The Summer of Telling Tales Page 8

  ‘Just keep away from him, OK?’

  ‘Oh, so you’re allowed to hang around with boys but I’m not. You’re only one year older than me. That doesn’t give you the right to tell me what to do all the time.’

  We’re heading for a full-scale row as the door clicks open and Mum comes in. ‘Phew! Been on my feet all day long!’ she says happily, hanging up her coat and chucking her bag under a chair. ‘Good day at school?’

  ‘Great,’ I say as Grace turns away and starts to fill up the kettle at the sink.

  ‘I’m so relieved you’ve both settled in – it can’t be easy changing schools in the summer term, like this.’

  ‘My friend Cait has asked me to her house tomorrow. I can go, can’t I?’ I ask.

  ‘Don’t see why not,’ she says. ‘I might be working again anyway. Poor Stan – his wife’s been taken to hospital.’ From her coat pocket she pulls out a piece of paper with a phone number scribbled on it. ‘I promised I’d ring him.’

  ‘What’s happened to her?’ I ask.

  ‘She’s had a fall.’

  ‘Out of a window?’

  ‘Don’t think so,’ says Mum, looking puzzled. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

  ‘Don’t know . . . No reason.’ Unless she’d finally flipped and gone completely bonkers, I think to myself.

  It takes Mum a couple of hours before she plucks up courage and fishes in her bag for her mobile. Dad bought it for her a few years ago but she always kept it turned off which used to really annoy him because he couldn’t check up on her if she went out. Everyone at school had mobiles except me (and Grace who for obvious reasons didn’t want one) and I was dying to ask if I could have Mum’s because she never used it. I waited until Dad was in a really good mood but he still went totally ballistic.

  ‘With a voice as loud as yours, Drama Queenie, what the hell do you need a phone for? All you have to do is open a window and bawl your head off. The whole world will hear you.’

  I didn’t ask again, even when Christmas was coming up and he said I could have anything I wanted.

  Mum looks at her phone nervously before turning it on. There are dozens of messages waiting.

  Grace bites her lip.

  ‘Don’t listen to them, Mum,’ I warn her.

  ‘But there’s so many!’ she says, shocked. ‘What if something’s happened to him?’

  ‘It hasn’t. He’s fine. He’s always fine. Bad things don’t happen to Dad. Mum. Please don’t.’

  But it’s too late. She presses a key then holds the phone away from her ear as if it might bite her.

  Dad’s faint voice erupts into the room. First he’s cross and impatient. ‘So where are you, you stupid woman?’ he demands. Then the tone changes and he’s shouting and swearing at her, making all sorts of nasty threats. Bruno sits up alert on his blanket, gives a whimper then lies back down, his tail between his legs. In the third message, Dad’s voice changes again. Now it’s calm and so quiet we can hardly hear him, but this frightens me more than ever.

  ‘I’ll find you. You wait. I’ll weed you out, and there’ll be all hell to pay.’

  With her head bowed, Mum quickly starts deleting all the messages. When she’s finished, she looks up at our shocked faces.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers.

  ‘He won’t find us, will he?’ I ask.

  ‘No, course not,’ she says, her voice shaking a little. ‘We’re safe here.’

  But suddenly I don’t feel safe any more. It’s dark outside now and there isn’t enough light from the few lamp posts spaced along the field to see anything more than a load of spooky shadows. But it’s not ghosts appearing that I’m frightened of, it’s Dad.

  Mum doesn’t ring Stan. She says she’ll do it later and quickly buries the phone back in her bag as if it was a dangerous weapon. We start to make tea together but we’re all jumpy and Grace accidentally drops a plate, smashing it to pieces. Mum says it doesn’t matter and makes a joke of it but underneath her cheerful words, her voice sounds on edge.

  I tell her we must get the mobile number changed and then only give it to school and people we want. She looks relieved and promises she’ll sort it first thing tomorrow.

  Every noise from outside sets us peering through the curtains and before we sit down to eat, Mum locks the caravan door, something she never usually bothers to do until bedtime. Grace leaves most of her meal and even I don’t feel hungry. Although Mum tries to keep the conversation going, Grace is silent as usual and I don’t feel like talking.

  Suddenly there’s a sharp bang on the caravan door.

  I stifle a scream and Grace goes deathly white. Mum takes Bruno by the collar and pulls him towards the door with her and I can’t help letting out a nervous giggle. The worst Bruno would ever do is lick someone to death, turning them into a sticky ball of dog drool. But he wouldn’t dare do that to Dad.

  There’s a second thump. Louder. Heavier. None of us, including Bruno, move.

  Chapter 22

  Grace

  ‘It’s me!’ a gruff voice calls from outside.

  ‘Stan!’ says Mum, taking a deep breath and unlocking the door.

  ‘Didn’t mean to frighten you,’ he says, seeing our startled faces.

  He steps into the caravan and stands awkwardly before us. He looks older and more grizzled than I remember.

  ‘You’ve fixed the van up nice,’ he says, glancing around. ‘Looks homely.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m sorry, Stan, I meant to ring you,’ Mum says. ‘How’s Daphne?’

  He wipes his hand across his face and shakes his head. ‘Fifty years we’ve been married. Never a night apart till now.’

  ‘I hope she’ll be all right.’

  Stan nods. ‘I know it’s your day off, but could you cover for me tomorrow at the café?’ he asks.

  ‘Of course, no problem,’ Mum says quickly. ‘I’ll be there first thing.’

  ‘Got the fishing club committee booked in the evening till about ten, for their annual do – but I’ll cancel them so you can close up normal time —’

  ‘No, don’t worry – it’s fine. I’ve made pasties and quiches – they’re in the freezer and I could do a seafood risotto and salad if they’d like.’

  ‘They’ll love it. You’re pure diamond, Karin,’ he says.

  For a split second Mum’s eyes well up and she looks like she might cry. She blinks and forces a smile. ‘Just pleased to help,’ she says.

  He looks as if he’s about to ask something but then just nods awkwardly, turns and goes, disappearing into the shadowy darkness outside.

  It’s late and Mum says it’s about time we all got to bed. Even Ellie doesn’t kick up a fuss, but half an hour later, lying in my little bunk, I can’t sleep. I toss and turn but it’s as if someone’s put pebbles under the mattress. It’s blowing a gale outside and the wind whistles noisily around the caravan, threatening to tip it over.

  I think about PJ and try to convince myself that Ellie’s right. Maybe he is just a bit of a lad. But there’s something about him that makes me feel uncomfortable, on my guard all the time. I remember what he said about the stone circle being haunted and I shiver. Gran once told me that ghosts are only people from the past trying to find the ones they’ve lost. Just like Dad. It feels like he’s haunting us.

  I peek over the side of the bunk and in the moonlight see Ellie, also wide-awake, staring out of the tiny window watching the bare branches of the trees behind the caravan sway to and fro.

  ‘You OK?’ I ask.

  ‘Sort of,’ she replies. ‘What do you think Dad’s said to everyone back home?’

  ‘Knowing Dad, as little as he can.’

  ‘Think he’ll make up a story about us being on holiday or something?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘But what about Auntie Anna?’ she asks.

  ‘He won’t speak to her, he never does. Don’t worry, Ellie.’

  ‘I’m not,’ she replies, but the sound of her voice says diffe
rent. ‘Night, Gracie.’

  She hasn’t called me that since we were little.

  ‘Sleep tight.’

  She turns over and snuggles down under the covers. After a few more long hours I’m drifting off but have horrible dreams about Dad sneaking into the caravan while we’re all asleep, smashing everything up and attacking Mum. I wake suddenly. I’m sweating and I feel sick. It takes me at least a minute to calm down and reassure myself I was just dreaming, but then I lean over the side of my bed and discover Ellie isn’t in the bunk below me. Terrified, I climb down and rush into the main room.

  Hearing me clatter in, Mum switches on the light, her face alarmed. Ellie is tucked up next to her. She wakes too and rubs her eyes.

  ‘Bad dream?’ Mum asks gently.

  I nod.

  ‘Join the club,’ she says, with a nod to Ellie.

  I climb into bed with them both. It’s a huge squash and I’m half hanging off the edge but I don’t care; there’s no way I’m going back to my bunk to be on my own. Mum tucks Gran’s quilt over the three of us and I try and get the slightest bit comfortable.

  None of us can sleep, so after about an hour lying there with Bruno pawing to get in too, Mum gives up and turns the light back on. She makes hot chocolate for Ellie and me, even though we’ve cleaned our teeth and are never allowed drinks in bed. We sit squashed together under the quilt, sipping the hot chocolate, listening to the wind outside. None of us wants to think about Dad.

  ‘Has Stan really been married for fifty years?’ Ellie asks finally.

  ‘That’s what he said,’ Mum says.

  ‘But have you ever actually seen Daphne?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Isn’t she allowed out?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, if she was mad or something Stan would have to keep her locked up, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘She’s not mad, Ellie, and even if she was mentally ill, he wouldn’t lock her up!’

  Ellie thinks for a moment. ‘Then, you know how Dad didn’t like you going out?’ She won’t look at Mum and I can’t either.

  ‘Mmm,’ says Mum quietly.

  ‘He used to make you stay in the house all the time. Do you think it’s the same with Daphne and Stan?’

  ‘Not all men are like your dad, sweetheart.’

  Ellie pulls a face. ‘So what was your dad like?’ she asks.

  ‘Grandad? He . . . he was . . . an amazing man.’ Mum stares down at a patch of soft blue and red checked cotton, cut from a man’s shirt.

  ‘Gran told me once he wasn’t born here, but I can’t remember where she said he was from,’ Ellie says.

  ‘Czechoslovakia.’

  ‘So how did they meet?’

  ‘On a boat.’

  ‘A boat! But Gran hated boats! What was she doing on a boat?’

  ‘She was seventeen and had been on a school trip to France. She was sitting on some steps, feeling seasick.’

  ‘Just like me – I really hate it when it’s rough —’

  I glare at Ellie; I want to hear the story. Mum never talked about Gran and Grandad back home because Dad would get annoyed and tell her to shut up. He never talked much about his own parents either, except to show Mum up, because they had been so totally wonderful in every way.

  ‘So what happened?’ Ellie asks.

  ‘Well, Grandad saw her and felt sorry for her. He was nineteen, a student. He didn’t speak a word of English but he played his violin to take her mind off how she was feeling and Gran said it was love at first sight. Somehow they managed to keep in touch and a few years later they were married.’

  ‘Wow,’ says Ellie. ‘That’s so romantic. And he played the violin, just like Grace!’

  ‘He played the same violin. Gran gave it to me after Grandad died. She always hoped one of you would learn to play it.’

  An excited shiver goes through me as I realise I’ve been playing my grandad’s violin. I suppose Mum never said, in case Dad objected, for some stupid reason.

  ‘But why didn’t he go back home to his own country?’ asks Ellie.

  ‘He couldn’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well – I don’t know the full story, only what Gran told me, but in the seventies, no one was allowed to criticise the government there. You could disappear for good if the secret police had your name on their list. Grandad got caught up in student protests but he also played in a band – in secret, because they weren’t allowed to play publicly.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I suppose the authorities thought if people listened to forbidden music they might start listening to forbidden ideas too. Anyway, one evening, he was just about to go out to play at a really important concert when his dad stopped him and warned him to stay at home because the police knew about it and were going to arrest everyone. Grandad, being Grandad, didn’t listen but later that night, as he walked through the woods to the barn where the concert was going to take place, the police were waiting, just as his father had said. They saw him with his violin, recognised him and gave chase but he managed to give them the slip.’

  My heart is in my mouth.

  ‘What did he do?’ asks Ellie.

  ‘He knew he couldn’t go home so he walked and hitchhiked to Austria. All he had were the clothes he was wearing and his violin. He was exhausted and starving when he finally got there and spent months in a refugee camp. Eventually he was allowed to come to England. And it was on that boat that he met Gran.’

  ‘He was really brave, wasn’t he?’ Ellie says quietly.

  Mum shakes her head. ‘He didn’t see it that way. He even stopped playing his violin here, because he felt he’d let his friends down by running away.’

  ‘But he had no choice!’ Ellie protests.

  ‘That’s what Gran told him, but he just said he’d lost his voice.’

  Outside the storm has calmed and it’s quiet except for the sound of an owl hooting. I look again at the ordinary piece of red and blue check fabric and think about my extraordinary grandad. Suddenly I feel very proud but totally sad rolled into one and wish that he hadn’t died when Mum was only eleven.

  ‘Let’s try and get some sleep now,’ she tells us. And it feels good to lie under Gran’s quilt together, safe and protected from the darkness outside.

  Chapter 23

  Ellie

  I wake up from dreaming about Grandad being chased by secret police who all look like Dad. It’s gone half ten. Mum must have left for the café hours ago. There’s a note on the table, written in her neat, sloping handwriting, asking us to make sure Bruno has a walk or two, hoping that I have a nice time at my friend’s house and telling us not to get into too much trouble before she gets home from the café tonight.

  Bruno is sitting patiently in front of the caravan door, in the hope that staring at it will magically dissolve a dog-shaped hole for him to jump through to freedom. Grace is still fast asleep under Gran’s quilt and it seems mean to wake her after last night, so I pull on my jeans and top, scribble another note under Mum’s, telling her I haven’t been kidnapped, that I’m just taking Bruno out.

  I plan on going down to the beach but Bruno has other ideas. He picks up the whiff of a rabbit and starts pulling me towards the path to the stones.

  ‘Slow down!’ I tell him, but I’m wasting my breath – he’s obviously on a mission.

  At the clearing, he zigzags from bush to bush sniffing furiously.

  ‘Hello there!’ I hear a voice call, and swing around to see Susan sitting cross-legged on a tartan rug spread on the grass in front of one of the stones, her computer on her lap. ‘It’s, um . . .‘

  ‘Elle,’ I tell her.

  ‘Elle . . . and Grace, that was your sister’s name, wasn’t it?’

  I nod.

  ‘I didn’t recognise you at first. Like your hair!’

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply.

  ‘I often come here to write,’ she says. ‘It’s always so quiet, and on some days, I’m sure I ca
n feel a sort of energy coming from the stones. But that’s just daft, isn’t it?’ She adds with a laugh.

  Seeing the opportunity of being petted by a friendly stranger, Bruno bounds over and introduces himself.

  ‘Bruno!’ I say sternly as he tries to lick the poor woman to death. ‘Stop it!’

  ‘It’s OK. I like dogs. And you’re lovely,’ she tells him, which encourages him more.

  I gently pull Bruno away.

  ‘How’s the book going?’ I ask.

  ‘So-so. Haven’t pinned down the main character in this story yet. Something’s missing.’

  ‘Maybe she could be swapped by fairies and brought up by human parents or something,’ I suggest.

  ‘Like a changeling?’

  ‘Yeah . . . I’d read a story like that.’

  ‘Mmm. Me too.’ She thinks for a moment. ‘You know how people used to try and find out if their child had been substituted by fairies?’ she asks.

  ‘They’d check for wings or something?’

  ‘Stan told me they’d put a shoe in a bowl of soup in front of the baby, and if it laughed – which meant it understood the joke – then they’d know for sure it was a fairy.’

  ‘But what if it just laughed anyway? Some babies are really happy all the time.’

  ‘Good point. Mmm, not sure Stan knows a great deal about babies. Anyway, hopefully it didn’t happen too often because I’ve also read that if parents thought they had a changeling on their hands they’d dangle it over a fire to drive the fairies out.’

  ‘Eurgh! Poor thing! But I’d make my changeling clever – one step ahead, all the time. She’d know exactly what to do to convince everyone she was a human child.’

  ‘Sounds like a brilliant idea. Maybe you should write it.’

  I can’t help pull a face.

  ‘I’m not a proper writer like you – it would just turn out rubbish.’

  ‘You don’t know that, until you try.’ She delves into her big canvas bag and takes out a notebook with a purple patterned cover. ‘Here. This one’s spare. Write your story.’

  ‘Really?’