The One E-Book

Heinrich Päs

• Herausgeber: Icon Books
• Kategorie: Wissenschaft und neue Technologien
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 338

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

In The One, particle physicist Heinrich Päs presents a bold idea: fundamentally, everything in the universe is an aspect of one unified whole. This idea, called monism, has a rich 3,000-year history: Plato believed that 'all is one', but monism was later rejected as irrational and suppressed as a heresy by the medieval Church. Nevertheless, monism persisted, inspiring Enlightenment science and Romantic poetry. Päs shows how monism could inspire physics today, how it could slice through the intellectual stagnation that has bogged down progress in modern physics and help science achieve the 'grand theory of everything' that it has been chasing for decades. Blending physics, philosophy, and the history of ideas, The One is an epic, mind-expanding journey through millennia of human thought and into the nature of reality itself.

Leseprobe

i

ii

iii

iv

v

I wrote this one for me. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed imagining it! Marie-Louise X

vi

vii

viii

Contents

Title PageDedicationMap123456789101112131415161718192021222324252627282930313233343536373839404142On Midsummer’s Eve …AcknowledgementsAbout the AuthorCopyright

1

1

The cottage looked like one from a storybook. Roses rambled up the walls and wound themselves around a small circular tower, which grew from a corner like a mushroom on a tree. The late evening sunshine glinted off the latticed windows and lent a golden glow to the cream brickwork.

‘It’s very pretty,’ said the child standing at the gate.

Her name was Dilly Kyteler. She’d never been to this house before this very moment, and now she was going to live in it.

‘It is pretty,’ the woman beside her said, ‘though old houses can be dark and pokey inside.’

‘The door looks like an owl,’ Dilly said, tilting her head.

‘An owl?’ The woman, whose name was Claire Madden, squinted through her glasses. ‘I don’t see it.’

‘The windows are its big round eyes,’ Dilly said. ‘The knocker and letterbox are its beak. Those lines carved 2 there and there’ – she pointed left and right – ‘they’re its wings.’

‘Maybe,’ Claire Madden said, but she didn’t look convinced. ‘Owl or no owl, let’s go and knock on that door and get you inside your new home.’

Home.

For ten years Dilly’s home had been a cosy flat in Bristol. She’d never known her dad; it was always just Dilly and her mum, Poppy. Then, last year, Mum got sick, and five months later Dilly was alone. After that, ‘home’ was a house in the suburbs with temporary foster parents. Claire Madden, the social worker assigned to Dilly’s case, scoured the records for relatives who might take Dilly in. She’d eventually tracked down an aunt of Dilly’s mum, an aunt Dilly had never met, who lived on an island no one had ever heard of. This morning, as Dilly was trying to fasten her suitcase, she’d overheard Claire telling her foster mum how unfortunate it was that the only place she could find for Dilly was on a godforsaken island in the middle of the Celtic Sea, living with a cantankerous middle-aged woman who hadn’t even bothered attending her niece’s funeral.

Cantankerous? Dilly wasn’t entirely sure she knew what the word meant but it didn’t sound good. She’d imagined that having a grand-aunt would be almost like having a grandmother. She’d been excited about 3 having her own family again. Now she wondered if there was a chance her mother’s aunt wasn’t happy to find herself lumped with a ten-year-old grandniece she’d never met before. Maybe Claire Madden had caught her grand-aunt on a bad day? Dilly hoped so, because she had nowhere else to go.

The journey to Ollipest Island had involved a train trip and two ferries. Claire had been peaky on the first boat and violently ill on the second, so their roles had reversed and Dilly had ended up minding her minder. When they finally reached Ollipest Harbour at seven o’clock in the evening, they discovered that Tail End Cottage – their final destination – was two miles away. The only way to get there was to walk. Claire had taken hold of Dilly’s wheelie suitcase in one hand and Dilly in the other, and turned to face the road out of the port with the grim determination of a seagull flying into a storm. The colour returned to her cheeks as they walked, and now she seemed more like the brisk-but-kind woman Dilly had come to know.

‘Come on, then,’ Claire said as she ushered Dilly ahead of her along the garden path. At the doorstep they arranged the bags in an orderly pile and looked for a doorbell. When they couldn’t find one, Claire took hold of the brass knocker and clapped it sharply three times.4

‘Please, please, may there be a cup of tea and something to eat on the table,’ she said. ‘My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.’

‘Tea would be nice,’ Dilly said, touching the door-knocker beak with her fingers. ‘But what I really wish for is a dog. Mum always promised we’d get one once we moved to a house. Do you think there’s any chance that Grand-Aunt Florence owns a dog?’

‘If she does, she didn’t mention one in her letter, love,’ Claire said. She suddenly seemed as nervous as Dilly, and her attempt at a reassuring smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

The door opened so abruptly they both jumped. A tall woman with a stern face regarded them from a gloomy hallway.

‘Yes?’ she said. Her eyebrows were raised, as if she was surprised – and not particularly pleased – to see them.

‘Miss Kyteler?’ Claire said.

‘Ms,’ the woman said. ‘Ms Kyteler. You, I presume, are Claire Madden, of Bristol Social Services, and you’ – she stared down at Dilly – ‘are my grandniece, Dill Kyteler.’

‘Dilly,’ said Dilly, determinedly pushing the wobble out of her voice. She had imagined that her grand-aunt would look like an older version of her mother, but she didn’t. Not at all. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe 5it would be hard if this rather cross woman looked like Mum, Dilly thought, unaware that she was answering her grand-aunt’s frown with an identical one of her own. ‘My name is Dilly,’ she said again. ‘It’s very nice to meet you, Grand-Aunt Florence.’

‘Perhaps we might drop the “grand”. Plain “Aunt Florence” will suffice,’ said the woman. ‘Come in.’

She stood aside, waved them through and shut the door, plunging them into semi-darkness. She must have flicked a switch because lamps began glowing, revealing a short corridor with several doors and a stairway. The walls, ceiling and stairs were covered in warm chestnut panelling, and a bunch of dull-looking men and women were bestowing vacuous smiles on Dilly from the paintings that hung along both sides of the corridor.

‘My ancestors,’ Aunt Florence said as she led Dilly and Claire past the portraits. ‘Our ancestors,’ she said, correcting herself. She looked back at Dilly. ‘I see you have the auburn hair of the Kytelers. Mine was the match of yours once.’ She touched a hand to her silver bun. ‘And you have grey eyes, another family trait.’

Dilly frowned. As far as she could see, everyone in the paintings had hair the exact colour of a house mouse and eyes the shade of old tealeaves. She was about to say so but Aunt Florence was studying her 6 intently, as if waiting to be contradicted. Dilly smiled politely and said, ‘Oh.’

‘Humph,’ said Aunt Florence. ‘Ms Madden, your letter said you require accommodation for tonight. As I don’t have room for you here, I’ve booked you into The Thirsty Wurme. It’s a very acceptable establishment in the centre of town and much more convenient for your return journey on tomorrow’s ferry.’

Dilly was dismayed by this announcement. She’d expected to have Claire with her until morning, to help her get to know her aunt a little and settle into her new home. Aunt Florence didn’t appear to notice the consternation she’d caused. She turned and opened the door at the end of the corridor, motioning them to pass through ahead of her while she stopped to straighten a vase. Dilly and Claire found themselves in a big kitchen with large windows and glass doors through which they could see the sea.

‘Tea!’ sighed Claire, catching sight of the table.

It was set for three people and laden with plates of sandwiches, scones and a painter’s palette of pretty cupcakes. A slab of golden cheese sat on a platter, surrounded by crackers. There were little jars of jam and honey, and the butter was arranged in fancy curls in a glass dish. A round teapot steamed happily in the middle of the table and a jug of cold 7 milk stood beside it. Dilly had never seen such an amazing spread.

Aunt Florence must have been baking all day, she thought. Maybe she’s not as irritated by my coming as she seems?

‘There’s no time for tea, Ms Madden,’ Aunt Florence said, following them into the room. ‘You’ll need to set off right away if you’re to reach Wurmston by nightfall—’

She stopped quite still and stared at the spread on the kitchen table as if she hadn’t expected it to be there. Her head barely turned, but Dilly saw her glare down the corridor in the direction of the front door. ‘Well, I suppose there’s no use for it,’ her aunt said. ‘Eat, if you must.’

What an odd thing to say, Dilly thought. What other use could there be for this huge table full of food? She was seriously hungry, so she did what she was told, and Claire did the same. The tea tasted just as good as it looked. After sampling a bit of everything, the social worker leaned back and cleared her throat.

‘So, Ms Kyteler – or may I call you Florence?’ she said, adjusting her glasses on her nose.

‘You may not,’ Aunt Florence said. ‘Are you finished?’

‘Finished what? Eating? Speaking?’ Claire exchanged confused looks with Dilly.8

‘Either. Both.’ Aunt Florence stood up.

Claire stayed seated with half a cupcake hovering in her hand. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘there are some gaps in the information around Dilly’s future schooling that I’d like to get to the bottom of before I leave—’

‘Contact me by post,’ Aunt Florence said. She leaned across the table, whisked Claire’s cup, saucer and plate away and deposited them in the large sink behind her. ‘The sun will go down shortly, Ms Madden.’ Aunt Florence nodded to the view beyond the windows where the sky was blushing. ‘There are no streetlights at this end of the island – not a single one for over a mile. I really must insist you leave now and begin your walk back to town.’ She whipped the half-eaten cupcake out of Claire’s hand, picked up another, plus two scones, and plonked them into a large napkin. She pulled the corners of the napkin together and tied them in a knot. ‘Here,’ she said, handing the bundle to a startled Claire. ‘You may take your confounded tea with you.’

Dilly flinched at her aunt’s brusqueness and stumbled to her feet while Claire hurriedly pulled on her jacket and grabbed her bag. Another goodbye. The day had been a big rush of goodbyes – goodbye to her foster parents, goodbye to her friend Jill, goodbye to Bristol, goodbye to England. Now she had to say goodbye to Claire Madden. She ran after her aunt as she bustled 9 Claire back down the narrow corridor towards the owl door. At the last moment the social worker dug in her heels and came to a halt. Dilly squeezed past Aunt Florence and ran into Claire’s arms.

‘Write to me,’ the woman said. ‘Anytime, for anything. A letter, or an email if there’s such a thing as a computer here. Promise me you will.’

‘I promise,’ Dilly said. She blinked back tears, not because she knew Claire so very well, but because, at this moment, here on this island, Claire was the only person she knew. Claire let her go and stepped out of Tail End Cottage. At the gate she turned and waved. Dilly waved back, then Claire walked away up the hill and was gone. 

10

2

Dilly felt Aunt Florence’s hand on her shoulder.

‘Let me show you around the house,’ the woman said, and she led Dilly back inside the cottage and closed the door. ‘This is Dame Alice.’ She pointed to a painting of an elderly woman with a sweet-but-silly expression on her face and a small fluffy dog in her arms. ‘And this is her granddaughter, Fennel.’ She pointed to the next painting, where a younger woman looked as if she was about to drop off to sleep. ‘They came to Ollipest from Ireland in 1324. Fennel Kyteler built this house.’

Aunt Florence opened the door beside Dilly. ‘This is the parlour. I use it for my work, so I would be obliged if you’d leave it to me and never enter it when I am not there.’

Dilly nodded and peered inside. There were flower patterns everywhere – on the curtains, on the armchairs, twining up and down the walls. The only plain thing in the room was the dark writing desk in front of the window. She was surprised Aunt Florence 11could work in a room that was so crowded, so flowery, and so, well, pink. Her aunt didn’t seem like a flowery type of person. Or remotely pink.

‘What sort of work do you do?’ Dilly asked.

‘I’m writing a … cookery book,’ Aunt Florence said. Her eyes drifted away from Dilly momentarily and her smile seemed oddly forced. ‘A collection of, um, traditional Ollipest recipes.’

‘Are you going to put in the cupcakes we had for tea?’ said Dilly. ‘They were amazing.’

‘I didn’t bake them, so no,’ said Aunt Florence.

Dilly was about to ask who had made them but her aunt closed the door to the parlour with a snap, crossed the corridor and opened the door on the other side. ‘Mind the steps,’ she said, motioning Dilly in.

As Dilly walked down into the room it slowly brightened before her in the same way the corridor had done earlier. The walls were lined with books, shelf beside shelf above shelf below shelf of books. Dilly drew in her breath and held it, and she got the strangest notion that the room was holding its breath too.

‘A library!’ she exclaimed. ‘You own a whole library! How lucky you are, Aunt Florence.’

Fruuuufffffffffffff!

Dilly felt the sound as much as heard it. The whisper bounced around the walls and small puffs of dust 12skittered from every shelf as though a thousand books had simultaneously shivered. She turned to her aunt for an explanation.

‘Wind down the chimney,’ Aunt Florence said, shrugging. ‘Old houses creak and grumble, much like old people. Do you like to read?’

‘Yes,’ said Dilly. ‘I’ve always liked reading, but since Mum died, I think I’ve liked it even more. When I’m reading, real life doesn’t seem so hard.’

Aunt Florence’s grey eyes softened a little. ‘That’s understandable,’ she said.

Dilly stepped towards the nearest bookcase. This was amazing. There were books of every shape and size. But when she looked closer, she saw that each book was old and covered in dull brown leather. There were definitely titles on the spines, but – perhaps it was the dusky light, or maybe her eyes were tired – Dilly couldn’t tell what any of the words said.

A horrible thought struck her. No, no, no. That could never be. That would be too awful. What would even be the point of a library if there were no—

‘Are there any children’s books?’ she said. ‘Or are all the books for grown-ups?’

‘You’ll have to find that out for yourself,’ said Aunt Florence with the merest hint of a smile. ‘But not tonight. Come, child. Time to see your bedroom.’

13They left the library and the lights dimmed behind them.

‘Where will I go to school? In town?’ Dilly asked as they climbed the stairs. ‘Do I start tomorrow or Monday?’ Please make it Monday, she thought, crossing her fingers behind her back.

‘There’s no school on the island. Not anymore,’ said Aunt Florence. ‘There aren’t many children on Ollipest these days. I shall homeschool you myself.’

No school? Not many children? How would she make new friends if there were no children to make friends with? Dilly opened her mouth to say something but she was so stunned by this information she said nothing at all.

‘I suppose in Bristol you’d still have several weeks of term left, but we needn’t worry about school till September,’ Aunt Florence said. ‘If you don’t inform Ms Madden, neither will I. Not that she or Bristol Social Services have any jurisdiction here. Ollipest is an independent island. It works to its own rules.’

They’d reached the landing.

‘The upper rooms were added in the late seventeenth century by Basil Kyteler, your eighth great-grandfather,’ Aunt Florence said, indicating a sour-faced man in a nearby portrait.

Eighth great-grandfather, Dilly thought. That’s a 14lot of great-grandfathers. And Dame Alice came to the island in thirteen something-or-other, that’s a long time ago. Much too long ago to work out the maths of it in her head. She looked back down the line of paintings. She’d found herself a family, but all of them were dead. All except her and Grand-Aunt Florence.

On the landing there were four doors. Aunt Florence opened the nearest one and walked Dilly into a lovely bathroom. The sink and toilet were porcelain, and their bowls were both decorated with extravagant red roses. A deep bathtub squatted on two pairs of brass webbed feet, its taps shaped like the intertwined necks of life-size swans. Dilly smiled in delight and gently stroked their white heads, half expecting them to come to life and snap at her hands with their brass beaks.

‘Where does that lead?’ she asked, pointing to a door at the other end of the room.

‘Let’s see, shall we?’ her aunt said.

She pushed the door open. It led onto a wide balcony. Dilly and Aunt Florence crossed to the wooden railings. On the horizon, the sun was kissing the sea.

‘Those,’ Aunt Florence said, pointing to three little islands curling away from Tail End, ‘are Wag, Tag and Tarry. Wag can be reached on foot when the tide is out, but you must promise me you won’t attempt to go there 15alone, not until you’ve been here long enough to know the tides and respect the sea.’

Dilly nodded. She wasn’t sure which surprised her more: the idea that you could walk to an island at certain hours of the day, or that, sometime in the future, she might be allowed to do so on her own. Back home in Bristol she hadn’t been allowed to cross the street alone, and she was nearly eleven.

They watched the sun sink in silence. Dilly hoped Claire had walked very quickly and was near The Thirsty Wurme by now.

‘Darkness on an island is like no darkness you’ve ever seen before,’ Aunt Florence said, as if she’d heard Dilly’s thoughts. ‘But the advantage of real darkness is that it shows up the light more sharply, so you can also see the stars.’ She opened the double doors at the other end of the balcony. ‘This is my room.’

Dilly followed her into a bedroom dominated by a huge four-poster bed which had primrose yellow curtains falling from the canopy to the floor. A tall, dark wardrobe loomed over Dilly as she crossed the room. Something about it reminded her of her aunt, and she had to suppress a giggle.

Back out on the landing, two doors remained, one of which was particularly small and skinny, squashed between the others like an afterthought. Aunt Florence 16opened it and a naked bulb lit above them. Dilly saw that it wasn’t a room at all but a steep flight of stairs.

‘Those lead to the attic rooms,’ Aunt Florence said, ‘which are not currently in use.’ A wave of relief washed over Dilly as her aunt closed the door. The enclosed stairs looked intriguing but she was fairly certain she wouldn’t like to sleep in the attic. Then she had a thought. ‘Aunt Florence, couldn’t Claire have stayed—’

‘This is your room,’ Aunt Florence interrupted, opening the last door.

Dilly covered her mouth with both her hands to stop herself from squealing with delight. It was the tower room. She was going to sleep in a turret.

The room was small and round and perfect. A seat covered in plump cushions ran beneath the five slender windows. The bed had a half canopy above its tall headboard and the curtains were caught back from the pillows with wooden handles carved to look like ladybirds. The duvet cover was pale blue with a deeper blue pattern, which shimmered in the lamplight.

‘Are those dragons?’ Dilly said as she went over to the bed. ‘Oh no, they’re birds.’ She laughed at her mistake. One of Aunt Florence’s eyebrows twitched. For a second, her pale grey eyes stared hard into Dilly’s.

‘You’ve had a long day,’ she said at last. ‘I’ll fetch your bags.’

17‘I’ll help,’ said Dilly, and she ran back out onto the landing. To her surprise the bags were already piled neatly at the top of the stairs. I must be tired, she thought. I don’t remember Aunt Florence bringing them up.

‘Use the bathroom, brush your teeth,’ Aunt Florence said, stepping past Dilly to pick up the backpack. ‘I hope you sleep well on your first night in your new home.’

There was that word again: home. This is my home now, Dilly thought. But saying the words inside her head didn’t make it feel real. She wondered how her aunt felt about it. ‘Thank you for letting me come to stay with you,’ she said. ‘I’ll try not to be any bother.’

Aunt Florence smiled. ‘I am not as easily bothered as you might think,’ she said, wheeling Dilly’s suitcase into the turret room. ‘We shall rub along just fine, you and I. Goodnight, my dear. Sleep tight.’

Minutes later, snuggling down under the bird duvet, Dilly looked back over the day, which had begun in Bristol with some people who had been familiar and kind but not family, and ended in the middle of the Celtic Sea with someone who was family but seemed strange and unpredictable. Dilly didn’t know what to think of her aunt, but she’d make it her business to figure her out. Even if it took all summer long.

18

3

‘Wooo-hooo! Wooo-hoooo!’

Dilly had fallen asleep to the sound of waves. She woke to the sound of … an owl? She sat up in bed. It was morning. Chinks of light were peeping between the curtains. She heard the front door creak open below her.

‘Hallooo! Hallo?’ a loud voice called. ‘Are you abroad, Florence? It’s only me, come to meet the new arrival. I rang the bell.’

There was a doorbell after all! And the door was meant to look like an owl. Though Dilly couldn’t imagine the hooting doorbell being Aunt Florence’s idea. One of the people in the paintings must have had a sense of humour, she thought. She heard another door open, footsteps and a low murmur.

‘She’s never still abed? At nine o’clock of a morning?’ said the loud voice. ‘Ack, yes, I supposed a day’s travel would tire anyone, poor wee bairn.’

19More murmuring, more footsteps.

The voices moved along the corridor.

A door closed.

Dilly slipped out of bed and pulled on her clothes, went into the bathroom, whispered hello to the swan taps, splashed water on her freckles, brushed a little order into her shoulder-length curls, and went downstairs. She stopped for a moment outside the kitchen door. In her head she heard her mum say, ‘You’ve got this, Dilly,’ just like she had on Dilly’s first day at school. She counted to three and went in.

‘Halloooo!’ said the small, round woman sitting at the table. She was sampling one of the cupcakes left over from last night’s feast and her brown eyes twinkled at Dilly over a pile of purple frosting. ‘There you are. Welcome to Ollipest. We’re your nearest neighbours. My name is Digdee Early, and this is my grandson, Callum.’

Beside Digdee sat a boy with dark hair and even darker eyes. He nodded at Dilly without actually smiling. Last night Aunt Florence had said there were very few children on the island and here was one around her own age, sitting at the kitchen table.

We are going to be friends, thought Dilly. He and I are going to be friends.

‘I’m Dilly,’ she said, smiling brightly. ‘Do you live on the island?’

20‘No,’ said the boy. ‘I’m just staying with Gran for the summer.’ He frowned as he turned his head away to stare through the windows at the sea.

‘Dilly is a lovely name,’ Digdee said, reaching for another cupcake. ‘It’s so nice to see the tradition being upheld.’

‘What tradition?’ Dilly asked.

‘The Kytelers have always named their children for herbs and spices,’ said Aunt Florence, tossing teabags into a teapot. ‘You are named for dill, I’m named for Florence Fennel, your mother was named for poppy seeds.’

This was news to Dilly. Something she hadn’t known before. She could write it down in a notebook, maybe, gather stories about her mother’s family. That would be something. ‘I didn’t know that,’ she said. ‘About the names.’

Digdee’s eyes slithered towards Aunt Florence’s and back to Dilly. ‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘that here on the island it’s the women who give children their surnames? That’s why you’re a Kyteler and Callum here is an Early, like me. Your mother followed that tradition too, which is surprising, since she never set foot on the island herself, and her father never came back to it, once he left.’

‘Why? Why did Grandad leave Ollipest?’ Dilly said. ‘And why did my mum never visit?’

21Aunt Florence didn’t turn her head from the teapot. ‘People leave small places to go somewhere bigger. That’s just how things are. Your grandfather met your grandmother in Bristol, married, and never came back.’ She snapped the teapot lid down.

‘My goodness, but these cupcakes are scrumptious,’ Digdee said. ‘The maker hasn’t lost her touch.’ She took another one for herself and pushed the plate towards Dilly.

‘Thank you,’ Dilly said as she selected a pink one, which turned out to be raspberry with white chocolate chips. ‘They’re delicious. Who made them?’

Digdee froze and glanced at Florence. It was for barely a second, but Dilly noticed, and so, she thought, did Callum. Why were the two woman being odd about cupcakes? And last night, why had Aunt Florence referred to the spread on the table as Claire’s confounded tea, as if Claire was somehow responsible for it being there?

‘A patisserie chef over on Jersey made them,’ said Aunt Florence. ‘Bumbershoot’s Emporium ordered them in by mistake, so enjoy them because we’ll not be having them again.’

Digdee half smiled. She took a large bite out of the cupcake she had chosen. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Honey and … mmm, lavender. Divine. Cake for breakfast, aren’t we being spoiled?’

22‘Dog,’ said Callum.

‘What, dear?’ Digdee stared at the chocolate cupcake he was eating in alarm. ‘Did you say dog?’

‘Yes,’ said Callum. ‘There’s one outside.’

Dilly turned to look at the French doors. Sure enough, on the other side of the glass, stood a dog. A very tall, very thin, very wet dog. It was gazing directly in at her, wagging its long shaggy tail. She abandoned her cupcake and dashed across the kitchen, her heart thumping in her chest. A dog! A dog! A gorgeous, scruffy, sweet-faced dog! Just what she had wished for when she arrived.

‘Don’t let it in!’ Aunt Florence said. ‘Pay the creature no attention and it will go back to wherever it came from. Which is Wurmston, no doubt.’

‘Actually,’ said Callum, ‘it walked up the hill from the sea. I saw it come out of the water.’

‘I’ve never seen it before,’ Digdee said. ‘That’s an Irish Wolfhound. There hasn’t been one of those on Ollipest since, oh, 1977. You and I were only wee schoolgirls, Florence. That dog was called Riley, but he’s long gone.’

The dog stuck a large paw up against the door and whined. Dilly placed her hand on the inside of the glass and looked at her aunt.

‘Please can I say hello to him?’ she said. ‘I love dogs. I said to Claire last night that I wished you had one.’

23Digdee began to cough. ‘Don’t mind me,’ she said, waving a hand at them. ‘Just a cake crumb gone down the wrong way. Cah, cah, caahaah!’ She recovered herself. ‘Tell me, Dilly dear,’ she said. ‘Where were you standing when you, um … wished this wish?’

‘At the front door,’ Dilly said. Her hand was still pressed against the glass and her eyes were locked with the dog’s, but she heard Aunt Florence suck her breath in sharply.

‘It’s like I said, Florence.’ In the pane Dilly saw Digdee’s reflection raise her thick dark eyebrows and waggle them. ‘The maker hasn’t lost her touch.’

Aunt Florence glared at Digdee. She glared at the dog outside the window. She glared at the plate of leftover cupcakes. ‘Humph,’ she said. Then she rolled her eyes and said to Dilly, ‘Go ahead. If you must.’

Dilly whooped with delight and twisted the handle. The dog loped in without being asked. He stopped in the middle of the floor and shook himself, sending showers of seawater everywhere. The room filled with the pungent smell of damp fur as he sat in front of Dilly, swept the tiles with his long tail and opened his big jaws into a grin.

‘His eyes are green,’ Dilly said as she touched the dog’s face gently with one hand.

‘Of course they are,’ muttered Aunt Florence.

24‘They are,’ said Callum. He had come to stand beside Dilly and almost smiled at her as he reached out to let the dog sniff the back of his hand.

He likes dogs, thought Dilly. That’s good.

Aunt Florence took a notecard out of a drawer and wrote on it. ‘You and Callum walk to Wurmston, go into Bumbershoot’s Emporium and ask them to put this on their noticeboard.’ She handed the card to Dilly. ‘Buy a bag of dog food and a litre of milk while you’re there, please. Tell them to put them on my tab.’

Dilly read the note aloud. It said:

Irish Wolfhound, dark grey with white toes.

Possibly lost.

For further information, contact:

F. Kyteler, of Tail End Cottage.

Digdee raised her eyebrows, but only said, ‘Callum knows the way, dear. He’ll look after you, won’t you, Callum?’

The boy nodded. To Dilly’s relief he looked quite happy with the task. Aunt Florence plucked the last two cupcakes off the plate just as Digdee reached for one. She handed them to the children.

‘Off you go,’ she said. ‘And take that monster with you.’

25

4

The evening before, Dilly had been so distracted by thoughts of seeing her new home and meeting her grand-aunt that the road from the port had seemed endless and the land on either side of it had looked sullen and empty. This morning, walking with Callum and the gigantic lost dog, she saw fields full of sheep and cattle and wheat, whitewashed farms with red barns, narrow streams and small patches of woodland rolling away to the sea.

The sea. As far as she could see, to her left, to her right, there was sea. Wild and blue.

‘Which way is England?’ she asked Callum.

‘That way,’ he said, pointing more or less straight ahead. ‘Ireland is over there.’ He pointed to the left. France is that way.’ He swung his hand to the right and forwards. ‘On really clear days you can see the Scilly Isles from the highest windows in Wurmston. At least, that’s what Gran says.’ He nodded at the notecard 26Dilly was clutching. ‘Are you really going to give that to the Bumbershoots to put up in their shop? If you do, there’s a chance someone will claim him.’ He indicated the dog with his head. ‘If you don’t, you might get to keep him.’

Dilly bit her lip. The thought had occurred to her. ‘But if he’s lost, then someone’s missing him,’ she said. ‘It wouldn’t be fair. He must be fretting.’ She looked at the dog trotting beside her, his head almost level with her shoulder. The dog looked at her and smiled his lovely doggy smile.

‘He doesn’t look like he’s fretting,’ Callum said. ‘Don’t you want to keep him?’

‘More than anything,’ Dilly admitted. ‘But I have to try to find his owners first.’

‘I’d feel the same,’ said the boy. ‘Though I’d be secretly hoping not to.’

Dilly smiled guiltily but she was glad Callum understood. She couldn’t help imagining how great it would be to spend every day with this gentle giant at her side. The island and its newness, and Aunt Florence and her oddness, wouldn’t seem half so daunting then.

‘My gran said he’s not an island dog, and she would know,’ said Callum, chattier now they’d left the grown-ups behind. ‘She knows every dog, cat and cow on 27Ollipest. Gran has a way with animals, so people bring their pets and livestock to her when there’s something wrong with them. She’s basically the island vet even though she’s not formally trained.’

‘But if he’s not an island dog, where did he come from?’

Callum shrugged. ‘He could have come over with a tourist and got loose. The Bumbershoots will know. They know everything that goes on here.’

‘Do you know the island really well?’ Dilly asked.

‘My dad brings me for a weekend every year so I know it well enough, but this is the first time I’ve visited on my own. Without my parents, I mean. They’re scientists. They’ve been invited to lecture at a university in China for five months, so I got dumped here.’

‘You don’t want to be here?’ said Dilly.

‘I was annoyed at my parents for sending me,’ Callum said slowly. ‘Dad hates coming to the island. He always talks about Gran as if she’s crazy or something. But then I came, and it’s so much easier to be around Gran without Dad fussing and grumping all the time. Turns out, I quite like it here. Except there are no other kids my age.’

‘Till now?’ said Dilly.

‘Till now,’ said Callum.

28They walked in silence for a bit. They had to be getting nearer the town because cottages had begun to dot the roadsides.

‘When Gran told me you were coming, she said we’d be friends,’ said Callum. ‘I said, maybe we will, maybe we won’t. Now I’m thinking, maybe we will.’ He smiled at Dilly, his first proper smile. ‘And I really hope you get to keep the dog,’ he said, patting the wolfhound, who responded by enthusiastically licking his hand.

‘Me too,’ Dilly said, smiling back.

The cottages had joined up and they quickly gave way to houses and businesses jostling for space in skinny streets. The streets twisted away into alleys and lanes. In Wurmston, it seemed, everything leaned in or out or back or against. There were no footpaths, but then, there were no cars – at least none that Dilly could see. The roads were cobbled and the buildings were old. Aunt Florence had said there were very few children on the island and Dilly didn’t see a single one. The people they passed as they walked were all around the same age as her aunt or older still. They nodded silently at Callum and openly stared at Dilly and the big dog.

‘How come everyone on the island is old?’ she asked.

‘Gran says it’s because the young people have to leave to go to college and to get work. They leave, 29marry people in other countries, don’t come back. Like my dad.’

‘Oh,’ Dilly said. ‘That’s sad.’

Twice she glimpsed faces inside the narrow windows, watching them pass. When she smiled and raised a hand in greeting, the faces quickly retreated into the shadows. Which seemed odd. Dilly had expected people on an island to be more friendly than people in a big city, not less.

At the end of Tipple Lane they came out into Fairweather Square, a large open space after the tightness of the alleys. On one side stood The Thirsty Wurme, the inn where Claire Madden had spent the night. There were spindly tables and chairs set out in front of it, and Dilly found herself checking the faces of the people sitting there for Claire, even though she knew the morning ferry was long gone. Across from The Thirsty Wurme was a post office called Gamp’s Stamps. A tiny woman leaned in its doorway with her arms tightly folded, surveying the almost empty square. Her eyes widened when she saw the children and the huge dog. Dilly smiled at her but, like the watchers in the windows, the woman didn’t smile back. In fact, her eyes narrowed and her lips whitened. Dilly looked away and followed Callum to the opposite side of the square where Bumbershoot’s Emporium stood.

30‘Goodness me, you’ll not bring that elephant in here,’ the woman behind the counter spluttered as they entered the shop. She pointed to a sign that read NO DOGS. Callum exchanged a glance with Dilly and tugged the dog back outside. The dog whined anxiously as Callum sat him down in the doorway where they had a clear view of Dilly.

‘Do you recognise this dog?’ Dilly said. ‘We think he’s lost, and my aunt said to ask if you know anything. If not, she said to ask if you’ll please put this up on your noticeboard.’ Dilly crossed to the counter and held out Aunt Florence’s notecard to the woman, who took it, read it aloud and frowned.

‘You’re Florence Kyteler’s niece?’ she said.

‘Grandniece,’ Dilly said. ‘My grandad was Aunt Florence’s brother. My mother was her niece.’

‘Your grandad? Would that be Coriander or Lovage?’ A rotund man emerged from the side of the shop. He was untangling fairy lights as he walked – several strings were arranged along both arms and more were wound around his neck.

‘Cori,’ Dilly said. She barely remembered her granddad. He died when she was six.

‘It was Lovage I knew,’ said the man. ‘Coriander was before my time. I was still in school when he took off.’

‘You’ll be here on holidays, then,’ said the woman. 31‘Like Callum.’

Dilly shook her head. ‘I’ve come to stay,’ she said. She heard the words come out of her mouth, and a little shiver of shock ran along her spine. All her life up to yesterday, she’d lived in Bristol. Now she lived here. On this island.

‘I don’t get your meaning,’ the woman said.

‘My mum died,’ Dilly said, steadying a small tremble in her voice. ‘Now I live here, with Aunt Florence. At least, I do since yesterday.’

The man and woman appeared stunned. A look passed between them. It was almost as if … well, as if they were seriously displeased to hear that Dilly had come to stay. But why would they be? Dilly thought. It’s nothing to them if I’m here or in Bristol.

‘You live here?’ the woman said at last, forcing her lips into a frosty smile. ‘With Florence? Are you quite sure?’

‘Quite sure,’ Dilly said, as firmly as she could. She glanced back at Callum, who rolled his eyes sympathetically.

The man swallowed hard and said, ‘We’re sorry to hear about your mother. I’m Bognar Bumbershoot, and this is Leonora. Welcome to Ollipest, um …’

‘Dilly,’ said Dilly.

‘We’ll put up your sign,’ Leonora Bumbershoot said, ‘but I can tell you now, that animal is not from here.’ 32She indicated the dog sitting on the doorstep with Callum. ‘Never seen him before, have we, Bognar?’

‘No, never,’ said her husband.

‘Could he belong to a tourist?’ asked Dilly. Please, please, say no, she thought, and crossed her fingers.