The Crossing of Ingo. Helen Dunmore

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       CHAPTER TWO

      “I wasn’t born with a duvet-washing gene just because I’m a girl,” I shout up the stairs to Conor.

      Saturday. I tick off a list on my fingers. Laundry, do the vacuuming, clean the bathroom. Dig over the potato bed. Go up to the farm for eggs. There’s my maths homework, and I’m supposed to be handing in my project on climate change after half term and so far all I’ve done is download some photos of deserts.

      Saturday morning. Work, work, work. I might as well be at school. And we’re coming to the end of all the food Mum stacked in the freezer before she and Roger went to Australia. Shepherd’s pie, chicken casserole, homemade soups, lemon drizzle cake (my favourite) and gingerbread with almonds (Conor’s favourite). Mum made more cake in a week than she usually makes in a year. Roger called it guilt cooking, and he put a stop to it when he came in the morning before they left and she was baking cakes and crumbles for the freezer instead of doing her packing.

      “You’ve got to stop all this guilt cooking, Jen.”

      “What do you mean?” Mum asked fiercely, her eyes bright as she wielded the flour sifter.

      “You’ve no call to feel guilty. These kids want to stay here, surely to God you’ve heard that from them enough times. I know I have. Sapphy’s a great little cook and Conor’s no slouch. You go on upstairs and finish your packing or you’ll end up in Brisbane without a bikini, which is a crime under Australian law.”

      I couldn’t help laughing, just as I couldn’t help liking Roger when Mum put down the sifter, rubbed her hand over her face (leaving an extensive trail of flour) and smiled reluctantly.

      “Come and help me pack, Sapphy?” she asked.

      Mum and Roger have been gone for a month now, and we’ve eaten all the dinners Mum left in the freezer, apart from some grey frozen parsnip soup.

      “Conor! You need to wash your sheet and your duvet cover.”

      “I’m still in bed.” Conor’s voice floats down from the loft, blurred and sleepy. “It’s Saturday morning, Saph, for God’s sake.”

      “You can’t be asleep if you’re shouting at me. It’s ten o’clock, Con. I need to get the washing on or it’ll never dry.”

      I am turning into Mum. I sigh and start sweeping the floor while Sadie pads round me, thumping her tail against the flagstones. She’s desperate for a real walk. I took her out for ten minutes when I first got up, but she wasn’t impressed.

      “Oh, Sadie.” I throw the broom down, drop to my knees and wrap my arms around Sadie’s warm neck. She whines sympathetically, rubbing her head against me. “Shall we leave all this and go for a long, long walk?” I ask her. Sadie’s tail whacks against my legs. “Walk” is her favourite word.

      Just then Conor staggers downstairs, still wrapped in his duvet, clutching a bundle of sheet and pillowcases. He drops the duvet on the floor, flops down at the table and puts his head in his hands.

      “Are you OK, Con?”

      “I got up too quickly.”

      Got up too quickly! I have been up since eight thirty and I’ve already cleared the kitchen, done the washing-up and scraped a layer of grease off the stove.

      “You could at least take the duvet cover off the duvet.”

      Conor looks up in surprise at my tone. “I’m going to, I’m going to. Relax, Saph, it’s Saturday.”

      “It doesn’t feel like Saturday to me. It feels like Monday morning.” A wave of self-pity sweeps over me. School all week, cooking every evening, chopping wood for the stove, homework, taking Sadie out, washing, cleaning, digging the garden… It all takes so long and there’s never any free time. I have to admit that usually Conor does half of everything, but this morning I’ve had enough.

      “I’m going down to the cove.”

      Conor looks up. “What about my duvet cover?”

      “You can mop the floor with it for all I care.”

      Conor leans back, tilting his chair. “Rainbow’s coming up later, maybe Patrick too. I’ll cook dinner.”

      “We mustn’t forget about Mum this time.”

      Last time Rainbow and Patrick were round for the evening, we lit a fire outside and sat round it for hours, talking, working out chords for a new song and trying to tell each other’s fortunes. We didn’t hear Mum call. At the weekends she usually calls late in our evenings, which is early in her mornings. She calls from an Internet café about ten kilometres from where she and Roger are staying, and then we call her back. I can’t believe how early that café opens, but Mum says it’s the way things happen there, because the middle of the days get so hot.

      We’ve got a webcam and Internet calling, which Roger installed on his state-of-the-art computer before they left. There will be no escape from communication! This is both good and bad. It’s lovely to talk to Mum, but when I’m tired or not in a great mood it’s hard to hide it from her. Conor reckons that Mum calls when it’s late in the evenings here to check that we’re both safely back at home.

      People say how amazing communications are these days, because you can feel as if you’re in the same room as someone in Australia. But you don’t really feel that way. You keep telling each other news about your lives, but it feels false. Conor is better at it than me. Sometimes I find myself wishing the call was over. At home we never sit down face to face for fifteen minutes with Mum and talk about everything we’ve done that day. We might wander into the kitchen and chat a bit. Often I prefer just being quiet with people.

      Seeing Mum’s face on the flat, cold screen of a computer makes it seem as if she has already gone far, far away from us, much farther than the thousands of miles she has travelled physically. She looks different. Her skin is deep brown from being out in the open all day long instead of working in the pub as she does here, and her hair has light streaks in it. It’s late spring in Queensland, and Mum СКАЧАТЬ