The Sandfather

by Linda Newbery

  Hal turned the board over, and read Hal and the Stars. Don Inchbold. It sent an odd kind of tingle down his back, seeing himself like that, so close, so real. As if he was back there in the garden, in the cold autumn air. And as if Don knew him better than he knew himself.

  He wondered how to say thank you for something so special.

  The opening of the Lifeboat Gallery had a Hallowe’en theme. Pumpkin masks grinned from every spare surface; orange flames licked at the windows; bats fluttered in the rafters. A jazz band played, and down on the beach, a bonfire waited to be lit. It was a fine, starlit night, drawing lots of people.

  Wesley was there. When Hal saw him come in, his heart thumped with stupid expectation, even though there was nothing to expect. When Wesley saw Hal’s mum, and she saw him, there was a moment of shocked recognition. They greeted each other with a clasp of hands that turned into a hug, with lots of laughing; each said how well the other was looking, and Wesley said that Tina had a son to be proud of, and introduced them both to Valerie and his little girls. Then he and Mum began talking as if they had only tonight to catch up with all the years since they’d last seen each other. Soon Aunt Jude interrupted, reminding Mum that she wasn’t to stand for too long, and mustn’t get tired.

  Luke was there, with his dad. ‘Sailing tomorrow? Meet you down at the marina?’

  Czeszka was there, with Gregor and her father, to whom she introduced Hal. Gregor, very smart in a black bow tie, was a waiter, carrying trays of wine and things to nibble.

  Amanda Farman was there, elegant in a black dress, with piled-up hair. Don was there, sloshing wine, shuffling his feet, looking as if he’d rather be somewhere else.

  And Moony was there, in pride of place on the wall of the new extension. It looked right. It commanded attention with its brilliance and boldness. Some of the guests recognised it; Hal heard Don’s name mentioned, more than once. ‘Is that him? Over there by the door?’ Others stood and studied the painting in silence.

  More and more people were coming in, filling the space. After a hubbub of greetings and chatter, there were speeches to be made from a microphone. A local councillor, an MP, someone from the Arts Council. Then Amanda Farman stepped forward and gave a nervous cough.

  ‘We’re tremendously thrilled and honoured to have such a distinguished guest this evening, an artist who lives and works locally but who is known and admired internationally. Don Inchbold made a name for himself as one of the most striking painters of the nineteen sixties . . .’

  Don, standing nearby, stared at the floor. He looked rather as Hal had felt in the Year Head’s office, called in to give an account of himself.

  ‘. . . very, very kindly agreed to loan us his most famous painting, Moony, and how stunning it looks . . .’

  Don glanced up and caught Hal’s eye; gave the smallest grin; looked down again and rubbed one shoe against the other trouser leg.

  ‘. . . and I can’t tell you how delighted I am that he’s agreed to say a few words this evening. Please, let’s show our appreciation. Don Inchbold.’

  Cameras flashed as Don shambled up to the mike and spent some while adjusting it. Everyone waited.

  ‘The Lifeboat Gallery,’ Don said at last. ‘Good name. Good place. I like it. Kuh! Because art is a lifeboat. Course it is. For me. For lots of people.’ He gazed at the ceiling. ‘Nnng.’

  Dropping his arms to his sides, he looked around for Aunt Jude, then abruptly walked back to his place. It took several moments for people to realise he’d finished, then applause broke out, and polite laughter. ‘Well, she said it’d be a few words,’ someone said, behind Hal.

  Amanda Farman declared the gallery officially open, invited everyone to wander, and reminded them that the bonfire was about to be lit. Don looked dazed. Aunt Jude went straight to him and took his arm, protecting him from the journalists who gathered round. ‘Just a few questions, Mr Inchbold, if you don’t mind? Art is a lifeboat? Can you expand on that? And Moony? Where’s it been hidden, all these years, and how did you get it back? Are you living in Ryton now? Are you planning to exhibit again?’

  It was Aunt Jude who answered. ‘No, no plans. Possibly. Maybe.’

  ‘Mr Inchbold! Have you completed any new work since you’ve been in Ryton?’

  Don raised his head.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I have. Hal and the Stars, it’s called.’

  ‘Hal and the Stars?’ The reporter wrote it down. ‘Can you tell us a bit more? A small hint? Will we see it on display here?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ Don met Hal’s eye. ‘It’s up to Hal, what happens to it.’

  Outside, on the shingle, the blaze was catching hold: flames leaping, sparks flying up into the sky. There were fireworks, and hot drinks. Don went home to his flat, exhausted by his public appearance. Mum sat on the lifeboat ramp, Aunt Jude beside her; Hal went down to the tide’s edge with Luke and Czeszka, and skimmed stones, trying to outdo each other. Gradually the two boys deferred to Czeszka, copying her technique. It wasn’t a matter of strength. Czeszka chose her stones carefully, selecting flat-sided ones, rubbing her thumb over the smooth flint. She angled herself at the incoming tide, narrowed her eyes, waited for the right moment. Then she gave a swift flick of her wrist, skilful as a spin-bowler, and the stone scudded along a flattening wave-top in more bounces than anyone could count. Hal saw Luke changing his opinion of Czeszka. He’d thought she was just a girl, a hanger-on. Now he wanted to impress her.

  Later, when Luke and Graham left, Hal went in search of Mum. She was still there on the ramp, huddled into her coat, Aunt Jude beside her. Both looked extremely pleased with themselves.

  ‘Hal, how would you feel about coming here to live?’ Mum asked him.

  ‘Here? Where? How?’

  ‘Here in Ryton.’

  ‘What, you mean like really live here? You and me?’

  Hal thought of what this would mean. Not leave the sea after all? Be here all the time? Go down to the beach whenever he felt like it? Know the tides like he knew the days of the week? Learn to sail properly?

  ‘You’d have to change school. Make new friends,’ said Mum. ‘But you’d still have Luke - he’s down here quite often. And Czeszka now. And Osman could come and stay.’

  ‘Stay where? What, we’d live with, uh, the grandfather?’

  ‘No.’ Mum gave a sidelong glance at Aunt Jude.

  ‘We’ve been plotting.’ Aunt Jude stretched out her hands to the bonfire’s warmth. ‘I want to help out. And I want you to help me out, which you would be doing.’

  ‘Huh?’ Hal looked from one to the other.

  ‘I had a share in Marborough’s,’ said Aunt Jude, ‘and I’d been thinking what to do with the money. A seaside place like this, it gets taken over with holiday cottages, and the prices go sky high. So it’s hard for the locals to find places to live, let alone afford to buy. I’ve been looking at a pair of old cottages - I’m going to buy them and do them up, and rent them out to local people. I’ve already put in an offer.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Hal said, not quite following.

  ‘So your mum can work for me, for a bit, now she’s got no job at JJ’s. Painting, decorating and so on. Till she finds something better. And then - well, you’re local people, aren’t you? At least your mum is. Born and brought up here. So you can be my first tenants.’

  ‘It’s really kind of you to help,’ Mum said, but Aunt Jude waved away her thanks.

  ‘Nonsense! It’s for my own selfish pleasure. I’ll enjoy having the cottages, and even more I’ll enjoy having you two living close by. We’ll be a proper family at last. I can’t tell you how good that’ll be.’

  ‘You don’t need to,’ Mum said, smiling. ‘And I can always be a mobile hairdresser. I’ll earn my keep, mine and Hal’s. I want to stand on my own two feet.’

  ‘Course you do,’ Aunt Jude agreed. ‘Course you will.’

  Mobile hairdresser? Hal imagined a van parked by the roadside, Mum cutting and styling in a lay-by, but she saw his p
uzzled look and said, ‘Doing people’s hair in their own homes. Lots of people prefer that, or can’t get out for one reason or another. I’d advertise locally and I bet I’d soon find as much work as I wanted.’

  Aunt Jude gave a contented sigh. ‘And I’ll stay where I am, if Gerry’s happy with that. There’s no point him rattling round that big house by himself. He needs me to keep him in order. Then Don can have the flat. We’ll go on much the same as we are.’

  ‘But what d’you think, Hal?’ Mum was looking at him keenly. ‘Do you like the idea?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, and found that he meant it. ‘Yeah! It’s well cool.’

  ‘Good,’ Mum said, laughing.

  ‘So - that’s it, then?’ Hal tried to take it in. ‘We’re not going home?’

  ‘Oh, we’ll go back for a few weeks at least,’ said Mum. ‘JJ’s isn’t closing till the end of November, and I’ll need the money. There’ll be loads to sort out. And we’ll need to get you into a good school.’

  Typical adult! You’d think school was the only thing that mattered. Hal thought of the homework he still hadn’t quite finished, and the Anger Management that awaited him. Anger Management! What was that all about? He’d had it with anger. Anger had burned through him, and fizzled itself out. He couldn’t remember, now, how it had felt.

  ‘So,’ he said hopefully, ‘there’s not much point going in on Monday, is there? If I’ll be leaving so soon?’

  He knew from the cynical smile on Aunt Jude’s face and the wry look on Mum’s that he had no chance of getting away with that. None at all.

  22

  GONE

  Hal woke up, late, and instantly remembered that this was his last day. Tomorrow and school already loomed, but he pushed them out of his thoughts. Today mattered more.

  And it wasn’t really the end; he and Mum would soon be back. Down for weekends, sorting things out, helping Aunt Jude. Meeting the grandfather. There’d be lots to do.

  ‘Like having a sort-out at home,’ Mum told him. ‘Goodness knows what’s in your bedroom cupboard, Hal. Or mine, come to that. We’ll take a load of stuff to the charity shop. Then when we move, we won’t be wading through clutter.’

  A new start, Hal thought. A new school, where he didn’t have a reputation, where he hadn’t been in trouble, and wouldn’t go looking for it. Maybe he’d even have a friend there - Mum, on Aunt Jude’s advice, had said she’d try for Southdean, where Czeszka was starting next week. She’d be in the same year, so there’d be at least one person he knew. As long as no one started on about her being his girlfriend.

  He’d arranged to meet Czeszka down on the beach.

  ‘Your last day,’ she’d said. ‘We make something one last time.’

  ‘For now,’ he corrected.

  The phrase puzzled her. ‘Yes, for now, if you say.’

  From habit, before setting off, Hal reached for the bag of marbles to select one. Then he had a better idea, and stowed the whole bag in his rucksack. Mum had made him a packed lunch, so that he could go straight on to the marina to meet Luke.

  Czeszka was waiting for him, down by the beach huts. It was sunny but cold today, a chill wind cutting across from the east.

  The early morning’s high tide hadn’t left many gifts. They began collecting what they could: a piece of plank, a Coke can, a flip-flop sandal. Nothing to inspire, nothing to spark an idea. And Hal felt that today they should make something special: a finale, a farewell, until he came back. A heap of old tat, as Don might put it, just wouldn’t do.

  They went farther along the beach and looked at the way the sun threw their shadows long and thin on the sand.

  ‘Stand, please!’ Czeszka told him. She’d picked up a flint. Bending, she traced the outline of Hal’s shadow with its sharp edge until he was there, scored into the sand, a long slim boy. He quite liked the look of himself.

  ‘Now you! My turn.’ He picked up a sharp-edged stone and bent to draw round Czeszka’s shadow. But she teased him, striking poses, dancing away, refusing to be captured and pinned down. Hal gave up, throwing away the piece of flint.

  Instead, he began scooping damp sand with both hands: heaping and smoothing, patting. Moulding, sculpting and firming. At first, Czeszka stood and watched; then, as she saw that it was a sandman, she dug and piled too, taking the role of helper, letting Hal guide the way the figure was growing.

  The sandman they made was life-size and sturdy. Big arms reached down his sides. Flat feet splayed out. His eyeless face looked up at the sky.

  Czeszka looked expectantly at Hal. ‘Eyes? You have?’

  Hal remembered that all the marbles were in his rucksack. He pulled out the bag, reached in at random and gave the sandman one orange eye and one green. Then he placed a whole row of marble-buttons down the man’s front. He gave him marble cufflinks, two on each sleeve. He shaped a hat, and put five marbles on top for a bobble. The two moons, his favourites, became ear-studs. Czeszka laughed, and Hal gave her the remaining marble, a ruby-red one. She held it, considering, then placed it on the man’s clumpy hand, where it became the gem of a ring.

  They both stood looking at the man they’d made. His life would be short; the incoming waves were already lapping his feet. He lay there like a sacrificial victim. Hal and Czeszka waited, silent and expectant. Foam bubbles melted into the sand. Then the sea sighed and pushed forward again, leaving a new fringe of surf.

  ‘But the marbles!’ Czeszka reached for the ruby-red ring, but Hal caught her arm, stopping her.

  ‘No. Leave it. Leave all of them. I don’t want them.’

  Her eyes searched his face. She made another move, as if to pluck a marble for herself; then, with a little shrug, she left it. She stood watching with Hal. A wave lifted and curled and fell, pushing farther up the sandman’s body.

  Hal let the waves hypnotise him, fill his mind.

  Like this it would be, for ever and for ever. Thousands, millions, even billions of years into the future, until the Earth got swallowed up by the sun or went spinning into space. The moon making the tides rise and fall. Rock being pounded into sand. People - for as long as there were people - looking out to sea. Wishing. And wondering.

  ‘The sea can make you mad,’ Don had said. ‘And the sea can make you sane.’ Hal hadn’t known what this meant, but now perhaps he did.

  If you stood in one place, you could see how the tide was coming in. You could stand as close as possible to the water’s edge and feel your shoes sinking into sand and grit as each wave washed back. Moments later you’d have to leap back or have your trainers filled with water and your jeans soaked.

  Hal did this a few times, and so did Czeszka, until their jeans were tide-marked and their trainers drenched. Each time, they ran back laughing, stumbling, deliberately leaving it a little too late.

  Hal had forgotten to watch the sandman being licked and dissolved. Now, he saw that the first marbles were being taken by the sea - lifted, rolled, sucked into the undertow. They became pebbles on the beach, then were lost in the next wave. Hal watched them go. Maybe he’d save the moon-marbles, keep just those two, put them safely in his pocket; but as he reached out his hand, his mind changed itself, and he left them.

  For a few moments, the sandman’s head was the only part of him to be seen above the shine of water on sand; his nose pointing upward, his marble eyes in which Hal fancied - for just a second - there might be a sorry look. Then the wave washed right over his features, and the last two marbles rolled down into the foam.

  The sea could take them. And the sea could take the sandman. Hal watched until there was nothing left to see.

  ‘Gone,’ said Czeszka.

  ‘Yes. All gone.’

  Hal thought that he could make another sandman, one day, any day, whenever he chose. But he never would. And he didn’t even feel regretful, not now.

  ‘Come on,’ he said to Czeszka, turning his back. ‘It’s too cold to hang around.’

  Time to go sailing.

  ACKNOWL
EDGEMENTS

  With thanks to all the people who have helped in various ways: in particular Margaret Taylor and Chris at Henry Cort Community School; to Tony and Heather Birr of Firstaway Yacht Charters, for a memorable weekend on the Solent; to Black Boys Can (www.blackboyscan.co.uk) for various insights, and to the group from Sherfield School at The Hurst Arvon Centre in March 2008, for a refresher course in Year Nineness. Also to Trevor, for support; and to Ian Benfold Haywood, whose illustrations add so much to the book. And, as ever, to Jon Appleton, for excellent editing and guidance.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Linda Newbery is the Nestlé Silver Award-winning author of Catcall, and of Set in Stone, winner of the 2006 Costa Children’s Book Award - in addition to more than thirty other books for readers of all ages.

  Linda wanted to be an author from the age of eight. She now writes full-time from her home in Northamptonshire, and is much in demand as a speaker in schools and libraries and at festivals and conferences.