The Water Children - Anne Berry

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carved, wooden headboard, and a deep mattress that looked perfect for bouncing on. Above was a large skylight with the morning brightness flooding through it. The floor was cosy with colourful blankets, the walls banked up with cushions and pillows.

      ‘This is our den. Strictly private. I told Simon. Mummy let me take practically all the spare bedding and cushions for it. And at night we’ll be able to lie in bed and look at the stars. We can tell each other stories about the people who live on the different planets, describe them to one another, make up names for them. It’ll be terrific.’ There was a long pause while Catherine just stared, floor to bed, bed to skylight, skylight to floor, floor to bed. She thought she might cry. But Rosalyn wasn’t having any of that rubbish. ‘Well, put me out of my agony. It took ages to get it just right. Do you like it?’ she asked, giving Catherine a nudge with a swing of her bent arm. Catherine turned to her.

      ‘I love it. It’s better than perfect,’ she breathed solemnly, and then they were off giggling again.

      ‘I think we should try out the bed,’ Rosalyn suggested, her shoes already off. ‘Check out the springs. See who can remember the most. I’ve got heaps of new American ones.’

      It was a favourite game. They clambered onto the mattress, straightened up, holding onto each other like two fragile old ladies who’d had one tipple too many, and started to leap as high as they could, bumping frequently.

      ‘A free glass. Yours for the price of Duz,’ yelled Rosalyn, her hair flying across her face.

      ‘Caramel Wafers by Gray Dunn, a crunchy treat for everyone,’ retorted Catherine through her chuckles.

      ‘Get that lovely, lively, Lyril feeling,’ crooned Rosalyn into a make-believe microphone.

      ‘Spirella, they’ll like the way you look,’ Catherine thundered back.

      The words of the jingles kept pace with their jumps.

      ‘You’re never alone with a Strand.’ Again her cousin mimed, only this time elegantly smoking.

      ‘Diana – the big picture paper for girls!’ sang back Catherine.

      ‘Cadum for Madam. Cadum for Madam.’ Now Rosalyn set about lathering up her face with an imaginary bar of soap.

      ‘Rinso white, Rinso bright,’ Catherine broke off to rub her hands. ‘Happy little washday song!’

      ‘Wake up your liver with Calomel,’ panted Rosalyn.

      Rosalyn won in the end, but Catherine didn’t mind. She’d kept going for ages and had acquitted herself fairly well, she thought.

      ‘You’re getting really good,’ complimented Rosalyn, not in a patronizing way either, and Catherine blushed at the compliment.

      Eventually they fell over in a tangled heap, their heads still spinning, laughing hysterically until Catherine’s tummy felt sore. And just when they were calming down, Rosalyn got them both going again, because she squealed that she was going to wet herself if they didn’t stop. Then, as though attached at the hip, they rolled onto their backs and stretched out like stars. Rosalyn’s arm lay across Catherine’s chest. Catherine’s leg lay over Rosalyn’s thighs. They shared a sublime sigh. Catherine took stock of her cousin with a sideways glance. She was the same but different. Taller, yes, and she seemed to be growing into her athletic build: long legs, broad shoulders, her mother’s classic facial bone structure. She had cut her black hair. It was a blue-black shade she had inherited from her father. As the light fell on it, the dark tresses shimmered with traces of purple, green and gold. It suited her, gave an impish, gamine quality to her face. And the blue eyes, well, they had grown more dazzling, more full of merriment, more mischievous.

      Later on in the afternoon Stephen arrived on his motorbike. He roared up the drive looking more like James Dean than ever, and they rushed out to meet him. For ages, still sitting on his bike and rocking it to either side, then rolling it forward half a foot and back again, he held court. Simon was terribly impressed. He hunkered down, peered interestedly at the mechanics of the thing, and kept asking questions. Rosalyn and Catherine struck a haughty pose, their weight on one hip each, regarding Stephen coolly, until he offered to give them rides up and down the drive. Then in a second they lost all their contrived composure, and hopped about as though an electric current was pulsing through their veins.

      As Rosalyn had ordered, all continued without a hitch. A walk in the woods, filling bags with snippets of prickly, dark-green holly studded with blood-red berries, collecting knobbly fir cones and spruce boughs that smelt of pine sap, to deck the house. Rosalyn storytelling in their tree-house retreat, which enchantingly had its own dear ceiling light. Tea of toad-in-the-hole, crispy batter pudding and sausages that were cooked just right. Television – a double episode of Supercar. A bubble bath, where they fashioned wigs and moustaches of sparkling soapsuds. And then, Catherine, not minding about her tartan ladybird pyjamas with the elasticized wristbands, because Rosalyn didn’t even seem to see them as they lay in bed in the enchanted darkness, star gazing.

      Rosalyn told Catherine all about America, her school and her friends, and how terrible the assassination of John Kennedy had been last month, in Dallas, Texas, and that everyone was dreadfully sad about it. And Catherine managed a short extempore speech about her own school, in which she made up a friend called Karen, who had her own horse which she rode on weekends.

      Even Christmas Day, notorious for scenes in Catherine’s experience, with her mother feeling so put upon, went well. Everyone lent a hand cheerfully, the seasonal songs tra-la-la-ing from the radio. The snow fell on Boxing Day and quilted the scenery in virgin white, so that it looked like a sparkling picture on a Christmas card. Catherine wasn’t sure whose idea it was to go for a walk, perhaps even find out if the pond that was too large for a pond and too small for a lake, had frozen over. They left their mothers nattering in the kitchen, peeling vegetables and preparing lunch, their fathers, in the lounge having a serious discussion about something called the Profumo affair, and debating whether or not a Labour government would get in next year, and Simon transfixed by Stephen tinkering with his motorbike in the garage.

      For a while it felt like they just walked aimlessly. It had turned a good deal colder and they were both bundled up in coats, gloves and scarves, Rosalyn wearing a red beret that looked so dramatic against her shiny black hair. They found their way to the end of the drive, then to the end of the lane, pausing to throw snowballs at one another. They discussed making a snowman that very afternoon, getting the boys to help. Then Rosalyn mentioned the pond again and they set off more purposefully this time, pushing their way through the copse that bordered the lane, sending the canopy of snow scattering in little flurries. For a short distance the growth was fairly dense. Dry, frosty twigs snapped with sharp reports as they shouldered their way through. A robin looked on inquisitively when Catherine tripped into a hollow hidden by the lambent carpet. But she wasn’t hurt and she was quick to assure Rosalyn of it, and to dismiss her suggestions that they turn back. The sky had a yellowish tint to it that possibly meant more snow. The low sun had not yet broken through the layers of clouds. The uneven ground they trudged over with its mounds and dips, looked like a lunar landscape with, here and there, a skeletal tree throwing up its bony branches in desolation.

      It was very quiet. The snow seemed to soundproof the setting, so that they had that shut-off feeling Catherine had known when Stephen had taken her to a recording studio. They were a long way from the lane now, a long way from the house in its relatively deserted location, a long way from the main road, from cars, from people. Catherine was dimly aware of a shift in both of their demeanours. The casual wandering had become a determined trek, the destination they sought was the pond. It was unthinkable to them now that they should retrace their steps and abandon the mission. Like mountaineers seeking the summit of a challenging peak, or arctic explorers following a planned route in rigorous conditions, turning back was not an option. Their conversation had grown sporadic, then hiccupped into a quiet that neither wanted to break.

      They were still, more or less, walking companionably side by side, one slipping down a small slope and then speedily clambering upright again, the other circumventing a split tree-trunk and bending to brush snow off her boots, then the

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