Page 36 of A Sky Painted Gold

“Well,” Bernie says, raising his glass. His eyes meet mine, fleetingly. “Here’s to a long and beautiful summer. May God bless her and all who sail in her.”

CHAPTER

ELEVEN

When I arrive home in the early evening I feel as though I am a different person to the girl who left the house only twenty-four hours ago. Everything about the walk back to the farm and even the house itself seems somehow the same but different, and I know that from now on my life will be split into two distinct periods: Before the Cardews and After the Cardews. I drift through the kitchen door in my blue dress, deliciously aware that I am wearing Caitlin’s red bathing suit underneath it and hugging the secret to me like a talisman. I am ready to answer thousands of questions, to relive every single tiny moment in terrific detail, I am ready to tell my tale of glamour and adventure to a spellbound audience. I have mentally compiled a list of a hundred shimmering, magical details with which I will enrapture my listeners. I will, of course, be gracious about the experience, I decide, sharing it with all of them, but not in a boastful way.

Freya is sitting at the kitchen table, wearing a patchwork cloak and dozens of ribbons in her hair, her nose in a book. “Oh, you’re back,” she says, with a yawn. She turns a page.

“I am,” I reply.

There is a long, empty silence. I clear my throat, noisily, but Freya’s eyes don’t leave her book. Her lack of enthusiasm is like a big bucket of cold water. I sigh. Where was Alice when you needed her?

“Oh!” Freya exclaims, turning to me. Finally, my moment has come. “I almost forgot to say, Midge is waiting for you in the other room.” Freya turns the page. “And also, if you see Tom, can you give him a swift kick for me? He spilled ink on the new costume I was making for Cleopatra and he’s been skulking in the shadows ever since.” Her eyes remain glued to the book in front of her, but her tone is icily murderous.

I can’t blame my brother for hiding away. Freya is notoriously protective of her costumes, and I know from experience that the threat of violence is not a hollow one.

Pa appears in the doorway then, wearing the oil-stained overalls that signal car troubles.

“Oh, dear,” I say. “How is Gerald?”

“Gerald is just fine,” Pa replies. “Though he is being a touch temperamental and I promised I would give Mrs Penrith a lift over to see her son in Penzance.” Because Pa is one of the only people in the village to own a car, this kind of thing happens quite a lot, and so Gerald’s temperament is of great importance to many people who rely on Pa’s ability to keep him running. In Penlyn, people ask after Gerald more than any other member of the family.

“Gerald’s always a touch temperamental,” I say, feeling a twinge of frustration at this familiar tale. It just feels so … normal after last night. It seems as if everything should be different, but I’m home and it’s as if nothing happened at all.

“Did you fix him?” Freya asks. “Mrs Penrith will go spare if her precious Bobby has to go without his weekly fruitcake.”

“We had words –” Pa smiles, a soft, crinkly smile “– and I’m pleased to say that Gerald has decided to live to see another day.” He finds a dishrag and begins wiping his hands on it, leaving streaks of oil behind. “Your mother is looking for you, Lou,” he adds.

“I did tell her,” Freya pipes up.

“I just walked through the door!” I exclaim. “I will go through now.”

“And I will go and fetch Mrs Penrith,” Pa replies.

“And I will go and purse the ducats straight,” cries Freya. Then, shaking her head at our blank faces, “The Merchant of Venice, Act One, Scene Three?” Pa and I still say nothing and she shakes her head once more. “Philistines,” she mutters. Freya takes Shakespeare very seriously. She memorized Lady Macbeth’s sleepwalking scene when she was eleven and her performance is, to this day, the most chilling thing I’ve ever seen. Tom had nightmares for a week afterwards.

I exchange a look with Pa and then make my way through to the sitting room, where Midge is sitting in an armchair looking the very picture of domesticity. The baby is asleep in a bassinet beside her and she is knitting something. Or, at least, she is trying her best to do so. For some unknown reason Midge finds knitting a terrible challenge, but she can’t seem to accept the fact that while there are a million other things that she is good at, she cannot knit to save her life. Instead, she insists on knitting us lumpy and misshapen items of clothing on a regular basis. I groan under my breath, eyeing the bobbly lilac creation in her lap and hoping that it isn’t destined for me.

It is then that I notice, with a sinking heart, that Aunt Irene is sitting across from Midge like a malevolent bat, her mouth set in a thin and disapproving line. I curse Freya and Pa in my head for offering up no warning about this. It is, at best, unsportsmanlike. This appearance also probably explains Midge’s desire for me to join her as soon as possible. Aunt Irene’s presence is certainly not the ideal welcome home, although I am determined that it will not dampen my spirits.

“Hello!” I exclaim, breezing in and kissing Midge on one warm cheek. “Aunt Irene! What a nice surprise.”

“Oh, it is, is it?” Aunt Irene says acidly.

I turn to Midge questioningly and she gives me the tiniest roll of her eyes. Obviously her older sister has come over to disapprove of something – it is one of her favourite pastimes.

“You’re back, are you?” Aunt Irene sniffs, and it becomes painfully clear that today the full force of her disapproval is reserved for me. These kinds of rhetorical questions are always part of the warm-up to a good scolding.

“Yes,” I say unnecessarily. “I am.” So far the fact that I am back seems to be the only thing my family are interested in, so I’m relieved when Midge asks if I have had a nice time.

“It was wonderful,” I say, unable to keep the emotion out of my voice, even though I know that Aunt Irene won’t like it. I sit down next to Midge’s chair and rest my head against her knee, as I have done since I was little when I wanted to talk to her about something.

“That’s good, then,” she says placidly, smoothing the hair back from my face. “I was just telling Irene how nice it is that you’re making new friends.”

A hissing noise comes through Aunt Irene’s teeth, one that makes her sound like an angry cat.

“Everything was so beautiful, Midge,” I carry on, choosing to ignore the black cloud of displeasure lurking in the corner. “It’s like something from a fairy tale seeing the house all woken up like that.”