White Dolphin (2 page)

‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Where’s Dad?’

‘He took the day off,’ he says. He holds the glass up to the light, inspecting it for smudges. ‘Is everything all right, Kara? He didn’t seem himself today.’

I look around, as if I expect Dad still to be here.

Ted puts the glass down and leans on the bar towards me. ‘You sure you’re OK?’

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I’m fine.’

I back out of the pub. The sun is bright. It glares off the whitewashed houses. I start running away from the harbour and up the hill to the new estate on the other side of town. A stitch stabs into my side, but I keep running past front gardens and driveways, past scraps of green with paddling pools and tricycles and on to the end house, where a caravan sits on bricks upon the grass.

I slow down and push open the front gate. Aunt Bev is hanging overalls and oilskins on a washing line strung between the garage and the caravan. Uncle Tom must be back from sea.

Aunt Bev pulls back the legs of the overalls to look at me and rests her hand on her swollen belly. She holds two wooden clothes-pegs in her teeth. They stick out like warthog tusks.

I try the handle of the caravan door. Flakes of red rust crumble from the door frame, but the door is locked. ‘Where’s Dad?’ I say.

Aunt Bev takes the pegs out of her mouth. ‘You should be at school,’ she says.

I hammer on the caravan door.

‘Your dad went out,’ she says.

I try the door again.

‘I said he went
out
.’ Aunt Bev pegs a pair of trousers to the line. She doesn’t take her eyes off me.

I duck under the line and try to dash past into the kitchen, but she puts her hand across the door.

‘You in trouble, Kara?’ she says.

‘Forgotten something, Auntie Bev,’ I say. ‘That’s all.’

‘Well, be quick, Uncle Tom’s asleep. Don’t wake him.’ She lifts a hand from the doorway, and lets me pass.

I feel her watching me climb the stairs and slip into the room I share with Daisy. Daisy’s sitting on her bed among her dolls, reading Teddy-cat one of her fairy books. She stuffs something behind her back as I come in. I hear it rustle in her hand. A tell-tale marshmallow lies upon her princess-pink duvet.

‘You’re off school,’ I say. ‘You’re meant to be ill.’

Daisy’s mouth is full. She looks at the open door and then at me.

I smile. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t tell.’

A blob of sticky dribble slides down her chin. ‘I feel sick now,’ she says.

‘I’m not surprised,’ I say. I wipe the sugar dust from the bed and sit down beside her. ‘Daisy, have you seen my dad?’

Daisy nods. ‘Uncle Jim’s gone fishing,’ she says. ‘He took his sea rods, them long ones.’ Her hair bounces as she nods. It’s light and frizzy, a sign the good weather’s set to stay. I’ve seen it go tight and curly before the storms blow in.

‘How long ago?’

‘Not long,’ she says. ‘Just after Mum had her coffee.’

‘Thanks, Daisy.’ I reach under my camp bed for my swimming bag, mask and flippers. Daisy’s toys are scattered on my bed. A pink marshmallow is pressed into my pillow. I can’t complain, really. It’s her room after all. And they’ll need my space when the baby comes.

‘Are you going with him?’ Daisy says.

I nod. ‘Please don’t tell.’

Daisy draws her fingers across her heart and presses them against her lips.

I change into T-shirt and shorts, and it’s not until I hear a car door slam and voices on the drive outside that I realize a car has pulled up outside the house. Jake’s dad’s big black pickup is parked across the drive. I back away from the window. I don’t want Jake’s dad to see me here.

I hear him talking to Aunt Bev in the kitchen.

‘Jim’s not up there, Dougie.’ Aunt Bev’s voice is high and tight. ‘I’ll get him to call when he gets back.’

‘It’s his girl I want to see.’

‘Kara?’ Aunt Bev says. I hear her hesitate and stumble on the words. ‘She’s at school.’

Through the crack in the bedroom door, I see Aunt Bev below me in the hallway. She’s blocking the doorway to the kitchen. The back of her neck is bright scarlet and she twists a tea towel round and round her hands.

Dougie Evans leans his hand on the door frame. ‘I know she’s up there, Bev.’

Aunt Bev takes a step back. Her voice is quiet, almost a whisper. ‘What d’you want with her?’

‘Just a word, that’s all.’

‘What’s she done?’

Dougie Evans is in the hallway now, at the foot of the stairs, his sea boots on Aunt Bev’s clean carpet. ‘She broke Jake’s nose, that’s what she’s done.’

I close the door and press myself against it.

Feet sound on the stairs, loud and heavy.

Daisy stares wide-eyed at me, the duvet pulled up around her chin. ‘He’s coming up,’ she whispers.

I push the camp bed up against the door and cross the room to the window. The garage roof below is flat, but it’s still a long way down.

‘Kara!’ It’s Aunt Bev calling now. Her voice is sing-song, almost casual, but I can hear the tremor in it. ‘Dougie Evans wants to see you.’

I throw my bag down to the garden and swing my legs out of the window.

Knuckles rap against the door. It flies open and jams against the camp bed.

‘Go,’ mouths Daisy.

I drop onto the roof, twisting as I land. From there I jump down to soft grass. I turn and see Dougie Evans red-faced and leaning from the window. But he can’t stop me now.

No one can.

I grab my bag and run.

‘
W
ait,’ I yell. ‘Wait.’

I see
Moana
before I see Dad. She looks small compared to other boats in the harbour. With her terracotta sails and open wooden deck, she stands out from the moulded whiteness of the modern yachts. I scramble down steps and run along the pontoon, my feet thudding on the boards.
Moana
is drifting slowly out towards the narrow gap between the high harbour walls. I see Dad sitting at the tiller.

‘Dad,’ I shout. ‘Wait for me.’

Dad pushes the tiller across and
Moana
’s sails flap loose as she turns back into the wind. She drifts towards me, her painted hull throwing rippled patterns of pale blue upon the water. She could have sailed out from one of the old photos of this harbour a hundred years ago.

I steady myself as she bumps against the pontoon, grab the mooring rope and pull her in. ‘Take me with you,’ I say.

Dad shades his eyes against the sun to look at me. ‘Why aren’t you at school?’

‘I can’t stay at school,’ I say. ‘Not today, of all days, Dad.’

Dad just sits there, one hand on the tiller, watching me. I wonder if he remembers today, if it means something to him too.
Moana
’s sails flap and ruffle above our heads. She’s impatient to be off.

‘Let me come, Dad,’ I say. I want to ask him if it’s true about
Moana
, if he’s really going to sell her. But something stops me, because I want to sail her one last time, not knowing if it’s true. It’s safe not knowing. It leaves a small space inside for hope.

Dad rubs the stubble on his chin. ‘All right,’ he sighs. ‘Get in.’

I climb on board, pull my life jacket on and push
Moana
away. The water here behind the long arms of the harbour walls is deep and green and still. Rainbow ripples of oil spread out across its surface. Dad sets the mainsail and I pull in the jib. I watch the triangle of sail above me pull taut, and catch the wind, and we slide under the shadow of the harbour and out to sea.

The sea is alive out in the bay. A steady offshore breeze is blowing, kicking up small waves, flecked with tips of white. Salt spray flies over
Moana
’s bow as she dips and rises out towards the headland. I sit and watch the harbour town and the pale strip of golden sand slip far into the distance. The school and Aunt Bev’s house are soon lost among the sprawl of roads and houses that rise above the harbour. The yachts and trawlers and the long white roof of the fish market seem far away now too, another world away, almost.

And it is just us, again.

Moana
, Dad, and me.

I sit beside Dad, but he doesn’t look at me. His eyes are focused on the distant horizon, looking beyond there somehow, to another place that I can’t see. He could almost be sailing in a different boat, on some different sea. I close my eyes and try to think back to how it used to be.

Beyond the headland, the wind is strong and cold. It blows in from the west, gusting dark ruffles on the water. I wish now that I’d thought to grab a jumper and put on jeans instead. I wrap my arms around my knees and watch goosepimples rise on my arms and legs.

‘You OK, Kara?’

I look up and see Dad watching me now. I nod, but my teeth still chatter.

‘Get your blanket if you’re cold,’ he says.

I slide forwards on the seats and open the small locker under the foredeck. Three blankets are neatly folded where they always are, strapped to the low shelf above the tool kit and the flares. I pull my blanket out and wrap it round me. It’s deep turquoise, like the summer sea, woven through with strips of silver ribbon.

I curl up against
Moana
’s curves and bury my head in the thick folds of blanket, breathing in the salty mustiness of it. The ocean rushes beneath us, a constant stream of white noise. Waves slap against
Moana
’s hull, like a heartbeat. I touch the painted wood to feel it pulse against my hand. Somewhere under the thick layers of paint are the pencil drawings of leaping dolphins that Mum drew for me. I try to trace the outline of them with my fingers now. I can almost smell the sawdust and steamed wood of the boatshed where Mum and Dad rebuilt
Moana
. If I close my eyes, I can still see Dad curving steamed planks of wood to make
Moana
’s hull, Mum laying white caulk between the boards to make her water-tight, and me sitting in the dirt, floating paper boats across wide puddle seas.

Mum, Dad, and me.

Those pencil dolphins are still there beneath the paint, etched into
Moana
’s hull. I try to picture them in my mind. I never thought I would forget, but somehow, now, it seems however hard I try, I just can’t see them any more.

And it must be like this that I fall asleep, cradled in
Moana
’s hull. Because when I wake the wind has dropped and
Moana
is still. Her sails are down and she is rocking gently, anchored in the shelter of the cove where we keep our lobster pots. Threads of hot sweet coffee steam drift my way from Dad’s red tin cup. The sun is warm on my back, and the sea is turquoise blue, rippled with silver light. Somewhere above a seagull cries. But otherwise, all is quiet and still.

Dad is leaning over the side, pulling on rope. It coils in the boat, dripping weed and seawater. He hoists a lobster pot in and places it on the floor. I can see a tangle of legs and antennae of a lobster inside. It’s a big one and will fetch a good price at market. I know we need the money.

Dad opens the trap and runs his hand along the armoured shell of the lobster’s back. He draws it out and its claws slash through the air. Its red antennae flick backwards and forwards. Dad turns it over, and in the soft protected curve of its belly lie hundreds of tiny eggs bunched together, glistening black in the sunlight.

‘She’s berried,’ I say. ‘We can’t sell her. Look at all those eggs.’

Dad looks up. He’s just noticed I’m awake. ‘We’ll take her and release her in the marine reserve,’ he says.

‘Not much point,’ I say. I scowl at him. ‘Jake says his dad is going to pull his dredging chains across every last corner of the reserve when the dredging ban is lifted.’

Dad places the lobster in a large black bucket and covers it with a towel. His face is tight in a frown, running deep creases across his face. He knows there’s nothing we can do to stop Dougie Evans from destroying the reef.

‘Keep out of Jake’s way,’ he says. ‘He’s got a nose for trouble like his dad.’

I stifle a laugh. I picture Jake lying in the dirt, blood pouring down his face. ‘Not any more he hasn’t.’

Dad looks up. I try to hide my smile, but I can tell Dad’s seen already.

‘You in trouble, Kara?’ says Dad.

I lift the towel and peer in at the lobster. She glares at me with her small black eyes. ‘She needs seawater in there,’ I say.

‘What else has Jake been saying?’ says Dad.

I cover the bucket with the towel and sit back so I can look Dad in the eye. I ask the question that has filled my mind all this way. ‘Is
Moana
up for sale?’

But Dad turns away. I watch as he ties a chunk of mackerel flesh bait for the lobster pot, and throws it back into the water. The coil of rope unwinds and disappears into the wavering shafts of light.

‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘You’re selling her. You’re selling
Moana
.’

I want him to tell me that it’s not true, because Dad never lies to me.

But he doesn’t say that.

He turns to look at me. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘It’s true.’

And that’s all he says. But it’s like the breath has been punched right out of me.