got the sun right behind me, and even if heâs got the focus anywhere close to sharp and the framing anywhere close to me, that shot will never come out. But I stop a few footsteps down, just enough to be out of the tearing wind. This is the picture I want to take. Not Penkerry in miniature, but this, them, today, right now: Merlin half-buried under sand, Mags and Dan trying to drag him into the sea, Fozzie doubled up laughing. Me and my friends, on Mulvey Island.
I suck in breath, sharply. Thatâs why Red didnât come.
This wouldnât have happened if sheâd been here. If she were here Iâd have been waiting for her to tell me what to do, what to say, how to get it all perfect.
And instead, Iâve lived it.
My phone rings in my pocket. Iâm smiling already as I pick up, ready to tell her I understand; to thank her for showing me I could do it by myself.
âHi, look, I canât really talk,â I whisper.
âYou donât have to talk, just listen,â says a breathy voice, loud. I stare at the caller ID. Itâs not my number ringing me. Itâs Tigerâs.
âAre you still on the island? How soon can you get back?â
âWhat? I mean, why?â
Thereâs a scrumply sound, like someone blowing their nose.
âItâs Mum,â says Tiger. âSheâs in the hospital.â
Â
Â
7. Mum
Â
It takes thirty minutes for the boat to arrive, another twenty-five to make the crossing, fifteen more in the back of a taxi to the hospital, a damp twenty-pound note from Fozzie clutched in my hand. Too long.
Tiger isnât answering her phone.
Dad neither.
I donât try Mumâs.
By the time I find the right room in the maze of plasticky corridors, Iâve imagined every awful thing that could possibly have happened, twice.
âOh, baby, look at your face,â says Mum, sitting up in bed looking pink and healthy and perfectly well. âEverythingâs fine!â
Dadâs on one side of the bed, reading the newspaper. Tigerâs on the other, tying one side of Mumâs hair into tiny plaits. They donât look panicked. To be honest, they look pretty bored.
My shoulders drop, and the bowl of fear in my insides empties out.
âWhatâs going on? I was . . . I thought. . .â
âCome here, darling,â says Dad, folding up the paper and standing, beckoning me over to sit in his chair. âWhat the hell did you say on the phone, Tiger?â
Tiger shrugs. âMumâs in the hospital, come back now. Something like that?â
âNice,â sighs Dad. âReassuring. Not going to give anyone heart failure, that.â
Tiger squints. âSorry. Didnât think.â
âWhat happened?â
Mum grabs my hand and squeezes it twice, fast like a heartbeat. âNothing major. We went for a walk up along the cliffs, and I had a bit of a funny turn. Thought for a minute Peanut was going to try to make an early entrance.â
Dad rolls up his sleeves. âI was all set to be the heroic father delivering his own child, but your mum crossed her legs and held it in, like a wee.â
Can you do that? I think to myself.
Mum slides him a look, and he kisses the top of her head, leaving his hand resting there, stroking.
Probably not .
âWere you frightened?â I ask.
Dadâs hand goes still on the top of her head.
Mum squeezes my hand again: one two, one two.
âOnly for a second. Only when we didnât know what was going on. I had a little bit of bleeding, which has stopped now, and theyâve given me some stuff to make sure it wonât start again. And I need to take it really, really easy. But, baby, weâre both going to be fine, the doctors say itâs all manageable.â She smiles. âTo be honest, Iâm pretty sure half of it was indigestion.â
âExtra large chips and a White Magnum,â whispers Dad.
âEating for
Kent Flannery, Joyce Marcus