Sea Dreamer Read online

  ‘Who? Bevan?’

  Before I can answer, Mrs Winters calls, ‘Rana, what about the bread?’

  ‘Coming!’ She tears off the hat, flings it back in the wardrobe and slams the door. ‘Mum thinks I’m some kind of servant. She forgets I’m going to be sixteen this year.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say, ignoring her outburst and taking up the project subject again, ‘one of my ancestors was a servant of yours.’

  ‘Oh, shut up about all that ancestor stuff, Cassie. Can’t you think of anything else? What’s it matter now, anyway?’ Rana glares at me. ‘You’re always pretending. That’s for babies. Why don’t you get real for once?’ Then she barges down the hall to the kitchen to get the money for the bread.

  I get up off the bed, collect my bag and head for the front door, her sour words ringing in my ears. Then, for the first time in our friendship, I turn my back on her. I disappear out of the house, along the dark, damp path and down the slippery steps. And all the time I’m saying, ‘You can go to hell, Rana Winters’, trying to cover up the raw wound of hurt.

  But it’s no good. No matter what I do or say, Rana is part of my life, part of me. No matter what she does or says, she will always be my second skin. Like the ocean under my feet, she pulls and tugs.

  I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

  Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied.

  Chapter Two

  Once, in the mid-1800s, Rewa Bay was a thriving whaling station. Then it became a fishing settlement. Nowadays it’s only a small, sleepy corner on the backwash of the coast. Most of the pioneer houses have long since broken down, rotted away, lying alongside other skeletons of the past, buried deep in the bush-clad hills.

  Rewa Bay has an old-fashioned feel to it, like a comfortable sweater. It’s not big and bright like a city, and I love every bit of it.

  At the foot of the hills is the inlet. In the summer at low tide, the water is no more than a thread, a gentle trickle between the shell-crusted sandbanks and the ramps of the boat sheds, but when the tide is high it becomes a large, silver sheet of tinfoil.

  Rewa Bay has no real footpaths; instead there are tracks, criss-crossing every which way. Some hidden, known only to the people who live in the area, quick ways to the roads, quiet, green, twig-snapping secret paths. Then there are the open tracks that run beside the inlet. Tracks that are lined with yellow-faced lupins, which in the summer explode their pods like firecrackers, leaving their shells empty and rustling like the taffeta petticoats of long ago.

  The place where I live can’t really be called a house. That’s because it is in three separate bits. First there’s the main cabin. It has the kitchen, the sitting room, my mother’s bedroom and another small room. To the right of this cabin are two much smaller cabins. These cabins are made from one of the trams that used to run up Bridgetown’s tallest hill in the olden days. Richard, my eight-year-old brother, uses the cabin next to the main one, while mine is at the far end of the property. Inside they’re like doll’s houses. My ceiling is a half-curve, like when the moon is new and hollowed out.

  The property has been in our family for years. At the moment it really belongs to Grandma Sarah. She inherited it from Great-Grandma Rose, whose family only ever used it as a summer retreat. We’ve been living in it ever since Mum left my father, seven years ago.

  As I round the corner of the main cabin, I meet Richard.

  ‘You’re for it,’ he says, munching on an apple.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You were meant to go to Aunty Elenor’s.’

  I clap my hand over my mouth. I’d completely forgotten about it. I’d been so busy thinking about family trees and Rana going out with Bevan that the fitting of my bridesmaid’s frock never entered my head. I go into the kitchen and brace myself.

  ‘Is that you, Cassie?’ calls my mother from the back room — not that you can call it a proper room, it’s too lumpy and out of shape for that. The floor slants and when the tide’s high, it’s as though the whole room is floating.

  I go through.

  ‘You were meant to go to Elenor’s.’

  ‘Sorry. I forgot. I didn’t mean to.’

  My mother looks up from the rag doll she’s making. ‘You never do mean to, Cassie,’ she says, sighing and shaking her head. ‘I don’t know how you expect to get on in this world, if you’re always drifting off into another one.’

  I wait, hang around the doorway. I hate these sort of talks.

  ‘Elenor’s rung twice, wondering where you are.’ My mother picks up a lump of stuffing and presses it into the top of the doll’s head. ‘I don’t enjoy having her haranguing me about you. You’d better ring and apologise.’

  Mum and her sister Elenor are not the best of friends. My mother once told me she’d left home because of Elenor, married my father to escape her domineering ways. I’m not sure that’s quite true, as another time Mum said she left home because of my father. That he had swept her off her feet with his wit and charming ways. Unfortunately, being married didn’t stop him continuing to use his charm on other women.

  Aunt Elenor lives in Bridgetown. Next spring, her daughter, my cousin Denise, is getting married and I am the sole bridesmaid. I know the only reason for this is because we’re related, because last year I heard my aunt say to Mum it was a pity I was so awkward-looking. Later, when I took her a cup of coffee, I glared at her; not that she noticed, she was too busy talking. I know I’m not model material, but the way Aunt Elenor spoke about me, you’d think I was a gargoyle.

  Aunt Elenor loves shoes, she has heaps. Mum has three pairs: her gumboots, her good black shoes and her sneakers. I can’t believe they’re sisters and that they come from the same family. They’re so different.

  ‘How could you, Cassie?’ says Aunt Elenor, when I ring. ‘Here I have been waiting and worrying over you, while all the time you had just forgotten.’ The word ‘just’ is emphasised with great depth and meaning.

  Richard walks past me while Aunt Elenor is going on about ‘having consideration’, and how ‘the modern generation are so self-centred and thoughtless.’ He waggles his eyebrows and pulls a face. ‘You don’t appreciate what an honour it is to be chosen as the bridesmaid, Cassie, and if you’re not going to treat it as such, then …’ I hold the phone away from my ear and let her ramble on. After about three minutes she winds down. ‘This Friday? Do you think you can remember to come after school then?’

  I think quickly. Rana and I always go to the library in town on Friday after school. I look for books, while Rana reads all the latest fashion magazines. Afterwards, we check out the shops, have a hamburger then catch the nine o’clock bus home. Rana’s not going to be very happy at the thought of having to spend an extra hour in the library, but it can’t helped. The thought of saying no to Aunt Elenor leaves me no choice. ‘Yes. That’d be fine.’

  ‘Good. Now go and write it down and for goodness’ sake try not to forget. After all, the wedding’s in the spring.’

  ‘Yes, Aunt Elenor,’ I say meekly. After saying goodbye and putting down the receiver, I wonder what all the panic is about. It’s only autumn. The wedding is ages away.

  ‘All right?’ asks Mum, coming through to the kitchen and over to the oven.

  ‘I’ve got to go on Friday after school.’

  ‘Can I go to Justin’s?’ interrupts Richard.

  Mum glances at the clock. ‘All right. Half an hour and not a minute longer, and not near the water.’ Richard disappears out the door before she can change her mind. Then she turns to me. ‘Try not to forget this time, Cassie. You know what Elenor’s like.’

  I change the subject. ‘Miss McKenzie’s given us a new assignment.’

  My mother bends and opens the oven door. A cloud of white steam floats out. ‘What’s it about?’ she asks, giving the contents of the casserole dish a good stir.

  I peer over her shoulder. ‘Not stew again?’ I complain.

  ‘It’s a new recipe,�
� my mother replies, firmly replacing the lid on the dish and shutting the oven door.

  ‘Rana’s mother always cooks them luscious food.’

  Mum ignores my moaning. ‘Tell me about the assignment.’

  ‘It’s on families. Ancestors. We’ve got to find out as much as we can, then write it up.’ I pick up a carrot from the vegetable basket and bite into it. ‘I don’t suppose there’s ever been anyone interesting in our family that you know of?’

  ‘Umm,’ says Mum in a thoughtful way. ‘Let me think.’

  I munch on the carrot and wait, not at all hopeful of anything, other than perhaps a great-great-grandmother having eleven children or the likes. Next minute my mother is half murmuring to herself, half to me, ‘There was talk once, of there being a pirate in the family.’ Her hazel eyes stare out the window, past the sea, past the sky, past everything.

  I gasp. A pirate. That’s the last thing I expected to hear. She’s having me on. Any second now, I expect Mum to start laughing and tell me it’s a joke. But she doesn’t.

  ‘I can’t remember who told me. Where I heard about it. Perhaps it was Grandma Sarah. I think I must have been very young. Now it’s no more than a whisper in my head. Perhaps I imagined it?’ Her voice comes and goes like small waves, and the words sound as though they’re blue. Blue and deep, as if somehow she is the sea. Then, suddenly, she comes back; returns, like she’s travelled kilometres and kilometres, in and out of time, centuries and centuries. ‘Now,’ she says, without blinking. ‘What was I saying?’

  I hesitate. Should I say something about the pirate? I don’t want to move, I don’t want to break the thread. I’m not sure what was going on in my mother’s head, but I’ve never seen her eyes go like that before. It was almost as though they belonged to someone else. I decide to risk it, see if she remembers what she said. ‘Who was the pirate?’

  My mother laughs. ‘I wouldn’t go getting all excited. I’m sure it can’t possibly be true.’ She pulls open the drawer beside the sink and takes out a knife. ‘This isn’t getting the potatoes done.’

  My mother has returned to her normal state. So what happened just now? Mum is very practical and nothing like she was a few seconds ago. How strange. I can’t let the subject drop. ‘But if there was, who would know?’

  ‘Grandma Sarah would be the one to ask. If anyone knows …’

  The phone rings, breaks the spell. I answer it. It’s Rana.

  ‘Why didn’t you wait for me?’ she accuses.

  ‘I remembered I had to get home.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I had to ring my Aunt Elenor. I was meant to be having a bridesmaid’s fitting after school today.’

  ‘I thought you were mad at me.’

  ‘Why would I be?’ I lie. I’m not going to let her know how her outburst hurt me. Rana’s got feelings of steel, nothing seems to bother her. If I told her the truth, she would only tease me, tell me I need to toughen up, that I’m too sensitive. She’s probably right.

  ‘Bevan’s got a friend,’ she whispers.

  I’m bursting to tell her about the possibility of there being a pirate in my family, but decide to leave it. I don’t want to get her mad again, by going on about ancestors, and besides, it’s most likely only a family myth, so it’s not worth saying anything until I am a hundred per cent sure.

  ‘Cassie, are you listening?’

  ‘What? Speak up. I can hardly hear you.’

  ‘Don’t want Mum to hear,’ Rana says, raising her voice a little. ‘You want to come to the movies on Saturday night?’

  ‘Who else is going?’ I ask warily.

  ‘You’ll like him. Promise,’ Rana breathes close and secretive in my ear.

  All through the years of our friendship, Rana has made promises. Promises that have usually led to trouble. Like the time we went collecting shells at the neck of the inlet during the summer holidays. I was about nine years old. Mum had given me strict instructions to be home by twelve for lunch. Rana said not to worry, promised me she could tell what time it was just by looking at the sun. I believed her. Why wouldn’t I? After all, she was my best friend. Of course, she didn’t have the faintest idea. We got caught by the tide and had to be rescued. We scrambled up the cliff as high as we could and sat there for an hour, until a fisherman saw us. I really thought we were going to be washed away by the sea. And did I get into trouble! When Rana somehow swung the blame onto me, I told her I was never going to speak to her again. Mum grounded me for a week, said it would give me time to think about what I had done.

  On the second day, Rana sneaked into my cabin with a whole pile of sweets and chocolate. She had raided her moneybox and spent the lot to cheer me up. That night, after dinner, I was violently sick. Next morning, Mum relented a little on the remainder of my punishment, probably thinking I’d been sick with worry and remorse. She never found out about the sweets and told me I could have one friend over. Of course I chose Rana.

  I return to the conversation. ‘Who is it?’ I insist.

  Rana mumbles a name. It sounds like Denny to me. If it is, then there is no way I’m going. Denny Culliford is even worse than Bevan. I open my mouth to ask who it is again, when she says in a rush, ‘I’ve got to go. Meet me you-know-where. In three hours.’ Before I can protest, say I can’t because I’ve got far too much homework, she crashes the receiver down in my ear.

  Rana and I have this secret meeting place. It’s a derelict boat shed. You go past the bus stop and the picnic ground, down an overgrown track, until you come to the southernmost point of the inlet and there it is.

  ‘Cassie, how about starting your homework?’ says Mum, interrupting my thoughts.

  ‘I’m just going.’ My mother worries about my homework more than I do. She never got very far at school, I suppose she’s concerned I might follow in her footsteps.

  Inside my cabin, I dump my school bag on the small table under the only window. Both my bed and the window face the sea. At night, I never bother pulling the curtains. I like to lie and look at the sky, the stars and the moon, until I’m sailing the waves, sailing the sea.

  I pull out the chair and sit down. I let my gaze wander out the window while trying to decide which piece of homework to start first. The tide’s coming in. Fast and flowing, filling up the inlet. Before I can make a conscious decision between Maths and French, the thin face of my Maths teacher, Mr Hinds, floats before my eyes. He’s a very fierce man, with a voice like the beep of a computer.

  I drag out the homework he’s given us. Better be safe and get him out of the way first. I don’t like anything to do with figures, I’d much rather it was words. Figures are nothing but squiggles, and have always caused me endless trouble.

  After writing the day’s date at the top of the page, I pick up the Maths textbook and start to turn the pages, then for some unexplained reason I glance at the inlet again. A sudden breeze ripples across the water … I must down to the seas again … I am the bow of a sailing ship … to the lonely sea and the sky … ploughing through the waves … And all I ask is a tall ship … and all I ask … The breeze shimmers, sends up a fountain of spray, splits the silver waters. I see someone sinking, someone drowning.

  Crashing back my chair, I run outside. ‘Hang on,’ I shout. But my cry makes no sound and the surging water is as still as a painting on a canvas. I stand mesmerised, as though in a doorway to another world, another time. Is it today? Or is it yesterday? When is it? And where is the someone I saw in the water?

  The sun shivers, the tide swells. Time begins again.

  I take a deep breath. Whatever happened just now, whatever explanation there might be, I know I saw someone in the water.

  Chapter Three

  At ten to eight I get up from slouching in front of the TV, knowing it’s almost time to meet Rana. There’s no use asking Mum if I can go, she would only go on about my studies. It’s easier to let her think I’ve got my head down and I’m working hard. Sometimes it’s really handy having my own spac
e, being totally separate from Mum and Richard.

  ‘I’d better get back to my Maths,’ I say, sighing.

  ‘Move,’ says Richard, swivelling his head, trying to see the fire engine racing around the screen.

  My mother looks up, nods and smiles. I know that smile. It means, ‘I’m proud of you.’ I swallow my guilt and help myself to a chunk of fruit cake. If only she knew.

  I go outside into the mild evening, where the embers of the dying day are spread red above the rim of the hills. If I had one wish, it would always be the same. That no matter what I could always be part of the bay.

  After pocketing my torch, I head up the pathway that runs behind our place. The track is narrow and winds between a high bank and the ever-moving inlet. Long grass, wild scrub and trees cover the steep slope.

  On reaching the road I see yellow pinheads of light from the scattered houses amid the bush. I jog down the road until I come to the track that goes around by the boat sheds, then I zigzag through the straggly grass.

  Rana is there already, waiting for me. She is sitting with her back against the broken door, gazing out over the estuary. I sink down beside her.

  ‘Mum’s thinking of sending me to boarding school,’ she says straight off.

  A cold feeling hits my stomach. ‘What! This year?’

  ‘Says I’m getting out of hand. Whatever that means. It’s probably ’cause I won’t do exactly what she wants.’

  I don’t trust myself to speak. How can I live without Rana? Her funny ways. Her daring. Her madness. Even her hateful moods of late. We’ve always been together. Layers inside me shift. Water under ice, the skin of my core starts to shed. ‘How will she afford it?’ is all I can think to say, struggling not to give in to the panic, not to believe that Rana could really go away.

  She shrugs, picks up a small stone and throws it into the water. Circles start. Both of us watch, wordless, as ripples spread wider and wider, then Rana says, softly, ‘Don’t you ever want to get out of here, Cassie?’