of him. Surely Rana is joking? I’m about to ask her one more time when I see Mac and his friends. Please don’t let them come this way, I pray silently. That’d be the last straw. They cross the road and go in the opposite direction to the bus stop. Thank goodness. At least something is on my side. ‘You coming or not, Rana?’

  When she doesn’t reply, I start to walk away from the three of them. Wet traffic lights reflect on the black road, the street is deserted. As I cross the road, I tell myself Rana will follow in a minute. She’s having me on as usual. But all the way, two blocks and more, I listen for her, listen for her voice calling, ‘Wait up, Cassie’, like she always does. But it doesn’t happen.

  There are not many people on the bus. As soon as it trundles away from Bridgetown, tears start running down my cheeks, and I know it’s because of Rana. I don’t understand why she is doing this to me. Does she hate me that much? I’m full of a lost, helpless feeling. I’ve tried everything I can think of to get close to her of late, but all she does is push me further away. I want to tell her about Sarah Cassandra, share her, but I know it would be hopeless with the way she is at the moment.

  Lifting my head, I stare out of the window. It is dark and full of night. Black raindrops run down my reflected face. I stare at myself. My eyes look different. Blue, black blue, like drowning shadows. My hair is wet and weeping against the glass … I must down to the seas again … Shivering, I pull myself out of the mesmerised dream. There seems to be a lot I don’t understand. Sometimes I feel as though I’m looking at everything through a glass mirror. On one side there is me, on the other side are Rana and Sarah Cassandra. Both out of my reach. Both somehow bound up with each other, yet in their own time and space.

  At that moment it strikes me how similar they are, even though they are separated by three centuries. Sarah Cassandra must have been full of a rebellious spirit to have run away from home. And now here is Rana doing the same sort of thing, not wanting to go home. Inside I feel empty and sick.

  The bus comes to a halt. I gather myself up and scramble off. The bay is covered in a fine misty rain which, with the darkness, blocks out the bush and the house lights. Walking, I feel as though I’m in a dream, a quiet tunnel with drops of moisture dripping, dripping.

  When I arrive home, Ted is still there. I’m soaking wet and I don’t feel like talking.

  ‘How was the film?’ he asks, smiling and sipping his coffee.

  ‘Okay.’ I reply, going over to the pile of clean washing and helping myself to a towel.

  ‘Did Rana and Clare enjoy it?’ says Mum.

  Clare! I’d forgotten all about Rana’s story, telling Mum she was going with us. I bury my head under the towel and rub my hair, trying to think of a suitable reply. At that moment the phone rings. Mum frowns. ‘It’s late for someone to be ringing.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s Rana,’ I say, although not believing it. I pull the towel off my head, intending to answer the phone, but Mum gets there first.

  ‘Joyce.’

  I groan inside. Rana’s mother.

  ‘No,’ says Mum. ‘She’s not here.’ She looks over in my direction, frowning. ‘About five minutes ago. Maybe she’s gone to Clare’s. You know what they’re like.’

  It doesn’t matter what I do, or what I don’t do, Rana seems to land me in it. Well, this is the last time. I’ve had enough.

  ‘I’m sure she’ll be home any moment.’ Mum talks to Mrs Winters a bit longer, than hangs up. ‘Rana did come home with you and Clare, didn’t she?’

  ‘Umm … not exactly.’

  ‘Cassie, either she did or she didn’t.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘What about Clare? Have the two of them gone off somewhere in town?’

  ‘She didn’t go with us.’

  ‘But you told me that Clare …’

  ‘Rana told you, not me,’ I mutter.

  At that comment, Mum looks like she’s going to explode. She would have too, if Ted hadn’t been there. ‘Start talking,’ she orders.

  When I get up to the part about Denny and Bevan, Mum gives me a long look, but says nothing. After I’ve finished, Mum says, ‘You should have waited for her, Cassie. No matter what she said.’

  ‘I’m not her keeper,’ I flare. ‘If I’d waited, I’d have missed the bus as well.’ When did it all start being my fault? ‘You don’t understand, Mum. Rana’s been funny lately.’

  ‘That’s as may be. But she is your friend …’ Mum shakes her head. ‘Goodness knows what she’ll get up to.’

  ‘Do you have any idea where she would have gone?’ asks Ted.

  I shrug.

  ‘Well,’ says Mum, ‘I think you should ring Mrs Winters and tell her exactly what you told me.’

  I’m aghast. ‘I can’t.’

  The phone rings again.

  I know it’s Mrs Winters. I grab my jacket and disappear outside. I can’t speak to her, I’m not going to be the one to tell her about Rana.

  ‘Cassie!’ Mum’s voice is angry, but I don’t care. It’s not my fault. I run to my cabin, wrench open the door and fling myself on my bed. If only Rana had come home, then none of this would have happened.

  After a few minutes I hear Mum and Ted walking past my cabin. They’re talking softly. The gate squeaks. After that, there’s silence. Are they kissing? I put my hands over my ears. I don’t want to know if they are. It’s not my mother out there. It’s someone else. It’s Mum when she is sewing her dolls, with pins stuck in the front of her shirt, and her hair flopping over her face. It’s Mum when she’s out walking with me, her arm draped warm around my shoulders, whispering silly things in my ear. I smile, pull the sides of the bed cover over me, and curl into a small ball. That’s Mum. Not the person kissing Ted.

  As my eyes close, I remember about the suitcase from Grandma Sarah. It’s still lying unopened on the floor at the end of my bed, where I put it in my scramble to get to Mac’s to fetch Richard. How long ago that seems now.

  I’m starting to doze when Mum pushes open my door. ‘Cassie, are you awake?’

  I keep my eyes tightly closed.

  ‘Rana’s okay,’ she says, sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘She rang home. Said she had decided to spend the night at her aunt’s.’

  I say nothing. She’s probably lying again.

  ‘I’m sorry I went at you.’ Mum leans over, kisses my cheek, then gets up. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot. Mac Rollerston phoned for you.’

  My heart stops. I roll over. ‘When?’

  ‘Not long after you’d gone.’

  ‘What did he want?’ I ask casually, but I know it’s
come out all breathless like when the wind’s getting up over the bay, stirring the water into little white waves. Why didn’t he say whatever it was when he saw me at the pictures?

  ‘He didn’t say. I expect he’ll ring back.’ She gets up and leaves, closing the door gently behind her.

  I smile at the moon-curved ceiling in the dark. Mac rang me. Then, full of dreamy thoughts, I start to drift off to sleep, when suddenly I feel someone standing close to my bed. I sit bolt upright.

  ‘Mum?’

  But there’s no one.

  Chapter Ten

  By ten o’clock Sunday morning I’ve given up waiting for Mac to phone. He must have changed his mind. And I’ve heard nothing from Rana. Not that I care after what she did to me last night, it’s going to be a long time before I want to talk to her. From now on I’m going to think of nothing but my project. I’m in my cabin, opening Grandma Sarah’s suitcase. Mum is sewing and Richard is watching telly, so there’s no chance of being interrupted.

  I pull out a stack of papers, spread the lot on my bed. Among them are a pile of yellow newspaper cuttings. After quickly shuffling through them and finding nothing of real interest, I go back to the case and take out a brown paper parcel. I slide the string off it. Inside are photographs. One is of Grandma Sarah’s wedding. I grin. Even then she looked like a sailing ship, her veil flying high over Grandad’s head. I glance through the other photographs; there are ones of weddings, babies, children, faces belonging to people I have never seen, strangers, but supposedly all part of my family chain.

  Digging deeper in the suitcase, I find a fragile bunch of pressed violets, a blue ribbon, and a thick white envelope with more papers inside. I go through them. There’s the marriage certificate of Great-Grandma Elizabeth Rose to Weston Todd in 1922. And another one, John Addison to Gabrielle Rose in 1830. This one is written in the most exquisite handwriting, each letter perfectly formed. I wonder what they would think if they came back and saw computers! And how lovely the names were. I would give anything to be called Gabrielle Rose. It’s so much more romantic than Cassie.