Touchstone

By Lorraine Orman

Sixteen-year-old Skye thinks her life sucks. Her father is dead, her mother has no time for her, and her best friend is busy with a new boyfriend. Skye longs to belong to a real family. So when an invite arrives for Skye to travel to the West Coast of New Zealand to meet her ailing great-grandfather, she's keen to go. She's also determined to find out why her mother is estranged from the rest of the family. But the truth remains elusive and Skye finds herself ensnared in several difficult situations, all played out against a beautiful but threatened landscape. Why is her mother so cruel to her sister, Skye's aunt? What dangerous family secret is Skye's great-grandfather trying to confess? Why is she drawn so much to her newly-found teenage cousin, Josh? What can she do to stop Josh's environmental protest group being betrayed by a double agent? Skye is pulled in different directions - but the worst problem is her own fear. In the end, all she can do is ... run.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lorraine Orman
• Release date: Apr 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9780473239725

Lorraine Orman

Lorraine has had nine children's books published with commercial companies in New Zealand and Australia, but launched into e-publishing with her latest. Touchstone is a YA novel set on the remote West Coast of New Zealand, with a strong environmental theme. The heroine, Skye, travels there to visit relatives - but she's also hoping to unearth a deep family secret. She discovers far more than she ever expected, and ends up running for her life. Now available on Smashwords!Lorraine has stopped writing books for young people but still follows the children's literature trends. She keeps her hand in by writing short stories for her granddaughter.

Book preview

Iris felt a tear in the corner of her eye. I’m not crying, she told herself. It’s just the night wind making my eyes water. She changed her suitcase to the other hand and wiped the sleeve of her heavy coat across her cheeks. Her skin was so cold she was barely aware of the scratch of the wool.

She couldn’t feel her feet either, despite the stout leather boots she was wearing. She wriggled her toes until they tingled. That’s better. She had to keep climbing. She needed to reach the dam by one o’clock. Geordie’s message had said he wouldn’t be able to wait for very long.

She shifted the suitcase to her other hand. It felt as if it was packed with stones, not clothes. When you’re leaving one life behind and rushing headlong into a new one, it’s hard to know what to take with you. She was bound to have left something behind. Photographs, for instance. Her heart pinched in her chest. Oh, no. She didn’t even have a photograph of Ma and Pa.

It doesn’t matter, she thought. I’ll see them again. When Geordie and I are settled in Christchurch and I’ve got a bonny wee baby to show them – their first grandbaby – they’ll forgive me for what I’m doing tonight.

She stopped and put the suitcase on the ground. She peered at her wristwatch, a precious present from her parents on her eighteenth birthday, only two months ago. The face of the watch was barely visible in the light of the moon, flickering and dimming as clouds raced across the sky. She squinted hard. It was quarter to one. I’m going to make it in time, she thought. The dam is just over this ridge.

She looked back. The rocky landscape falling away behind her was eerie in the moonlight, with mounds and crags throwing long shadows across the icy ground. She could make out a handful of lights marking the distant valley – all that was visible of Craghead, the coal-mining town she’d left an hour ago. She couldn’t see the Tasman Sea but she knew it was out there, beyond Craghead, beyond the edge of the coal plateau, down, down, down. The sea would be huge and black, with a silvery pathway painted across it by the moon.

A couple of times she and Geordie had managed to sneak away in the evenings to a secluded lookout in the bush on the edge of the plateau. They’d gazed out over the sea, watching the orange sun sinking below the curve of the horizon. We’ll sail over that horizon one day, Geordie told her. We’ll save our money and buy our tickets and have a slap-up holiday in Sydney.

Iris sighed. Sailing to Sydney was an impossible dream. Escaping from Craghead was difficult enough, but she had no choice. She had to keep going. She picked up her suitcase and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Only another hundred steps to go.

Eventually she crested the ridge and was rewarded with the sight of an expanse of lake, dark and glittering. Waves splashed against the rocks marking the shoreline, driven across the surface by the biting wind. The place was unwelcoming, not at all how it looked during the day. The swaying reeds and green water made it a favourite picnic spot for the people of Craghead. Foolhardy boys even swam in it at the height of summer.

Tonight the dam was full to overflowing. A week of rain had made the mountain creeks swell to five times their usual size. The spillway on the earthen wall of the dam was a silver waterfall thundering down to the creek bed thirty yards below.

Iris shivered. Her watch said it was bang on one o’clock. Where are you, Geordie, she thought. I’ll freeze to death if I have to stand around here for too long. She lowered herself on to a rock and hunched her shoulders, instinctively trying to protect the tiny baby in her womb.

Fifteen minutes passed. Iris’s feet felt like blocks of ice. Now that she wasn’t moving the wind was a knife slicing into her. She pulled her felt hat down over her ears and tied her scarf tighter round her neck.

Another five minutes passed. Iris stood up and stared around. The reeds rustled in the wind, waves bustled across the lake, a lonely waterbird cried from the bushes on the other side.

A deep unease crept into Iris’s thoughts. He was late. What if Geordie wasn’t coming? What if he never intended to come? What if he had always planned to escape on his own without a pregnant sweetheart in tow?

Her straining ears caught the sound of rocks knocking together, then a scrape of gravel as a boot slipped on the path. She spun round. Geordie? Is that you?

A tall figure loomed in front of her. Iris, a voice said gently. I thought you might still be here.

Archie! she gasped. Where’s Geordie? You told me Geordie said he’d meet me here at one o’clock. It’s gone half past!

I’m sorry, Iris, Archie said, stooping to peer into her face. I had a feeling this might happen. He touched her cheek. You’re frozen.

Iris shook her head as if an insect had brushed it. What do you mean? What might happen?

Archie’s craggy face looked even more sombre than usual. My brother isn’t the most reliable person in the world. You of all people should know that, Iris.

What do you mean?

He said to tell you he’d meet you here at 1 a.m., but he slipped away from home hours ago, telling Mam some cock-and-bull story about going to visit his mate Shorty in Blackstone Bay. Just after four o’clock, still daylight it was.

But he said he had to find a horse. He was going to steal a pit horse. That would take him a few hours, wouldn’t it?

Archie shrugged regretfully. I’ve just come from the stables at the mine entrance. All the horses are settled down for the night, happily chewing on their hay.

Maybe he was going to steal one from somewhere else?

He’s not coming, Iris. He’s miles away by now, likely having a dram with one of his rascally mates in Westport.

But he had it all planned! The horse would take us across country to Westport - so Pa couldn’t track us on the road. Then we’d lie low till we could find a way to get to Christchurch. Tears stung her eyes. He told me a dozen times what we were going to do.

Archie checked his watch. Iris, if he was coming he’d be here by now. He was spinning you a yarn. Come on, let’s go back to town. You’re chilled to the bone, I can see you shaking.

Iris bent her head and let the tears flow. Archie put his arm round her. For a second she resisted – he was the wrong brother, he felt wrong, he even smelled wrong - but she was so cold and wretched. Archie was warm and strong. It wouldn’t hurt if she snuggled against him until her blood started moving again.

Archie put both arms round her and held her close. I’ll look after you, Iris, he whispered into her ear. I’ll see you safely home.

The breath caught in her throat. I can’t go home, she gasped. They’ll kill me.

Course they won’t, said Archie.

There’s a . . . Iris choked over the word. I’m going to have a baby. Geordie’s baby. That’s why I went along with his crazy plan to run away from Craghead. She dashed the tears from her cheeks. When Pa finds out he’ll go after Geordie with his shotgun. He always swore he’d never let me marry a coal miner.

Archie drew in a deep breath. A bairn? You’re sure?

Of course I’m sure!

Have you told Geordie?

Oh, yes. Once he knew he was going to be a father all he could talk about was getting away from Craghead. Fresh tears slid down her cheeks. And now he’s gone without me! Oh, Archie, what am I going to do?

Archie tightened his hold on her. We’ll go back down the hill and rouse your parents out of bed. You’re going to sit in front of a roaring fire and have a nice cup of tea and get warm again. And then we’ll talk about what to do. All of us together. I have an idea that just might put things right.

Archie’s voice sounded so firm and sure, so sensible, that all Iris could do was lean against him and bury her face in the warm wool of his jacket. Yes, she whispered. Thank you, Archie.

Chapter 1: Crashing

It’s true that bad things come in threes. It happened to me. I survived the first two bad things by turning myself into a snail, curling tightly inside my shell. I tried not to think about anything at all – snails don’t think, do they?

But then the third catastrophe happened. This time the snail trick didn’t work. I felt as if someone had stepped on me. Deliberately.

I was on my way home from school. James Blunt was crooning through my earplugs, which meant I wasn’t thinking about anything. His music always soothes the voices in my head.

Paul’s van was parked in the driveway. What’s going on? Paul’s always out renovating houses at this time of day. I switched off my tranquilliser music and peered through the side window of the van. It was jammed with bulging black plastic rubbish bags. They looked obscene, like innards.

When I spotted a barbell on the floor of the van, a cold weight settled in my stomach. Paul must be moving out.

Paul was my mother’s latest partner, boyfriend, lover, toyboy, whatever you want to call him. Foolishly, I’d allowed myself to believe he was permanent. He’d lasted a whole year, twice as long as any of the others.

He was the builder Mum had hired to do a series of renovations on our old villa. At the end of the job he just sort of stayed on. He’s a straight up and down guy, what you see is what you get. He likes hefting beams, cracking jokes, and working out. He’s a few years younger than Mum and excellent eye candy, according to my friend Mandy. Sorry, ex-friend.

Paul was sitting on the sofa in the lounge, arms folded, staring at the floor. He’s a big guy, as muscular as the blokes in the hardware shop ads, but today he looked like he’d shrunk.

Hey, Paul, I said.

He looked up and tried to grin but it didn’t work. Skye. I couldn’t go without saying goodbye. Hi and ’bye. How’s that for poetry?

You’re moving out?

Eden gave me my marching orders, he said.

I’m sorry, I said. She’s a cow. She’s got this awful disease called anti-commitment. Can you . . . maybe we could keep in touch? Meet up for coffee or something?

He twitched an eyebrow. Skye, you know I don’t drink coffee.

Sorry. Green tea, then? Juice?

He shook his head and stood up. Your mother made it pretty clear she doesn’t want to see me again. Reckon that includes you, too.

The weight in my stomach got a whole lot heavier. I’ll miss you, I blurted.

Same here. He held out his arms and I walked into them. He was the only one of my mother’s boyfriends I’d been able to hug without feeling icky. All those muscles made me feel safe. He must have just had a shower because he smelled of Mum’s organic rose soap.

I stepped back. Where are you going?

He shrugged. One of my mates has a spare room in his flat. I’ll be okay.

I won’t be, I mumbled.

He brushed the fringe out of my eyes. Don’t let her muck you around, Skye, he said. Stand up to her. Be staunch. I got through to her because I made her laugh. Well, I did till yesterday.

It’s not you, I said. I’ve seen this before. She’s all starry-eyed at the beginning but when the guy gets too serious, she does a U-turn.

Yeah. Well, maybe asking her to marry me was a bit of a no-no.

I guess.

Paul moved to the door. Goodbye, Skye. His eyes were shiny and his chin was trembling. It was great knowing you. You’re a good kid.

Can I text you? I asked. Just to say wassup? Please?

Okay, he said. You’ve got my number - but don’t tell your mother.

Then he was gone. I listened as the van started up, growled its way down the driveway, and revved out onto the road.

In the space of two months I’d lost three important people. The first to go was my running buddy, Alison. Her family moved to the other side of the city and I ended up pounding the streets with only James Blunt for company.

I’d been running three times a week with Alison for two years. She was the perfect companion. She didn’t talk, didn’t interrupt my hibernation process. She just ran, efficiently and silently, at my shoulder. She went to a different school, but we’d run into each other on the street (literally) and started meeting up and running together almost without discussing it.

The next person to go was my best friend, Mandy. Well, she didn’t really go anywhere. She just faded away when she fell in love with Damien. It was a match made in heaven because they’re both Beautiful People. I always felt I should be strewing rose petals in front of them. They started spending all their free time joined at the hip, which meant Mandy had no time left over for me. I tried hard not to be jealous - but I was.

Mandy’s big romance also meant I lost my surrogate family. My real family. Mandy and I have been friends since we began primary school on the same day. Mandy has two happily married parents, a hunky older brother called Dan (I’ve never told Mandy I think he’s hunky), a pesky younger brother nicknamed Stinky, and an overweight Labrador dog called Smudge who likes washing faces. The ideal urban family, in other words.

All through primary and intermediate school I lived part-time with Mandy’s family. Her mum and dad invited me to the beach, the zoo, the movies. For years I slept over at Mandy’s house at least once a week.

Mandy’s mum said I was their peacekeeper. Everyone, especially the boys, behaved better when I was around. I think it was just that I kept Mandy from scratching her brothers’ eyes out. But once Damien appeared on the scene and the fairytale romance blossomed, my invitations became few and far between.

Now Paul was gone too. I liked having him round because he never played games with people’s heads. If he didn’t approve of what was going on, he said so. He was a good influence on Mum. When he was making her laugh, she stopped tearing strips off me.

I sat in the warm spot on the sofa that Paul had just vacated, listening to the house. Empty houses vibrate with a low hum, almost below hearing level. I guess it’s the noise of appliances doing their thing – but to me it’s always been the sound of aloneness. This time I could hear it loud and clear.

Eventually I got up and went to my room, where I found Isis sleeping on my bed. She’s an Abyssinian, feline version. She’s beautiful, elegant, and super-intelligent. I love her heaps – but I love her more than she loves me, if you know what I mean. She studied me, gauged my state of misery, and jumped off the bed. Some friend you are, I said to her skinny tail as it flicked through the door.

I sat down at the computer and logged on to my Facebook profile. Mandy and I had set up our pages together six months ago. I went for the highest level of privacy. The idea of strangers reading my personal details made my skin crawl. As a result mine is probably the least visited page on Facebook. I have only ten Friends, and they’re all from my class. Nobody ever leaves me a message.

I stared at my Facebook photo. Mandy snapped it last year. I was standing on a wooden bridge at Piha, wearing a short T-shirt over my togs. I was ducking my head, trying to hide behind the ragged bob haircut that was meant to make me seem edgy and intriguing. My legs looked as thin as twigs. A decent puff of wind would blow me off the bridge and into the swamp.

I couldn’t stop looking at the girl in the photo. I stared for so long that I forgot the face was mine. Who is that girl? What a loser. She’s so ordinary, so dull, there should be a hole where her head is. I put my thumb over the face on the computer screen. That’s better.

I decided to do it properly. I mucked around until the photo of me was gone. Then I substituted a picture of Barbie. An empty plastic shell.

I transferred over to Mandy’s profile. She has over one hundred Friends. Her photo file is packed with pictures, including dozens of photos of her and Damien taken at the school ball. I skimmed through them, remembering.

When Damien made up his mind to invite Mandy to the ball, he had to get in ahead of two of his mates who’d both let slip they were thinking about inviting her. It was like one of those glitzy reality shows – Get the Girl!

At the crack of dawn one Sunday morning Damien knocked on Mandy’s front door, waking up the whole family. He’d cycled five kilometres to her place in his sexy Lycra cycling gear. Mandy said she couldn’t take her eyes off the bulges. I think she meant his muscles.

Of course she said yes to his invitation, even though she was wearing yellow pyjamas with bees on them and still had sleep in the corners of her eyes. I knew this because I had been sleeping over at her place that night and I was spying on the two of them from the top of the stairs.

On the way to the ball, six weeks later, Damien gave her a posy of yellow roses with a tiny artificial bee hidden inside. It was totally romantic.

I gazed at the single photo of Mandy and me taken at the ball. Mandy looked ravishing in a strapless gold mini-dress. Her blonde hair was piled on top of her head with cute ringlets framing her face. She went in and out in all the right places.

You know how it is with two friends, there’s always one who’s prettier, smarter, sexier. The one who catches everybody’s eye, the one who’ll give anything a go. That’s Mandy.

I’ve always been the other one,