Free North of Nowhere by Liz Kessler Page A

promise.”
    Mom put her arm around my shoulders as we walked back up to the beach. “I’m sorry, darling,” she said. “I didn’t mean to get so angry. It’s just — when I saw you on the boat like that, I imagined something terrible happening to you. I can’t lose you as well.”
    At that, her voice cracked and I wrapped an arm around her. “You’re not losing
anyone,
” I said fiercely.
    She swallowed hard and wiped a hand across her cheek. “Thank you, sweetheart,” she said. Then she linked her arm through mine. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get back to your gran.”
    Back at the pub, Gran had made us some lunch. We ate in silence for a while.
    Gran was the first to break it. “We need to pull ourselves together,” she said, putting down her knife and fork and folding her arms. “We’ve got a pub to run. We’ve got lives to get on with. We need to have some faith, some belief. So I’ve decided. We’re not going to worry anymore. We’re to believe he’ll come back. Agreed?”
    “OK,” I said.
    “Agreed,” Mom added. I got up and stood in between them, and the three of us joined arms. Soon we were hugging and smiling and holding on to one another just long enough to let each other know that, in our hearts, we didn’t ever want to let go.

He pulled up to the jetty and moored up on the ring at the end. Slipping the key into its usual hiding place, he hauled his catch off the boat. It wasn’t easy. The swell had raged earlier, but suddenly calmed somewhere along the way. He took that as a good sign.
    The size of his catch was an even better sign. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a run like this.
    He’d argued with his wife and his daughter before he left home, but, oh, boy, he’d make it up to them when he got back. They’d have the finest oysters tonight. He’d buy them with the money he was about to earn at the auction.
    Itching with anticipation, he carried his box around to the auction house. He marched straight up to the scales where the fishermen’s catches were weighed in.
    “Morning, Charlie — how about this, then?” Frank said, smiling as he heaved his box onto the scales. But as he looked up, the smile froze on his face. “You’re not Charlie,” he said.
    “Who’s Charlie?” the man at the weigh-in asked.
    Frank laughed. “Who’s Charlie? He’s only worked here as long as I can remember!”
    The man shrugged. “Weigh-in’s been my job the last four years.”
    Frank stared at the man. Then he laughed again — only not quite so confidently this time. “Hey, it’s a joke, isn’t it?” he said.
    The man stared back. “Do you want your catch weighed or not?”
    Frank hesitated, mouth open. He couldn’t think of anything to say. Eventually he nodded.
    The man weighed Frank’s fish and wrote a number on a piece of paper. “You’ll be in auction number three,” he said. “Starts at two. Good catch there, buddy.”
    As the man turned to his next customer, Frank stumbled away from the scales. What was going on? Where was Charlie?
    He looked around the auction house, searching for a friendly face who could solve his puzzle — or tell him who the practical joker at the scales was.
    But he couldn’t see a friendly face. Well, no. That wasn’t strictly true. The faces were friendly enough, just not familiar. Nearly fifteen years he’d been coming here, and he knew almost all the fishermen in the area. But not today.
    He didn’t recognize a single one.
    Frank stumbled to the benches at the back of the auction house. He sat down, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped his forehead. It was dripping with sweat; his hands were shaking.
    What was going on? Why didn’t he know anyone?
    What was wrong with him?

Saturday morning I was wide-awake before Mom or Gran or any of the guests. After tossing and turning for half an hour, I got up and sneaked downstairs. Flake wagged his tail lazily when he saw me.
    “Come on, let’s go out,” I said, grabbing