there now, helping build the fire. They pile furze and brushwood until the bonfire stands taller than me or Conor. Conor’s my brother; he’s two years older than me.
“Come on, Saph! I’m going on up to see how big the bonfire is now.”
I run after Conor. This is how it usually is. Conor ahead, and me hurrying behind, trying to keep up with him.
“Wait for me, Con!”
We wait for the sun to set and for the crowd to gather, and then it’s time to light the Midsummer Fire. The first star shines out. Geoff Treyarnon thrusts his flaming torch into the dry heart of the bonfire. The fire blazes up and everyone links hands and begins to dance around it, faster and faster. The flames leap higher than the people and we have to jump back.
Conor and I join the ring around the fire. Mum and Dad dance too, holding hands. It makes me so happy to see them like this, dancing and smiling at each other. If only it was always like this. No quarrels, no loud voices…
The flames jump higher and higher and everyone yells and laughs. Conor drinks a bottle of ginger beer, but I don’t like the taste. I wrap myself in a rug and sit and watch until the flames blur into red and orange and gold. My eyes sting and I shut them, just for a minute. The fire melts into velvety blackness. There are stars in the blackness and I want to count them one by one, but they’re dancing too fast…
I must have fallen asleep. Suddenly Dad’s here, swooping down out of the night to pick me up.
“All right, Sapphy? Hold on tight now and I’ll carry you down the hill.”
I’m too big to be carried, but it’s Midsummer Night and Dad says that’s the one night when all the rules can be broken. He picks me up, still wrapped in the rug with my feet poking out. I look back over his shoulder. The fire has flattened down into a heap of red ash. People are still sitting around it drinking, but the dancing’s over.
The path that leads down to our cottage is rough and steep, but Dad won’t let me drop. My dad is strong. He takes his boat out in most weathers and he can swim more than three miles. He has a medal for life-saving.
Mum and Conor are walking ahead of us on the path down. They’re talking, but I can’t hear the words. I put my arms round Dad’s neck and hold on tight, partly because the path is rough and partly because I love him. His strength makes me feel so safe.
Dad begins to sing. He sings O Peggy Gordon and his voice rises up loud and sweet into the summer night.
I wish I was away in Ingo
Far across the briny sea,
Sailing over deepest waters…
I love it when Dad sings. He has a great voice and people used to say that he should be in the church choir, but Dad only laughs at that.
“I’d rather sing in the open air,” he says. It’s true that when he’s working in our garden people lean against our wall to listen to him. Dad likes singing in the pub as well.
Mum, Dad, me and Conor. All of us going home safe on a summer night.
I always think that our family is made up of two halves. There is Conor and Mum, who are calm and sensible and always do what they say they’re going to do. And there’s me and Dad. We flare up like the Midsummer Bonfire, lose our tempers and say things we should never say. Sometimes we don’t know what we’re going to do until we’ve done it. And I sometimes tell lies when I need to, which Conor never does. Conor tells you the truth straight out. You just have to get used to it.
But it doesn’t matter that we’re a family of two halves, as long as we stick together.
We come to the steepest part of the path, and Dad has to put me down. Westward over the sea there is still a bit of light, like the ghost of a sunset or maybe the ghost of the moon rising. The sea stretches out dark in the distance. I’m glad that Dad’s stopped here, because I love to watch the sea.
Dad has stopped singing too. He stands there still and silent, staring way out to sea. He looks as if he’s searching for something. A boat maybe. But there won’t be any boats out tonight. Not on Midsummer Night.
Even though Dad’s standing next to me, I feel as if he’s forgotten me. He’s far away.
“Dad,” I say at last. I feel uneasy. “Dad?” But Dad doesn’t answer. I’m tired and cold now and my legs are shivery. I just want to be at home, all four of us safe inside our cottage, with the door shut. I want to be in bed, falling into sleep.
“Dad, let’s catch up with Mum and Conor. They’re way ahead of us. Da – ad—”
But Dad holds up his hand. “Hush,” he says. “Listen.”
I listen. I hear an owl hunting. I hear the deep noise of the sea, like breathing. On a calm night you have to listen for it, but it’s there all the time. You would only hear silence if the world ended and the sea stopped moving. As soon as this thought comes into my mind the uneasy feeling gets stronger. I don’t like this. I’m afraid.
“Listen,” says Dad again. The way he says it makes my skin prickle all over with fear.
“What, Dad?” I say sharply. “What are you listening to?”
“Can’t you hear it?”
“What?”
But Dad still won’t answer. He stares out to sea a little longer and then he shakes himself as if he needs to wake up.
“Time to go, Sapphy.”
It’s too dark for me to see Dad’s face clearly, but his voice is normal again. He swings me back up into his arms. “Let’s be getting you home.”
By the time we reach our cottage, Mum has already sent Conor upstairs to bed.
“Go on up now, Sapphy,” says Dad. He stretches and yawns, but his eyes are brilliant and wide awake. I notice that he’s left the door ajar, as if he’s planning to go back outside. The front door to our cottage comes straight into our living room, and then you go through the back to the kitchen. Mum’s in the kitchen, clattering plates.
“I’m away down to the shore,” Dad calls to her. “I can’t settle to sleep yet.”
Mum emerges from the kitchen, blinking with tiredness.
“What? At this time of night?”
“It’s a wonderful night,” says Dad. “The longest day and the shortest night. Think of it, Jennie, we won’t get another night like this for a whole year.”
“You’ll break your neck on the rocks one of these nights,” says Mum.
But we all know he won’t. Dad knows his way too well.
This is how you get down to our cove. The track runs by our cottage. You follow it to the end, and then there’s a path where bracken and brambles and foxgloves grow up so high that you wouldn’t find the way unless you knew it. Push them aside, and there’s the path. When I was little I used to pretend it was magic. You go down the path, and suddenly
