Breathing Underwater by Julia Green Read Free Book Online Page B

Time held me green and dying
    Though I sang in my chains like the sea. ” ’
    He stops when he sees me. ‘Here she is. Young Fern.’
    â€˜Freya, not Fern. Who’s Fern?’
    â€˜She’s in the poem. Or the place is Fern. I get muddled up.’
    Evie calls Gramps muddle-head sometimes, and he doesn’t seem to mind. It’s true, for one thing, and it doesn’t matter because bees and gardens and crab pots don’t mind a bit of a muddle. In any case, Evie’s bright and quick enough for two, Gramps says. People who are a bit muddly sometimes are restful to be with, I think. You don’t have to be on your guard or worry about what you say.
    â€˜Coming for a picnic?’ I ask him.
    â€˜Delighted, Madame.’ Gramps gives a mock bow. The bees start buzzing round his head and he puts his hat back on quick. He takes my arm as if he’s escorting me somewhere exciting, not just back down the garden to the kitchen door. He used to mess around and play like that much more than he does these days.
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    The tide’s low. It’s perfect for swimming from the long stretch of sand we call the Bar, between St Ailla and the next tiny island called Gara. Gramps drinks coffee and reads the newspaper while Evie and I get undressed. I squeeze into my wetsuit.
    â€˜I’ve grown! Can you help do me up?’
    Evie has to tug the zip up my back and it still doesn’t fasten at the top.
    â€˜You need a new one!’
    We don’t mention the wetsuit still hanging in the shed, gathering dust. The wetsuit that might have helped save Joe, had he been wearing it. What would it feel like, to put it on? Like slipping into my brother’s skin? Stepping into his shoes . . .
    â€˜Hurry up!’ Evie calls from the water. She’s already in, floating on her back, toes up, arms sculling. I’m not half as brave as her. The first time, I have to inch in, little by little, getting used to the cold. After that it’s fine.
    We swim overarm, side by side, a long way out, then turn to look back at the beach. Gramps has the binoculars trained on us. We wave. I think of those words from another poem: ‘ not waving but drowning. ’ Everything is conspiring to remind me of Joe. As if there’s any chance of me ever forgetting! Only Joe didn’t wave. Didn’t look back once.
    Evie and I float for a while, and then we practise diving for pebbles. For the first time, I’m so much better than her! I’ve been practising holding my breath in the bath for years.
    She comes up spluttering. ‘OK. You win! You’re almost a mermaid, Freya!’
    We swim slowly back to the sand bar, breaststroke. Evie’s out of breath, but I’m still full of energy. I love that feeling. I could swim for miles.
    Gramps is waiting, holding out two towels. He folds me in the big blue one and holds on to me just that bit longer than usual, to let me understand how he feels, watching us go that far out. Evie’s like me: she loves swimming. She loves to be in the water. Not Gramps, though. He likes to be on the water. In a boat, with a sail and a rudder and a painter and a map and compass. Horses for courses , he says. He finds it hard, the way we swim right out, because he knows about tides and currents and what happens when you get cold or cramp. Over the years, he’s got used to Evie doing it.
    He picks seaweed out of my hair while we sip coffee from the flask and eat the crab sandwiches. We walk the whole length of the sand bar to Gara, our feet sliding in the dry sand near the dunes at the top. We trek up the hill through bracken tall enough to hide in, as far as the heathery top near the standing stone. Gramps walks more slowly; I run ahead and lean against the rough stone to wait. Evie’s holding Gramps’ hand. She looks much younger than him. Funny how I’ve not noticed that before.
    Evie flops down on the heather. She pulls Gramps down too.