The Sister Surprise by Abigail Mann (book series for 10 year olds .txt) 📕

resource that a lot of people deem unethical, so sympathy isn’t always close at hand. Oil disasters are sad, but not as sad as bush fires, or drought.’

‘Yeah, but that doesn’t change anything for the families. If you’ve lost someone, you’ve lost someone.’

‘Oh, aye, I’m with you. The problem is, there was an inquiry after it happened that uncovered a lot of cut corners by the oil company. Then there was an animal rights group who occupied the rig sometime in the early Nineties, which slowed the whole project down. Something to do with dolphins, I think? Thing is, it meant they rushed to get the oil pumping again and didn’t detect a leak. Thus …’ Ross motions to the memorial. ‘No one was able to prove the correlation, but I don’t think it mattered. Grief isn’t known for being rational.’

I nod, my shoulders tight.

‘I’ve been piecing together a bit of local history since I’ve been here. Backdated newspapers and the like. Here, come and have a look.’

I follow Ross to a small side room filled with sagging cardboard boxes, a heavy-set table in the middle. He’s chatting away, but I can’t concentrate on the words. He said dolphins. Dolphins. Like Mum’s flotilla of figurines that line the French dresser back home. That’s how she met my dad; it’s got to be.

‘Are you all right?’ says Ross.

‘Yeah, fine.’ I try to smile, but I can’t stop my nostrils from flaring and can only imagine how psychotic this looks.

‘Here it is,’ says Ross, taking a stack of paper from a shoebox.

I lower my gaze to the table, where a neat pile of newspaper clippings and reproduced photographs are spread across a felt crafting board. One image dominates the others. In it, a torrent of black smoke billows from flames so hot that a crane has melted, bending it towards the sea like the arched neck of a diplodocus.

‘Ah, here it is.’

Ross hands me a newspaper clipping, the corner dog-eared and torn. I push it back, revealing a headline that reads:

WE’LL GO DOWN FIGHTING’: THE EARTH MAMAS’ DEFIANT CALL AS RIG HITS THIRD WEEK OF OCCUPATION

Beneath, a half-page photograph shows three women standing with fists raised behind a handstitched banner strung between the rig’s railings. Their faces are cast in rebellion, hair whipped wild in the wind, mouths stretched in mid-chant as dark clouds pool behind them. In the middle, wearing a crocheted cardigan that I recognise from its garish floral pattern, is Mum.

‘Pretty ballsy, eh?’ says Ross, flicking the picture. ‘The police removed them a week after this was in the paper, but I’m surprised they lasted that long. I can’t think it was too amicable, sharing 600 square feet with the skeleton crew.’

He doesn’t know the half of it. I can think of one particular activity that may have whiled away the time.

‘Whatever The Earth Mamas did, it worked. Although I don’t expect they got a hero’s return from the locals when the police dinghy pulled ashore,’ says Ross.

‘No, I doubt that.’

I look at the picture until Mum’s outline appears in bloom on the back of my eyelids. I can’t nest this image of her with the one I left in Dulwich. She’s always been a bit of an eco-warrior, but I thought it was more the separate-your-recycling and don’t-buy-apples-from-New-Zealand kind, not chain-myself-to-a-lump-of-metal-in-the-North-Sea-and-get-pulled-off-in-a-police-boat kind.

Even though the oil company is to blame, I can see why The Earth Mamas were the perfect scapegoat for the hardship that crept in after they left. At the same time, I can’t help but feel a tickle of pride in my chest. Mum. You total, fucking badass!

‘What’s up?’ asks Ross, noticing the grin I’m struggling to push back down.

‘Nothing, it’s … I just remembered something funny.’

I pretend to flick through the clippings, but I can’t focus on much else. This begs the question … How could Mum have ever been satisfied discussing crudités and Easter bonnet parades with the PTA after stepping down from this?

‘Hey, Ross. I should be getting back. Kian’s usually out in the yard for morning rounds about … five hours from now.’

‘Do you want me to walk you?’ asks Ross, sliding his hands in his pockets.

‘It’s three miles from here to Braehead Farm.’

‘I know,’ he says, taking half a step closer.

‘I’ve got John’s number. Moira said he does a taxi service, but I swear Kian claimed he was a mechanic, so it’s a bit confusing.’

‘He’s a train guard too, but only from Thursday to Sunday.’

I laugh and follow Ross back into the church. He pauses at the door and I bounce off his shoulder, his arm reaching out to steady me as I stumble against a pew.

With his hand at my waist, I sway on the spot like I’m finding my sea legs. In a way, I am.

My neck aches from looking up at him as the space shrinks between us. I worry that Ross can hear my heartbeat, thumping like music through a thick wall. I can’t kiss a priest. Can I? But what if the priest is the one initiating the kiss?

Ross grazes my collarbone. I shiver. He searches my face, as though nervous that I’m about to duck under his arm and bolt out the door. I trace an outline down his shirt buttons, poised like a match over striking paper.

The sound of a latch and the accompanying door clunk ping-pongs from one side of the church to the other. Ross and I whip around, looking over our shoulders to a hooded figure who pauses by a candle stand. The lit votives flicker in a draught.

‘Jacqui! How are you?’ Ross flicks into a smile that’s more appropriately public facing and takes a few short strides towards her. Jacqui pulls her hood down, her cheeks ruddy and pink like they’ve been scrubbed with a potato brush. In the crook of her arm she holds a bunch of lilies and purple freesias.

‘Evening, Minister,’ she says, smiling, an expression I’ve not seen before. ‘I’m glad I caught you before you locked