Swimming would ease all this slipperiness, she was sure. The sea taking each limb and smoothing her out. The sea would send Nicholas away. But swimming was forbidden and gossip still found its way to those it shouldn't. Mrs Tiddy, for one, would let Jack know if Pearl swam.
I'm only thinking of you. It's for your own good.
She had thought of going at night but knew that was foolish. Bickering currents dogged the coast and in the dark it wouldn't be easy to get back to shore and escape them. She had to make do as best she could.
The next morning, when Jack had gone, Pearl took out all the sheets and spread them on the kitchen floor where there was most space, making a sea of cotton to swim in. She lay down on the sheets and when she closed her eyes and let each muscle go slack they felt as if they held the memory of water. Then sense came to her.
There was something to be got at, some re-arranging of things she couldn't quite see. The song she kept hearing, the people returning â all of it at the root of her. It was in her blood.
Aunt Lilly had been known as a pellar, a woman of foresight. She knew the weather before it came and could charm a cow back from sickness. No one crossed her, not even old Mrs Pendeen and her sharp tongue. There were stories that Lilly's mother, Pearl's grandmother, had helped a mermaid back into the sea when she became stranded by the tide. Payment was a coral comb and the power of sight for the women of that family. It didn't always come into the flesh of the bearer, but it was carried all the same. Perhaps now her blood was charged with it. Perhaps she was ready to see the truth.
She rolled onto her front, stretched her arms above her head and flexed her fingers. The linen bunched and gave under her strokes. A warm sea. September, full of waiting. There were many ways to see a place and to read its secrets.
Twelve
She struggles with the buttons on her dress. Her mother has said not to pull or they'll come away, so Pearl asks Nicholas to help. Sarah Dray and Polly are sitting on the harbour wall. They always used to swim with the boys like she does, getting down to their drawers and jumping through the waves. But they won't this summer. It's to do with being older, like how Polly's body looks more like her mother's now than Pearl's, all rounded out. As Nicholas undoes her buttons he stands very close to her and sticks the tip of his tongue between his lips, concentrating. His dark brown hair is long and smells of salt water. He has a small cut on his forehead that's not scabbed yet. There's a bead of blood bright in the sun. She wants to put her finger to it, and to push his hair out of his eyes.
Jack's shy about undressing. He stands with his back to them, taking his time with his shirt. He looks longingly at the wooden beach huts that have appeared at the other end of the sand, separate from where Morlanow's children bathe. The artists go in, one at a time, and come out showing flesh as white as the underside of a ray.
As soon as the last button slips from his fingers, Nicholas dashes over to the harbour wall. Pearl hears the splash as he jumps into the sea. Polly and Sarah cheer. She doesn't wait for Jack. He will prefer it if she leaves him to get undressed and slip into the water unseen.
Most of Morlanow's boats are away at the fishing grounds, the weather being so good. Any left at home are bobbing a little way off shore where the water deepens, their familiar shapes marking a line that the children are not to swim past. This is the only stretch of the sea that's allowed for swimming as the currents here aren't angry. Pearl has had to promise her mother that she won't ever swim on her own and that she won't swim past the boats. The sea is only waiting for the chance to keep her for itself.
She lowers herself onto the warmed sand below the seafront. She doesn't like to jump into the sea from the harbour wall like Nicholas does. That way the moment of getting into the water is over too quickly. The sand burns her feet so she runs to the water and plunges in, her legs working to keep her moving forward until she is far enough out to kick off the bottom and swim. The sea cloaks Pearl in its shivery silk, making her arms goosey with the cold and her own delight. It knows the shape of her body, the way her shoulders curve, the pits at the backs of her knees, and it slips itself around her, holding her firm. They have a way of being together which no one else understands. Not even Nicholas. The waves are her friends and her terrors. They love her but they might carry her down to their depths, far below, where nets can't reach. She knows the sea isn't to be trusted, even when the waves are as low and beautiful as they are today.
Pearl dips her head. The water pours from her face, leaving its taste on her lips. She pushes through, savouring the softness tugging her. Her chest is better when she swims. Her mother doesn't believe her, says it can't be so and that swimming is a treat, not medicine. There are never enough days when it's thought warm enough for Pearl to swim. In the summer, she wakes every morning still full of dreams of the sea, her legs fired from imaginary strokes, hoping she'll be allowed to swim again. Today is one of these longed for days.
Nicholas is jumping from the harbour wall and showing off. His body steals the sunshine as it cuts through the air, sleek and wet with light. Pearl treads water halfway along the length of the wall, watching. He swims for the ladder as soon as he has landed, climbing back onto the wall to jump again. Jack's almost white mop of hair moves slowly through the water. He prefers to be safe in a boat above the waves rather than caught up in them.
Another splash. The water rises around Pearl, lifting her higher. Nicholas bobs up and flicks back his head, scattering drops that glint like torn fish scales on the palace floor. He grins at her then turns and goes to the ladder again. He stops to talk to Polly and Sarah Dray. Sarah laughs and tosses her hair. Pearl can see she's pouting even from this distance. Nicholas doesn't care about Sarah, he cares only for the sea, and runs and jumps again. He's a good swimmer. His arms arc high and cut through the water as if it's sea mist, but he doesn't love swimming as Pearl does. He's good at it, much better than Jack, but he doesn't need it. She wonders if there's anything Nicholas needs.
In bed that night, Pearl goes to sleep with her nose jammed into the warm crook of her elbow, savouring the smell of the sea. She dreams she's swimming. There's a swish of movement far ahead and she knows it's the pilchard shoal, silver tails beating in time with her heart.
Her mother insists on a bath in the morning, even though it isn't Sunday. It takes Pearl a few moments to remember what's special about today, her thoughts still swept along by the shoal of sleep. Then she knows: launch day.
The precious trace of the sea, locked inside Pearl's skin, is scrubbed away. She's tucked, unwillingly, into her chapel dress; the dark blue one with puffed sleeves and a thick, white pinafore over the top. A brush is dragged through her tangles and Polly braids Pearl's hair so tightly that the front of her head aches.
They walk down to the seafront but as soon as her mother and Polly turn to talk to Nicholas' mother, Pearl slopes off to Nicholas and Jack, who stand at the edge of the seafront. The Temperance band is perched over on the harbour wall, tooting their hymns. The seafront is crowded with people. All of Morlanow has come to watch the launch of the seine boats. The artists are there too. Mr Michaels is near the palace, talking to Miss Charles and some of the men Pearl remembers seeing the night the early shoal came in. Mr Michaels looks nervously about him. When a group of fishermen walk past, Mr Michaels presses himself into the palace wall and studies his hands. The fishermen look at him, mutter to themselves, but Miss Charles blocks their way, meeting their gaze with her chin raised and her hands on her hips. Her hair is as red as some of the brightest seaweed washed up on the beach below the drying field. Pearl's heard her mother say that's what makes Miss Charles bad-tempered at times, taken to flying into rages. Pearl's only ever seen the nice side of her, the kindness she shows her pupils. She gave Pearl a barley drop just last week.
There are other fishermen come to watch, east coast men with their strange accents and differently knitted jerseys. And fishermen from Govenek too. No one from Morlanow speaks to them.
The Master is walking through the crowds, his Beatrice on his arm in a fine red dress which stands out amongst the dark colours the local women wear. Nicholas looks smart as well, wearing good trousers and a shirt. Jack has a jacket on, though it's small for him: the sleeves don't come far enough down his arms. There's dirt on his collar and his hair isn't brushed.
The tide is halfway out and the sea is behaving itself, as if it knows what will take place on its back today. Luggers are pulled up onto the sand, their stark masts making a forest through the sky. Everyone mills round these boats, making them seem bigger than usual, but they're forgotten giants. No one has come to see them. The few local fishermen who aren't seine men stand on the seafront and smoke, watching the children. The band takes a break between songs and some people have ices. There's a sudden cheer from the other side of the road.
The first seine boat is on its way down to the beach. Six men carry the broad, black boat, the seine net spilling its webby legs over the sides. The band quickly hands over their ices to the crowd and the hymns begin again.
Forth in thy name, O Lord, I go,
My daily labour to pursue,
Thee, only thee, resolved to know,
In all I think, or speak, or do.
A cluster of children flock to the boat's side and escort it down to the water's edge, clapping their hands and skipping and jumping and cheering.
From all directions, from alleys and yards, seine boats are appearing. They've been tucked up safe, kept from any hint of water that would make their timbers swell, or mice that might chew through their nets. The boats have been waiting to get back to the sea, and now the village has come to welcome them. Here is her father's boat. He's carrying her with Nicholas and Jack's fathers too. When she reaches the edge of the water the men set her down. Pearl's father turns, straightens his back with a groan, then picks Pearl up and puts her in the boat.
The boat smells of grease and rope and most of all fish but she doesn't mind. Jack tries to climb in by himself but his father gives him a rough push over the side. Then with a
one two three
the men shove the boat out deep enough that she'll float. Nicholas stays on the sand to help them, rather than climbing in to the boat, his feet skidding as he pushes against the weight. Once in the water, Pearl can feel the boat's nervousness. She tilts, unsteady, having to find her way again. Pearl feels like that when she hasn't swum for a time.
The boat rights. She slides her keel into the water and sits comfortably, like a hen on a nest. Nicholas climbs in. Pearl spots her mother and Polly on the front and stands up to wave, making the boat rock again. Jack and Nicholas are fighting over the oars. Her father holds up a hand.
âWhoa, whoa. Not heading out just yet, boys. Give us a chance to see if she's fit.'
The men have waded out with the boat, just a few feet, to check if any water is slipping through her caulked skin, if she has aged too much in her sleep. They run their hands over her, her father talking to her in a soft voice.
âThere now,' he says. âYou're all right, aren't you? Yes.' He pats her. âYou're fit to go.' He turns to the front and makes a yes sign to the Master who nods and goes back to talking to his scarlet Beatrice.
More and more boats have come to the sea, each one with children climbing and falling and splashing into, over and under them. Some are jumping from the boats to swim, paddling alongside and clambering back in again. Her mother has said yes to two days swimming in a row, only because it's a special day. But for the moment Pearl's happy just to watch the other children. The season has begun and the sun is warm on her arms. Jack and Nicholas are pretending to row, spotting imaginary shoals, and her father is smiling down at Pearl, saying yes, yes, you're a good girl.
Thirteen
There was nothing to be learnt in the house at
Wave Crest
. It was too new, too far away from the sea to show her what it was that was happening. The shift she could feel, the sense of Morlanow's past slipping free of the mooring rope that had held it firm for so long, was better seen outside. She needed to be away from the new house's damp and flaking plaster, the smoking stove. Its shrouding gloom.
She waited until Mrs Tiddy had finished hanging her washing in the yard and had gone inside. Easing the front door closed behind her as softly as she could, Pearl made her way towards the cliff path. It was no good though. She heard a door open. Mrs Tiddy had been waiting.
âMorning,' Mrs Tiddy called.
Pearl hesitated, wanting to pretend she hadn't heard but that would only cause trouble. Mrs Tiddy would be filling Jack's ear with nonsense, make him shout at her and stay at home, stop her from getting out and close to the sea. She turned round.
âMorning,' she said.
âAnother fine day, isn't it?' Mrs Tiddy said. âGoing to see Eileen, are you?' Pearl nodded without thinking. âGive her my love. And could you get me something? Just some flour. My Matthew's coming for his supper and I want to have some pasties made. Here.' Mrs Tiddy fished in her housecoat pocket and brought out a coin.