The Complete Ingo Chronicles: Ingo, The Tide Knot, The Deep, The Crossing of Ingo, Stormswept. Helen Dunmore
chicken,” Roger observes.
“It was better looking when it was running around, in my opinion,” I answer. I’m on safe ground here, because I know this is one of the Nances’ chickens, so I have definitely seen it running around many times. In fact I’ve probably even thrown grain for it, which makes the sight of it on the plate a little difficult.
“Is it better for a chicken to run around and have a good life and then die and be eaten, or for a chicken to be shut up in a box and never run around, and then die of natural causes?” asks Conor. Mum pours gravy on to Roger’s plate in a long stream. Her lips are pressed tightly together with annoyance. Her face is flushed from the heat of the oven on a hot day, and suddenly I wish I hadn’t said anything about the chicken running around.
“Lord, bless this food and all of us who gather here to eat it,” says Roger. We all stare at him. His face is calm and bland. He nods at me, picks up his knife and fork, and starts to eat.
“No disrespect to your workplace, Jennie, but this roast beats anything I’ve eaten in a restaurant,” he says, after swallowing the first few mouthfuls. I listen to his voice instead of the words and I hear something unexpected there. Mum never told us Roger was Australian. But his accent is not that strong. Maybe he went to Australia for a while, that was all. Diving on the Great Barrier Reef.
“I got gravy on my chin?” Roger asks, smiling. I must have been staring at him.
“No,” I blurt out. “I was wondering if you were Australian.”
Roger looks pleased. “Yeah, that’s right. I was born out there, in a little place in the Blue Mountains near Sydney. My parents emigrated there after they were married. But things didn’t work out for the family, so my mum came back here when I was ten years old. You can still hear the accent if you know what to listen for, I reckon.”
“I never knew that,” says Mum.
“Your daughter has a quick ear,” says Roger, and I can’t help feeling a bit flattered. I look down quickly to hide my smile. I don’t want Mum thinking I’m starting to like Roger.
“Eat your broccoli, Sapphire,” says Mum automatically, although I’ve already eaten it.
“She’s looking better, isn’t she?” Mum goes on. It’s not really a question to anyone, and no one answers.
“You’re feeling better, aren’t you, Sapphy?”
“Um, yes—” I begin, when I realise that I’m not feeling better at all. In fact I’m feeling very strange indeed, as if the Sunday table is rushing away from me. Conor’s looking at me worriedly. The room feels as if all the air has been sucked out of it, even though the kitchen door is open. The smell of food chokes my nostrils. Why are we all sitting inside when the sun is bright on the grass outside and the tide’s moving, tugging…
“The tide’s on the turn,” I say, before I know I’m going to say it. Roger glances at his watch.
“You’re dead right there,” he says, surprised. “Right to the minute. You keep your eye on the tides, then?”
“So do you.”
“I have to, I’m a diver. It’s second nature.”
“It’s first nature for Saph,” says Conor. I can’t believe he’s said that. Is he trying to give away our secrets?
“Is it?” asks Roger. He gives me a long, considering look. It occurs to me that divers probably have to be quite observant. “I’ve known people who get so that they can feel the tides, without ever needing to look at a watch or a tide-table. Lifetime of experience, I guess. But you’re a tad young for that.”
“The children have lived within the sound of the sea all their lives,” says Mum. “Children more or less grow up in the sea around here. Or at least, mine have done.”
“Can’t think of a better way to grow up,” says Roger. “Tell me, Sapphire. Does the sea sound different, when the tide turns?” He sounds as if he really wants to know, but I don’t answer. I’m struggling to listen. The noise of the sea is loud, filling my ears. Conor diverts Roger’s attention.
“I’d like to learn to dive,” he says, looking directly at Roger.
“No, you wouldn’t, Conor!” I burst out.
“You don’t know everything I want, Saph.”
“You’d need proper training,” says Roger. “How old are you now?”
“Thirteen.”
“If you’re serious, I’ll see what I can fix up. A week’s beginner course is what I’d suggest for a start.”
“I am serious,” says Conor. “I’d like to learn.”
“But it’s dangerous,” says Mum. “Isn’t it, Roger?”
“No more than anything else, if you’re careful. If you follow the rules, use your common sense and don’t take risks, you’ll be OK.”
Follow the rules. Use your common sense. Don’t take risks. Without my realising it, the roar of the sea has faded.
“But how can you discover anything, if you don’t take risks?” I ask.
Roger considers again. “Maybe there’s some truth in that. But you don’t start off by taking risks. You start off by doing all you can to minimise them. You have to know what you’re doing, go step by step, respect the force of the sea. Remember, you’re in a different world down there. An alien world. You’ll see what I mean when you make your first dive, Conor.”
“It must be beautiful,” I say innocently.
“Oh, it’s beautiful all right,” says Roger. “It’s a world of its own, what you see down there. It has its own light, not like ours. When a dustbin-lid jellyfish goes by, or even a shark – well, you see some amazing sights, I can tell you that. You have basking shark in these waters, did you know that?”
“Yes.”
“And there are weeds that grow as big as trees. It’s a another world. You have to respect the sea. We don’t belong down there. If you forget that, you’re in big trouble.”
But what you’re really doing is spying on Ingo, I say inside my head. The Mer don’t want you there. What’s so respectful about forcing your way in where you’re not wanted?
But I’m not going to say any of this aloud. Instead I nod and say, “Mm, maybe.”
“Roger’s going to take a boat out from the cove. He’s going to dive round here,” says Mum. Even though Mum hates the sea, she doesn’t seem to worry about Roger going out on it.
But she was afraid when Dad went out. Always afraid, even though she tried to hide it from us. When he was home in the cottage, with the doors shut and the fire burning, when there was a storm and nobody could think of taking a boat out, then Mum was happy and relaxed.
“It’s just an exploratory dive,” says Roger quickly. But I’m not sure that I believe him. I can sense danger. He thinks there is something worth diving for: a wreck, treasure, something to be dragged up out of Ingo into the Air. Something to be taken away from the Mer. Something valuable that Roger is going to discover, and no one else.
“What are you looking for?” Conor asks.
“I won’t know what’s there until I’ve searched around a little,” says Roger evasively. He glances round the table. “So I’d appreciate it if you kept all this quiet for the time being. I don’t want other divers muscling in on the site.”
“You mean, not tell our school friends and our friends who live around here?” I ask.
“That’s right. Not for the time being, anyway.”
“I won’t tell them, then, I