by Judy Waite
'Like my name then?'
'What?'
'My name. Fern. Ferns are green.'
'Oh. Right.' Alix breathes an inner sigh. Patience. Patience. Fern's one of those 'do your head in' people – she only got to know her because she and Mum stayed in River's View when they were scouting for a house – but she doesn't mind her in small doses. In fact, she can tolerate most people. She shapes herself to see their point of view. Shapes herself to be the way they want her to be. Now, she links her arm through Fern's. 'I'm doing a sort of gathering for my birthday next weekend. Just a few of the crowd from college. I've only just planned it because my mum apparently can't get back for the actual day.' Alix isn't completely sure she wants to let Fern in on this, but it won't hurt – and every now and then she feels sorry for her. 'My brother's coming too. Aaron. He sent me a text this morning. He said he would bring some mates.'
'Do you get on with him?'
'He's fantastic. But I'm hoping I'll get on with his mates even more. I'm saying my prayers that they'll all be drop dead gorgeous.' She looks sideways at Fern, suddenly thinking it might hurt after all. Fern will get left out. She'll be sitting on the side, a wilting wallflower, and she – Alix – will end up trying to make her all right. Damn being sorry for people. It nearly always spins round and spits in your face. She'll have to persuade Aaron to spend some time with her. He might not mind – after all, he won't be looking to get off with anyone himself.
'You're dead lucky, having a brother. I wish I did.'
Dead lucky. Alix examines the words in her head. Dead. Lucky. The two words somehow don't work together. She wonders how the phrase started out? What sort of people would be lucky being dead?
They push out through the arcade door and into the car park outside. The afternoon is warm for so late in the year, the sky blue and high. Alix refuses to stand by the Ladies. 'It'll make us look like we're touting or something,' she says. 'We'll go over here. By my Mini.'
'What's "touting" mean?' frowns Fern.
Alix ignores her. She can ask her mum when she gets home. 'Hey – nice car. That blue Ferrari. Over on the right, by the ticket machine.'
'Oh yeah.' Fern nods like an enthusiastic puppet, staring in the wrong direction. Alix wonders if she even knows what a Ferrari is. Alix decides she could just see herself in a Ferrari. Or maybe with the owner of one. She knows her cars – or knows enough about when to be impressed. Knowing about cars is one of the pearls of wisdom Mum has passed down.
Near the steps that lead down to the beach a guy with Rasta hair is sketching one of those naff pastel touristy portraits. Next to him a gang of seagulls squabble over a squashed bag of chips. Alix thinks the image of birds is all wrong. People use words that make them mystical. Graceful. The truth is they are loud ugly scavengers just out for themselves. She's not sure if this is a good thing, or a bad.
The door to the Ladies bangs open, and Courtney swings out. Short, gelled black hair. Black eyes. Black clothes. 'It stinks in there,' she wrinkles her nose. 'I thought I was going to die. Overcome by fumes. D'you think I could have sued?'
'Money won't do you much good if you're dead.' Dead. Unlucky. Alix leans back against her car, watching a toady, long-haired guy who is definitely past his sell-by date head over to the peacock-blue Ferrari and get in. He revs the engine. Reverses. Drives off. Maybe being with the owner of a car like that wouldn't be so good after all.
'Shall we go down to the beach? Mess about a bit?' Fern has a childlike tinge to her voice. Let's make sandcastles. Oh let's. Oh let's.
Alix glances at Courtney, who glances back at her. A tiny shake of the head. A shared smile. Almost invisible. 'It'll be too busy. Beach people annoy me. Let's walk to the shops – there's still another two hours on the parking ticket. I can't afford to buy anything, but it won't hurt to look.'
'D'you need a job?' asks Courtney, as they start to walk. 'There're vacancies at Easi Shop. I could get you an application form.'
'Sweet of you but . . . I'm trying to hold out.' Alix's smile is all sugar. Not in a million years. I wouldn't be seen dead working in Easi Shop. 'Mum isn't sending enough allowance – too caught up with her latest lover to be thinking it through. I'll have to plead poverty when she comes over next week. I'll fill the fridge with mouldy beans, and tell her we'll have to share tea bags.' Alix thinks about Mum's latest lover – Creepy Carlos. His mouth is too thin. He's got eyes like a snake. But he's lavishing luxury on Mum in Tuscany, and Mum likes being lavished in luxury. Too-thin mouths and sly snake eyes can be ignored when luxury is being lavished in.
'Do you think she'll stay with him?' Alix can hear the fascination in Fern's voice. Everyone is always fascinated by Mum.
'Doubt it.' The truth is, Mum never stays with anyone. Two years has been the longest, and that was for ever ago. Uncle Ray. Alix can't even remember what he looked like.
They strike out along the promenade, then turn left and head down the cobbled lanes towards the shops.
'Hey look.' Alix stops by the gold embossed window of The Dress Agency. 'I love that. It's sexy. And the colour . . . all shimmery blue. It's in the sale. £199.99 marked down to £49.99. That's a hell of a drop.'
'Two hundred quid is a stupid amount.' Courtney stands with her arms folded, glaring at the dress. 'No wonder they had to knock the price down.'
'It's not that much.' Alix shrugs. 'My mum wouldn't dream of even trying on anything that's less. This is probably just end of season.'
Fern leans to the side, trying to peer round the side of the mannequin. 'It's gorgeous. So low at the back, though. You couldn't wear a bra. But I bet it's lovely on someone tall and slim. And blonde.' The huge eyes blink round at Alix. 'Someone like you.'
Alix thinks it through for a moment. 'I've got one of those stick-on bras. It just fixes round the front,' she says slowly.
Fern nudges her. 'Try it on. Go on. Maybe your mum could do a credit thing over the phone.'
'Like I said – she's too caught up with Carlos to even listen to my moments of great need. But I can work on it. She's promised to fly over next week. She's bound to take me shopping then.'
'It won't be there by next week.' Courtney is backing away, her mouth turned down as if she's been sucking a sour sweet. 'Not if it's really a bargain.'
'Go on, Alix. At least try it. Maybe they'd put it by.'
Alix hesitates again, teased by the possibility. 'It's my colour, I suppose.' And then she thinks it'll be no good after her birthday anyway. Where the hell would she wear it in this end-of-the-earth town? 'Forget it. I can't be bothered.'
She heads off after Courtney and they strike on along the cobbles, turning right into the lane that leads back out towards the promenade. They're better off back here, where there at least might be some action. Window shopping's such a tedious waste of time.
It's not until minutes later, when they're standing beside the railings that run along the edge of the beach, that Alix realises Fern hasn't followed them. 'We seem to be missing someone.'
Courtney is watching the glittering water. 'Maybe she had to get home. Guesthouse duties calling. There's a short cut to her house just down a bit from the beach.'
'Maybe.' Alix remembers Fern's pervie car park moment and hopes she hasn't got herself abducted or anything. Perhaps the blue Ferrari guy offered her a boiled sweet. Fern's dopey enough to take it. Alix thinks she should have got the Ferrari number plate so she could be a stunning super memory witness when the police ran the story on Crimewatch.
She watches the water with Courtney for a moment; white yachts and motor boats, and the car ferry bumbling along to God Knows Where. It's all so boring. Boring boring boring.
Alix turns away as a guy walks by, an easel under his arm. She remembers him – the Rasta-haired artist from outside the arcade.
Perhaps she can have some fun with him.
'Hey,' she calls, 'you were sketching in the car park just now, weren't you? D'you want to do a portrait of me? I've just made my fortune on the fru
it machines.' She rummages in her pocket and brings out a handful of copper coins.
He stops and smiles at her. 'I've just packed up, but I'll be back here tomorrow.'
Alix puts one hand on her hip and pouts. 'That's tragic,' she sighs. 'I'll be busy then.'
He looks troubled, as if he's really sorry. 'I'm truly washed up. I've been working all day. But you choose any other time next week, and I'll be here for you.' He glances at Courtney. 'Both of you. I'd like to do you both together.'
'I bet you would.' Alix looks at Courtney too, but Courtney is ignoring them. She's still staring out across the sea. Alix turns back to the guy. 'Tomorrow morning. First thing. We haven't got any lessons till later.'
He shifts his easel, nods and grins, his smile all warmth and enthusiasm. 'I'll look forward to it.' He raises one hand. 'See you tomorrow,' and walks on.
Alix watches him go. 'Like hell he will,' she murmurs. 'I wouldn't want one of his cheap touristy scribbles even if he turned out to be the next Picasso.'
She checks her mobile for the time. Still an hour left on the car. Leaning back on the railings she gives Courtney a sharp nudge. 'What shall we do now?' She scans the promenade, as if hoping for magicians; marching bands; men eating fire. She's bored again.
* * *
Fern takes the shortest route back to River's View, hurrying along the coastal path that fringes the edge of the river. The tide is out and the air belches a stench of seaweed and mud and things rotting.
She is always drawn to it – fascinated by the moods that tug and pull at the water. The daily debris of washed-up secrets, the sullen weight of mud when the tide slides away – but most people just see it as sludgy. Sludgy and smelly.
It wasn't always this bad though – not until the weather started changing. Dad used to say that was why the currents were so dangerous. The new high tides have grown more and more powerful, affecting the pull of the undertow.
He used to get really worried about the environment, and how things were changing. It really mattered to him that no one cared enough and nothing would be done until it was too late.
Used to. There are other things that take all his energy now.
Half walking, half running, she hits the quieter end of the path. Normally she would stop here, soaking in the strange, almost prehistoric, mud-slimed view. Today she presses on, passing the ancient wreck with its ribbed wooden frame that juts out of the sludge like old dinosaur bones. She rounds the final bend that curves up past the rotting jetty, and leads on to River's View. Fern fights a sudden impulse to skip towards it, the way she used to do when she was little.
River's View. Down to two Tourist Board stars now. And still fading. But still – it's home.
'Hello, sweetheart. Heavens, it's hot, isn't it? You shouldn't run when it's clammy like this.' Mum is just inside the door, resting the phone back down on the hook.
'I'm not stopping.' Fern pauses by the stairs, breathless. 'I've got to get something.'
'What sort of something?' Mum stops scribbling notes in her diary, and looks up.
Fern hesitates. She can hardly tell Mum what she's come back for. 'My sketch pad.' She nods as she says it, as if she's in conversation with herself.
'I thought I heard you come in, angel.' Dad shuffles out from the study, the local Long Cove Echo in his hands.
Fern hugs him, feels him fragile, so light he could float away. She steps back, trying not to let a rush of sadness overwhelm her. 'Good to see you up,' she says. 'You feeling better?'
'Much.'
The answer frees her. The illusion that he is – at least temporarily – all right. 'I need to go.'
'You might want me to read this with you later – an arts award. The council are trawling for ideas that might bring tourists in – it's a sort of "Art and the Environment" project. It was in yesterday's Echo.' His hands shake as he passes the Long Cove Echo to her, and she tries not to notice.
She takes the paper. Rolls it up. Of course she'll let him read it to her. She'll do anything for Dad. But not now. 'We'll check it out when I get back – only that old wreck is really clear because the tide's so low, and I thought I'd do some rough sketches of it. I was thinking of sculptures.'
Mum has been squinting at the diary, checking through pages, and now looks up at Fern again. 'Like those mermaids you did for your GCSEs? The guests really loved them. We could sell some for Christmas if you made up some more.'
'They were pathetic.' Fern doesn't know what makes her say this, but she feels a rush of embarrassment at the memory of her school project. What would Alix say about clay mermaids?
Mum raises one eyebrow. 'You got an A star for them. The examiners must have thought they had some merit.'
Fern shakes her head in sudden irritation. Mum would like to keep her in a safe little world, churning out mermaids forever. But Dad is still smiling and she's in a hurry. This isn't the time to talk it through. 'Mermaids won't be enough to get me into Art College. I'll need to show lots of different ideas.' The Art College argument is Fern's safest option if she wants to get back into town quickly.
Anything to do with art always gets her a winner's badge at home. If she gets into Art College then the future is already shaped. Set and glazed. 'Must get that pad.'
'You go carefully, Fern. Don't be back late.
And make sure you keep your mobile switched on in case anything happens.'
'Yes, Mum. No, Mum.' Three bags full, Mum.
'And don't run on the stairs.'
Up in her room she tucks the rolled-up Echo on the shelf, wedging it behind Lily, the elephant, and a soft green crocodile. Then she turns to her bed, lifts the mattress and slides her hand in amongst the springs. Her knuckles graze against the coiled wire and she has to edge her whole elbow in to get some proper space to feel.
It's still there.
She knew it would be.
Mum almost never cleans her room – she's got too many others to do – so she's hardly going to go poking about between the bed springs.
Slipping the wad into her jacket pocket she glances at the alarm clock by her bed. The Mickey Mouse hands point to nearly five but she can make it if she really runs. The Dress Agency won't close until five-thirty, even though it's Sunday. Not with all these tourists around. The only problem will be coming up with an excuse if she bumps into Alix and Courtney. She ought to ring them – find some garbled reason why she disappeared – but that still won't explain why she's racing back down there. It doesn't matter. She'll make something up. The main thing is to get the dress.
Grabbing her sketch pad – just in case Mum is still lurking – Fern runs downstairs, slipping out of River's View, then running back out through the gate and along the path.
The tide has drained even further now, the riverbed glossy; stranded weeds and water plants smudged up in the shine. Fern is relieved she wasn't stupid enough to chuck the mucky money away. She'd planned to. She'd wanted to scrunch it and crush it into a bag of stones. One hard throw out in the right place would have got it sucked down and down and down. But Mum had been out on the slipway, helping a guest tie the dinghy up to its post. Fern had smiled, her expression carefully blank, and then stumbled away again. Up in her room, she'd wedged the mucky money under her mattress. She'd have to wait till Mum and the guest came back in.
Except, once she'd hidden it she didn't want to touch it. She didn't want the memory.
But she's not scared of the memory now. With an ache in her lungs and a stitch in her side, she's only scared that she won't be able to run fast enough in the heat. Today, by the fruit machine, Alix listened to Fern's worst-ever secret and didn't judge. She wants Fern there on her birthday. She linked arms with her as they walked through the arcade.
The present is a giant thank you.
And that revolting time with Khaki Steve will have turned out to have done one good thing after all.
* * *
'HAPPY BIRTHDAY.' Courtney blinks twice as Alix opens the door in the shimmer-blue D
ress Agency dress.
'Thanks. Fantastic to see you. God, you look drowned. Stick your umbrella on the side there, and come upstairs. I've been slaving over a hot stove all afternoon, so I'm only just finishing getting ready.'
Courtney follows Alix up to her bedroom, and drops her overnight bag down onto the bed. The room is warm, almost too hot for her, and the fluffy cream carpet gives everything an air of luxury, despite the muddle of clothes and shoes and magazines. Alix has been set up well – white-lacquered furniture, velvets and silks. No expense spared. Courtney wonders, suddenly, if her mum is on a bit of a guilt trip. Maybe she feels bad about living abroad? 'The dress looks really good on you. You must have got round your mum after all.' Unzipping her bag, she sorts through the neat stack of underwear and towel and tomorrow's Easi Shop overall.
'Actually – Fern got it. Came over with it this morning. I wasn't up but she left it in a bag on the front step, then sent me a text and woke me up anyway.' Alix pulls a face at Courtney, and Courtney pulls a face back.
Fern is ridiculous.
Fern gets everything wrong – even when she does something right.
'Anyway – you look good too. All black – as ever. I love the top.'
Courtney shrugs. 'Got it from a charity shop. It's OK, I suppose.' Fern's overenthusiastic present needles her. Has Fern really got money to throw around? She pulls her own gift from her bag, and tosses it to Alix.
Alix catches it, tearing the paper. 'Hey – a Blades CD. That's fantastic too. Thanks.'
Courtney takes her bag, pushes it under the corner chair, and sits down. She's feeling cheap and tacky, and hopes the sales girl took the Cash Converters sticker off the CD case. 'So – where did Fern get the money? I thought they were having to boil rats to survive at River's View.'
Alix props the CD up next to the mirror.
Courtney thinks the shimmer-blue dress is like gossamer on her, catching the light when she moves. Sassy and tight. A second skin.