by Julia Green
They are both still shaking.
Leah comes to. She begins to giggle. ‘Wow!’ she says. ‘That was amazing! What was it in there? Like a force field, or trapped energy or something. All warm and alive. Like being inside something living.’ She laughs again. ‘Like being back in the womb!’
He can’t look at her, he’s so shy. But in the deep, secret darkness, he kissed her. He did! And the truly amazing thing is, she liked it.
He’s moved away from her now, as if nothing happened. He’s young, he’s never kissed anyone before. She can be patient.
‘That time before,’ she says softly. ‘You must have felt it too, whatever it is in there, and needed air, and hit your head on the stone as you came out. Something like that.’
She watches him pick up the damp sketchpad from the grass. A snail has left a silvery trail over the cover.
‘Got to get back,’ he says. ‘I mustn’t be late.’
‘Sketching in the dark!’ Leah giggles. ‘Never mind. Nina’s soft with you, isn’t she? Compared to — to most parents.’
She chatters on as they walk back across the fields. The grass has cooled right down now. Her feet are freezing. Simon barely answers, but she doesn’t mind. She can’t wait till she gets back home and can write this all up in her diary. She knows it’s important in some way that isn’t clear to her yet. It links up with something bigger. Part of what’s meant to be.
She wonders what Simon’s thinking about as they walk. Her? The stone place? Telling his mates?
She knows for sure that he won’t want anyone seeing them coming up the lane together. She tells him to go on ahead, and she waits until his door has clicked shut before she walks the last fifty metres to her own front door. It’s locked. She has to tiptoe round to the back, ducking under the lit window at the side, and creep in the back way through the kitchen, up the stairs to her room. Voices murmur from the sitting room.
She washes her face and then her feet, balancing one foot at a time on the basin. She stares at herself in the mirror, purses her lips up in a kiss. She slips into bed without turning on the light, doesn’t write her diary after all. Too tired. It’s hot and stuffy in her room; she crawls out of bed and flings the window wide open. There’s the sweet smell of some wild flower wafting up from the garden. The creamy petals glow in the dark.
She lies on her back under a thin sheet, keeping completely still, practising being dead. She dreams in the night that her legs have turned to stone.
15
Each day’s hotter than the last. It hasn’t rained since that Saturday when Simon took her to the swimming cove down the cliff. There’s nothing to do all day except keep out of the way. She’s bored with sunbathing all by herself.
When she went round to babysit on Wednesday, Nina had chatted to her while she got ready to meet Matt.
‘Why don’t you get yourself a job? It doesn’t matter what, really. Just to earn some money and keep you busy while you work out what to do next. Don’t your parents mind you hanging about all day?’
Leah didn’t tell Nina that they had other things to worry about right now.
‘My childminder, Rita, might be able to help?’ Nina offered. ‘You could get more babysitting through her probably. You’re good with Ellie. What about a childcare course in September? At the college.’
Leah just shrugged. ‘I’ve had enough of learning things.’
Nina had looked sad when she said that.
Simon had got back about ten. He hadn’t wanted her to stay. ‘Mum left your money in the kitchen,’ he said. ‘You can go now I’m back.’
‘Do you want a coffee or something? I’ll make you one if you like.’
‘No. I’m tired. I’m going to bed.’
And that had been that. It was as if he’d forgotten all about their walk, the kiss. He didn’t even look at her properly. He smelt of woodsmoke and booze. She supposed he’d been out with those kids from school. End of term.
She heard Nina’s car about eleven. Early. Perhaps they’d had a row. Maybe he’s realized she’s not right for him after all. Too old and sensible. And who’d want to take on two children like that? When they could have someone young and exciting and free?
It’s too hot in the garden now. Leah swings her legs round off the sunlounger and goes into the kitchen to get a glass of water. She thinks about that cove again, where she swam with Simon. Why not? There must be a quicker way to get there, if she cuts across the fields. If she finds that path again, Simon’s Coffin Path. It won’t be spooky in the daytime.
She walks quietly upstairs to get a towel, grabs an apple from the bowl in the kitchen on her way out. No one sees her go.
She’s hotter than ever by the time she finds the right place, sweat trickling down her back. There’s the brief, terrifying moment when she has to get the rope and swing herself over the edge, lower herself hand over hand, but she does it. She almost wishes there was someone to see, someone to admire her. But of course there’s no one around for miles.
It’s hot even on the rocks today, hardly a breath of wind. She peers down to the swimming cove. It looks different. The tide is high, she supposes. You can’t see the sandy bottom like she could last time they were here. How will she get back out? Simon had to help her last time.
Leah steps back from the edge. She might as well make the most of the sun. She peels off her sticky T-shirt, her bra, her skirt and pants. She can get her all-over suntan at last. She dangles her legs down over the side of the rocks so her feet trail in the sea; it cools her down just enough. Then she finds a place to lie out flat on her towel.
No one can see her. No one knows she’s here. She’s free as the birds circling overhead, mewing in the high blue sky. She loses track of time. Dozes. Every so often she strokes her body with another layer of sun lotion, for a perfect golden tan.
Suddenly, a sharp sound like gunshot rips out, echoes and reverberates off the cliff. Leah sits up, grabs her T-shirt, scans the cliff face. What was it? She can see a small trickle of chalky rock crumbling down the top of the rough track. Is someone there? She waits, holding her clothes like a shield, but nothing more happens. The birds are wheeling overhead again, unperturbed.
It must have been from further away. Sound travels long distances over the fields.
She’s unbearably hot. The sea washes against the rocks, soothing and inviting. She knows how cold it will be, but she can’t resist. She works out the easiest place for getting in and out. There are only tiny waves: the cove’s sheltered from the wind. She can swim well enough. She steps down on to the lower platform of rock, slides herself over the edge. She gasps, then dips right in, lets go of the rock and starts to swim. With the sun full on her face, it’s just about bearable. To begin with, she stays close to the rocks. She turns on to her back. Paddling with her arms to keep herself still she scans along the cliff, checking that no one is watching her. She’ll stay in for the count of fifty, and then she’ll get out and warm up again.
16
Simon can’t concentrate on the Ancient Stones book because every time he looks at the pages on Neolithic burial chambers, he sees Leah’s face close up. Not that he could see it, there in the dark. And he feels peculiar, because of what happened. What he did, without planning it or meaning anything. It was because it was so hot in there and she was so close. Her mouth tasted like… like nothing at all he can think of. There was a sensation, like falling, and a smell, something remembered from a long time ago. It’s just out of his reach. So now it seems it does mean something after all. That kiss.
His head’s all muddled up. He needs to run, or get on his bike, or swim, or shoot something.
It’s the holidays, but everyone’s away now. Pike, Johnny, Dan… Nina wanted him to sign up for the surfing school. Surfing is what everyone does round here. She’d rather he learned safely. But he won’t know anyone there. Can’t face it. Today she’s taken Ellie down to the beach. He might join them later. But before that, he’s going to check out a
web site for air rifles. He doesn’t have a credit card, though, so he can’t order it off the Net. He’ll have to find another way. You’re supposed to be eighteen. Pike or Johnny’s dad would get him one if he asked, but he can’t wait that long. He could work on Mum, but the time’s not right.
He switches the computer on. It calms him down, scrolling through the different types of gun. Something inside him shifts back to normal. The one he wants is called a Supersport.
He plays a quick game of ‘Monkey Lander’, and then he watches the end of a film he recorded the other night off the telly. It takes his mind off things, watching a load of gangsters getting shot, and a car chase, but he ends up feeling even more wired up. He’ll get his bike out.
He takes the road he walked down that day after school; it’s uphill almost all the way, but he makes himself do it without stopping, till he’s sweating and red-faced and his heart’s pounding. The muscles in his legs feel tight. It’s good to push yourself. That’s how you get stronger. Once he’s at the high point of the road the view is fantastic, right across the patchwork of fields and stone hedges to the sea. There’s hardly any wind. He peels off the main road down a small track in the direction of the sea. It passes through a small cluster of stone buildings: a house, a barn. A studio. He got there by instinct, he’ll think later. He hadn’t meant to, not consciously.
He knows who the man will be, weeding a row of beans in the walled garden, even before the man raises his head and stands up.
‘Simon! How nice!’
So he has to stop, doesn’t he?
‘Hi.’ His voice comes out in a sort of growl.
‘You look hot! Come and have a drink.’
Simon dismounts, leans the bike against the wall, finds himself trailing after Matt Davies into the house. For a second he can’t see a thing. His eyes adjust to the green light of a small kitchen.
Matt takes a bottle of beer out of the fridge. ‘Want one? Or Coke?’
‘Just water. Thanks.’
Matt pulls a face. ‘Suit yourself.’ He runs the kitchen tap and then fills a glass for Simon. He gets ice from the freezer. The ice chinks against the glass. It’s like being in a film. Sound effects. The bottle being opened, a chair scraping over a wooden floor. Simon looks around the room. There are huge framed charcoal drawings on three walls. Abstract landscapes or something.
Matt watches him. ‘What do you think?’ he asks. ‘Like them?’
Simon blushes. ‘They’re good,’ he says. ‘Did you do them?’
‘I did. They’re part of a series. For an exhibition a few years back. Want to see some other stuff? Since you’re here?’
Simon nods. ‘I was just out cycling. I didn’t know your house was here.’ He doesn’t want Matt Davies to think he came on purpose, even if he has been invited, more than once, to see the studio.
Matt grins. ‘Whatever. But I’m glad you came. And since you’re here, you might as well take a look. Come and see my new work in the studio. More water?’
He refills their glasses. ‘Thirsty weather,’ he says to Simon. ‘Especially when you’re working. Or cycling.’
Simon follows him across the garden to the studio attached to the barn. It’s got a glass roof and is full of light and white stone dust. A set of stone carving tools are laid out along the bench just inside the door. There’s a sketchbook of rough pencil drawings propped up on the bench against the wall. A huge chunk of pale stone sits on a cloth on the floor. It doesn’t look like anything yet.
Simon wrinkles up his nose at the smell. He likes it; an earthy, chalky smell. Stone. Paint. Turpentine. Further in, there are more drawings and slabs of stone, and some big paintings. They seem to be a mixture of landscapes and life drawings. Naked women, back views. Or bits of the body. He doesn’t look too closely. Matt moves back and stands in front of some of the pictures, half hiding them. It’s as if he’s suddenly seeing the studio through Simon’s eyes and realizing what is there.
Matt coughs slightly. ‘They’re life studies, for the stone sculpture,’ he explains, awkwardly. ‘It’s hot in here. Let’s go back in the garden.’
What’s the matter with him? Why’s he so nervous, suddenly?
There’s a drawing of a woman turned to one side. He sees it, and blood rushes to his head. He knows her instantly: how could he not? It’s his own mother.
He goes dizzy. He stumbles towards the door. ‘Too hot,’ he manages to mumble. He can see the handlebars of his bike along the edge of the wall; all he has to do is reach there without passing out.
Matt Davies reaches out a hand. ‘Simon,’ he says, ‘I didn’t think. Sorry. It’s just what artists do, life drawing. It doesn’t mean anything.’
But it should, shouldn’t it? Simon thinks as he hurtles down the track away from the house. When someone takes their clothes off for you like that. Shouldn’t it?
What else has she done to be helpful?
Urgh! He feels sweaty and disgusting, thinking about them. His mother and Mr Davies. The bike skids over stones and gravel as the track peters out into grass. Stone hedges on either side press in; the air’s thick with the rank smell of hot grass roots, nettles, rosebay willowherb.
His mother must have been sitting up there in his studio, while Matt Davies looked and drew and shaded and measured and turned her into art. He’s making a sculpture of her body. It’ll be in an exhibition, for the whole world to see. ‘Your mum, shagging a teacher!’ Johnny’s words. Everyone will know.
All these years it has been him and Ellie and Mum. There hasn’t been anyone else, and he’s never even thought about it. Why would there be anyone? She loved Dad and missed him like crazy at first, and then gradually she just got on with it, that’s what she told Simon, making a life for them, and her. Like they all have. It faded, the thought of Dad, but it was still there all the time in the background. Safely there, like something solid you knew was still behind you. Would always be.
He thinks of the photograph Mum keeps on her bedside table. A young-looking Dad, with dark hair and blue eyes. What would he say about what Mum is doing? But that’s a stupid way to think, isn’t it? Dad can’t say anything. Hasn’t done for years. Never will again. Doesn’t know anything about Mum, or Ellie, or him, what their lives are now. He’s dead. Dust and ashes. Gone.
The sun has bleached all the colour from the sky. The whole cliff shimmers with heat. Simon dismounts the bike now the path has become so narrow and rocky, and pushes along. His muscles ache. It’s like pushing through treacle. No, not treacle. Through something heavy and unyielding. Molten lead. Or water, against the current. Swimming against the rip. You don’t stand a chance.
Sweat’s dripping into his eyes. He follows the path blindly, stumbling over jutting rocks, snagging his calves on brambles and gorse. Doesn’t know where he’s going, or why. Doesn’t know anything any more.
He’s so hot he’s forced to stop. He pulls his T-shirt over his head, wipes his face with it and shoves it on the back of the bike. He goes and sits as close as he can to the edge of the cliff. He hasn’t been on this stretch of the coast before. It’s wild and steep. He can see something jutting out just below: stone overgrown with grass. Another burial mound? But when he gets closer he sees it’s concrete, not stone. An old war bunker. He edges round, looking for a way in. There’s a locked metal door covered in graffiti, and the stink of piss. He peers through the gunslits at the side, but all he can see is dust and darkness. There are bunkers like this all along the coast. Men would have been stationed here, training their binoculars over the stretch of Atlantic searching for submarines. He tries to imagine what it would have been like, watching and waiting for something that might or might not be there. But it’s too hot. Simon kicks the door hard before he scrambles back up the cliff to the path.
Far, far below, something bobs up and down in the sea near an outcrop of black rocks. A seal. From here it looks a bit like a human head. That’s probably the origin of those stories people tell about mermaids. Ellie’
s favourite story at the moment is about a woman who turns into a seal. A selkie. Ellie and Nina will be wondering whether he’s going to turn up on the beach. Perhaps he will. There’s something comforting about the thought of lying out on the sand next to his mum or digging channels from rock pools with Ellie. Just like it was before…
Before what? He’s not even sure how to think of it. Before everything started to change: Mum, him.
Leah’s face looms into his consciousness again. Her silky hair brushing against his arm. Her soft mouth. But the thought makes him cringe at the same time. Pleasure and disgust in equal measure.
He fires an imaginary air gun at the seal’s head. It’s closer now, looking up at him with its whiskery face. They went to a seal sanctuary once, him and Mum. He was only little. There was a small white pup in the hospital area being fed milk every four hours. Mum could hardly tear herself away. Simon wanted to watch the two big seals by the outside pool who were doing peculiar and fascinating things to each other. He didn’t know what, at the time. Seals having sex. All that noise and blubber and wetness.
Simon picks up the bike from where he abandoned it and pushes it slowly along the path for another mile. He starts to recognize landmarks. He’s back on home ground.
Just when he’s starting to relax, a shot rips out. It’s that mad bloke again. Why’s he shooting rabbits in the middle of the day? Because he’s nuts, that’s why. Any sane person’s lying in the shade or on a beach somewhere. Or on holiday. Simon doesn’t fancy meeting Mad Ed again right now. He’s unarmed, he’s got the bike, it’s too hot. Three good enough reasons. He waits, listens, then wheels along a bit further. He locks the bike to a stumpy hawthorn tree and peers over the cliff edge to see if he can get down to the rocks nearer the sea. That’s when he sees Leah.
