The Ice Twins. S. Tremayne K.

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СКАЧАТЬ yes. Sorry, yes, I did.’

      I stare out of the living-room window, which is half open.

      The rain has stopped. The tangy, breezy darkness of an autumn evening encroaches. The trees across the street are being robbed of their leaves, one by one. Clutching the phone a little harder, I go on,

      ‘Nuala, what I wanted to ask was …’ I tense myself, as if I am about to dive into very cold water. ‘Have you noticed anything odd about Kirstie recently?’

      A moment passes.

      ‘Odd?’

      ‘You know, er, odd. Er …’

      This is pitiful. But what else can I say? Oh, hey, Miss Emerson, has Kirstie started claiming she is her dead sister?

      ‘No, I’ve seen nothing odd.’ Miss Emerson’s reply is gentle. Dealing with bereaved parents. ‘Of course Kirstie still misses her sister, anyone can see that, but in the very challenging circumstances I’d say your daughter is coping quite well. As well as can be expected.’

      ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I have just one last question.’

      ‘OK.’

      I steel myself, once again. I have to ask about Kirstie’s reading. Her rapid improvement. That too has been bugging me.

      ‘So, Nuala, what about Kirstie’s skill levels, her development. Have you noticed anything different, any recent changes? Changes in her abilities? In class?’

      This time there is silence. A long silence.

      Nuala murmurs. ‘Well …’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘It’s not dramatic. But there is, I think – I think there’s one thing I could mention.’

      The trees bend and suffer in the wind.

      ‘What is it?’

      ‘Recently I’ve noticed that Kirstie has got a lot better at reading. In a short space of time. It’s a fairly surprising leap. And yet she used to be very good at maths, and now she is … not quite so good at that.’ I can envisage Nuala shrugging, awkwardly, at her end of the line. She goes on, ‘And I suppose you could say that is unexpected?’

      I say, perhaps, what we are both thinking: ‘Her sister used to be good at reading and not so good at maths.’

      Nuala says, quietly, ‘Yes, yes, that is possibly true.’

      ‘OK. OK. Anything else? Anything else like this?’

      Another painful pause, then Nuala says: ‘Yes, perhaps. Just the last few weeks, I’ve noticed Kirstie has become much more friendly with Rory and Adelie.’

      The falling leaves flutter. I repeat the names. ‘Rory. And. Adelie.’

      ‘That’s right, and they were,’ Nuala hesitates, then continues, ‘well, they were Lydia’s friends, really, as you no doubt know. And Kirstie has rather dropped her own friends.’

      ‘Zola? Theo?’

      ‘Zola and Theo. And it was pretty abrupt. But really, these things happen all the time, she’s only seven, your daughter, fairly young for her year.’

      ‘OK.’

      My throat is numbed. ‘OK.’ I repeat. ‘OK. I see.’

      ‘So please don’t worry. I wouldn’t have mentioned this if you hadn’t asked about Kirstie’s development.’

      ‘No.’

      ‘For what it’s worth, Sarah, my professional guess is that Kirstie is, in some way, compensating for the absence of her sister, almost trying to be her sister, so as to replace her, to moderate the grief. Thus, for instance, she has worked to become a better reader, to fill that gap. I’m not a child psychologist – but, as I understand it, this might not be unusual.’

      ‘No. No. Yes.’

      ‘And all children grieve in their own way. This is probably just part of the healing process. So, when are you leaving? It’s very soon, yes?’

      ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘This weekend.’

      The phone feels heavy in my hand.

      I gaze at the elegant houses across the street; the parked cars glinting under the streetlights. The twilight is now complete. The sky is clear. I can see all the many plane lights circling London, like little red sparks: rising from a vast and invisible fire.

       4

      Angus Moorcroft parked outside the Selkie Hotel, climbed from his cheap, tinny rental car – hired last night at Inverness Airport – and gazed across the mudflats, and the placid waters, to Torran. The sky was clean of cloud, giving a rare glimpse of northern sun: on a cold November day. Despite the clarity of the air, the cottage was only just visible, peering above the seaweedy rocks, with the white lighthouse behind.

      With a hand shielding the sun, Angus squinted at his family’s new home. But a second car disturbed his thoughts – squealing to a stop, and parking. An old blue Renault.

      His friend Josh Freedland got out, wearing a chunky Arran jumper, and jeans faintly floured with the dust of granite, or slate, or marble. Angus waved, and briefly looked down at his own jeans. He was going to miss good suits and silk ties.

      Josh approached.

      ‘The white settler has arrived!’

      The two men hugged, slapping backs. Angus apologized for his own lateness, for missing the original flight – Josh told him not to worry.

      This response had a certain irony, in Angus’s mind. There was a time when it was Josh who was always late. When Josh was the most unreliable man in Great Britain. Everything was changing.

      As one, they both turned, and gazed at the view across the Sound.

      Angus murmured. ‘You know, I’d forgotten just how beautiful it is.’

      ‘So, when was the last time you were here?’

      ‘With you. And the gang. That last summer holiday.’

      ‘Really?’ Josh smiled, in frank surprise. ‘Junkie overboard! Junkie overboard!’

      It was a catchphrase from that memorable holiday: when they’d come up here as college kids, to Angus’s granny’s island. They’d spent an epic weekend drinking too much, laughing too much, being obnoxious and loud, annoying the locals – and having enormous fun. They’d nearly sunk the rowing boat as they sculled back from the Selkie in the sweet, violet, Scottish summer gloaming: the twilight that never went totally СКАЧАТЬ