Ingo. Helen Dunmore

how the divers worked. That got him thinking. He made up his mind he was going to be a diver.” The iron hisses as Mum attacks one of Conor’s shirts. “He had ambition,” she goes on. “He knew what he wanted to do with his life. He didn’t mess around.”

      “Dad didn’t mess around!”

      Mum turns to me with the iron in her hand.

      “I never said he did. I was talking about Roger. I wish you wouldn’t be so touchy, Sapphy. Anyway, Roger was telling me about how they’re planning to explore the coast down here, off the Bawns—”

      “You didn’t tell him about our cove, did you, Mum?”

      “For heaven’s sake, Sapphire, it’s not your own private cove. That’s a public footpath that goes down by there.”

      “I know, but nobody ever uses it except us and people who live round here. Usually there’s no one down there except me and Conor.”

      “That’s the whole trouble with this place,” mutters Mum, zizzing her iron down the seams. “Nobody does come. Well, they’re welcome to explore off the cove as far as I’m concerned, and they’re welcome here too. It’s good to see some different faces. I do wish you’d be more friendly, Sapphy. You’re like a – like a sea anemone. If anyone comes close, you shut yourself up tight.”

      “That’s how sea anemones survive,” I point out.

      “But you do it to me too, Sapphy, and I’m your mum. It’s got to be a habit, that’s what it is. We’re spoiled out here, seeing no one all day long unless we choose. If you lived in town you’d have to learn to get along with all sorts of people. Maybe that’d be a good thing. You can’t stay in a little world of your own choosing for ever—”

      “Mum, we’re not moving!” I burst out. Conor and I have a secret fear that Mum plans to move us all into St Pirans, close to her work, so that she can keep an eye on us. She keeps saying how much we’d enjoy the surfing, and how many nice shops there are, and how good the school is.

      “Who said anything about moving?” asks Mum in surprise. Or maybe she’s not really surprised. Maybe she’s preparing the way, so that the idea of moving becomes something familiar…

      But we can’t move. What if Dad comes back and we’re not here?

      “All that’s happening is Roger’s coming for Sunday dinner,” Mum goes on. “I’ve got my day off then. You’ll like him, Sapphy. He’s very nice.”

      “Just him?”

      “Well, just him this time,” says Mum, bending over the board and guiding the iron very carefully.

      “I hope you told Roger about how much you love the sea,” I mutter, quietly enough that Mum won’t hear me. “Maybe you could even go out in his boat?”

      The strawberry tart isn’t as good as I thought when I took the first bite. The strawberries are mushy and the pastry’s soft. In fact, it’s disgusting. That must be why they let Mum take it home. I slip the rest of my slice into the bin and cover it with potato peelings.

      “My God, Sapphy,” says Mum, looking up and seeing my empty plate, “I hope you won’t stuff your food like that on Sunday.”

      “Don’t worry, Mum, I’ll do my best to impress Roger,” I say.

      “Roger,” says a sleepy voice. “Who’s Roger?”

      Conor appears, with his duvet wrapped round him.

      “Conor, please don’t trail your duvet on the floor,” says Mum. “How many times have I told you? This kitchen floor gets covered in mud with the two of you traipsing in and out all day long. Sapphy, what time did you go to bed last night?”

      “Um – about ten o’clock, wasn’t it, Conor?”

      “Yeah, ’bout that.”

      Conor reaches into the fridge, gets out the orange juice and tips the carton to his mouth. He doesn’t ever touch the carton with his lips; Conor has perfected the art of tipping a stream of orange juice straight into his mouth, without choking or spilling a drop.

      “Get a glass, Conor,” says Mum, as she always does.

      “Saves washing-up,” says Conor, as he always does. “So who is Roger?” he asks again, fitting the carton back into the fridge door.

      “A friend,” says Mum.

      “He’s a diver,” I say quickly. “He’s one of a party of divers who are going to explore wrecks. They’re going to dive from our cove, Conor. They think there’s a wreck out there, by the Bawns. They’re coming on Sunday, aren’t they, Mum?”

      Conor stands still. I can see thoughts flickering in his eyes but I don’t know what they are.

      “Oh, OK,” he says at last, as if there’s nothing more to talk about. As if he doesn’t care if twenty Rogers come to our cove and have Sunday dinner in our cottage. I stare at him in disbelief, but he just looks back at me without expression.

      “Conor, will you please get that duvet off the floor?” says Mum. “I haven’t had time to mop it this week – and I’m on the early shift today. What time is it, Sapphy?”

      “Um…” I look at my wrist and it still says five past seven. But there’s the radio clock winking. Eight fifty-two.

      “Nearly five to nine, Mum.”

      “Oh no, I’ve got to get going. Conor, we need eggs and potatoes today. A dozen eggs, and mind you check they’re not cracked. If Badge can help you bring a sack of potatoes down, thank him and say I’ll pay for them tonight. While you’re up there, ask if they can set aside two pints extra milk for us on Saturday. Sapphy, put your duvet cover and Conor’s in the machine, put them on programme four and don’t forget to hang them out on the line. And then if Conor sweeps this floor, you can wash it down. The mop’s outside the back door. If the man calls about the MOT, Conor, tell him I’ll bring the car in at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, before I go to work.

      “Now then, there’s plenty of bread for sandwiches. Use up the rest of that chicken, and you can take crisps and a KitKat each. I’ll be back at six tonight. Mind you clean your teeth properly, Sapphy. You’re seeing the dentist soon.”

      “Yes, Ma’am,” says Conor, saluting.

      Reluctantly, Mum smiles. “I know, I know. But someone’s got to think of everything.”

      “OK, Mum.”

      “OK, Mum,” I echo.

      Suddenly Mum stops in her rush from ironing board to fridge to door. She stands and looks at us, really looks at us.

      “Come here, both of you,” she says. Conor shuffles forward in his duvet. I hang back.

      “Come on, Sapphy. Give me a proper hug.”

      She reaches out for me. I feel bony and awkward, as if I don’t fit into her arms any more. But Mum strokes the back of her hand down my cheek and says, “Your Mum loves you,” just as she did when I was little, and suddenly I feel myself relaxing, melting…

      “You’re good children,” says Mum, so quietly I’m not sure I’ve heard her right. “Stay together, mind. Look after each other.”

      “We will,” I say, and I mean it. I am not letting Conor out of my sight today. “Will you be all right driving, Mum? The mist’s so thick.”

      “It’ll be clearer up on the road,” says Mum. “There’s my good girl. Now, I’ve got to go, or I’ll be late.”

      I go out with her, to open the gate and shut it again after she’s gone through. The mist is not quite so bad once you’re out in it. I can see as far as the wall, and the thorn bush looming in the field beyond.

      Mum