The Complete Ingo Chronicles: Ingo, The Tide Knot, The Deep, The Crossing of Ingo, Stormswept. Helen Dunmore
leg, Roger?” asks Mum.
“You’re not to tell them about the dive,” hisses Conor as we wash up together.
I open my eyes wide. “I said I wouldn’t, didn’t I?”
“You know what I mean. I heard exactly what you said. You only promised that you wouldn’t tell people from school, people round here.”
“That’s all Roger asked.”
“Only because he didn’t know who else you might tell.”
“No, because he doesn’t know anything, does he? He doesn’t know or care about any of them. What’s going to happen to Faro if Roger finds what he’s looking for? It’s probably gold or treasure or something. Other divers will find out too. They’ll be swarming around here. And tourists as well. There’ll be people everywhere, all over the sea just like they’re all over the land. They’ll drive the Mer away.”
Very slowly, Conor wipes a plate dry. “Yes, I know. I’ve thought of that too.”
“If you’ve thought of it, then why are you encouraging Roger? Why did you tell him you wanted to learn to dive?”
“Because I do want to.”
“But you can, anyway! You can dive. You don’t need Roger. You don’t need air on your back and a black suit to go into Ingo.”
“Give Roger a chance, Saph. He’s all right. He’s not the type that would want crowds of people diving for treasure round here.”
I feel as if Conor’s slapped me. I take a deep breath, and hit back. “That didn’t take long, did it?”
“What didn’t take long?”
“You’re on his side already.”
“Give that glass here, you’re going to break it. Listen, Saph. It’s not about taking sides. Look at Mum. Don’t you think she looks better? Do you want her to go back to what she was like just after Dad went?”
Mum and Roger are in the living room. They’re playing cards, and it sounds as if Mum’s winning. As Conor and I stand listening, we hear Mum laugh. A warm, soft, chuckling laugh. She sounds relaxed and happy.
“She’s a lot better,” says Conor. “A lot. You want Mum to be better, don’t you, Saph?”
“You don’t care about Dad any more.”
Slowly, Conor’s face flushes under his brown skin. Slowly, spacing out his words, he says, “Don’t ever say that again.”
“I won’t, I won’t, Conor, I’m sorry—”
But Conor’s gone. He turns his back on me and walks out quietly. He doesn’t slam the door, but the way he shuts it is worse than a slam. I hear his tread on the stairs, going up to my room, and up the ladder into his loft. He pulls up his ladder and shuts the trapdoor, shutting me out.
Conor has turned his back on me. Conor doesn’t want to be with me. He’s angry and I know that Conor’s worst anger is very quiet and it goes on for a long time.
It’s all my fault. Why was I so stupid? I’ll go after him. I’ll tell him I’m sorry. I’ll make him believe I’m really sorry for what I said.
“Conor?” I call from beneath the trapdoor, softly in case Mum hears and asks what’s going on. “Conor? Con, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. It wasn’t true, what I said.”
But there’s no answer from Conor. I feel crushed inside from fear and loneliness. There’s Mum again, laughing, and now she’s saying something, but I can’t hear what it is. Conor’s right. Mum does sound happy. And there’s Roger, laughing too, joining in.
I have the strangest feeling that, already, Roger belongs here more than I do. In a while, when he knows I’m not standing here waiting any more, Conor will come down the ladder. He’ll play cards with Mum, and Roger will talk to them about diving. I can see the three of them together, belonging to one another, and the pain inside me grows stronger.
Why was I so stupid? Why ever did I say that Conor didn’t care about Dad? I wish I could bring the words back. If only I knew how to make time run backwards. If I did, all the mistakes I’ve made could be undone.
Mum and Roger are laughing again. Mum is happy. Is she happier because I’m not there? Maybe Mum doesn’t want me here, reminding her of Dad every time I open my mouth. I look like Dad. Everyone has always said so.
If only Dad was here.
But just as I think that, for the first time a small, bleak voice inside me whispers, “Maybe they’re right, and you’re wrong. Maybe he’s never coming back.”
All the loneliest thoughts I’ve ever had crowd into my head. I feel cold and tired, and I don’t know what to do. If only there was someone to help me. But there’s only emptiness, swirling inside my mind.
Until I feel something. A pull, a tug, faint at first and then stronger, stronger. I know what it is. The tide is falling fast.
It’s already an hour past the turn. I know it without knowing why I know it. I can feel the tide inside me, as if my blood has turned to salt water. There’s the pull of it again, stronger, almost lifting me off my feet. Now. I’ve got to go now.
Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. You’ll miss the tide.
“Where are we now, Faro?” I ask. We’re swimming lazily side by side, our bodies wrapped in the warmth of a slow current that’s taking us northwards. I’m back in Ingo. Safe. It doesn’t seem strange any more, or dangerous. Everything has a familiar feeling about it, as if part of me has always lived here.
“We won’t go too far this time. We might dap off the current westward,” Faro says. “There’s land there, another country of Air People, and then beyond there’s the Great Ocean.”
I can see it in my mind as if I’m reading a map. The ocean off our part of Cornwall is the Atlantic, then north-westward there’s Ireland. West of Ireland the Atlantic spreads out again for thousands of miles, until you reach America.
Dad taught me about the oceans long before I studied geography at school. He drew a map of the oceans for me on the firm white sand of the cove, with a pointed stick. He said we’d sail them all one day. The Pacific, the Atlantic, the Indian Ocean, the Arctic and the Antarctic Ocean. The five oceans of the world, Dad said.
I loved the sound of their names. I believed Dad when he said we would sail them all one day. Dad said Conor and I could come out of school for a year, and we’d all go travelling.
Mum said, “Don’t put that stuff into her head, Mathew. Where’s the money coming from for us to sail the five oceans? We can barely pay the phone bill.” But I knew Mum was wrong. She was always worrying about bills, but they got paid in the end. If we wanted to sail the world, the money would come from somewhere.
“Are you talking about the Atlantic when you say the Great Ocean, Faro?” I ask now. “Is the first land Ireland, and then there’s the Atlantic again, and then America?”
Faro shrugs and his eyes sparkle wickedly.
“The Atlantic? Sorry, Sapphire. Never heard of it.”
“You’re swimming in it right now this minute, Faro!”
Faro spreads his fingers and lets the water spill through them.
“I can’t seem to see the word Atlantic here anywhere,” he murmurs, pretending to search. He flips on to his back and stares upwards. His tail flicks lazily, glistening in the deep green underwater light. “No, nothing’s written on the surface either. Maybe the words washed off?”