Read Online The Drowning by Valerie Mendes - Free Book Online

. . . Don’t burn your boats.”
    “It’s too late. I’ve written to the Academy. I’ve rung Aunt Tamsyn. I’ve told Helen. All my boats burnt in the harbour last night. Better than fireworks.”
    “I can’t believe you’re going to throw all your talent down the drain.”
    Jenna dipped her knees in a curtsy, like the one the girls always gave Leah at the end of a lesson. “Thank you, Miss Leah. I’ll leave you to your class.”
    She pushed through the semicircle of four-year-olds. Once, she’d been exactly like them: hopping up and down, longing to dance, twirling and spinning, clutching Imogen’s hand, hugging Morvah, frothing with excitement.
    Not any more.
    She wrenched open the door, let it fall shut behind her. She started to walk along the road, either side of her the summer fields of Lelant: on and on, the dying sun warm on her skin, the breeze in her hair, the dust of the road gathering on her shoes.
    Nobody could see her tears and nobody heard her cry.
    In Carbis Bay she stood wearily at a bus stop, wiped her face, waited until the bus arrived to take her back to St Ives.
    Then she walked slowly down the hill, into the town.
    I don’t want to go home.
    Dad will be clearing the tea room. He’ll be hot and tired, too tired to talk. He’ll need my help. Another pair of hands,that’s all I am.
    Mum will be shut in her room.
    There’ll be nothing for me but the same endless chores,day in, day out . . .
    She glanced across to the harbour. The tide had been sucked out to its furthest point. The wet sand lay smooth and flat, glistening in grey-green swirls beneath the setting sun. Small battered fishing boats perched, surprised and waterless, like stranded fish.
    She found herself moving into the harbour, across the sand, towards the soft, frilly edges of the sea.
    I can’t even bear to look at Porthmeor Beach . . . The pain of remembering what happened seems to get worse.
    But in St Ives, there’s no getting away from the sea . . . I’m surrounded by it . . . Porthminster Beach, this harbour, Porthgwidden Beach.
    To get away from the waves that swallowed Benjie, I’d have to leave Cornwall . . . Maybe that’s what I should do . . . Disappear out of everyone’s life for good . . .
    She turned to retrace her steps, her head down.
    As she neared the shore, the scent of the town wafted towards her: the sharp, high stink of fish, the pungent oily smell of chips, meat pasties smouldering in their ovens, the seductive, sugary perfumes of Cornish ice cream and heavy slabs of fudge.
    Suddenly, for the first time in weeks, hunger bit into her stomach, making her feel faint with longing. She could not remember the last time she and Dad had managed a square meal.
    Promptly at eleven o’clock the next morning, Leah whooshed into the tea room, her cheeks flushed, her hair flying. She grabbed a corner table by a window.
    She looked up at Jenna. “I can’t let you do this, throw everything away, without putting up a fight. It’s still not too late.”
    “It is too late. I told you yesterday—”
    “Jenna,listen to me. You could ring the Academy. Tell them you’ve made a mistake. I’ll ring them for you. I’ve spoken to the Head of Dance before. I’m sure she’d—”
    “Tea or coffee?” Jenna asked doggedly. “And how about a fresh saffron bun?”
    Leah flicked back her hair. “I don’t want anything except five minutes of your time. Surely your dad will give me that.”
    Jenna’s shoulders slumped.
    “If you wanted to be a painter or a sculptor or a writer,” Leah said quietly, so that the elderly couple at the next table, however much they tried, could not overhear, “I wouldn’t be making such a fuss. You can paint or write at any stage of your life. But you want to dance—”
    “ Did want.”
    “This is me you’re talking to, remember? You want to be a dancer and you’ve only got one chance. If you don’t train now, if your body doesn’t get used to the right exercises every single