Wild Blue Yonder (The Ceruleans: Book 3) (11 page)

A week later, on the first warm afternoon of the year, I was
summoned for ‘a cup of tea and a catch-up’ with Evangeline. It would be my
first one-on-one with her since the day she’d set her terms for my leaving the
island; since then, I’d been as friendly as possible to her in company, but
steered clear of being left alone in a room with her for fear I’d say or do the
wrong thing.

Jude was the bearer of the news and, seeing my apprehension,
he pulled me in for a hug, even though we weren’t in company and had no need to
act. Then he said, ‘Don’t worry about it. Just be…’

‘Myself?’

‘Well, no, not quite. Keep your cool, though, hey? Just a
week until the ceremony, and then…’

I pulled back and nodded at him. ‘You got it.’

Evangeline was waiting for me on the terrace beyond the
conservatory, sitting at a wooden patio table that was laid out with a teapot,
cups and saucers, a little jug of milk and a plate of miniature Victoria sponge
cakes. As I took in the sight, I had a flashback to my childhood home of
Hollythwaite, where my mother had instigated a custom of taking afternoon tea
on the patio on warm afternoons. Mum would have liked this island, I realised.
The last time I’d seen her, she was house-hunting for a little cottage tucked
away in the countryside, someplace with a view. She may even have liked
Evangeline. Certainly, the pair had a similar penchant for high-heeled shoes.

‘Scarlett,’ said Evangeline warmly as I approached. ‘How are
you, dear? You look a little sad.’

I forced a smile. ‘Not at all. I’m fine,’ I said, and took a
seat opposite her.

She picked up the teapot and poured me a cup, and then sat
back and watched me as I added milk – no sugar; that was never on offer for
drinks in Cerulea.

‘I’d rather you didn’t lie to me, dear,’ Evangeline said.

The teaspoon I was stirring with clattered against the
teacup.

‘There’s really no need,’ she went on. ‘Of course you feel
sad sometimes. You’re mourning the life you left behind – that’s only natural.
Won’t you tell me how you feel?’

She confused me, this lady. On the one hand she seemed to
genuinely care, and she could be warm and gentle and motherly. But on the other
hand she was, effectively, my jailer here, and I resented her authority on the
island. I thought carefully about what to say, and finally decided that if I
was to get her on side, I’d better show that I was willing to be open.

‘I was thinking about my mum,’ I admitted.

‘You miss her?’

I nodded.

‘What do you miss about her, Scarlett?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said quietly, looking down at my tea.
‘Everything, I guess.’ I gave a short, mirthless laugh. ‘Even the bad stuff.
Even when she was self-absorbed and over-dramatic and depressed, she was still
my mother – she still loved me. Without her…’

‘It’s lonely?’

I looked up and met Evangeline’s gaze.

‘Yes.’

‘I understand. Letting go isn’t easy. But what you must
remember is that a mother’s love is eternal. It doesn’t wane. Tell me, dear, do
you like poetry?’

I nodded. ‘My father brought us up on the classic English
poets. Blake, especially. He made me learn whole poems and recite them when
company came.’

Evangeline looked confused for a moment. ‘Your father?’

‘His name’s Hugo.’

Her brow smoothed. ‘Ah, I see. Well, it’s an American poet
I’m thinking of. EE Cummings?’

I nodded. We studied his works in English class at school.

‘“I carry your heart”. That is the poem to read. The
sentiment is beautiful, and so very true. Those we love that we are separated
from, we carry them with us in our hearts, always.’

Evangeline sat back and sipped her tea, and I watched her
silently.

‘I can imagine what you’re thinking, dear. How many I carry
in my heart! And you’re right. There are those I left the day I was Claimed,
and there are those children I’ve borne who are now out in the world, making a
difference.’

‘Does it hurt you?’

‘No, Scarlett. Not any more. It’s simply a matter of
patience. You’ve seen the white light, as have I. You’ve seen a soul move on.
All those I love await me in the next life.’

There was nothing I could say to that, so I sipped my bland
tea and awaited the next question. I didn’t have to wait long.

‘You’ve seemed happier here as time goes on, Scarlett. How
are you and Jude getting along?’

‘Well, thank you.’

‘He’s a kind-hearted, loyal boy.’

I nodded.

‘You’re enjoying your surfing with him?’

‘Yes. We’ve been every morning.’

‘Tell me, what is it about surfing you love?’

I thought about it. ‘It’s like pure energy out there. The
sensations, the speed. And there’s this closeness with nature – sunrise over
the waves. It’s kind of humbling, but also exhilarating.’

Evangeline smiled. ‘I think I can understand that,’ she
said. ‘I remember when I was a young girl, there was this very steep hill near
my home. My brothers would make little cars out of old wooden pallets and race
each other down it, and sometimes they’d bundle me into one. Hurtling down that
hill, towards the old cemetery at the bottom, my heart would be in my mouth.
I’d scream all the way, but secretly I loved the thrill of it.’

Her face had softened with the memory. This was the first
time I’d heard her talk of her life before Cerulea. It humanised her. I wondered
– dare I…?

‘What is it, dear?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘There’s a question hovering on your face.’

I swallowed. Evangeline was absurdly perceptive, and I knew
I must tread carefully.

‘I was just wondering about your history.’ I added quickly,
‘The history of us all, in fact,’ hoping she’d noticed the ‘us’.

‘Well, of course you’re curious. And I’m happy to share my
story with you, dear, if you’d like?’

‘Yes, please,’ I replied carefully. Her willingness to talk
made me suspect this had been on the agenda in any case for our ‘catch-up’;
that there was some message for me to take on board from her tale.

‘Very well,’ said Evangeline. ‘I will tell you of my life
before Cerulea. Though until the time of my Claiming, it was quite
unremarkable.

‘I was born in Hammersmith, London, on the fourteenth of
August nineteen forty-five – a memorable day for many, given that it marked the
armistice. But for our little family, the day was notable only for the fact
that there was yet another mouth to feed. Already my mother had seven children,
by six different men – all of whom were too fond of the whiskey and the belt
and none of whom bothered to stick around much beyond conception – and another
four children would follow after me.

‘We lived in a two-bedroomed terraced house, my brothers and
my sister and my mother. It was very cramped, and initially my bed was the
bottom drawer of the dresser. My mother took in sewing now and again, but
otherwise she relied on her children to bring an income into the family. And
so, from an early age, I became rather adept with a needle and thread, and then
when I was fifteen I went out to work. I took up a position as a salesgirl in
London in a big department store, one of the longest-standing in the city – a
Tudor-style building in the West End on Regent Street.’

‘Liberty?’ I asked.

‘Yes. You know it?’

‘My mum used to take us there. The window displays are like
works of art.’

‘Still? How wonderful! They were then too. I used to stand
outside after closing and gaze at them; such pretty trinkets… Anyhow, I had a
position in the ladies’ fashion department, and I loved it. It was the dawn of
the nineteen sixties, and fashion was transforming. I worked there for almost
three years. And then I met John. And everything changed.’

Evangeline paused to take a sip of tea, and I remember my
own cup, lying forgotten on the table.

‘John was a Cerulean, Scarlett,’ she explained. ‘He’d come
to Claim me. Oh, I disbelieved him at first, of course – just as you struggled
to accept Jude. But then I grew ill, and I saw what he could do, and well, by
that time I loved him. And so he Claimed me, and he brought me to Cerulea,
which the elders had just bought. Here, I met Sarah, who was Mother at the
time. And just like you, I went through a period of adjustment.

‘I had many long, happy years with John before he passed on
into the light. And then Sarah too passed on, and I was named her successor,
and eventually Nathaniel and I were committed. And here we are.’

She smiled at me, but her fingers, fiddling with her napkin,
betrayed that this story hadn’t been as easy to relate as she’d have me
believe. I didn’t know what to make of it. Evangeline, a Liberty girl? Well, it
explained her fashion sense, but it seemed so… ordinary. Likeable, even.

‘Thank you for sharing that with me,’ I said. ‘May I ask –
why were you named Mother?’

‘Well, my dear, it comes down to a vote. Democracy, of
course, is essential in any society, even one as small as this.’

‘Yes, of course,’ I thought, though I was reeling at her
words:
Democracy? Here?

‘I can see that you’re burning with questions over the
Cerulean history, as I was all those years ago when I first came here. Which
leads me neatly on to the main reason for our having this chat.’

I blinked at Evangeline. There was more? I wasn’t sure my
nerves could take much longer sitting here and trying not to put a foot wrong.

‘Your commitment ceremony, Scarlett. Are you looking forward
to it?’

‘Yes,’ I said immediately as I tried to fathom the new
direction of the conversation – what had the ceremony to do with Cerulean
history?

‘Well, dear, you know that I have all the arrangements in
hand, including Jude’s attire. But it hasn’t escaped my notice that you haven’t
returned the clothes catalogues I gave you with your selections. And we’ve just
a week, dear, now.’

I balked. She was right, of course, and it was stupid on my
part. Reluctance to choose an outfit may be equated with reluctance to go
through with the union at all. I’d even lied to Evangeline about it. But the
truth was, picking a dress – a wedding dress, essentially, although I wasn’t
expected to wear a big white meringue number – was something of a block for me.
I could wear the ring. I could choose chocolate sponge over vanilla for the
cake. I could pick roses for the bouquet. But the dress… nothing in the Next
catalogue was going to cut it.

‘Scarlett dear, it’s okay,’ said Evangeline in a honeyed
tone, her hand reaching out to squeeze mine. Her eyes, when I looked into them,
were kind.

‘I’m sorry, it’s just that I had a picture in my head of a
dress.’

‘There were no dresses to your liking, I take it?’ she said
astutely, and I sniffed a yes. ‘Tell me, dear, does the dress you want exist?’

‘Yes. I could buy it online. But –’

‘Well, good. Then we’re on the right track!’

I stared at her, confused.

‘Kikorangi, Scarlett. Our base on Dartmoor. I’ve been
thinking that you may like to visit with Jude for a day. There you can gain an
insight into how we bring up the boys, and you can sit in on a little history
lesson to fill those blanks in your knowledge – much more fun, surely, than me
droning on at you. And in the office there, we have an internet connection. So
you could order what you need.’

Shock rendered me speechless. She was letting me off the
island? And online?

Evangeline smiled at me. ‘And then, when you come back, you
must tell me all about the fashion sites you looked at.’

There was a subtle emphasis on the words
when you come
back
, enough to make me realise that this was a test: go to Kikorangi and
come back like a good little girl, and I’d earn her trust. Enough for her to
let me leave the island.

‘Thank you!’ I said. ‘Thank you. I’d love to go.’

‘Good! Excellent! Tomorrow, then. Better get those clothes
on order.’

Spontaneously, I stood and reached over the little table to
give her a hug. She breathed a quick ‘Oh’ but hugged me back.

A little flustered – what was it Jude had said about keeping
my cool? – I sat again and picked up my tea. With every sip I thought,
Tomorrow,
tomorrow, tomorrow.

The next half-hour passed amicably, with Evangeline sharing
with me some of her memories of the fashions of sixties’ London. It was only
after I said goodbye and hurried off to find Jude, head full of Mods and Mary
Quant and Carnaby Street, that it hit me: London. Evangeline had been Claimed
in London, she said, by a Cerulean named John. And yet, so I’d been told,
Ceruleans could not cross the Devonshire border.

I stopped still in the conservatory, out of sight of
Evangeline, out of sight of anyone. Who had told me we were restricted to Devon
and Cornwall? It was Jude, I remembered – here, on the island, but also back on
the mainland. Because when I’d run from Twycombe, run to Hollythwaite, over the
border, Jude had been forced to send Luke on my trail, because he couldn’t come
himself.

So either Jude or Evangeline was lying. And somehow, after
all this time with Jude, I couldn’t believe it was him. Which meant the lady in
the garden right now had wilfully lied to me about London. The thought didn’t
sit comfortably; she’d been so genuine and her stories had been so full of
colour.

No, I realised suddenly, she
hadn’t
lied to me. What
she had done was unthinkingly tell me the truth – and it was Jude and the other
Ceruleans who were in the dark. And if that were true, if Evangeline had
deceived them into believing they had to remain close at hand, what other
elements of this little way of life were based on lies?

With a name like Kikorangi, I expected the Cerulean home on
the mainland to be exotic, somehow. Treehouses, perhaps, in ancient woodlands.
Or a collection of primitive huts. Or a funky-coloured futuristic pad out of a
sci-fi flick. But Kikorangi was just a house. A gigantic one, it was true – but
otherwise nondescript: Victorian, redbrick, symmetrical, arched windows,
ivy-clad. You’d have thought I’d have learnt after the ‘Cerulea isn’t a realm on
a cloud but an island off Devon’ debacle…

Still, if the house was a disappointment to my expectations
of Cerulean life being mystical and magical, the mode of transportation we took
to reach it was not.

Of course, I’d Travelled before. It had been no boat or
plane that brought me to the island from Twycombe the day I died – it had been
Jude, in an instant, leaving poor Luke alone on the clifftop. But I had no
recollection of the journey. So today had been my first conscious encounter
with Travelling.

It went something like this:

Jude: You ready?

Me: As I’ll ever be. So, you gonna teach me how this
works?

Jude: Nope.

Me: Huh?

Jude: You don’t need to know.

Me: Says who?

Jude: You just don’t. Women don’t Travel.

Me: Can’t, or don’t?

Jude: Can we just have an outing without arguing over
semantics?

Me: Stop avoiding the –

[Jude grabs hand. Room blurs quickly to blue. Scene
refocuses to reveal large house set in gardens.]

That was it. One moment we were standing in Jude’s bedroom
on the island; the next we were on a tarmac drive somewhere, I assumed, on
Dartmoor. Jude was still standing. I was collapsed on my rear end, blinking up
at Kikorangi and having a
Woah!
moment.

‘We’re here,’ said Jude, turning to me, and then his gaze
fell and he saw me on the ground. He crouched beside me. ‘Scarlett?’

‘Yes,’ I breathed.

‘You okay? Dizzy? It’s a little disorientating when you
first Travel.’

Yes, I was dizzy. Head-spinning, heart-lurching, blurry-eyed
dizzy. But what did that matter – we were here! On the mainland! Off the
island!

‘We’re here! On the mainland! Off the island!’

Jude peered closely at my face. ‘Are you sick?’

Ignoring him, I pushed myself up quickly from the road and
stood.

‘Easy now!’ said Jude, who’d risen along with me and was now
propping me upright from behind.

‘Jelly legs,’ I muttered.

‘It’ll pass. Give it a moment.’

While we waited for my swimmy head to get with the
programme, Jude pointed out the sights.

‘That’s the main house, ahead. It was built as a sanatorium
in the eighteen hundreds, and then it was a lunatic asylum, and then a private
school, and then a convalescent home for recovering war veterans, and then a
school again. We bought it at auction in the sixties. It was already pretty
perfect for our needs – dorms, kitchen, dining room. We’ve added sports
facilities. See, over there, tennis courts, football pitch, cricket pitch; and
to the other side, that grey building is the sports hall – basketball court,
swimming pool, all that.’

‘It’s a lot like my boarding school,’ I said, stepping away
from Jude now that my legs had stopped trembling. ‘Millsbury Prep. Only that
was bigger. And we had a lacrosse field, not a cricket pitch.’

‘Well,’ said Jude, ‘it is a school, primarily. But many of
the guys choose to live here even once they finish their education.’

A man – grey haired and portly – emerged from the front door
of the house, waved energetically at us and gave his watch an exaggerated poke.

‘Coming!’ called Jude. He turned to me. ‘Go on. You’ll be
late.’

‘Late for what?’

But he just smiled mysteriously and said, ‘You’ll see. The
man at the door is Barnabas; he’s the headteacher here. He’ll look after you
today.’

‘You going somewhere?’

‘I have some things to do. I’ll come and find you later.’

When I didn’t move, he smiled at me. ‘Worried about spending
a day alone with a load of blokes, Scarlett?’

I thrust out my chin. ‘’Course not.’

‘Good.’ He nudged me forwards. ‘Off you go then.’

And so I went, up to the house, where Barnabas was waiting
with a warm handshake and a twitchy-eyed smile.

‘Delighted to meet you, Scarlett,’ he said. ‘No doubt Jude’s
told you all about me and the setup here.’

‘Er…’ I shot a look back at the driveway. Jude was gone.

‘Super!’ declared Barnabas. ‘Now before we go in – and we
really must hurry now – I’ll just warn you that the boys are rather excited
about your visit. A female visitor is something of a rarity here. They can be a
little… curious. But don’t mind them, they’re all good souls. Hah! Of course
they are, eh?’

He beamed at me and I banished bemusement from my face and
mirrored his expression.

‘Shall we, then?’ He held out the crook of his arm.

I took it, and together we stepped into Kikorangi. Inside, I
barely had a chance to register a large entrance hall with a wall of
haphazardly placed coat pegs before Barnabas propelled down a long corridor,
panting out observations all the way.

‘Such a wonderful day for a visit… been a good year since
the last one… Evangeline was so eager for you to see it… boys were up early
decorating the room… poor Michael had his work cut out supervising…’

Replying, it seemed, was not expected, so I said nothing,
just scanned the many, many portrait photographs of smiling boys on the wall
that we were sailing past at speed. Then we reached double doors at the end of
the corridor and Barnabas flung them open and thrust me into the room beyond.

It was a multi-purpose hall, I saw – tables and chairs were
stacked at the far end before gym apparatus folded back against the wall, and
at the opposite end was a curtained stage. Right now, the room’s allotted
purpose was one that was familiar to me from my school days: assembly. Around
the edges of the room sat men on standard-issue plastic chairs, and taking up
the floor space were rows of boys – all of them fixated not on the stage before
them but on me, this curious new arrival.

I gave a shaky smile of hello and was relieved when Barnabas
pressed me into a chair at the back, by the door, and then strode off towards
the stage. Many of the boys continued to stare at me and I focused on looking
around. Hands waving across the room caught my eye: David and, beside him,
Michael. I nodded to them and smiled, and looked on, to the front. Pinned to
the closed curtains across the stage were large painted letters spelling out
WELCOME.

‘Welcome, all!’ boomed Barnabas, who was by now
centre-stage. ‘Welcome, to this most wonderful of occasions.’

He waited expectantly. Most of the boys were looking his way
now, but a good few were still gawping at me.

‘Isaac, welcome,’ called Barnabas, and a dark-haired boy in
the row in front turned back to the stage.

‘Gideon, Mark, Jonah, Levi,
welcome
,’ said Barnabas,
and four more heads snapped round obediently.

‘Ah, good. Now, you know, of course, that we’ve come
together today to welcome a new member to our family.’

Somewhere near the front a high-pitched voice said, ‘But
she’s a
girl
.’ The way he intoned the last word, it might have been
synonymous with cow turd or alien or Elvis in drag.

Barnabas laughed. ‘
Thank
you, young Haran, but I am,
of course, referring to our new
boy
.’

Barnabas nodded at a man sitting to the left of the stage,
and I noticed now the little boy kneeling at his feet. Even from this distance,
his nerves were apparent – he was fretting with the sleeves of his jumper and
darting looks around the room. I recognised him, I realised, from the library
in Cerulea; the oldest of the learners there. Realisation dawned: this was his
naming ceremony, his transition from Cerulea to Kikorangi.

‘Come on, February. Don’t be shy – up you come, lad.’

I heard a boy somewhere near me say in a low voice, ‘I was a
February too.’

His friend beside him muttered back, ‘May, me.’

A low snigger. ‘You were called May? That’s girly, man.’

Little February climbed the stairs to the stage and stood
awkwardly at Barnabas’s side. Barnabas put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and
addressed him soberly.

‘Now, February, as is traditional for a naming ceremony,
today I will be giving you your new name, your
own
name, the name you
will be known by from here on. It’s been chosen, as always, from the Good Book
by our Mother, Evangeline.’

Barnabas addressed the room at large. ‘But as a refreshing
change from me wittering on, which some of you older ones so delight in
accusing me of doing’ – laughs at the back – ‘today I’m told that some of the
younger boys have prepared a little showpiece to convey our new friend’s name.
Boys?’

Barnabas beckoned and the first row of boys stood and, with
much whispering and giggling, arranged themselves into a line on the stage.
Each was hugging a sheet of card. They shifted about excitedly until a man to
the right said, ‘Off you go then, boys.’ Taking that as their cue, each boy
turned over his card and held it high above his head. On each was painted a
single letter, and I squinted to make out the word they were spelling.

BEFRUARY.

‘Eli, Solomon, swap places,’ hissed the teacher.

Two little boys prodded each other until their positions
were reversed.

FEBRUARY.

‘Now, young man,’ said Barnabas to the little boy at his
side, ‘are you ready to learn your name?’

February nodded eagerly, and on command the boys on stage
fell into a scrum and noisily and energetically rearranged themselves.

BEAR FURY.

Guffaws rang out from the older boys.

‘Boys!’ admonished the teacher sharply. ‘Remember your
positions! Just like we practised.’

They tried again.

A RUBY REF.

A boy near my feet slumped sideways with mirth. Barnabas was
staring at the cards, looking perplexed. The little as-yet nameless boy just
stood by, gaping, and I had the distinct impression he couldn’t even read the
words.

Red-faced, the teacher stood and mounted the steps to the
stage and began rearranging squirming boys manually. We passed through
FEAR
BURY
and
FAERY RUB
before order was established, with five boys
standing shoulder to shoulder and three more sitting cross-legged on the stage,
their cards down. The teacher nodded in satisfaction.

‘Ah, and there you have it,’ said Barnabas triumphantly,
stepping forward to read the final word. ‘Welcome, um…
Barry
?’

Barnabas and the teacher exchanged hasty words while
laughter rippled through the room and Barry looked around wide-eyed.

‘Right, slight mix-up on the name, it appears. Young man,
your given name is Baruch, meaning “he who is blessed” in Hebrew. But of
course, if you wish, we will call you, er, Barry for short.’

Cheers rang out through the room and Barry, seemingly
emboldened by the support, whispered something to Barnabas.

‘No, son, that’s
Barry
, not Harry. No
Barry
,
with a
B
. Not like the Potter boy at all.’

A boy in the front row put up his hand.

‘Yes, Isaac?’

‘He is a
little
like Harry Potter. He has magical
powers, after all. Travelling’s a bit like Disapparating, isn’t it?’

‘Well…’

‘But we’re better, ’cause we can heal without wands,’ piped
up another boy.

‘Oh – and go ’visible without that cloaky thing,’ added
another.

‘And we can raise the dead – like that Losopher Stone.’

‘
Thank
you, boys. That’s quite enough. And, Jonah,
you really must pay better attention in class – we do
not
raise the dead.
Cain, perhaps a recap on the basic Cerulean powers this week?’

The teacher who’d inadvertently christened the new boy Barry
nodded seriously.

‘And perhaps some new reading material for the boys other
than JK Rowling. Something a little less… magical.’

‘Already on it,’ nodded Cain. ‘I’ve just ordered copies of
The
Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
.’

‘Er, right… good.’

By now, I was struggling to maintain an expression of
mature, dignified interest and I could feel a smile quirking at the corners of
my mouth. If this was an indication of life at Kikorangi, I was getting an
impression of benign chaos.

‘Right, if you’ll be seated,
Barry
, along with your
classmates, we can move on. To
Our Story
, boys.’

The transformation in the atmosphere of the room created by
those emphasised words could not have been more dramatic. Gone in an instant
was the wriggling and whispering and wandering eyes – each boy quietened. The
boys on stage, Barry among them, trooped quickly and quietly down the steps to
sit at the front. Even the older lads at the back quit poking each other and
biting their fingernails and picking at pimples, and sat up straight and still.

‘David, I believe you’re reading for us today?’ said
Barnabas.

We all watched him make his way to the stage. In his hands
he held a slim hand-bound book that was worn and faded. At the lectern he
paused for a moment, as though waiting for a hush to fall on the room, but it
was already filled with respectful silence. The weighty expression on his face
was so far removed from the smiles all round since the start of assembly – I
looked about to see everyone else looked similarly serious. Clearly, it was no
jolly fairy tale he was about to narrate.

He opened the book and cleared his throat and began to read
in a clear, confident voice.