The Complete Ingo Chronicles: Ingo, The Tide Knot, The Deep, The Crossing of Ingo, Stormswept. Helen Dunmore
what he really wanted? Or did he decide in a split second to follow the mermaid, without realising that he could swim down that stream with her, but he’d never be able to swim back up it again? How did he feel when he knew there was no going back, ever?
How hard it must be to make such a choice. You’d be pulled from both sides, until you felt you were going to be torn apart. Choose Annie, or choose the Zennor mermaid. Choose home and family, or the love he wanted to follow. Maybe it was Annie who slashed the wooden belly of the carved mermaid. Maybe she hated her that much.
Have I got to choose too? The question beats in my head like the sound the waves make when they rush up on to the sand, and drain away. Swash and backwash, that’s what it’s called. Dad told me. He said, Isn’t it wonderful to think, Saph, that all the time we’re alive those waves are beating on the shore, just as our hearts are beating in our bodies. It never stops. And when our hearts stop beating, the waves will still be coming in and out, the same as ever, until the world ends.
“I think you’ve cut enough of that cake now,” says Granny Carne. I look down in surprise at the slices lapping over the white plate, beautifully neat and even. I didn’t realise I’d cut so many. The honey cake is sticky and golden, studded with pieces of crystallised ginger. Granny Carne makes tea, and we all sit round the table. Conor and I talk to Granny Carne about Sadie, and how Jack’s mum had said we could have her a year ago, and Jack didn’t mind because they already had Poppy and Jasper. But Mum thought it would make too much work, with her having to get a job in St Pirans.
“But it’s you that really wants Sadie, Saph,” Conor says, to my surprise.
“You do too.”
“Not as much as you. I like her, but she’d be your dog, if she came.”
“Would you mind?”
“No. It’d be good. I wouldn’t have to worry about you when you were at home on your own.”
“I wouldn’t ever be on my own, if I had Sadie.”
Granny Carne says nothing much, just fills cups and plates. Later she tells us about a bull terrier with one eye that she had once, years ago, and how she’s never had a dog since he died, because she didn’t want to replace him. I wonder how many centuries ago that was? I think.
“What’s so funny, Saph?”
“Nothing. Granny Carne, can I have a bit more cake?”
Conor has three slices, and I have two. It’s one of the best cakes I’ve ever tasted, moist and light and meltingly sweet. My stomach is warm and full and I feel drowsy. I could sit here for hours, chatting over tea. You could almost believe that Granny Carne is just like any other old lady who lives alone and remembers you when you were a baby, and knows everything about everyone in the village, and keeps a delicious cake ready in a tin, in case someone comes.
A bee knocks against the window, buzzing. Granny Carne goes to the window, opens it a crack and tells the bee to go away, she’ll be up later. The bee flies off at once, up into the blue, as if it understands.
“They like to know what’s going on,” Granny Carne explains. “You always have to tell the bees. If there’s a birth or a death, you tell them before you give the news to anyone else, and then they’re satisfied.”
Yes, you could almost believe that Granny Carne is just like any other old lady who lives alone. But not quite.
“Could I visit the bees?” asks Conor abruptly. I stare at him in surprise.
“You want to talk to my bees?” says Granny Carne.
“Yes. If that’s OK.”
Granny Carne gets up, and stands tall as a queen, considering Conor. She says nothing more, but after a long moment she turns and walks out of the cottage door.
“I think she’s angry,” I say nervously. “I wish you hadn’t asked. They’re her bees.”
“She’s not angry,” says Conor calmly. “She’ll be back in a minute.”
He’s right. Granny Carne comes back in with her beekeeping clothes over her arm.
“I keep them out in the shed,” she says. “Bees don’t like the smell of houses. Now then, Conor.”
She hands him a pair of baggy white trousers and a beekeeper’s smock. Conor pulls them on over his jeans and T-shirt.
“My boots will be too small for you, but you’ll be all right with your trainers. Tuck the trousers in so the bees can’t crawl on to your skin. They don’t want to sting, since it’s death to them, but if they find themselves trapped in your clothes they’ll panic. Now the hat.”
Conor puts on the beekeeper’s hat and veil. Granny Carne adjusts it, and stands back to check he is completely protected.
“You’ll do.”
We walk in single file up a little path on to the highest part of the Downs. Granny Carne first, then Conor, then me. The sun blazes on us. The buttery, coconut scent of gorse fills the air, and sparrows flit out of the bushes as we go by. We tread heavily, to warn any snakes there may be. It’s the kind of day an adder would come out to bask on a stone.
The ground dips, and there in a protected hollow ahead of us is a beehive. Even from this distance I can see a smoky blur of bees going in and out, and hear the low hum of their busyness.
“We won’t go any closer, Sapphire,” says Granny Carne, “and you keep nice and still now, and talk soft.”
She steps forward a pace and stands there, listening. “Yes, you can visit them,” she says to Conor after a while. “There’s no trouble in the hive. They’re happy.”
“What do I do?”
“Walk forward slowly. Don’t worry if some of them settle on you. They’ll want to know what you’re made of.”
“Won’t they think Conor is you, if he’s wearing your clothes?”
“No. You can’t fool the bees. Then when they’re used to you, go right up to the hive and tell them what you want to tell them. Only go gentle. Bees don’t like a flurry.”
“What if it’s a question? Is that all right?”
“There aren’t many who can get an answer from the bees,” says Granny Carne seriously.
“But you can,” Conor says, and she nods.
“Me and the bees have lived together a long time. We’re like family. You go on now, show respect and they won’t harm you.”
Conor steps forward slowly. It seems a long journey to the beehive. A small cloud of bees comes out to meet him, and circles his head. Conor doesn’t seem worried. He just keeps going until he reaches the hive, and then he settles very gently on to his knees, so that his face is level with the hole where the bees are coming in and out.
I watch. Conor stays very still. I can’t see his face, only his back. I can’t hear anything but the buzz of the bees.
“Ask them now,” murmurs Granny Carne, as if to herself. But Conor seems to hear her. I hear the sound of his voice, but not what he’s saying. The steady hum of the bees dips into silence for a few moments. They’re listening! They’re really listening, just as Granny Carne said. And then the sound of the bees swells back again. Conor stays there a little while longer, then very slowly he rises and begins to move backwards, away from the hive.
“Go gentle,” mutters Granny Carne, but she doesn’t need to remind him. The bees don’t seem bothered by Conor at all.
We walk back to the cottage. I’m longing to ask Conor what happened, but Granny Carne’s silence forbids questions. He takes off all the bee-keeper’s gear in the garden, so she can put it directly into her shed.
“You asked your question then,” says Granny Carne