Read by Lucy Mabbitt (first story in podcast, here)
The first time she saw the girl, Jen was floating on her back, gazing at the Fowey shore through the frame of her feet. The days had reached that point in September where the late afternoon light was so low it splashed against the swell, sending tiny golden flecks spinning across the water. The ferry that carried passengers the short trip from the town’s tourist-packed streets to the opposite harbour — the sparse two-pub, one-shop hamlet of Polruan — had dropped back to six an hour. Before long it would be winter service.
Jen felt the water under her lift, flatten, lift again. The sun’s warmth washed against her face, easing the swell’s chill. She liked watching the light graze the sea, shooting off in all directions. Out here, in the middle of the little channel, she was at the centre of a kaleidoscope; the pattern around her constantly shifting, obscuring her from anyone’s view.
The girl was a way off from the other children, over by the jetty. She seemed to be watching them, but made no attempt to join in. Jen wondered if she was shy, or if there had been a falling out. Maybe she just didn’t like what was going on with the rook: seeing so many feral kids swarming over it. A kind soul.
The children started edging along the railings; just one boy in full football kit kept scaling the metal bird, sliding down its shiny back, hauling himself up again. The girl ran over, perhaps sensing a playmate. She seemed to be saying something; the boy ignored her, carried on climbing. She stayed there, staring up at him, and Jen was struck by the drabness of her dress against the boy’s bright clothes. Then she turned and ran toward the town, bare feet flying.
Not all the local families were struggling — some quite the opposite — but enough were, and badly, that Jen felt a stab of sadness. She lay back again, turning her face to the sky. The wispy cirrus clouds were crowding closer together; the water’s coolness more noticeable as the sun dropped. It was probably time to head back, trawl the internet for a film to watch. She’d got through the caravan DVDs in the first week of her summer escape, when she wouldn’t turn on her laptop for fear her London life would reach out of the screen and snatch her back in. Back to the pressure of 10-hour work days, pressure from her on-off boyfriend, pressure from her parents to look after her wellbeing. The caravan was as cheap a rent as she could get, and its film collection was suitably eclectic. It had, however, left her with a dubious taste for low-budget thrillers.
She rolled onto her front, turned back to face the patch of harbour sand at Polruan, where her bundle of clothes was waiting by the jetty steps. The cold tugged her skin as she swam toward the shore.
*
The next day around five o’clock Jen was back in the water again, having waited till the kayaks and pleasure boats had pretty much gone from the channel. She scanned the Fowey shoreline: the champagne drinkers had been supplanted by teenagers with cans, playing snatches of songs off someone’s phone. The rook was left to its own devices; the only young children Jen could make out were a boy and girl running up and down the jetty, jumping the encroaching waves. Jen squinted; she was sure it was the same girl she’d seen the day before, and the thought she might have found a friend pleased her.
Already Jen’s skin was tingling with the cold. As the summer waned, she was finding it harder to stay in the sea as long as she’d like. She’d loved the water since childhood, just for what it was. But there was also something to be said for escaping things that needed escaping.
The boy ran towards a woman at the railings and was swiftly enveloped in a towel. Jen expected the girl to follow, but she kept jumping. Jen scanned the shore, but no one else looked to be watching out for her. A moving boat caught Jen’s eye; when she turned back the girl had vanished.
Jen was trying to see where she’d gone to when she heard a shout from behind her. She flipped over. An old man was waving at the sea, a woman remonstrating. Jen pulled into a crawl.
She stumbled out of the water. The couple had moved to a bench overlooking the strip of sand. They seemed all right, but she supposed she ought to check. She picked up her towel and made towards them.
‘Everything ok?’
The woman looked up, raising a hand to her eyes.
‘Here it is, yes. How about out there? You came in at quite a pace.’
Jen shook the water from her ears. ‘I thought I heard you shouting, that’s all.’
The woman’s cheeks twitched. ‘Sorry for that. Truth be told, you gave John here a bit of a scare. We didn’t see you go out, see. We just saw you bob up in the middle, like you’d come from nowhere.’
John fiddled with his watch strap. His fingers were shaking; Jen felt bad now for going over.
The woman carried on. ‘Not often we see people in the water this time of day, at the end of the season. But with all this fuss about wild swimming, as you’d call it, I suppose we shouldn’t have been so surprised.’
‘Oh, the swimming’s not a new thing for me. I’ve always liked the water here,’ Jen said. The woman brightened, and Jen immediately wished she hadn’t engaged.
‘Begging your pardon, my lovely. It’s just we didn’t recognise you. You from over Fowey?’
‘Originally,’ Jen said. ‘I moved a little while back.’ This was true in essence, of course, but given her family had uprooted to London before she was walking, the last part always felt more like a lie. ‘I’m staying in Polruan for a bit.’
‘Sensible girl,’ John said, acknowledging her for the first time. ‘I’ve not been over the water in years. Overrun with emmets.’
Jen nodded. At least she knew emmets were tourists. It made her feel less of an imposter.
‘Sorry if I alarmed you just then. I doubt you’d have known, but you were pretty much in the spot where it happened.’
Jen waited for John to elaborate, but he kept looking straight ahead, saying nothing. The light bouncing off the boats split his face, casting half of it in shadow.
She realised the couple were waiting for her to go, but her curiosity was piqued. She hated herself, but asked anyway.
‘Sorry, it’s just— where what happened?’
The woman’s face soured. ‘Where the boat overturned, when John lost his sister. I thought you were from round here?’
‘I am, but I had no idea. I’m sorry.’
The woman glanced at her husband. ‘It was a long time ago, they were only children. But over Fowey it’s become proper tourist bait; folk making up all sorts. There’s even a ghost walk now, some out-of-work actor from Plymouth saying she can be seen walking the streets when the sun’s going down, looking for someone to play with. Though I suppose it’s better than when the couple that took on the Haverner’s put it out her spirit was trapped in that bloody bird statue. It’s why John never goes over. Pirates, people are, taking a person’s grief like that and using it for money. If I had my way they’d all—"
The woman’s anti-tourism diatribe continued, her words swirling into the wind. Jen watched her mouth moving, but her mind was on the girl. Jen knew she was prone to suggestion, but there was something disconnected about the child. The way no one really seemed to interact with her.
John’s raised voice pulled Jen’s focus back.
‘I said, when did you say you moved?’
Jen scrunched her toes in the sand. ‘I was … pretty young. But here still sort of feels like home.’
The couple were silent. This time, Jen took the cue to leave. Murmuring goodbye, she headed back towards the hill.
*
Every day for the next week Jen kept to her routine, taking care to always swim in the same line, to the spot she’d been in the day she first saw the girl. Every day she was there, playing near other children, but never really with them — and every day, Jen entertained more and more the possibility they didn’t really see her. The idea of ghosts seemed ridiculous, but she hadn’t seen anything to rule it out. The thing to do would be to find some rational explanation for the girl’s detachment; for John’s sake more than hers. She needed to get closer, watch her leave the harbourfront, see where she went.
The day she chose was a Thursday. She walked down to the harbour at five as usual, but instead of going into the water she stopped at the jetty. The ferry was just leaving Fowey; she was the only passenger waiting to go the other way.
The boat had almost arrived when a man called out from behind her.
‘Thought you kept away from Fowey these days?’ She turned. John and his wife were at the top of the steps.
‘I do, but—’ she hesitated. If she were John, would she want to know what she was doing? She looked at his eyes; they were rheumy, dull, older even than they should be. This was his past, his loss — maybe his hope, too. He had every right to know. She gripped the railing.
‘I know how this will sound, but please hear me out. What you and your wife told me, about your sister — I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Because one day when I was swimming, before I met you, I was watching this girl. Well not watching, at first, it’s more I noticed her once because … because no one else seemed to. And now after what you said, every day when I swim I look for her again. And every time I see her it’s like no one else does. And honestly, I don’t normally believe in this stuff but it’s like she’s … she’s in a different space. One where no one else is. So I thought if I went over and saw her properly, tried to talk to her maybe, I’d be able to tell you if there was any possibility ...’
She trailed off. John was no longer looking at her, but his wife, hands on hips, looked like she could hurl her into the sea.
The ferry was pulling into the harbour when John spoke.
‘Quite finished, have you? Then we’ll be going. I suggest you do the same.’
The couple turned, walked slowly away, never looking round. The ferry was waiting, and as Jen stepped on board she felt the sting of tears.
She wasn’t looking for the girl when she saw her, sitting on the Fowey jetty. Up close, as the ferry pulled in, she looked just like any other child: a bit messy, but that was it. A rush of shame surged in Jen’s throat. The girl lifted her face; they locked eyes. Then she was gone, dissolved in myriad tiny splinters of light.
(c) Sarah Richardson, 2022
Sarah Richardson is originally from Essex and now lives in south London, where she works as a journalist and editor. She writes short stories with the encouragement of a writing group she formed with classmates from a course at City University. This is her second story for Liars’ League.
Lucy Mabbitt is an actress from Derbyshire in the East Midlands: she is a graduate from Guildhall School of Drama and is based in London. She recently appeared in Gambit for Exeter Fringe at The Northcott and previously read “Just a Nice Family Christmas” for Liars’ League.
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