The Sandfather

by Linda Newbery

  Then Hal saw the movement of a hand above the surface - not swimming, not waving. The feeblest gesture, it looked, of someone barely alive.

  Hal hesitated. There was no one he could shout to for help; the nearest people were small specks, too far away to hear him yell.

  Making up his mind, he kicked off his trainers and ran down the sand and into the breakers.

  ‘Don! I’m coming!’ he shouted, though he couldn’t even see Don now, and his words were snatched away and carried inland.

  The coldness repelled him; his jeans clammed against his legs, his toes winced at the sharpness of pebbles. He made himself wade farther in, gasping as the chill water rose up his body in a series of fresh shocks, his clothes sagging and clinging. Impossibly, aggressively cold, it seemed - clamping him, numbing him. He hadn’t swum in the sea for ages, and didn’t want to now, but what was the choice? Stand on the beach and watch Don drown? Tell Aunt Jude he’d been too much of a wimp to do anything about it?

  The sand shelved under his feet. He launched himself, and felt the icy slap in his face, the tangy splutter of salt in his mouth. He pushed himself into a flailing crawl. What an encumbrance his clothes were, heavy and sogged! But it would take too long to stop and peel them off. Worse, he couldn’t see Don, had lost sight of that small bobbing head, that tiny marker. All he could see was the sway and tilt of the waves. He felt himself lifted and carried on an inrush, losing the small progress he’d made. He swallowed water, coughed, spluttered. The sea was huge: around him, below him. Almost, even, above him. It was overwhelming. He was a strong swimmer, he’d have said, but that was in the tameness of the public pool. This vast, heaving sea might have been made of a different element.

  How far out was he? How far could he go? He paused to tread water and look back at the shore. Yes, it was still reachable. The tide was coming in; it wouldn’t fight him. The fight was now, pushing out against the current, caught off-stroke every time by the wash and slap and thrust.

  ‘Don!’ he tried shouting. ‘Don!’ His throat was parched with salt, his eyes stinging with it. He succeeded only in losing his rhythm and getting a fresh mouthful as his head went under.

  What would it be like to drown? To let yourself be taken? The breathing and sighing of the waves, moon-pulled, could get into your head, mesmerising. If you stopped thinking about the cold you could almost be soothed by it. You could forget to swim, forget to breathe, forget that land was where you belonged. Give yourself up. And then . . . eventually, you’d be washed up on the shore, limp as a starfish.

  Is that what Don was doing? Such a strange mood he’d been in.

  ‘Don!’ Hal yelled, in panic.

  Was someone answering, or had he imagined it? A voice, a high note above the wind, or just the cry of a gull? He stopped swimming, raised his head and looked first out to sea, then back at the shore.

  ‘Hal! Hal!’ Aunt Jude stood on the beach, waving frantically. And close by, waist-deep in the water, pointing, was - Don.

  What? What was going on? Hal stared, went under, clawed to the surface, stared again.

  Don. Not an illusion. Safe. Alive.

  ‘Hal!’ Aunt Jude shouted again. ‘Come back!’

  Hal waved to show he’d heard. Immediately, Don plunged in, and struck out in a powerful crawl, heading towards him.

  How stupid to drown now . . .

  So tired he was, so mind-numbingly cold, so hampered by the weight of his clothes - how much energy did he have left? He’d changed to breaststroke, less demanding of effort, but he felt no more effective than a bundle of rags drifting with the tide.

  Then Don was there, swift and sure as Hal was feeble, taking his arm in a firm grip. ‘I’ve got you!’

  ‘I’m OK!’ Hal spluttered, though he wasn’t. He didn’t want the embarrassment of being towed to safety by Don, instead of the other way round. All the same, Don kept close by, guiding, glancing, as they turned for the shore. At last, Hal’s feet met the yielding softness of sand, and he was stumbling upright, water streaming from clothes and hair. He staggered and overbalanced; his legs were like rubber. This was how Channel swimmers must feel when they reached the coast of France. The wind and the air were cold on his skin.

  Aunt Jude rushed up to embrace him, soaked as he was.

  ‘Hal! Thank God! What were you doing?’

  19

  SANDFATHER

  ‘Trying to save me?’ Don was baffled. ‘But I was only having my dip, same as usual. A walk and a swim. Nothing I needed rescuing from.’

  They were picking their way back to the hut, Hal in bare feet, dangling his trainers by their laces. Aunt Jude clung to his arm. She’d insisted on wrapping him in Don’s oilskin coat, while Don only had a jersey slung round his shoulders. They were all talking at once:

  ‘But what made you—’

  ‘I just thought—’

  ‘All my stupid fault—’

  ‘You must be frozen—’

  ‘No, I’m OK, honest—’

  Now that they were together and safe, Aunt Jude was even more agitated than before. ‘Hal, you could have been swept out to sea - got cramp or hypothermia - got yourself exhausted, searching - oh, I can’t bear to think about it! Plunging in with all your clothes on! You brave, silly boy!’ She rounded on Don. ‘Oh, what a pig’s ear we’ve made of things, the two of us! What a pair of idiots - me especially!’

  Before they’d got as far as the hut, it began to seem funny. Larky. They went in, and Don switched on the electric fire, which soon gave out a warming glow. Aunt Jude laid the oilskin out to dry, and made Hal take off his wet clothes and wrap himself in the blanket from the sofa. Don got dressed, and rubbed his hair on a piece of old sacking that had been used to wrap one of the pictures. While Aunt Jude made hot drinks, Don brought out a packet of biscuits that Hal hadn’t found in his tidying. It felt like an absurd picnic. Here they were, together, smiling and laughing, the three of them. No one lost, no one drowned. Hal wriggled his toes in the warmth of the fire’s glow.

  ‘What am I going to tell your mum?’ Aunt Jude kept saying.

  ‘Just tell her Hal fancied a swim.’ Don put a whole biscuit in his mouth and crunched it noisily.

  Aunt Jude touched his arm. ‘You’ll come home now, Don, won’t you? Please? After all this, I want us to be together today.’

  Don nodded. ‘Yes. The three of us.’

  Time was behaving strangely. Back at the house, Aunt Jude made Hal have a hot bath. In spite of all that had happened, it was still only two o’clock. The Sunday lunch Aunt Jude had mentioned hadn’t yet got as far as the oven, so Don took over the cooking while Hal spoke to Mum on the phone - glossing over his failed attempt at life-saving. While the joint of pork was roasting, Hal raked up drifts of leaves in the garden, and Aunt Jude did some pruning and tidying, piling up twigs and clippings for a bonfire.

  ‘Guy Fawkes’ night, soon,’ Don said, coming out to see how they were doing.

  Hal thought of Hallowe’en, and of Firework Night - last year Osman’s family had had a fireworks party and barbecue, and maybe they’d do it again. And Christmas wasn’t far off. He’d be back home by then, not with Aunt Jude and Don any more. Not by the sea, either. He didn’t want to think about that. Today it seemed impossible to think of being anywhere but here.

  They were all treating each other carefully and kindly.

  In the garden, Aunt Jude apologised again for misleading Hal about Wesley; he shrugged it off, as if it were some trivial thing. He’d made an idiot of himself, and was fatherless all over again, but his brain refused to go there, not yet. His mind, as well as his body, was exhausted. He remembered times when he’d hurt himself, banged into something hard, slammed his hip or his shin; how it took a few beats for the pain to register, though he knew it was coming. And when it did, for that moment it was as much as he knew how to bear.

  Don came out from the cooking with a pair of kitchen scissors, looking for thyme. When he’d cut a few sprigs he came over to Hal,
cleared his throat, and said, ‘What you did, er, trying to - you know - save me.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Hal, not looking at him. ‘It was stupid.’

  ‘Nng. I never said thank you. It - k - means a lot to me.’

  Hal shook his head. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ He continued trundling the green wheelie-bin towards the side of the house, and the awkward exchange was over.

  The light faded early, and with the dusk came a feeling of anticipation, of winter and coldness, and long nights. They ate their late dinner at the kitchen table. Don lit candles: ‘To mark the coming of darkness.’ He’d strewn the table with evergreen leaves and red-orange berries, rescued from the pruning, and the black berry-like fruits of ivy. And he’d added special touches to the meal: tangy apple sauce, and mulled wine, and plum crumble to follow. It felt like a celebration; of life, of being together.

  Don poured hot wine for himself and Aunt Jude, and gave Hal some to taste. Hal didn’t like it much, but he needed it for when Don raised his glass, looked at Aunt Jude and then at Hal, and said, ‘To us. To the three of us.’

  They clinked their glasses together and drank, and Hal looked at the two faces in the candlelight and saw what a pair they were, Aunt Jude and Don, in their strange way. No matter how much they complained, no matter how many insults they threw at each other: they belonged together.

  It was later, when the charmed circle of the table was broken, when the washing-up was done and everything cleared away, and Aunt Jude and Don were in the front room with the Sunday papers and the last of the wine and a music CD, that reality began to creep back.

  He’d failed. He’d achieved nothing. All his wanting, all his brief certainty, all his searching and hoping - it added up to nothing. He was back where he’d been before. Mum would come down, and be sorry, and be all over him, but still she’d fob him off. Don might talk of ‘the three of us’, but really he meant himself and Aunt Jude. They’d be glad to get rid of him, to have the place to themselves. He was just a temporary nuisance. He’d soon be back at school, with his On Report cards, and his Anger Management, whatever that turned out to mean.

  Upstairs in his room, he took out the bag of marbles from his rucksack. An age ago, it seemed, he’d produced them in triumph for Wesley, as proof. Now he thought of throwing them away, taking them down to the dustbin this minute. Mum would tell him not to waste them, to give them to a charity shop. Whatever.

  He reached into the bag and took one out.

  The white one, the swirly white one. It sat in the palm of his hand like a small moon.

  The phone rang; he heard Aunt Jude answer. He listened intently in case it was Mum, but it didn’t seem to be, and Aunt Jude was speaking too quietly for him to pick out what she was saying. Then footsteps came up the stairs, and she looked in at his door.

  ‘Hal? It’s Wesley on the phone. He’d like to speak to you. You don’t have to if you’d rather not. He said that.’

  Hal’s first reaction was to shake his head and shrug, but curiosity was too strong. He slipped the moon-marble back into its bag and ran down to the phone.

  ‘Hi.’ He didn’t know how to speak to Wesley.

  ‘Hi, Hal,’ said Wesley’s deep voice. ‘I hope you don’t mind me phoning. I was a bit worried after you rushed off. And I wanted to ask about Tina, but your aunt says she’s out of hospital now and doing well.’

  ‘Uh. Yeah.’

  ‘So you’re here till the weekend? There’s lots going on at the leisure centre - five-a-side football - coaching - weights - all sorts. You’ve got a friend staying down here, your aunt says - it’d be great to have you along, both of you, if you’re at a loose end.’

  ‘Uh. OK. I might.’

  ‘Hope to see you, then, Hal.’

  ‘Thanks. See you.’ Hal rang off.

  ‘All right?’ said Aunt Jude, coming slowly down the stairs.

  ‘All right. I’m going to bed now.’

  The Sandfather came back to him, in a dream. This time, Hal was in the sea, swimming, struggling to get back to shore. The more he kicked and fought, the bigger the waves heaved, the farther the beach retreated. And the sandman stood there upright, looking with his marble eyes. Looking out to sea, looking for Hal - disappointed in him, in his feeble efforts.

  A wind was rising. Flurries of sand whipped along the beach like a dust storm. Sand streamed like veils from the Sandfather’s head, from his shoulders, his arms, his legs. He couldn’t stand up to this. When Hal tried to shout, his mouth filled with salt water. Choking, he went under.

  He clawed for the surface, broke clear, breathed again. His eyes were stinging as he gazed towards the shore. A large wave broke, and now, where the Sandfather had stood, there was nothing but washed, shining sand.

  Hal woke up with tears streaming down his cheeks and into his ears. He didn’t try to stop them.

  20

  NOT

  It was still half-term week, but Hal felt like someone recovering from an illness: venturing outside, beginning to do normal things, but constantly pulled into himself, to the ache there.

  Gently, Aunt Jude guided him back to his school-work, not yet finished. He did it mechanically, with only the surface part of his mind. The tocking clock in the dining room had somehow become part of the sea’s rhythm, part of his own heartbeat and the swooshing of blood in his veins.

  He was still waiting, always waiting. Waiting for Mum, now. For her to come, and tell him who he was. Where his missing half came from.

  On Tuesday he went sailing again, with Luke, Luke’s dad and Mike, and Mike’s wife Sarah. The day was bright and dazzling, the light sharp.

  Reluctantly, Hal told Luke, ‘You know what I said about my dad? It’s not true. I got it all wrong.’

  Luke nodded, as if he already knew. Maybe Aunt Jude had found a way of telling Graham. But Luke didn’t tease Hal, as he once would have. He seemed to realise that Hal had been through something painful, and needed time to recover.

  As soon as the admission was made, Hal felt better. There was no need to talk about it any more. He could concentrate on the physical demands of sailing; of anticipating the next tack, being in the right place before he was asked, knowing which sheet needed hauling in or letting out. The feeling of riding the waves and the wind was exhilarating: being in control and out of control, both at once.

  ‘Getting your sea-legs, now,’ Mike told him. ‘You and Luke make a good team.’

  Team. And not just for sailing. At least Hal needn’t dread the return to school quite as much; he’d got his friend back.

  They stayed out longer this time, and sailed in as the light faded to dusk, navigating by the lights on the buoys that marked the harbour entrance. Mike was talking now of an idea for spring half-term, hiring the yacht again and taking it all the way across to St Malo in Brittany, stopping off at one of the Channel Islands. Luke and Hal and Graham could come, as crew, sleeping on board in the tiny cabins.

  ‘We should get Oz to come, as well,’ said Luke. ‘He’s never sailed.’

  ‘More the merrier,’ Mike said easily.

  Getting the boat ready for mooring - sails down, fenders out, lines cleated and coiled fore and aft - Hal felt like an old hand. He’d be able to show Oz a thing or two when he came on board knowing nothing.

  Don was painting again. Aunt Jude said she could tell, because he wasn’t quite all there. He turned up at mealtimes, same as usual, but he was distracted, caught up in the vision in his mind. When Hal asked him what he was painting, Don wouldn’t say. ‘If it’s any good, I’ll show you. Probably turn out to be rubbish.’ But Hal could tell he didn’t really believe that. There was a new energy about him, an eagerness.

  On Tuesday evening, after they’d eaten and cleared up, he told them that he’d made a decision.

  ‘About Moony. I’ve offered it to the Lifeboat Gallery, on loan. May as well brush the cobwebs off, let it see the light of day. It’ll get that harpy off my back, that Amanda whatsaname.’

  Aunt
Jude looked staggered.

  ‘Oh, Don! That’s a great idea. They’ll be delighted, the gallery people. It’ll give them a terrific boost. Great for publicity.’

  Publicity wasn’t Don’s favourite word. ‘Well. Provided no one comes bothering me, they can have it for however long they want.’

  ‘We’ll go, on Saturday,’ Aunt Jude announced. ‘To the launch party. We’ll all go. I’ll ask Tina as well, if it’s not too much for her. We’ll all be so proud of you. Yes, we will - don’t make such a grumpy face, Don! Take a bit of credit for once.’

  Mum was coming down on Thursday, in Claire’s car. Claire would stay for lunch, then drive back; Mum was to sleep in her old room, in her old bed, with Hal downstairs on the sofa. Then, on Sunday, Aunt Jude would drive Mum and Hal home, and that would be it. His stay at Ryton would be over. The days were running out, and already he felt the ache of leaving. It was amazing how quickly being here had come to seem normal; how Aunt Jude and Don seemed like family he’d known for years and years.

  After dinner, Don disappeared. Hal thought he’d gone back to his flat, or down to the hut to paint, but then he burst in while Hal and Aunt Jude were watching TV.

  ‘Come on out, you two! You can’t - nng - sit here glued to that tosh. Put your coats on. Come outside.’

  He led them out to the garden. It was a clear, starry night. They all stood looking up. More and more stars pricked through the darkness. As his eyes adjusted, Hal felt dizzied, as if he might fall right off the Earth and find himself swimming through stars. And there was a new moon, the merest sliver, like a silver nail-clipping. How fantastic! How brilliant, how dazzling, how mind-boggling the night was, and he’d been sitting indoors quite unaware.