Free By Any Other Name by Laura Jarratt

Treliske Cove, could make me excited on a grey winter’s day at home in London. Being here in the afternoon sunshine, with a warm breeze stirring my hair and the seagulls
diving from the cliffs to the glinting sea, that was paradise. And tucking up tight under the handmade quilt in the little bed under the eaves in my room in the cottage, all snug and sleepy and
smelling of fresh air and sea – that was the very best feeling in the world. Or was that waking in the morning when the sun came up, and snatching up a swimsuit to pad my way down the steep
cliff steps to the bay, where I’d swim in the sea and hope to see a dolphin offshore?
    Katie finally got tired of swinging and hopped off the old tyre to play on her trike. I took her place and swung lazily, letting my feet trail through the long grass. The cotton curtains
fluttered in the open casement window of Katie’s room and there was a bird perched on the windowsill of mine, something tiny like a chaffinch. The cottage was painted stone with bright green
windows and doors. It looked like the definition of happiness to me.
    The chaffinch took to the air and I followed its path over the field of grass mixed with wild flowers to the cottage on the other side of the fence, a twin of ours, but rented out whereas we
owned ours. At the moment, it was occupied by another family from London. Mum had spoken to them; I hadn’t. She went over to welcome them when they arrived a couple of hours after us.
Apparently they owned a place in Hampstead, which meant they were worth serious megabucks. Mum said there was a woman about her age and her daughter, who looked a year or so older than me, but her
husband was joining them later – he was dealing with a problem at work. The woman – Natalia, said with a Russian accent that was hardly noticeable until she told Mum her name –
looked weary, as if that happened a lot.
    The daughter’s name was Katya, but Mum said she seemed very quiet. I could see she was working up to sending me round there to be sociable with her so I’d made a hasty exit. I took
my violin to the bottom of the orchard to practise so I missed the rest of the gossip. But playing under the old apple trees was another piece in the paradise jigsaw of this place.
    As I gazed across the field to their cottage, I could see a face in the window. It was the girl. Pretty, with long, light brown hair and a pale oval face. Her Russian heritage showed, I thought,
in the set of her eyes and cheekbones. She looked what Mum would call ‘quietly expensive’.
    Katie and I had been out here in the sunshine for most of the day; the Russian girl hadn’t set a toe outside. How could you come on holiday to a place like this and stay cooped up in the
house? I thought about waving to her, but something about her expression stopped me and I looked away.
    When I turned back, she was gone. I shrugged and watched Katie playing race tracks on her tricycle along the lines I’d flattened in the long grass for her that morning.
    The roasting chicken smell from the kitchen was making my mouth water. ‘Katie,’ I called, ‘last time round now. It’s nearly time for dinner.’
    ‘
Rrrroooommmm-rrrooommmm
,’ she called as she pedalled past furiously.
    I laughed and got up to cut off her path if she tried to go round again, holding her discarded cardigan out as a flag for the finish line. She leaned in on the corners like she’d seen the
racing drivers do on TV when she and Dad watched motor sport, making her
rroommm
-ing noises on the straight stretches where she could accelerate, her little legs whirring round until finally
she was on the home stretch speeding towards me.
    I give the commentary. ‘And it’s Katie Drummond in pole position . . . can she hold on? She’s nearly there . . . it doesn’t look like anyone can beat her now . . . and .
. . and . . . YES, YES, YES . . . it’s Katie Drummond finishing first . . . the WINNER!’
    Katie pulled her trike up and