Breathing Underwater by Julia Green Page A

again.
    Let me see Joe, one more time.
    The darkness swallows them.
    I run to catch up. Gramps is talking to Evie about setting the crab pots in the morning. ‘You can come with me, Freya,’ he says. ‘Unless you are otherwise engaged, that is.’
    â€˜Of course she is,’ Evie says. ‘She won’t be wanting to go out in that old rowing boat, just to get a few smelly crabs with you. Will you, Freya?’
    I don’t answer. I know the real reason why Evie doesn’t want me going out in the boat. But I’m not going to argue now. And we’re already back at the house, and there’s a scrap of paper sticking out of the letterbox, with a message for me.

Eleven
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    It’s scribbled in pink felt tip.
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    Hi Freya! We are all going down to the field later. Football then fire/barbecue on the beach. Please come. xx Izzy (+ Matt, Danny, Maddie, Lisa, Will, Ben, etc, etc)
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    Evie reads it over my shoulder. ‘Sounds fun.’
    â€˜S’pose.’
    â€˜She’s a lovely girl,’ Evie says.
    â€˜Who is?’ Gramps tips sand out of his shoes in a fine shower on to the garden path.
    â€˜Izzy. Isabelle. The girl helping Sally with the campsite this year.’
    â€˜With hair like spun gold.’ Gramps grins.
    Evie sighs. ‘You don’t miss a trick when it comes to pretty girls, do you? See that, Freya? Not so muddled now, is he?’
    Upstairs, I study myself in the mirror. Hardly spun gold, my hair. Nor ebony or anything else you’d find in one of those stories on Evie’s shelves. I think of Mum, holding that mirror on the landing, the day before I left, how thin and faded she looked. It comes over me in a sudden rush, this overwhelming need to see her and talk to her, to make her see me. I almost pick up the phone, but I don’t. I’ve tried it before. She’ll be busy. She won’t have anything to say. She’ll start worrying. There’s no point.
    In the bath, I rinse off the sand and salt still stuck to my skin. My limbs look pale and thin in the dim light of the downstairs bathroom. Wearing my wetsuit on the beach today means I still haven’t got that first flush of sunburn. I lie back in the water. Last summer, I could easily float in this bath but now I’m too long: my toes touch the end. I hold my breath and dip my head right under. Bubbles come out of my ears. My hair spreads out. I start counting the seconds. One, two, three . . .
    What shall I wear for the beach party? We’ll be playing football first, so jeans. Izzy will be wearing some crazy hippy thing as usual. And Matt will be there . . .
    I imagine describing him to Miranda, even though I’m not intending to tell her anything right now because she’ll just go on about it. Tall. Slim. Blonde hair that sticks up at the front, longer at the back. The bluest eyes. Wide smile . . .
    I come up for air, spluttering. Someone’s banging at the door.
    â€˜All right in there?’ says Gramps. ‘Not gone down the plughole or anything? Some of us lesser mortals need the lavatory once in a while, you know.’
    â€˜Sorry, Gramps,’ I call back. When I stand up, water sloshes over the edge of the bath. I wipe it up with the mat. Start to towel myself dry.
    How long was it that time? I lost count. I need a stopwatch.
    I’ve got one, in actual fact. On the watch I use which was his , of course. The watch which has a compass and everything you need for navigation, and which he wasn’t wearing either, along with the wetsuit that would have kept him warm.
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    Izzy waves as I come round the edge of the field. The game’s already in full swing. I join her end of the pitch.
    â€˜Good you’ve come,’ she says.
    â€˜Thanks for the note.’
    â€˜I looked for you earlier. Saw you’d all gone out. Nice time?’
    â€˜OK. Swimming and that.’
    â€˜Cool.’
    â€˜You?’
    â€˜Worked all