Making the Grade. Cate Shearwater

cottage. ‘You can’t be late for your first day at the Academy!’

      Ellie took one last look around. She’d grown up on the creek, spent every day of her life messing around on the water, rowing, crabbing, collecting shells with Lucy, helping Dad in the boatyard or Mum in her painting studio. She tried to drink it all in, as if she could carry it with her – just like Fran had said. Then she turned and made her way back up to the cottage.

      ‘Darling, I’m so sorry we can’t come up to London with you,’ Mum was saying as she darted around the kitchen searching for her mobile phone and her car keys. ‘This exhibition is so important. If I could sell a few more paintings it would make all the difference. You know.’

      ‘I know, Mum,’ said Ellie. ‘Sending me to the Academy is expensive.’

      ‘Oh it’s not that. You’ve done so well to get this scholarship,’ said Mum. ‘There’s just a lot of other things to get – what with uniform for your new school – and all the things you’ll need because of transferring in the middle of the year . . .’

      Ellie’s stomach did a flip and she stopped listening for a moment. She’d almost forgotten she was starting at a new school. She’d been so focused on the new gym she hadn’t given it much thought.

      ‘Of course we’ll muddle through like we always do,’ Mum was saying. ‘It’s just . . .’

      ‘I understand,’ said Ellie. It wasn’t that they were poor exactly. Dad had always made enough to get by with his boat building and Mum’s paintings sold well to tourists in the summer months, but gymnastics was an expensive sport and, though they never said so, Ellie knew they’d already given up a lot to help her follow her dream.

      ‘And the train fares, you know,’ Mum went on, still searching for her mobile phone. ‘It’s astonishing how much it costs for a return ticket these days.’

      Next to her two petite daughters, Mum seemed like a giant – and a very strange giant at that! She was nearly six feet tall with a cloud of frizzy red hair and an extremely odd dress sense. Today, she was wearing an orange tie-dye kaftan with green patent boots and what looked like a feather boa wrapped round her waist. She had a paintbrush stuck in her hair, which was spattered with tiny blobs of coloured paint.

      ‘Looking for this?’ asked Lucy, pulling Mum’s ancient phone from out of the fruit bowl.

      ‘Of course. I knew I’d put it somewhere safe!’

      Ellie grinned at Lucy. They were used to finding their school books in the dishwasher, or Mum blowing up the microwave because she’d accidentally tried to nuke her car keys.

      ‘Now. Where’s your dad?’ Mum said, squinting as if she might find him hiding in the fruit bowl too.

      ‘I bet he’s down at the boatyard,’ said Ellie. ‘He’s probably totally forgotten I’m leaving today.’

      ‘Would I ever do a thing like that?’ said Dad, appearing at the back door, wearing a faded fisherman’s jumper and a chauffeur’s cap covered in sawdust. It was easy to see where Ellie got her looks from – Dad was small and wiry with sandy hair and eyes the colour of the sea. ‘Your carriage awaits, Gymnastic Princess,’ he said with a flourish of his cap.

      ‘What on earth are you wearing, Dad?’ giggled Lucy.

      ‘The Landrover’s on the blink again,’ Dad said, then bowed low and declared, ‘So Diablo begs the privilege of escorting Britain’s next great gymnastic champion to the station!’

      ‘What?’ shrieked Lucy. ‘We’re going by boat?’

      ‘What could be more appropriate,’ said Dad. ‘Tide’s perfect and it’s not too choppy. It’s far quicker than the coast road anyway.’

      Lucy jumped up and down excitedly and Ellie couldn’t help smiling. One last trip out on the water before she left the creek. What better way to say goodbye?

       CHAPTER

       Three

      They arrived at the station with just minutes to spare. There was only time for some hasty hugs on the platform and Lucy pushed a package into Ellie’s hands. ‘Just a little good-luck present from me,’ she said shyly. ‘Open it on the train.’

      ‘Thanks, Lucy!’ said Ellie, touched by her sister’s kindness and realising how desperately she was going to miss her.

      Just then the guard blew his whistle and Ellie jumped on board as he yelled at Lucy to stand clear.

      ‘We’ll email you – and Face-thingie – and Twittle – and all that stuff!’ shouted Mum as the train started to draw away from the platform.

      Ellie leaned out of the window to wave. ‘But you don’t know how to do any of those things!’ she laughed.

      ‘Don’t worry, I’ll show them!’ said Lucy.

      ‘Good! Oh – and don’t let Dad blow up the boat-shed,’ shouted Ellie. ‘Or let Mum paint the cat blue – or try to feed you watercolour soup . . .’

      ‘That was an accident!’ cried Mum.

      ‘I’ll be home at half term!’ called Ellie. But the train was gaining speed and her final words were blown away. She could just see Lucy, waving like her life depended on it, getting smaller and smaller on the platform.

      ‘Goodbye, Cornwall. London, here I come!’ Ellie whispered as the train started on its journey from the seaside home she loved towards a future she’d been dreaming for as long as she could remember.

      She stood by the window for ages, watching as the train made its way along a section of track that seemed to skirt right along the edge of the clifftop. Even though it was January, the sun was bright and the sky clear, and Ellie could see the ocean stretched out like the blue practice floor at the gym.

      Finally, she turned away from the window, but somehow she couldn’t face going into the carriage to sit with the crowds of people, so she plonked herself down on her suitcase by the bike racks and unwrapped Lucy’s gift. She gasped as she lifted the tissue paper to reveal a beautiful new leotard – all silvers and greens and blues – the colours of the ocean, Ellie thought. It was so beautiful, and it was so sweet of Lucy – who must have been saving her pocket money for ages – that she felt suddenly like crying.

      Determined not to let the tears come, she folded the leotard carefully into her rucksack then tugged out her favourite gymnastics book and opened it on a well-thumbed page. This book always made her smile. There was a picture of a young gymnast doing a backwards walkover on the beam. She made it look so easy and yet Ellie remembered her own struggles to achieve that move.

      There was another picture on the opposite page of the same gymnast performing a floor routine. The photographer had caught her mid split-leap and she looked almost as if she was flying. Her face was focused, but also serene – as if she was feeling the moves as well as executing them. Wasn’t that what Fran had said Ellie should try to do?

      The young gymnast’s face was as familiar to Ellie as her own – which was hardly surprising since it was almost like looking in a mirror. The girl must have been about sixteen when that picture was taken – just three years older than Ellie – and she shared Ellie’s pale brown hair and her large expressive blue eyes.

      There were other pictures on the page too. Of the same gymnast holding aloft a trophy at the British Championships, aged