Not As We Know It (8 page)

Granddad spread out a map on the table. Ned and I shifted our glasses of juice.

“Right. Britain,” Granddad said. “Where are we?”

Portland was in front of Ned, at the far south. I had the west. Granddad the east. Ned's finger squashed our island.

“Yep.” Granddad nodded. “You can point to where it is. Now
tell
me where it is.”

Even though Granddad mostly told us stories, it seemed to me that he was a good teacher.

“It's on the south coast,” I said.

“It's near Weymouth,” Ned said.

“It's between Southampton and Exeter.”

“It's in Dorset.”

Granddad nodded. “OK. Let's go west,” he said.

Ned traced the curve of Chesil Beach round to West Bay then west through coastal towns we knew and on to Exeter.

“Exeter,” Granddad said, “is in Devon. That's the next county west.”

Ned's finger followed the coast south through Torquay and Dartmouth and round west again to Plymouth.

“There it is,” Granddad said.

Plymouth had been home to Granddad once upon a time. It was where Dad was born when Granddad was away at sea. It was where Grandma was buried before Ned and I were born.

“What's that river there?” Granddad pointed to the west of Plymouth.

I was closest and squinted at the tiny text. “The Tamar,” I said.

“
T-A-M-A-R.
Pronounced
Tay-mar,
” Granddad said.

We nodded. I mouthed, “Tay-mar.”

“That's it. That's a border between Devon and Cornwall, the farthest county west. Keep going.”

I took over from Ned and ran my finger across the shiny map. The towns had strange names now. Almost foreign. Polperro. Mevagissey. Landewednack. Cornwall kept going, west and west and west till we hit Land's End.

“That is the very farthest west you can go,” Granddad said, “before you have to take to the sea. The place we are looking for is a little farther round. Can you find Zennor, Jamie?”

We continued our journey, heading round the coast and back east. Zennor was not far. A tiny village. A dot on the map.

“Here we are then,” Granddad said. “I've got another mermaid story for you. Happened right there, in Zennor. Do you remember Gin?”

We'd never met him, but we remembered Gin. He was first mate on Granddad's first captaincy after leaving Long Ben in Manila, on a fishing boat out of Plymouth.

“Well, he had a story for me once. Said it was about his great, great, great-grandfather's brother or some such. A man by the name of Mathew Trewella.

“You wouldn't have heard of him, Gin said. But in Zennor and round abouts, his was a famous name. Even more famous in his day. It's said that Mathew had the most beautiful voice imaginable. He sang wherever he went, through the village and about his work as a carpenter, always singing. Every Sunday he sang in the church in Zennor. Everyone stopped to listen when he sang.

“But they say that his voice changed. Over the course of a year, his joyful singing became a sad dirge. Still beautiful. But now, instead of bringing a smile, it brought tears.

“People started saying that Mathew was bedeviled. They whispered that he'd been seen on the cliffs around the village with a mysterious lady in black. They muttered about witchcraft and wondered whether it was right to have the man sing in their church.

“Mathew had a brother—Gin's great, great, great-grandfather, older than Mathew—living in another village. When this older brother heard these whispers, he returned to Zennor and found Mathew on the quayside, singing to the sea. He barely recognized Mathew's pale face, it was so ghostly.

“Mathew laughed at the idea of sorcery, his cheeks forming deep hollows. ‘I'm not bewitched,' he told his brother. ‘I'm sick.'

“Mathew took his brother back to his home where his carpentry tools sat unused and the unwashed smell of sickness filled the air. The older brother aired the house, cleaned and cooked a clear fish soup.

“As the two brothers went to sleep, Mathew on his bed, the older brother below the table, the singer whispered, ‘Don't worry, brother. I think I've found a way to be well again.'

“The next day was a church day. Mathew stood and sang a song that no one in Zennor had heard before. Or perhaps they'd heard it all their lives, 'cause in that song was the wash of the sea, the roar of the wind and the gulls' call. Mathew sang up a storm in that tiny church. And when the last note fell, no one moved, apart from Mathew. He walked down the aisle to a lady who had slipped into the back row as the young man sang, a tiny lady dressed all in black.

“Mathew walked out of the building, following that mysterious woman, who left the church with three long, floating bounds. He was never seen again. All his brother found was the woman's black shawl, discarded on the rocky shore.

“They say in Zennor that you can hear Mathew still. On a calm night, when the sky is clear, his sweet voice rings over the village, filled with pure joy again. They whisper of mermaids living beneath the waves, watching the town. They mutter, when men go away to sea, of the foolish dream of seeking Mathew's maid.”

Ned nodded as the story ended.

I frowned. “The mermaid took him?”

“Well, Gin called the story ‘Mathew's Choice,' ” Granddad said. “I think he went with the mermaid willingly. I think he went to live a…different kind of life.”

Ned nodded again. My brother's face spoke of understanding.

I frowned.

Still I told my heart that Leonard was there to fix my brother. I told my heart that was the story we were in.

My heart told me I lied. My heart felt an ending coming that no one could control.

The sky was clear the night we let Leonard out for fresh air, for a taste of the outside, to prepare to send him home. A cool, clear night. Dad was asleep on the sofa. Mum was in the bath.

We needed to be quiet; Ned was meant to be warm and safe inside, but was coming out for fresh air and a taste of the outside too.

When we peered into the garage, Leonard's eyes were vast. They glowed in the gloom. A soft light.

“Come on, Len,” Ned said from the door. “Come outside. Move out of the way, Jamie.”

I stepped back out of the garage and retreated to the garden fence, bordering the cliff. The cliff that fell down, down to the sea, the channel. The moon shone and its light rippled across the calm sea. In the quiet, in the night, you could hear the waves crashing on the rocks below.

“Come on,” Ned whispered again to the merman.

It was dark. Just the moon's beams and the light that escaped the bathroom window above showed Leonard peering from the back door. He smiled and breathed in deep.

“This is our garden,” Ned said.

With that Leonard sprang. Three leaps and he was beside me, perched on the fence. He no longer wore the makeshift sling.

Ned barked a laugh and a cough.

Leonard clicked and gurgled and gazed down at the sea below.

“Home,” I whispered, nodding.

Ned wheezed up beside us. “Did you see that? Amazing. If I could move like that…You're amazing, Leonard.”

I stared at my brother as he stared at the fish-man, who stared out at the sea.

My brother's words rang in my ears—
“our last adventure.”
I wanted it over. Hope was gone and something like fear was creeping in.

“We've got to let him go home, Ned,” I whispered. “We can't keep him.”

My brother looked up at me. “Not yet, Jamie. It's not time. Not yet.”

“Soon,” I whispered.

“Soon.”

As we stood in the cool night, Leonard began to sing. Quietly at first. The notes collided with the sounds of the waves below, and like the sky and sea on a clear day, it was hard to know where one began and the other ended. We stood and listened a long time. Leonard smiled and sang. Ned smiled and hummed. My brother's tune joined with the merman's and with the lapping sea. If the song had not filled my mind, I would have thought of another song, on a boat, in a beautiful cove: Perla's parting song.

I was on the outside of that sound, looking in, as the song went on and on into the distance and into the future. Leonard sang and Ned opened his mouth and sang. It was not two songs but one song with two singers. There was no part in it for me. For a moment that fear became a thought—
I was losing my brother.

Suddenly a voice broke the night air and the song stopped. “What you got there, boys?”

I whipped round. Ned stepped in front of Leonard. We expected to see Mum in her dressing gown, calling from the back door. The light was still on in the bathroom. But from over the fence next door, one point of orange glowed—Mrs. Clarke's cigarette.

“Is that a cat?” our neighbor croaked.

“Yeah,” my brother called back. “It's…er…a cat, Mrs. Clarke.”

“That ain't no cat.”

“Erm…,” I said, and glanced over my shoulder at Leonard.

“It is. It's one of them…What is it called, Jamie? Hairless cats, Mrs. Clarke.”

“Siamese cat,” I called.

The glowing cigarette waved in the air. Our neighbor's mutters were lost in the gap between us. As my eyes adjusted, I began to see the roses, the reds and pinks, turned black and purple in the night, and the old lady, leaning over our fence.

“Bring it here then,” Mrs. Clarke called.

I glanced up at the bathroom window, where Mum was not to be disturbed.

“Let's see
this cat,
” she shouted.

I searched for an excuse.

Ned spoke first. “It's gone. It ran off when you yelled.”

I glanced back again and could see Ned wasn't lying; Leonard was gone.

The bathroom light switched off as Mrs. Clarke went back to her muttering. The back door swung open.

“Ned, what are you doing out here?” Mum called to us, then she saw our neighbor. “Oh, sorry, Mrs. Clarke,” she said.

“Have you got a cat?” the old lady asked.

“A cat?”

“Ned says you've got a Siamese cat.”

Ned coughed. All eyes were on him. The cough became a fit. Mum hurried over. Her dressing gown held tight as it tried to stream out behind her.

“Not our cat,” Ned spluttered. His foot flicked out and kicked my shin.

“No…erm…it was just here. It's gone.”

“They were singing with it,” Mrs. Clarke called.

Mum stroked Ned's back. She looked at me. Her eyes narrowed. “Get inside, boys. I'll talk to the old…our dear neighbor,” she whispered just for us.

“It didn't look much like a cat,” Mrs. Clarke said.

Mum's lips were thin, her eyebrow drawn. “Inside.”

Ned coughed all the way in. He coughed as we sat at the table and waited. He coughed as I whispered to him that Mum would find Leonard. He shook his head as he coughed.

“What do you think you were doing?” Mum asked, still angry, when she returned from the garden.

She hadn't found him. If she had, she'd be asking about the merman. Ned still coughed. It was left to me to lie.

“It was just a cat.”

“I don't care about the cat. Why, why would you be outside? In the cold. In the dark.” Mum stroked Ned's back. His coughing stopped as he spat into a handkerchief that Mum held out.

Later, in our bedroom, after Mum had stopped shouting and crying and telling me I had to look after my brother, Ned was by the window, staring. I knew why he sat so silent. He was listening for Leonard's song, for their song.

We sat in silence but for the sound of the waves and the gentle grunt of Dad's snoring downstairs. The television went on. The nine o'clock news. Somewhere on the street a door closed.

“I'm going to find him,” Ned said.

“What?”

“I'm going out.” Ned pulled his jumper tight. “Pass me my coat.”

“You heard what Mum said,” I hissed.

Ned left the window and fetched his coat himself. He zipped it to the top. “You coming?”

“I…,” I said. “Hang on. Listen.”

We stopped again, still and silent. And there it was. Mixed with the sound of crashing waves. Leonard's song. Ned sighed. It sounded like our friend had found his way back to the garage.

My face became all frown. “We've got to send him home, Ned,” I said.

“It's not time yet. I'm going to check he's OK.”

“You can't!” I whispered. “If you're going, you're going alone.” I sat on the edge of the bed.

Ned stared at me, then nodded. “OK,” he said. “I'll go alone.”