The Sing of the Shore

by Lucy Wood

  ‘I couldn’t sleep.’ She crouched down and started to tighten one of his ropes.

  ‘Where’d you go?’ he asked.

  She pushed a peg further into the ground with her boot. ‘This thing looks like it’s going to blow away any second.’ She worked her boot so the peg was right in. ‘I could see it bending as I came up.’

  ‘Where’d you go?’ Bryce said.

  Kensa went back round the tent, checking each peg, each rope. ‘You have to be careful pitching here,’ she said. ‘Because of the rocks. The pegs don’t catch. You think the tent’s secure but in a gale it’ll just skid right across the field.’ She banged at another peg with her heel until it disappeared into the ground.

  Bryce nodded. When she was crouched down like that, he could see how sloped her shoulders were – it looked as if she was hunching against cold weather. The hoops of her earrings clinked softly against each other.

  ‘You must have gone pretty far,’ he said.

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Out past the fields?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Is that burnt-out barn still there?’

  ‘What barn?’

  ‘Further out that way, past the fields.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You would have seen it, if you went that way,’ Bryce said. An ant started to crawl up his leg and he leaned down and brushed it off. ‘We used to go there. The roof was collapsing. It would make these cracking noises, where the wood was about to give in.’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘It was over that way.’

  Kensa frowned. She pulled the canvas so that it was taut over the frame. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘What do you mean am I sure?’ Bryce said. There was a dull ache behind his eyes. He needed coffee, or a drink, maybe both. ‘We used to go there.’ As soon as he said it, he remembered the barn was somewhere else; by the road near the first place he’d lived when he moved away. He’d climbed onto the roof one night and felt the soft wood almost give way under him.

  ‘Maybe,’ Kensa said. ‘I think I remember. Out past the fields?’

  Bryce nodded. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Over there.’

  Kensa finished with his tent and Bryce went inside to get dressed. He lay on his sleeping bag and put his head on the rolled-up jumper he was using as a pillow. The tent was so thin he could almost see through it. He took everything out of his bag and looked over it: jeans, socks, spare shirts, a phone with no battery, no signal. His wallet. A receipt for petrol. He put it all back carefully.

  Bryce’s bedroom door opened and a crack of light from the hallway grew and spread over the floor, and across his bed. There were footsteps, the stifled sound of breathing, and then Kensa was standing over him.

  ‘I know where he went,’ she said.

  Bryce opened one eye. His clock read midnight. It was dark and quiet. He closed his eye and tried to tell Kensa to go away, but his mouth wouldn’t work properly. He pulled the covers over his head.

  ‘Come on,’ Kensa whispered. She opened Bryce’s wardrobe, pulled out some clothes for him and threw them onto the bed.

  ‘Whatnma?’ Bryce said.

  ‘We have to go.’

  Bryce sat up and rubbed over his eyes. His chin dropped onto his chest and he tried to lift it back up, but couldn’t do it.

  ‘I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before,’ Kensa was saying. ‘He kept talking about going down there. He wanted to go right to the back; he thought there might be bats, or maybe those glow-worms he’d read about. He couldn’t find them anywhere else and he really wanted to see them. All he wanted to do was see them.’

  Bryce watched as she moved around the room, pushing at her fringe and adjusting the batteries in the torch.

  ‘Where?’ he said. ‘Where did he talk about?’

  ‘The sea caves. I already said that. We have to go there now.’

  ‘We’re not allowed.’ The caves were meant to be huge and pitch-black – you could walk in deeper and deeper and never come out. No one knew how far they stretched back.

  ‘We have to go,’ Kensa said.

  Bryce sat back on the bed and folded his arms. ‘You told me to go home.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘You told me to go home.’ He lay back down and rolled himself in the duvet, leaving just enough of a gap so he could see what Kensa was doing.

  She came over to the bed and stood right in front of him. She pressed again at the batteries in the torch and the light came on, the beam tilting upwards into her chin, making her eyes look huge and roving. ‘You have to come,’ she said.

  Bryce didn’t move. The duvet muffled his voice. ‘Why?’

  Kensa moved over to the window and looked out. ‘Because.’

  Bryce rolled himself tighter into the covers.

  ‘I need you to come,’ she said. ‘OK?’ She wouldn’t turn around.

  Bryce got up and put on his shoes.

  Kensa opened the window and started climbing out. She balanced her feet on the windowsill then jumped over the spiky bushes in the flower bed.

  Bryce followed behind. ‘He took his sleeping bag though,’ he whispered. ‘And his mat. Why would he have taken those down there?’ He tried to jump from the window, but slipped, and grabbed at the bottom of the palm tree, scratching his hands on the gristly bark.

  ‘Ssshh,’ Kensa said. She turned the torch off and threaded her way through the campsite. It was full and they had to go between tents and ropes, past the sounds of people sleeping and awnings lifting in the wind. There were hushed, gurgling snores, as if a plug was loose in a bath. A little kid called something out in his sleep. A dog barked and they froze, waiting for someone to come out and see them, but no one came. They kept going. Once they were past the tents and into the first field, Kensa turned the torch back on.

  There was a thin moon and the clouds crowded around it like moths. The barley bent in the wind. They walked in silence, Kensa first, Bryce behind, his legs heavy, his mouth dry, trying to stop himself turning back with every step.

  They crossed the edge of the field, then climbed the gate. Something rustled on the ground, then darted away. Kensa turned round to look at Bryce. The buckles on her sandals rattled softly and the moon striped her face with silver. She looked different somehow, like his sister but also not like his sister at all. As they carried on along the path he reached out to touch her, to check, but just as he was about to do it, his hand fell away.

  The path turned stony and started to drop down towards the sea. The gritty dust scraped with each step, waves cracked against the rocks like beaten rugs, and there was something else as well – a strange, low noise, that Bryce had never noticed before – a sort of deep booming that echoed through the cliff and up into his feet. He stumbled on the stony path, righted himself, then stumbled again.

  ‘Kensa?’ he said.

  ‘We’re almost there.’

  ‘What’s that noise?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That.’

  ‘It’s the caves,’ Kensa said.

  The sound got louder until it was all Bryce could hear. It beat in his ears like a sail. He skidded and stones rolled; he couldn’t find anywhere stable to put his feet so he stopped and stood very still. He couldn’t see Kensa. He couldn’t move forward. It was so dark. He couldn’t tell where the path was any more, where anything was.

  ‘Kensa?’ he whispered.

  There was no answer.

  The sea was booming in the caves, knocking against the walls. It sounded like his heart against his chest. It was dangerous to go in; it was too dark, the tide was too high. Water might be pushing in through the tunnels. He turned and looked back. There were a few tiny glints of light from the campsite. He took another step forward, then turned again. There was a scrabbling noise from the path below and the torch’s beam swept up across the rocks.

  ‘Wait for me,’ Bryce called. ‘Wait there. I’m coming down, OK?’ He waited until he was sure Kensa had
stopped, then he turned and ran back to the campsite to get their parents.

  The storm came in suddenly. Bryce had just slipped into an uneasy sleep – dreaming of stones rolling, the moon, Kensa’s muffled cry of surprise, her eyes narrowing, her face turning away. He woke with the side of his tent pushing against his mouth, water sluicing down his legs, the tent poles bowing like they were about to snap.

  He sat up, got dressed, then tried to unzip his tent to go out, but the force of the wind and the rain drove him back in. He lay back down, felt the storm wrenching at the tent, trying to drag it across the grass. The poles strained. There was a tightness in the air, and then the lightning started, fast and bright, scattering across the sky like gunshots. The thunder came straight after, pealing like huge bells, and below it all was the relentless booming of the caves – he could almost feel them reverberating up the earth and into his back, the sea pummelling at the stone, hurling itself around the hollow tunnels, right under the campsite, under his tent, under everything.

  He didn’t know how long the storm lasted. Gradually the wind eased, gradually the rain thinned to mizzle. Everything in the tent was drenched: his sleeping bag, his wallet, his clothes. He unzipped the door and went out. It was just getting light. The grass was flattened. There were leaves and twigs everywhere, bits of wood, a rusty hinge that had been bowled down from the gate. His tent hadn’t moved – the ropes were still tight, the pegs still deep in the ground – but the main pole had snapped and one of the walls had ripped, making the sides crumple inwards like old fruit. There was a fine layer of sand along the roof.

  He looked over at the caravan. The curtains were shut, the door was open and swinging in the wind. Bryce looked at his tent, his stuff, his car. Maybe he should just go. Maybe it would be easier if he just went.

  He packed his sodden bag, walked to the car, and put it in the boot. He opened the door and sat in the driver’s seat. He didn’t turn on the engine. He sat for a long time. Then he got out and started walking.

  He took the path down to the caves. Halfway there he looked down and saw Kensa. She was sitting on the rocks at the side of the path, staring at the sea. The tide was out. The water was creased and battered after the storm, brown with churned sand and teeming with choppy waves. The path was wet, the stones stained with rain. They rolled under his feet as he made his way down.

  ‘Did you hear them?’ Kensa said. ‘They were so loud.’

  ‘What are they like inside?’

  Kensa zipped her coat tighter and watched the waves. ‘I don’t know.’

  Bryce looked down at the rocks and the beach. He thought of Kensa crossing the fields, going down to the rocks, standing outside the caves, but never going in. He thought of her on the path that night, in the dark, waiting for him.

  ‘Come on,’ he said.

  He made his way down, slipping on grit, clutching at wet rocks, Kensa following behind until they were on the beach. The caves were in front of them – there was a deep gap in the cliff that widened out into the dark, the stone shattered and polished by the sea as it shouldered its way further in.

  Bryce walked up the beach and stood at the caves’ mouth. Tunnels arched ahead of him, echoing and gleaming like a cathedral.

  Kensa stood next to him. She had one hand deep in her pocket, the other was clutching the torch. ‘What if we …’ she said, but she didn’t finish.

  The longer Bryce stared into the cave, the darker it looked. He took a step forward, his boots rattling on stones and bits of slate. He took another step and the slate became smooth, pale sand. He took a breath and walked in.

  The air was cool and musty. After a moment, Kensa came in and turned on the torch, shining it on the dripping walls, which glistened black and red as if a flame had passed across them.

  They walked forwards slowly. The walls dripped, the waves broke on the rocks very far away. Something moved above them, then a bat dropped down, circled the tunnel, and flew back up into the dark. Kensa moved ahead. Bryce picked his way through carefully, thinking of Nate’s small torch, the way he used to keep it on all night, the worn straps on his rucksack, the look he had that Bryce now recognised, of someone who’d got used to moving on and not looking back.

  The caves went deeper and the silence seemed to grow and thicken. There was no way of knowing which direction he was going – he just kept going, following the caves as they dipped and turned, breathing in the thin air. Sometimes the tunnels narrowed, sometimes they opened out like rooms. After a while he realised he couldn’t hear Kensa any more. He couldn’t see the torch. He stopped. There was no sound, no movement.

  He waited in the tunnel. He didn’t know how many turns he’d taken, how far or how deep he’d gone. He reached out and touched the wall, tried not to think of the miles of cliff all around him, the sea slowly making its way back in.

  He held onto the cold stone. He called out. He waited. A stone clattered down and landed by his boot. Another bat dropped and circled. Then, finally, he heard footsteps in the distance. He let go of the wall and made his way towards the sound, stretching out his hands. He called again. His heart was pounding like the tide against the caves; the skin on his palms was damp and tingling. He half-expected to hear Kensa counting slowly down to zero. Any minute now she would stretch out her hands and find him.

  Kensa called out, telling him to wait, to stay where he was, she’d be there in a minute, but he kept going. They could hear each other’s footsteps, their breathing, they were getting closer, it was so dark, there were so many twists and bends, but any moment now they would find each other, any moment now they would know exactly where they were.

  By-the-Wind Sailors

  Marine organisms with an internal float and sail. The sail is either angled to the right or to the left. The sailor has no control over where it is blown by the wind – if the wind changes direction, the sailor may get pushed inland and stranded.

  At the end of winter they move to a caravan. The site is on a cliff and easterlies cut across like scythes. There is a reception and a laundry area and a row of slot machines. On Saturday nights the disco floods music over the sea. There is the sound of waves constantly, and gulls, and the two-a.m. couple who chase each other around the fields full of wrath, then make up again inside, shouting out their remorse, bottles and tins rattling against the window. Some mornings there is frost crackling the grass. Other mornings the sun lays out warmth in copper sheets. The thrift is just starting to bloom. The sand martins arrive back to nest in the crumbling cliffs.

  The family are Ruby and Nathan Tulley and their daughter Lacey. Ruby is short and gaunt and never keeps still – she bites her lips, pulls out eyelashes, gnaws at the skin around her nails. Her hair is dyed maroon but it has faded to dusty purple, like the colour of sloes before they are ripe. She met Nathan at a garage sale, both of them buying someone else’s chipped plates and flat cushions. Nathan is a sleepy man, and so shy that he hides if he sees anyone he knows. His skin is dry and red but he doesn’t like to use the cream that Ruby got for him – it stings – so every night he gently squeezes some into the sink and turns on the tap.

  He fixes fences and gates and anything else that comes his way. Ruby can sew better than anyone and she takes in dresses and shirts and works on them on her second-hand Singer, a thistle-head of pins stored in the corner of her mouth. Lacey sits very still under chairs and tables, sticks her tongue between the gap in her teeth, and doesn’t say much at all.

  There are a hundred static caravans and it’s not the busy season, but somehow they end up in one right on the edge of the site, a mile from the facilities and half-tilted into a sloppy furrow. The front window is cracked and the curtains and walls are adorned with mould and midges. All the shine has been scoured off the plyboard. But it’s dry enough inside and there’s a small, neat table with three wicker chairs, which turn out to be a lot more comfortable than they look. Ruby and Nathan sit on theirs, Lacey sits under hers. There is a pattern of white leaves and cigarette b
urns on the carpet.

  There was a fire at the flat they’d been renting in town, so they only have a few singed bags with them. The whole building went up overnight and by morning was nothing more than crumpled bricks, plaster and melted plastic. The family can’t remember how they got out. Sometimes they go back over it but none of them can remember anything about getting out. One moment there was the reek and pressure of smoke, and the next they were standing on the street watching reams of yellow tape twisting in the wind, and blue lights flashing. They didn’t know where to go. Then Ruby remembered how she and Nathan had stayed in a caravan for a few months after they’d got married. It had been a good time. There was no heating, so they would do their laundry in the evenings and then sit with the warm bags on their laps, drinking beer by the mugful.

  But in this caravan they never seem to get warm. Nathan can’t shake off a rattling cough and tightness in his lungs. Ruby scrubs the mould off the curtains but it keeps creeping back. There is always a strange, smoky smell on their clothes that won’t wash out. Lacey takes to lying flat underneath the loose carpet. She’s so small that Ruby sometimes stands on her by accident. Everything is broken and it’s impossible to get hold of the site’s owner, so Nathan fixes the beds and the overhead cupboards and Ruby prises out the black gunge between the tiles in the shower. Slowly, they find a routine. The chairs are the best thing in the whole place and they look forward to the end of the day when they can sit quietly in them. They lean back against the creaking wicker and close their eyes. I guess you can get used to anywhere, they say to each other. Nathan goes out early to the farm where he is repairing the fences. Ruby watches Lacey and mends the caravan’s torn bedding and curtains. She’s hoping that once they can get hold of the owner, he might give her the work of the whole site.

  When the wind squalls, the caravan rocks from side to side. One godawful night it feels as if it’s sliding down the field towards the sea. They run out into the dark and throw bricks in front of it. Nathan digs a deep trench and goes back to bed muddy. In the morning, there is no sign that the caravan has moved at all. Lacey strings a row of things she’s found along the back window. There are bits of coal, wet feathers, and a clutch of plastic key rings, salt-scrubbed but still bright, covered in writing no one can read because it’s in Mandarin.