Philippa Fisher and the Dream-Maker's Daughter (8 page)

“Mmisthnkso,” I said. I opened an eye and scrunched up my face. Mom was leaning over the bed.

“It’s nearly noon,” she said. “Dad thought we should wake you. It’s a lovely day. We thought maybe we’d go out for a nice walk. Go and see the stone circle or something.”

“Mmthbnice,” I said, forcing my other eye open and rubbing my cheek. It felt hot and creased from the blankets.

“Come on, then, sleepyhead. The day’ll be over before you know it.”

With that, she left and went downstairs. As I dragged myself out of bed, hot, heavy, and tired, I remembered my earlier escapade in the forest. Had I imagined it? Had it just been another bad dream?

Then I saw my jeans sticking out of the laundry bag. I pulled them out. Mud all over them. I hadn’t imagined it, then. At least I wasn’t going crazy.

Mom and Dad were both dressed and drinking coffee in the kitchen when I came down.

Dad patted the bench beside him. “Come and give your dad a hug,” he said. I sat next to him and snuggled under his arm.

“Whoops — look what I’ve found!” he said, reaching behind me and tickling my ear. Then he held out his hand. He had a few folded-up bits of paper in it.

“Dad, that’s the oldest trick in the world,” I said, laughing. However cheesy his tricks were, I still liked him doing them on me. It was thanks to his magic that we were here, really. He’d taught me magic tricks all my life, and it was the magic show I did at the talent contest at school that had won us this trip. Still, the look-what-I’ve-found-behind-your-ear trick wasn’t exactly his most original or impressive.

Dad pointed at the bits of paper. “Check them out,” he said.

I took the paper out of his hand.

“Open them up,” he said with a grand magician’s flourish, spreading his arms wide as though he’d just released twenty white doves from a hat.

I unfolded the bits of paper. It was three guest passes for the hotel’s indoor pool. “Dad!” I exclaimed. “We’re going swimming!”

“Yes, indeedy. I went to get them this morning.”

I hugged him again. “Thank you!” I said, kissing him on the cheek. “You’re the best dad in the world.”

Mom got up to fix some more coffee. “It’s a gorgeous day. Maybe we should get out in the fresh air first,” she said. “We could always save the swimming for when the weather turns bad again — which I’m sure it will, soon enough.”

“Fine by me,” I said. As long as we got out of the house and I kept my mind occupied, right now I didn’t care what we did.

“Philippa! Sweetie!”

Pretty much everyone in the grocery store turned to see who was shouting. It was the woman with the frizzy hair, the orange-and-green baggy pants, and the old and slightly torn T-shirt with a picture of Che Guevara on it. In other words, my mom.

Six months ago, I would have died on the spot if she’d yelled to me in public like that. I used to be so embarrassed by my parents that I wished for them to be different. But as soon as I got my wish, I realized I loved them exactly as they were!

She came over and held out a couple of sandwiches. “Tuna mayo or ham and tomato?”

I took her hand. “I don’t care. You choose,” I said.

“Right. Tuna mayo it is,” she said, grabbing three bags of chips and throwing them in the basket with the sandwiches.

As we left the shop, Mom swung my arm while we walked along.

“Isn’t that the girl from yesterday?” she said, nodding toward the bookshop in the center of the village. Robyn was kneeling in the window, putting some books out on a stand. She didn’t see us at first, but she looked up as we passed by and immediately stood up and waved.

“Let’s go and say hello,” Mom said.

“Mom, she probably won’t want to —” But she was halfway through the door, dragging me along behind her.

“Hi,” I said awkwardly as I closed the door behind us.

Robyn came over to the front of the shop. “I’m glad you came in,” she said. “I wanted to apologize for yesterday.”

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it,” I said, trying to sound as though seeing someone get dragged out of a shop by a man who looked like a walking explosion was the kind of thing that happened every day.

Mom wandered off. “I’ll just have a look around while you girls chat,” she said, leaving me stranded and once again not knowing what to say.

“Is this your shop?” I managed eventually, silently screaming at myself for being so dull.

Robyn nodded. “Yeah. My dad’s had it for years. We live here, too. We’ve been in the apartment upstairs since —” She stopped and looked down. Her face seemed to close over and darken, as though a cloud had sailed across it. “Well, for nearly a year,” she said quietly.

An awkward silence fell. I glanced over at Mom. She was wandering around the shop, head bent sideways as she scanned the spines of the books.

“Come and sit down for a minute,” Robyn said, leading me through the rows of books. They were stuffed into every tiny space you could find, stacked so high in some places I was amazed they balanced.

Her dad was kneeling on the floor, sorting through a boxful of books and making some notes on a pad. He looked up as we passed him and gave a slight nod. I smiled in reply, but he’d looked away again, and I felt like he hadn’t even noticed me. It was as though he’d looked through me.

Robyn led me to an alcove at the side of the shop. It had a bay window with cushions and beanbags and an old sofa. A cabinet held rows of comic books, art and craft manuals, magazines. “This is where I go when I want to escape from the world,” Robyn said, plunking herself down on a beanbag and patting the one next to her for me to join her.

Her dad had gotten up and started slotting books onto the shelves. I watched him mechanically squeezing them in.

His face was stubbly where he hadn’t shaved. His sweater was stained, and one of the cuffs was torn. His jeans looked as worn as his eyes. His black hair flopped onto his face as limp and lifeless as the rest of him. It was as though he didn’t care what he looked like. He didn’t seem so scary today. More sad and pathetic, to be honest.

He stopped for a moment when he reached the shelves in front of us. “You know, I’m sure your friend has better things to do than hang around here all day,” he said.

“Oh, I don’t mind,” I said. “I like it here.”

He nodded vaguely and went back to the box of books.

“Sorry about my dad,” Robyn said in a quieter voice. “He’s OK, really. He’s just never really been the same since . . . Well, he’s not always good at being sociable, but he’s all right once you get to know him.”

I couldn’t imagine ever wanting to get to know him! “It’s OK,” I said. “I’m always having to apologize for my parents, too.”

As if on cue, Mom appeared in front of us with a couple of battered-looking novels in her arms. “Ooh,” she said, glancing over at a counter she hadn’t noticed. “I’ll just check out the Climates and Ecology section, and then we’d better get going. Your dad’ll be wondering where we are.”

Robyn and I dragged ourselves out of the beanbags and joined Mom at the register.

Robyn’s dad put the books in a paper bag. “So, you’re here for the week?” he asked without looking up, as though he knew he should be polite but couldn’t be bothered to do it properly.

“Yes.” Mom beamed in her usual oblivious way. “We’re staying just down the road from here. Forest Reach,” she said. “It’s such a pretty little cottage. Do you know it?”

Robyn’s dad froze. He opened his mouth to reply but stopped. The register stood open, like his mouth.

For a moment, Robyn looked shocked, too. Then she hurried to join him behind the counter. She took Mom’s change out of his hand and passed it to her, closed the register, and slipped her hand into her dad’s.

He looked down at Robyn, staring at her as though he was trying to see something, as though he was lost and she was his only way out.

“Philippa and her parents are on vacation,” she said, trying to bring him back into the moment, remind him where he was. “They were thinking of going out walking this week, weren’t you?” she said, glancing at me, her face half apologetic, half pleading.

“We thought we’d go to the stone circle, and maybe go swimming one day,” I replied, hoping I wasn’t going to say the wrong thing. What was the matter with him?

Her dad looked at me for a moment. And then, as quickly as it had come, the moment snapped away. “Of course, of course. Lovely,” he said. “Tidehill Rocks?”

“That’s right,” Mom said. “Do you know them?”

Robyn’s dad coughed and shook himself. “Good choice,” he said. “And there are some nice forest walks, too. Especially this time of year.” I noticed him grip Robyn’s hand as he spoke.

“Robyn mentioned sculpture trails,” I said.

“Ooh, that sounds nice,” Mom chirped. “Hey, that’s a thought. Robyn, would you like to come with us?” She glanced at Robyn’s dad. “I mean, if she — if you don’t mind.”

“Mom, I’m sure Robyn doesn’t want to —”

“Can I?” Robyn asked, looking up at her dad. “I mean, it’s OK if you need me. I’m happy to stay here if you want me to help.”

He shook his head. “It’s fine,” he said gently.

He looked across at me and Mom as if he’d just remembered we were there. “Robyn told me she met you yesterday,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to say hello properly. I’m Martin Fairweather.” He held out a hand to Mom.

Mom doesn’t really do handshaking. Too formal for her, but she reached across and gave his hand a floppy wobble, anyway. “Jenny Fisher,” she said with a warm smile.

It seemed we’d all decided to pretend to go along with the idea that he hadn’t had the chance to say hello yesterday, rather than acknowledge the fact that we all saw him scream his head off at Robyn, flatly refuse to set foot in the shop, and then drag her home.

Robyn’s dad turned to me, then back to Mom. “You promise you’ll look after her?”

“Of course we will,” Mom said. She grabbed a pen from the counter and tore the edge off her paper bag. Scribbling a number down, she shoved it across to him. “Look, here’s my cell. If you need anything or want to check anything, just call.”

“Dad, I’ll be fine,” Robyn said.

“It’d be nice to have a guide who knows her way around the forest,” Mom said, smiling at Robyn.

Wouldn’t it just?
I thought, shivering as I remembered my last experience there and wondered for a second if I was really ready to face it again.

Mr. Fairweather gave Robyn’s hand a squeeze. “Go on, then. Be careful,” he said. “Don’t stray from the paths.” He took Robyn’s face in his hands, looking into her eyes. “You hear me?” he said somberly. “You know what I mean.”

Robyn nodded. “I won’t, Dad. I promise.”

Their eyes locked in a secret deal. What was
that
about?

“Right. OK, then,” Mr. Fairweather said. “And make sure you do whatever Mr. and Mrs. Fisher say.”

“I will!” Robyn called. Then she ran to the back of the shop. “I’ll just get my things,” she said. “Meet you outside your house in ten minutes?”

“Great,” I said.

Mom and I headed back to the grocery store to buy an extra sandwich for Robyn, then walked home arm in arm, singing “Here Comes the Sun.” Mom said it might help guarantee a good afternoon. As far as I was concerned, the fact that Robyn was coming with us had already done that.

“It was nice that your dad let you come out with us,” I said as we walked through the woods, kicking up cornflakey bundles of leaves with every step.

Mom and Dad were up ahead, studying a guide to the forest trails that Mom had picked up at the store. Turned out it was easy to find your way if you just looked out for the colored way-markers. We were doing the red path; it was about four miles long, with twenty sculptures along the way. I had no intention of stepping a single inch off the path!

“He’s not normally like he was yesterday, you know,” Robyn said.

I kicked a huge pile of leaves; they crinkled and crackled as I tossed them in the air, trying to think of a response.

“He’s just a bit overprotective,” she added before I’d managed to think of a reply.

Overprotective seemed a very generous way to describe the ogre who’d stood shouting on the doorstep of the pottery shop yesterday. I was trying to think of a polite way to say that when Robyn changed the subject. She had a way of doing that. Like she’d say something real and meaningful, then shut the door immediately, and I didn’t know how to get in again.

“Look.” She pointed down the hill. “Sheep!” I followed where she was pointing. Four wooden sheep sculptures stood, fat and chunky, bent over as if grazing on the forest floor.

“They’re great!”

“And look up there.” Robyn pointed above us. An enormous beehive, almost the same size as me, sat on a branch in one of the trees.

As we walked, Robyn pointed out the other sculptures. Mom spotted a few, too, jumping up excitedly and squealing at the top of her voice as though she’d just discovered Antarctica. They fitted into the forest so neatly you could look straight past most of them without realizing. And yet once you’d noticed a sculpture, you wondered how you could have missed it in the first place.

They were so random. A wild boar standing on a fence, a kite tangled in a tree, three giant dragonflies sitting on a chair. But there was something about every sculpture that felt utterly natural, too; it was as though each one was as much a part of the forest as the trees and the birds.