by Fiona Shaw
Benjamin slept like a dancer. That’s what he reminded Will of. Lying on his side with one arm above his head and the other out across the floor, his fingers spread like an invitation; and his legs leaping as if caught by some ancient sculptor on an ancient frieze.
‘Greek boy,’ Will whispered, ‘wake up.’
He bent towards him, desire rising, and another morning he might have wedged his bedroom door shut, then put his fingers through Benjamin’s hair and run them down to the crook of his dancing hip. But today they were sailing to Shining Sands and he checked himself. There was no time to be lost. And besides this, there was something too much for Will about leaving his mother downstairs and turning so soon to Ben.
So he put his hand on the sleeping boy’s shoulder and shook him. Gently at first, then harder, but Benjamin slept on. Only groaned a little and turned away, his breath still a sleeper’s breathing, deep and even.
‘Wake up, Ben.’
A note of impatience crept into Will’s voice.
‘Come on. Time for breakfast, Benjamin Mayer.’
The minutes were ticking by and the tide waited for no man, most especially not for an idle boy. He winced with the thought because it was his father’s. His father, who disliked boats of every kind and was never a slave to the tide and yet who chose to live so near to the sea that he could taste the salt on his tongue. Will shook his friend again, gripping his shoulders more fiercely, digging his fingers down into the soft muscle.
‘It’s a perfect day. Come on. Get up, or I’ll get mother’s bell and ring it in your ear.’
Still Benjamin lay sleeping and Will stood up, frustrated, his thoughts slipping into violence. He would go to the bathroom for cold water; he would beat him with something, a hairbrush like the matron used, the belt on the back of the chair.
Then hands grabbed at him, his legs buckled and he fell, tumbled to the covers, Benjamin on top of him, his face close, laughing.
‘Come on, fight me,’ Benjamin said. ‘Perhaps you’ll win today,’ teasing him, because both knew that Benjamin was the stronger.
‘Ben, don’t,’ Will said, and ‘Don’t …’ again, as Benjamin pinioned his arms and leaned close.
‘You woke me in that brutal way and you won’t even kiss me?’ Benjamin said, keeping his voice low because Henry and Emma slept in the next room.
‘Mother has your breakfast waiting, and the day’s so clear you can see the colour of Brigstone Rock and I’m taking you to Shining Sands, and the tide …’
Will’s voice implored.
‘All right.’ Benjamin let go Will’s arms and stood, and the two boys dressed in silence. As they were leaving the room, Will crowned his friend with his sailing cap and kissed him once on the mouth.
‘That’s a promise,’ he said.
‘Have you told your friend about the dance tomorrow?’ Meg said.
A clock struck another quarter and Will wished she had not brought it up just now.
‘I’ll tell him as we walk down to the slip,’ he said.
‘A dance,’ Benjamin said, in his bright, talking-to-mothers voice. ‘I like dances.’ Will looked at him sharply because that wasn’t what he’d ever said before, and Benjamin returned a guileless smile.
‘You see?’ Meg said. ‘Not everyone is as dog in the manger as you.’
‘It’s a girl I‘ve barely met,’ Will said. ‘Her birthday. I’d forgotten. She wouldn’t even notice if I wasn’t there. And we won’t know anybody.’
‘Will seems to think there’s no need, ever, to meet any girls,’ Meg said.
‘There’s Emma,’ Will said. ‘I get on with her perfectly well.’
‘And she’s nearly seven years old, and your sister.’
Benjamin put down his knife and fork.
‘Delicious, Mrs Garrowby. I feel ready for anything. Sailing, dances, you name it.’
‘I’ve said to him: no girls at school, there’ll be no girls at Oxford to speak of, and by then you’ll be twenty-one years old and any girl, she’ll expect you to have some idea of what to do. How to talk to her.’
‘You’re not finishing those bits?’ Will said, pulling Benjamin’s plate towards him, and he ate the fried bread and sausage that remained.
‘We must go to the dance. You might meet your future wife there,’ Benjamin said, poker-faced, and to Meg: ‘What kind of dress code is it?’
His mother and Benjamin had charmed each other from the first, and mostly Will enjoyed it. There was something ancient and courtly about their compliments and he was happy to sit and watch. He was mostly happy, too, when they joked at his expense, but this talk about the dance was too raw. He didn’t want to meet a girl, or anyone, and it hurt when Benjamin said he should.
‘It’s casual,’ Meg said. ‘You’ll be fine.’
Will swallowed a last piece of sausage.
‘I don’t know where you get that appetite, or where you put it. You eat more than Benjamin and he’s bigger, taller than you,’ she said.
‘Will’s not as slight as you think, Mrs Garrowby,’ Benjamin said. ‘I’ve been up against him. He felt pretty solid then.’
Will looked round at his friend.
‘Up against him?’ Meg said. She sounded unsure as to what he meant.
Will stood abruptly, and took the plates to the sink.
‘In rugby,’ Benjamin said.
Rattling the plates Will turned on the tap. He smothered a giggle.
‘Ah,’ she said.
‘Yes, he can see off a fullback with as much force as the next boy.’
‘We’re going,’ Will said. ‘Now.’
Meg counted off the items gathered on the table, packing them into a rucksack.
‘Sandwiches, beer, griddle, water thermos, oilskins, sweaters,’ she said. ‘And matches, of course.’
‘I’ve got a lighter,’ Will said, fingering the one in his pocket. It was a gift from Benjamin because Will had admired it, though he didn’t smoke. ‘Surely not oilskins?’ His mother was such a pessimist. ‘Look at the weather. I tapped the barometer: set fine.’
‘It’s the sea. You never know,’ Meg said. ‘The finest sailors have been surprised by the weather. And make sure you wear life jackets.’
‘Mother, please,’ Will said, because she was treating him like a child, and because he knew what she would say next.
‘I watched people die for lack of them,’ Meg said.
There was a pause like a heartbeat, then Benjamin spoke. ‘I promise we’ll wear them,’ he said and Will watched his mother’s expression ease, and wondered why he hadn’t said that first.
‘Back and scrubbed up in time for dinner,’ Meg said.
‘Will you tell Benjamin the story then?’ Will said, because she was so serious about the life jackets, and he wanted Ben to know why.
‘If you bring me something back from your adventure,’ she said.
The lane was still deep in shade as the boys walked down to the water, and the sky overhead was the strongest blue. Will pranced and skipped. He picked a stem from the hedgerow and presented it, mock-gallant, with a bow, to Benjamin.
‘For you, Lady’s Bedstraw,’ he said. ‘Should be Lad’s Love, but it doesn’t grow wild. Anyway, this is prettier.’
His friend took it laughing and sniffed the froth of yellow flowers.
‘Smells of honey,’ he said, ‘which is not what I’ve heard from the boys who brag.’
‘Don’t be vulgar,’ Will said. He punched Benjamin’s arm. ‘We’re off. Gone and free.’
‘And sleepy,’ Benjamin said.
‘You’ll love it, where I’m taking you.’
‘Better be good. What time is it, for God’s sake?’
‘You can sleep, if you want to, when we get there.’
‘I want to sleep now.’
‘Did you know that a boy is always taller than his mother? Fact.’
‘Will, be quiet.’
The one’s grumbling and the other’s bounce had the air of someth
ing long-practised between them, and in this way they walked the mile from house to water. They passed only the milk lorry and, down near the water, an old man with his rheumy dog.
‘William Garrowby, you must be,’ the old man said.
‘Yes sir,’ Will said.
‘Look the spit of your mother. Off sailing?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Well, watch for the fret later if you’re going off far. She’s sitting out there, but she’ll be coming in this afternoon. Won’t be able to see your hand in front of your face.’
‘Yes sir.’
The Garrowbys kept their boats a mile out of the village on a small piece of land set a hundred yards or so back from the estuary, next to the Estuary Hotel gardens. The hotel had kept the waterfront for itself, and the Garrowbys ran their boats along a track beside the gardens, which ended in a narrow slipway down to the water. It was characteristic of George that he had thought about what he thought he needed but not about what his children would be capable of. Someone with a different bent of mind or some experience in sailing would have found a piece of land closer to the water from which it was easier to launch boats. But it didn’t occur to him to think in this way, and besides, he had got the land for a good price.
At the time George had thought he would take up sailing. He liked what he considered to be sailing’s science – the calculations one could apply to wind and water, the charts and so forth – but when it came to the fact, he didn’t enjoy it at all. He didn’t enjoy how the weather confounded him and he didn’t like getting wet, or muddy, or getting it wrong. He didn’t like being unreliable. So he stopped sailing almost as soon as he had started, though Will was glad his father had insisted, even so, that his children learned it all thoroughly.
The piece of land comprised a square of grass, two dinghies and a rowing boat, each on its own trolley, and a small shed for gear: oars, life jackets, groundsheet, rugs, outboards, cans of oil, paint, etc. The shed had electric light, routed from the power line high above, and when he was younger, Will had fantasised about living in here. Somehow the electric light made it seem more possible. Looking back, he saw it as his Huck Finn phase and already he felt a rueful affection for that younger boy.
‘Perfect time,’ he said. ‘Twenty minutes and the tide’ll be just right to launch straight off the slip. Won’t even have to get our plimsolls wet.’
He set about rigging the boat, shouting an occasional instruction to Benjamin. He stowed the rucksacks and the groundsheet in the bow.
‘What did the old man mean, about fret? Is it dangerous?’ Benjamin said.
‘Sea fret. Like mist. It can come in suddenly, but it looks set fair today. Besides, we’re not going far out; we could hug the shore, more or less, if we needed to.’
He fetched the oars, life jackets, mackerel lines and bucket. Handing Benjamin a jacket, he pulled his on and tied the bows securely.
‘Most important thing is to do what I tell you, when I tell you. Don’t want you knocked out by the boom because you didn’t go about when I said to.’
‘You told me that last time,’ Benjamin said.
‘Well, I’m telling you again. Anyway, last time we stayed in the estuary. This time we’re heading out to open water. Would make rescuing you harder.’
‘What’s the other thing, then? The slightly less important thing.’
‘Watch the wind. That’s how you know what to do with the sails. But it often changes, plays tricks on you, so you have to keep watching it. That’s what the telltales are for.’
‘Telltales?’
‘The bits of fabric tied on to the mast. When we’re going bang on, when it’s singing, they’ll all be streaming out behind us – aft that is.’
‘And when we get to the beach, then do you stop being so serious?’
Will grinned.
‘You just wait,’ he said. ‘Ready?’
The wind was gusty and unreliable at first and Will had to work the boat hard, beating a slow course upwind towards the mouth of the estuary. There were few other boats moving at this early hour. A bass boat piled high with crab pots chugged its way towards the sea and a boy put a dinghy through its paces, tacking tight, to and fro, between the moored yachts. In another hour the yacht club holiday schedule would be underway and the estuary would be tight with little boats, but for now the two boys had it nearly to themselves.
‘You’re doing fine,’ Will called to Benjamin. ‘Watch the boom when we go round. Don’t know what the wind will do then.’
But when they came round the point, and out into the open water, the wind steadied into that best of all sailor’s winds in those parts, a benign south-westerly, and setting the sails to a broad reach, Will gave himself up to it. He loved this. He loved the speed across the water, driving the tears from his eyes and he loved the fine-tune reading of wind and waves, always trying for the perfect reach. He knew this boat like the back of his hand and his body was sure and strong now, bracing and balancing, finding the equlibirium, the perfect balance. He could sail like this all day and be happy.
‘Lean back a bit further,’ he called down to Benjamin. ‘Trust yourself,’ and Benjamin, pulling the sailing cap firmly down on his head, holding fast to the jib sheet line, and with his feet securely hooked, leaned his body back and out over the rushing water.
‘If my mother could see me …’ Benjamin yelled and they laughed, the two boys, with the sheer pleasure of it.
Will had planned to drop the mackerel lines when they were close enough to Brigstone Rock to see the hermit’s hut. He’d always done well for mackerel there and Benjamin would like the story of the hermit. He’d let the sails go and they would row for a stretch and see what they could pull in. They were half way there when Benjamin’s shout changed the plan.
‘Look! Look at the birds!’
Will turned. A crowd of seabirds rushed the churning water, dropping and diving any which way, the seagulls an ungainly mass of wing and beak, the terns impeccable, and a patch of the sea gone to a darker, fretty blue.
‘Mackerel!’ Will shouted back. ‘I’m stopping here.’
Heading the boat into the wind, he let out the sails and they luffed, as ragged and ungainly as the dropping gulls.
‘You row and I’ll set the lines,’ he said.
But there was barely any need to row because the shoal came to them and within minutes, as fast as they could pull in the lines and unhook them the bottom of the boat was covered with bucking, shivering mackerel, eyes wide, mouths hollering silently. The boys fought off the gulls with oars, protecting their haul, greedy with excess. Then the shoal moved on, and the birds with it, and the boys sat still amid the dying fish.
‘How long before they die?’ Benjamin said.
‘If you leave them, can be a half hour, longer sometimes.’
‘They drown more slowly than us, then. What about hitting them on the head with something?’
‘Hard to kill like that,’ Will said. He picked one up. ‘A good size. Close on a pound’s weight, I’d say. Mother will be pleased. She loves mackerel.’
Slipping a finger into the fish’s mouth, and with his thumb behind its head, he pulled the head back towards the body.
‘Breaks their neck,’ he said. ‘Very quick. Best way to do it.’
So Will killed the fish and Benjamin counted them into a bucket and they stowed the oars, set the sails once again and sailed on.
As they drew closer to Shining Sands, Will’s pulse quickened. You couldn’t see the beach from the sea and every time he sailed there, it felt like an act of faith. Each time he left the beach he would pick out landmarks and try to stow them away in his mind for the next time: a particular bowed hawthorn on the cliff; the fall of the rocks to the water. Perhaps it was because he sailed out to the Sands too rarely, or perhaps it was some more mysterious refusal in the landscape itself, something self-protective to keep people out, but every time he returned, he felt as if he were sailing blind, no landmarks, no sign of whe
re the Sands could be, till finally, like an ancient Greek adventurer, he must take his best guess, and turn his boat and head towards the solid rock.
‘We’ll row from here,’ he said, letting the sails flap. ‘It’s always hard to find.’
‘There’s no beach,’ Benjamin said.
‘You can’t see it because there’s a shoal of rocks out from the shore. They look like they’re part of the cliffs till you get close. A kind of optical illusion.’
Will dipped the oars: small strokes, easing closer.
‘Keep your eyes skinned,’ he said.
He rowed, hearing the slap of the waves beneath the boat and the high ‘pheew’ of a buzzard above the cliff. Then a triumphal cry.
‘I’ve spotted it. There’s a gap. Left a bit, Will, pull left.’
Gently Will rowed and the rocks opened to a channel not much wider than his oars’ width. The water turned aquamarine, with sand below, and sometimes rock, and as they drew closer to the shore, the wind dropped. He rowed the boat between rock and rock and they were in.
Will gave a last, full pull, shipped the oars and the boat drifted to the shore.
‘Damn, Will,’ Benjamin said in a low voice. ‘You didn’t tell me.’
Will grinned.
‘Good, eh,’ he said.
Sheer cliffs rose behind, their blue-grey slate streaked with guano, and later Will would point out to Benjamin the nesting birds up there. Fine, silver shingle pitched steeply to the water, which was limpid and smooth as a lagoon. Leaping down into the shallows, Will pulled the boat up, her bow easing in with the softest sound.
‘Tide’s two hours past its highest now,’ he said. ‘We just made it in. We’ll be stranded in no time. There’s rocks below the water just where we came through, you’ll see them then. You can’t take a boat over them for long, but you get longer with a neap tide. That’s why today is the perfect day for it.’
He watched Benjamin jump onto the beach and sink his hands into the sand, then lift them and let it run through his fingers. He watched him stride in great long strides, sinking with each step below the ankle so that he seemed to make a strange, slow-motion kind of progress; he watched him stride, and turn, and let out a whoop, and then another, and saw the gulls rise, startled, from their cliff. They had the whole day ahead of them, a whole day to whoop and cry, to swim, or sleep, or dream.
