She smiled at him. It was a smile of such radiant expectation that he thought she knew what would happen to her next. Time stopped. His heart stood still. Then Lizzie shattered into light. Davy stared, breathless with wonder. She was now millions of tiny points of the whitest light he had ever seen. She was too bright to look at. He had to glance away. When he looked back, Lizzie was gone.
But the dolphins were on the move. With sudden urgency, they swam off. The pod sliced through the water, leaping, their silver bodies gleaming in the waning light, as they headed for the boat that waited there.
Davy held George on his lap and watched them go. He felt his heart aching in his chest.
The sun was dying with a last riot flare, blinding Davy with its dazzle. The sailboat was a shadow against its blaze.
But, shading his eyes, he thought he saw her. He thought he saw the dolphins reach the boat – that someone on deck leaned out to help her climb aboard – that the two of them then turned in his direction – and Davy thought, he believed, that he saw them wave.
He raised his hands high in farewell, just in case.
They stayed until the sun slipped into the sea, he and George. Then, in the twilight, Davy rowed back to shore.
The sun was out when Davy woke the morning after Christmas Day. He and George had stayed up late, missing Lizzie, not knowing what to do. They’d sat for a long time, just looking at the stars. And he thought how she’d said that if she found herself among the stardust, she would blink down at him so he’d know where she was. But every star in the sky had been blinking. When at last they hit the floor in Lizzie’s old room, exhausted though Davy was, he couldn’t sleep. Counting off the hours by the distant chimes of some church clock, he’d finally slept just as dawn was breaking.
He felt the sharp edge of something digging into his back. It was a small metal trunk. He sat up, yawning, and unclasped it. It was full of books, Lizzie’s books from her childhood. She’d written her name on the flyleaves in a large looping hand. On top lay The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. It was from the local library and long overdue. She’d borrowed it seventy years ago.
‘That’ll be some fine,’ he said to George.
Davy took the book outside and sat in the sunshine. It really ought to be returned. He had no immediate plans. He could stay until the library opened after the holidays. If the librarian was anything like Mr Timm, they’d love to hear the story of why Tom Sawyer was overdue. In the meantime, he might as well read it. Nibbling an apple for his breakfast, Davy began.
He was deeply engrossed when George began to bark down at the water’s edge. Only now did Davy notice the green rowing boat wasn’t on the beach. It had been taken out and was heading in to shore. The rower shipped the oars and jumped into the shallows to pull it in. Davy ran to meet him and help him with the boat. It contained several pots of clacking lobsters.
Unsmiling, the man nodded his thanks. He glanced up at the house with its open shutters. Broad and tall, with a reddish beard and a head of thick straight hair, his grey eyes pierced Davy. ‘And who might you be?’ he said.
‘We’re friends of Miss Flint’s,’ said Davy.
‘Lizzie Flint? Here?’ said the man. ‘She’s still alive?’
Davy hesitated. Then, ‘No,’ he said. ‘She’s . . . gone west. It’s just us.’
The man’s stern face softened, just a little. ‘What brings you here?’
‘She told me so many stories,’ said Davy. ‘I wanted to see the house for myself.’
‘It’s a sad old place,’ said the man. ‘Not much to see. That business with the boy was tragic. It happened before I was born, but my folks would talk about it. These things stay in the memory of small places. We’re the nearest neighbours. I’m Matthew Blye.’
‘I’m Davy. This is George.’
They shook hands. As Mr Blye scratched George’s ears, he looked at Davy with narrowed eyes. ‘Just the two of you, you said?’
Davy nodded.
‘It’s just . . . when I was coming in just now, I thought I saw . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Ah, never mind. It’s this old house,’ he said. The sea was like that too, he told Davy. It sometimes made you see things that weren’t there. ‘Are you camping here for a bit?’
‘Maybe,’ Davy said. ‘If that’s all right.’
‘Please yourself. But if it’s quiet you’re wanting, you’re out of luck,’ said Mr Blye. ‘I fish from here most days and my lot are always tearing up and down. We’re cooking lobster on the beach today, our Christmas tradition. You’re welcome to join us. Nothing fancy, but – ah, here they come.’
Then, in a hurricane of shouting and laughter, Mr Blye’s family were upon them. Davy held George as the four children – three girls and a boy – came rushing around the house towards them. Each one bore some precious cargo for the feast. They talked loudly, at top speed, overlapping one another, eager to tell their father what they had. The box of best plates and cutlery wrapped in the special Christmas cloth. The basket full of warm loaves just out of the oven. The big iron cooking pot for the lobsters.
Mr Blye raised his voice above the babble. ‘You’ll frighten our guests off. This is Davy and George.’
They all said hello, wished Davy Merry Christmas and the smallest one, a toddling girl of three or so, dropped her tiny load and ran at Mr Blye. He swung her up into his arms, saying, ‘This little gingersnap is Dot. Dot, say hello to Davy.’
‘No,’ she said.
‘She says no to everything,’ said Mr Blye. As he swung her down again, Tom came over and Mr Blye said to him, ‘Good to have another fellow on our side, eh?’
‘Me and Dad are outnumbered,’ said Tom. He smiled at Davy. Davy smiled at him. Tom looked to be around his age.
Then Mrs Blye was there, too, and her mother who lived with them. And all the Blyes were so welcoming and easy and including that Davy couldn’t have hung back even if he’d wanted to. Before he knew it, he was combing the beach helping to collect driftwood for the fire and building it with Tom to Pip’s instructions. She was ten and clearly worshipped her brother. Her full name was Philippa, but no one was allowed to call her that, not ever. She warned Davy that anyone who did could expect a fight.
‘Don’t think she doesn’t mean it,’ said Tom. ‘She gave me a famous black eye once.’
She asked Davy where he lived. He paused and then he answered, ‘I guess I’m between places,’ he said.
Just as the pot was coming to the boil ready for the lobsters, George went barking to the front of the house. Davy and the Blye children ran after him to see why. They watched a dusty saloon car bump up the track to the house. It parked and the driver, a man in a rumpled suit, got out and stretched. To Davy’s astonishment, it was Mr Bunting, the lawyer, last seen snoring on the bar at the New Inn.
‘Ah, here you are,’ he said to Davy. ‘Merry Christmas, all. I’m Bunting.’ His hair was still wild around his head, his face was still kind and open. He smiled at Davy with his clear blue eyes. ‘You’re a hard man to find. I’ve had the police on your trail.’
‘The police!’ Tom looked at Davy with the utmost respect.
‘That was you?’ Davy said.
Mr Bunting unloaded two paper grocery bags from the back seat. ‘I brought provisions. I figured the cupboards would be bare.’
‘We have loads,’ cried Pip. ‘Come and see.’
Davy made an awkward hash of introducing him to the Blyes.
‘We’re old friends.’ Mr Bunting winked at Davy.
Mrs Blye said he’d arrived just in time. Then the lobsters were set to boiling and that Christmas feast on the beach – lobster with melted butter that went running down their chins – was more delicious than anything Davy could have imagined. Despite that, he couldn’t really enjoy it. Mr Bunting had gone to great lengths to track him down. He was a lawyer. It must mean that Davy was in trouble.
When they’d finished eating Mr Bunting said quietly, only for Davy’s ears, ‘Why do you suppose I had the police looking for you
?’
Davy’s bread stuck in his throat. He swallowed. ‘The turkey truck. The bicycle. The police car,’ he said.
‘As your lawyer, I advise you to stop there,’ said Mr Bunting. ‘What I don’t hear, I can’t know. Let’s take a walk.’ He raised his voice. ‘That was splendid, Mrs Blye, thank you. Would you excuse us?’
They walked along the beach with George. ‘You’re my lawyer now?’ Davy said. ‘Will they arrest me?’
Mr Bunting just said, ‘It’s years since I was at the beach.’ He stopped to fill his lungs with the heady, salty air. He sat on the ground, removed his shoes and socks and rolled his trouser legs to the knee. ‘Think I’ll go for a paddle.’ He took a white envelope from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to Davy. ‘Merry Christmas, kid,’ he said, and wandered off, whistling.
Davy’s name was printed on the envelope in shaky letters. Inside, he found two sheets of writing paper folded together. The first was a note. Just a few lines. It had clearly taken great effort for her to write it. It was dated from that first night at the New Inn, the night she died.
Dear Davy,
I’ve been solitary for a very long time. The past few hours, I’ve lived more and felt more than I have for many years. That’s thanks to you.
Be unafraid, Davy David. For the time we are given is rare and brief.
Fly on your own wings.
Your friend,
Elizabeth Flint
He unfolded the second paper. It was in someone else’s writing. Again, it was dated that first night at the New Inn.
I, Elizabeth Flint, being of sound mind –
Davy sat abruptly on the ground. He had to take a breath before he could read on. She’d left him the house. She’d left him money. Everything to him. All she owned. There were some furthermores, but that was it. Mr Bunting would oversee the arrangements. The will was in his handwriting. It had been witnessed by the New Inn’s barman and the kitchen porter. She must have called for them after Davy left her that night.
He swiped at the hot tears spilling down his cheeks. George climbed on to his lap and licked his face.
Mr Bunting’s arms were wide open, a shoe in each hand. The waves broke around his bare feet. As if he felt Davy’s eyes on him, he turned around, smiling, and waggled his shoes in delight. ‘Merry Christmas!’ he shouted. Then he threw his shoes into the sea.
‘Merry Christmas!’ cried Davy. ‘Come on, George!’
They raced back to the house, to his house. Davy found a hammer and some tacks in a kitchen drawer. He chose the sturdiest wall of the sitting room and hung Lizzie’s painting of the house in pride of place. Below it, he tacked the torn-out painting from his pocket. The steady-eyed warrior and his hound gazed at Davy. ‘We did it,’ he told them. ‘Thanks to you. Say thank you, George.’ George barked three times.
From the rubble, Davy hauled out a little table that he’d seen. He set it upright and put the photograph on top. Of Will in his shorts and Lizzie in her cotton dress, at the front door of the house with their dog, Angus, on a summer’s day.
When he turned around, Tom and Pip were watching with interest. ‘Mr Bunting told us.’ said Pip. ‘This is your place now. You’re going to live here.’
Davy looked around. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s my place.’
‘Dad figures we can get the roof back on by the New Year,’ said Tom. ‘After the lobster, we always have a game of football on the beach here. Will you play?’
‘I have to do something first.’
‘We’ll wait for you.’
Davy took the large sketchpad from Lizzie’s room, given to her on that long ago Christmas. He took the unopened box of charcoal pencils. They’d been waiting and waiting in the silence of the house and at last, at last they would be used. He took them down to the shore and began to draw. He made the sea and the sunset and the gleaming bodies of leaping dolphins. A girl with long hair swam with them into the setting sun. It was rough, but he knew he would improve.
Mr Bunting strolled up with rolled sleeves and sandy feet. ‘She said you were an artist.’
‘Yes,’ said Davy. ‘Oh!’ He’d suddenly remembered. He dug in his pocket for Mr Bunting’s coin. ‘You were right. Some places only take the old money. Thanks for the loan.’
Mr Bunting smiled a quizzical little smile. ‘So, she got off all right? Any problems?’ He raised an eyebrow.
Davy stared at him with dawning wonder. As he understood, he began to smile. ‘Nothing I couldn’t manage,’ he said. ‘Here’s your coin.’
‘Keep it handy,’ said Mr Bunting. ‘You just never know.’
He made himself comfortable on the sand, lying back with his arms behind his head. He closed his eyes and Davy carried on with his drawing. He was so quiet, Davy thought he must have fallen asleep. Until, in a drowsy voice, with his eyes still closed, he said, ‘And to die is different from what any one supposed. Walt Whitman said that. What would you say?’
‘I’d say he might be right,’ said Davy.
‘He just might,’ said Mr Bunting.
Davy could feel the house waking behind them. The day was the finest he’d ever known. Millions of diamonds danced upon the sea.
There was a trick of the light that bright day. It was later on, when they were all playing football. Mr Blye kicked the ball down the beach and Davy chased along the sand after it. As he scooped up the ball, that’s when he saw her.
She was playing there among the rocks in her thin cotton dress. Her feet were bare, her hair hung forward in a careless plait. She looked up and saw him. And she smiled. Then, as if she’d heard someone calling her name, she turned away quickly and was gone.
He stood, staring at where she’d been, but not for long. Tom shouted for him to hurry and George came barking up to get him.
Davy turned away and ran back to their game.
The sun blazed its joy down. The waves came and went. And the seagulls soared on wings of white fire, high above them in the clear blue air.
Acknowledgements
This book came to life thanks to the loving tyranny of my agent, Gillie Russell; I am deeply grateful. Thanks always to Paul Stansall, who picks me up, dusts me off and keeps me going. And thanks, as ever, to Sophie McKenzie, Gaby Halberstam, Sharon Flockhart, Melanie Edge and Julie Mackenzie. Thank you also to Venetia Gosling and the excellent folk at Macmillan Children’s Books, Jean Feiwel of Feiwel & Friends, and Amy Black and the team at Doubleday Canada for their wholehearted support.
In the realm of signs, portents and synchronicities, I acknowledge the following with gratitude: the abiding spirits of Philip Van Doren Stern, Frank Capra and James Stewart; Ian Duff and his dog, Boycie, who delivered a timely nudge from the universe; Katharine Pollen for saying the right thing at the right time; and the woman I met in a California bookshop, who sees the dead who walk among us every day.
The fragment of poetry that Mr Bunting quotes is from ‘Song of Myself’ by Walt Whitman.
Appendix of Movies
The Phantom of the Opera (1925)
Directors: Rupert Julian, Lon Chaney
Stars: Lon Chaney, Mary Philbin, Norman Kelly
The Great Mancini (1930)
Director: King Cortez
Stars: Fidor Stark, Sidney Sinclair
(Well-informed opinion holds that even the most determined film scholar will fail to unearth any evidence of The Great Mancini.)
Flying Down to Rio (1933)
Director: Thornton Freeland
Stars: Dolores del Rio, Gene Raymond, Paul Roulien, Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers
Top Hat (1935)
Director: Mark Sandrich
Stars: Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, Edward Everett Horton
Now, Voyager (1942)
Director: Irving Rapper
Stars: Bette Davis, Paul Heinreid, Claude Rains
It’s a Wonderful Life (1946)
Director: Frank Capra
Stars: James Stewart, Donna Reed, Lionel Barrymore
&n
bsp; The Ghost and Mrs Muir (1947)
Director: Joseph L Mankiewicz
Stars: Gene Tierney, Rex Harrison, George Sanders
Sunset Boulevard (1950)
Director: Billy Wilder
Stars: William Holden, Gloria Swanson, Erich von Stroheim
About the Author
Moira Young was an actress and opera singer before becoming a writer. She is the author of the critically acclaimed Dustlands trilogy: Blood Red Road, Rebel Heart and Raging Star, published in thirty countries. Blood Red Road, her debut novel, won a host of prizes, including the Costa Children’s Book Award, the BC Book Prize, the Cybils Award for Fantasy and Science Fiction and Le Prix des Incorruptibles. A native of Vancouver, Canada, she now lives in the UK.
www.moirayoung.com
First published 2016 by Macmillan Children’s Books
This electronic edition published 2016 by Macmillan Children’s Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
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ISBN 978-1-5098-3257-6
Text copyright © Moira Young 2016
Illustrations copyright © Hannah George 2016
Cover illustration by Ji-hyuk Kim
The right of Moira Young and Hannah George to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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