The Wave

by Virginia Moffatt

  ‘I think I’d better get changed.’

  ‘Yup.’ She is still laughing and I’m about to get mad, but then I realize that I like the fact she is still laughing. It makes me feel like we’re a couple, even if, after the disaster in the cave, we probably aren’t. Then she reaches for my hand, smiling, and dispels doubts. Whatever happened there, whatever happens now, we’re in it together.

  As we turn back to the camp, we come across Shelley and Margaret who are making a sandcastle.

  ‘That was spectacular,’ Margaret says

  ‘One way of putting it,’ I say and laugh ruefully. She is OK, really, and Nikki is right, what would I have done in her shoes? ‘Look, I’m sorry about earlier.’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ she says, and I can see she means it.

  The sandcastle is nearly complete, an elaborate construction with towers, windows and crenellations.

  ‘That’s fabulous,’ says Nikki. ‘Need any help?’

  ‘Feel free,’ says Shelley.

  ‘I think I’d better get changed …’ I say again. My clothes are damp and beginning to chafe. There is a cool breeze now and I have no desire to stay here getting colder. I’m a little disappointed that Nikki wants to stay here rather than be with me, but then she flashes that warm smile, gives me a peck on the cheek and says, ‘You do look cold. I won’t be long. Meet you up there in a bit?’

  Whatever has gone on between us, it isn’t over. I’m so relieved I race up the beach, diving into the tent, where Yan is reading.

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘I fell in the sea.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ He turns back to his book as I strip off, find a towel and dry myself as best I can. I am shivering, my skin covered in goose pimples. I grab clean clothes and put them on as quickly as possible. I am about to go out again and make myself a cup of tea, when Yan puts the book down and says, ‘Sorry about earlier.’

  ‘That’s OK.’

  ‘No it’s not. I was an arsehole.’ I’m tempted to remark that this is nothing new, when Yan he says, ‘But I hate it when I’m an arsehole to you. You’re one of my best mates.’ I am so surprised I sit down, pulling my sleeping bag round my shoulders for warmth.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. I only ever bother arguing with people I like.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Mind you, you don’t half come out with some crap.’

  ‘Only when you’re being a self-righteous prick.’

  ‘Am I?’ Yan looks so horrified, I laugh.

  ‘Sometimes. We agree more than you might think. I just hate an opinion shoved down my throat.’

  Yan is quiet for a moment. Then he says, ‘I’d like to think I could be mature enough to take that criticism. Given time … That was the trouble tonight. The situation as much as the issues made me mad.’

  ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘Terrified.’

  ‘Me too. Trying to keep it at bay …’ Yan holds up his book. ‘You seem to have your own solution.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘You and Nikki.’

  ‘I suppose. She’s lovely …’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Lisa.’

  ‘Please don’t tell me you’re letting her stop you? That woman left you in a mess. If you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘I like her a lot. Just difficult in the circumstances.’

  ‘You know what? If I were you, I wouldn’t be in my head so much. Seize the day. Or the night. There’s not much time left. Make the most of it.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right.’

  ‘You know I am.’

  Outside the tent we can hear the sound of voices – Shelley and Nikki, coming back up the beach. Yan puts on a fake American accent, ‘Go get her, tiger,’ as if we’re in some cheesy romcom. Before adding, ‘Now let me get on with my book. I want to finish it before tomorrow.’

  I unzip the tent, step out still wrapped in my sleeping bag

  ‘Cup of tea?’ I say to the women, hoping that only Nikki will accept. Margaret, picks up on my not-so-hidden agenda and suggests to Shelley that the two of them go and wash. They carry on up the beach, leaving us alone. I reach for Nikki’s hand.

  ‘Stay with me.’ She nods, leaning in to kiss me.

  The wind ruffles the tents. The gulls call above us, and as I kiss her back, it feels like coming home.

  Nikki

  When James takes my hand and suggests a walk, I am only too happy to agree. I have been hoping he would ask me for the last hour; I’m thrilled that he wants to be alone with me as much as I want to with him, and though Shelley’s music has helped calm everyone down, the row has left a nasty taste in my mouth. Even so, I’m a little anxious. James was so quick to join the others in condemning Margaret. Have I misjudged him? I was sure of him before the argument, but now I’m worried I might be making a mistake. So I’m pleased that when I challenge him he recognises he was wrong, and is quick to see my point of view. He promises to apologise and I feel I can relax. He really is as lovely as he seems.

  We meander down the beach in the darkness and I am taken back to nights like this in the Scouts, in the time when friendships weren’t complicated by race or gender and we would run around the woods playing wide games after dark. Evenings filled with laughter and excitement when anything could happen and often did. I have the same sensation now. So I am not surprised when, the moment we are round the corner, he takes me in his arms and kisses me. We kiss and kiss and kiss until his phone vibrates and he breaks away to check a text. He doesn’t say who it was, just takes me by the hand and leads me to the entrance of a cave.

  It is dark, so I use the flashlight on my phone to illuminate the way. There is a pool ahead of us. We leave our shoes on top of a rock, as I follow him into the blackness. The water is cold and the stones slippy, but I am caught by a sense of adventure and I trust him to be leading me somewhere special. And he is. As we move forward, I can see a glow of silver light ahead reflected on the water. We reach the centre of the cave. ‘Wow, this is beautiful,’ I cry. The moon is shining through the hole in the roof of the cave. Light ricochets off the pool and onto the walls, which sparkle like diamonds. ‘Thank you,’ I say, taking his face in my hands, kissing him slowly, appreciatively. He kisses back, and soon we are sinking to the ground, our hands roaming over each other’s bodies. I unbutton his shirt, he undoes my bra, caressing my breasts, sucking my nipples. It is only as I feel him harden on top of me that doubt creeps in. Who is this man? Why I am I kissing a stranger like this? What am I doing here? I sense a similar uncertainty from him; my kisses falter.

  ‘Stop.’ I sit up, pulling my clothes on as quickly as I can. The moon has passed out of sight leaving the cave in darkness, taking with it delight, wonder, excitement. All I am left with is embarrassment, followed by deep sorrow and soon I am crying, huge sobs from the bottom of my gut. My whole body is shaking as it all spills out. The waste of it. The loss of what we might have had. The fact that I almost trust him. I want to trust him, but it’s not quite enough. I tell him that time, or lack of it, is to blame, but it is not just that. It is knowing what I know, what I have always known since we met, what he can’t possibly know, that to be with him raises too many questions. Too many difficulties.

  My whole dating life has been like this. I was popular with the white boys at my posh boarding school, something that pleased me for a while, though I knew it wouldn’t please my parents. They sent me there to ensure I got the best education and to prove to themselves they’d made it. But I knew I was supposed to marry a nice Nigerian boy eventually. It was confusing for a long time. As was the difference between the glossy brochures boasting of diversity and racial harmony and the promise that every child mattered, and the actual reality. Kids like me were allowed to win prizes from time to time, but we were never allowed to forget that, however hard we tried, we were never quite up to muster. I never told my parents this, it was too hard. Instead, I kept
my head down, worked hard and made my way to Cambridge – accompanied, on the way, by charming white boys, who morphed into the charming white men at Trinity. Until one day I woke up to the fact that I was being used. The ones who boasted they never saw colour yet told me I was exaggerating when I talked about the dangers of racial profiling, or stop and search. Or the other, worse type, who pretended to care about racism, when all the while they were bragging to their friends how they’d bagged another hot black woman. Patrick was the last one of those. I really thought he was different. When he turned up at our Black Lives Matter group, he impressed me by hanging back, acting respectfully, not trying to invade the space. He waited till asked before expressing his opinion, and made it clear he understood what his white privilege meant. He was sweet and funny and so of course I fell for him, before long we were inseparable. We lasted for the best part of a year, till the day his favourite lecturer was caught on camera making racist comments. Despite the evidence he couldn’t stop defending him, and making excuses for his behaviour, and so we unravelled as quickly as we’d come together and I swore off white boys for good. After that Mum said what I really needed was a nice Nigerian boy. During the summer holidays she set me up with Abeo who I’d known forever, and I have to admit it was nice for a while. He was kind and looked after me and after all the racial tension, it was restful to be in a relationship where none of that mattered. But it fell apart under the weight of too much expectation and I decided I was better off single. I haven’t dated in over two years, and haven’t missed it till now.

  Now here’s James with his warm smile and big blue eyes, willing me to trust him. And I want to, I really do, but can I trust he won’t be like all the rest? I can’t say this to him. I don’t know how. So I sob instead, and soon he has his arms round me and is sobbing too. Life isn’t meant to end like this. We shouldn’t be spending our last night in a damp cave that smells of rotting fish. Life was supposed to be about so much more. A wave splashes us and our sobs abate as we realize the sea is rushing in and we have to leave before we’re cut off. The pool is now thigh deep, dampening the edges of my skirt, and when we emerge from the cave, the sea is right up to the rocks. Part of me thinks that we might as well not wait for morning, that we might as well give up now, but in spite of this, I find my earlier spirit of adventure is returning. It is fun to find my way through the rocks till I reach the safety of the beach.

  I am just turning to see where James is when he slips and topples in the water. I burst out laughing. He is mock outraged till I run over to give him a kiss and he laughs with me. Despite what happened in the cave, we are still connected; there is something going on here and it feels good.

  Walking back to the camp we come across Margaret and Shelley, making sandcastles. It seems both the most ridiculous thing in the world and the most sensible. After the last intense hour, I suddenly feel the need to do something silly. I sit down beside them and join in. James hovers besides me, teeth chattering, unsure what to do. I don’t want to send him away, but part of me feels we need a break, so I suggest he’d better get out of his wet clothes. We agree to meet again in a short while and I remain behind to assist the others with their creation. I plunge.. my hands into the sand as I add to the wall, forming a long ridge of crenallations on the top.. The sand is moist and cold, but easy to shape.

  ‘Oh you’re good,’ I say to Shelley, as she finishes the top of a tall, thin turret.

  ‘You too.’

  ‘I loved doing this as a kid. I’d spend hours on the beach creating what Dad would call, my “works of art” and then insist that he and Mum come and applaud and tell me I was a creative genius.’

  ‘In my case, I was trying to outdo my big sister. She was always so much better than me at everything.’

  Margaret laughs. ‘I was just always rubbish. I just wanted to make the basic shape and then watch the sea come and get it.’

  ‘That part made me cry,’ said Shelley. ‘Alison always said I was a baby, but I wanted the castle to last. It was devastating when the water began to flow up through the channels and my beautifully decorated towers collapsed to mush.’

  ‘I always cried too,’ I say. I don’t add that tonight’s efforts seem even more pointless than usual in that regard. I’ve wasted enough emotion on worrying about the future tonight.

  ‘You two seem to be getting on well,’ says Shelley.

  ‘He’s nice.’

  ‘He seems it. Makes me wish …’ Shelley pauses. ‘I don’t think I’ve been that wise about men.’

  ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself,’ says Margaret. ‘You’re very young still, you’ve got plenty—’

  ‘ Of time? I did.’

  ‘Sorry, wasn’t thinking.’

  ‘It’s easy to forget,’ says Shelley. ‘At the very least, I’m pleased to be rid of him. He hasn’t even answered my texts to see how he is. We’ve been together since I was fifteen, what does that say about us? About him?’

  ‘I’ve had my fair share of idiots believe me,’ I say. ‘And it’s not as if …’ I don’t complete the sentence, but they seem to understand my meaning. We finish the castle, decorating it with seaweed and stones. When we are done, we stand back with sandy hands, and damp knees, proud of our efforts

  ‘Well, I call that a fine piece of work,’ says Margaret. We nod and all take photos. Look what I made, I text my parents, hoping it will make them remember, make them laugh. Then, though he probably won’t get a signal in the tent, I send one to James, Miss you! I say, and I mean it. I am glad Shelley suggests going back, the half an hour’s absence confirms for me that we need to be together again. We leave Margaret by the water’s edge and walk back up to the tents. Poppy and Yan have gone to bed, and for a moment I think James has, but he emerges from the tent, wrapped in a sleeping bag, and offering tea. Shelley says she is going to bed and heads up to the clubhouse to wash. We kiss each other, and I know that I don’t want to be separated from him again. I grab my sleeping bag and sit by the fireside next to him, watching the glowing embers like an old married couple. When the fire finally dies, and Shelley and Margaret have returned and entered their tents, we decide we are not ready for bed yet. We take a bottle of wine and move to a spot by the cliffs, above the tide line. We talk in quiet voices, telling each other the story of our lives. Our beginning is our ending, and yet it feels like it must have always been this way.

  Harry

  It’s been two hours since I left the beach and still no sign of a boat. I have given up on the coast and have come inland, searching through the villages for a garage or garden where one might be found. I’ve had no luck so far. I can’t believe it is taking me this long.

  And now the engine light is flashing. Sod it. Not now. The bloody thing has really chosen its moment. I’ll have to stop before it cuts out. Sometimes it does this after a lot of driving, particularly up and down hill. I’ve been meaning to replace it but I am exceptionally fond of this old Maserati. I picked it up an auction for an exorbitant price because it was the same model as the first car I ever bought. Shelley couldn’t understand why I spent so much money on it, she can never know what it was like to finally have a set of wheels, the sense of power and control it gave me. I love this old car and have put up with its foibles because it reminds me of a time when I was young, without a care in the world. It’s just a bloody nuisance that it has failed me tonight. But there’s nothing I can do. I switch off the engine and push my seat back. I might as well take a rest while I can. Knowing the way this car works I have half an hour or so. I check my phone. Shelley has sent me a couple of texts. I wonder whether to call her, but what is the point? I asked her to come, but she decided to stay. She decided she doesn’t need me any more. What’s the point of ringing her to hear her say it again?

  It’s making me mad though. The knowledge that she is sitting on a beach with that bunch of sneering bastards. They all looked down on me the minute we got there, yet she’s thrown her lot in with them . Worse still she doesn’t see
m bothered that it’s thanks to Margaret that we’re in this awful situation. I can’t believe she chose them above me. I can’t. It’s doing my head in.

  I need a distraction so I check the BBC website. It’s still reporting on the evacuations, and the situation in Cornwall looks pretty grim, but there’s no mention of Margaret. And although people are sharing links to the Dowetha Facebook page, no one seems to have spotted the connection with the News n’ Truth story. I look at the timeline. There we all are, sitting around the campfire and there she is, Margaret, with a glass of lemonade in her hand. All the fury I felt when I left comes back to me. On an impulse, I download the picture and send it to the website telling them who she is. That feels better. Satisfying. Let them deal with that.

  It makes me feel better for a minute or so, but not for long. I’m back thinking about Shelley, how we were in the beginning. We used to have such a good time together. I’ve noticed lately, even before we came down here, she seems less content than before. Before we moved in together, she didn’t seem too bothered that my work entailed lots of nights out entertaining. But once she was in the flat, she started complaining that I was always out, and when I went abroad she was forever angling to come with me. She’s been begging me for a holiday for so long that in the end I gave in and said she could accompany me on this trip. There seemed no harm in staying an extra day but now I’m kicking myself. If I hadn’t given in to her I’d have been home from that meeting last night. We could be in the jacuzzi right now, not even giving the poor sods down in Cornwall a thought. I wouldn’t be here sitting on my own, desperate to get out.

  An owl hoots and I shiver. I am not really one for being alone in the dark and this road is surrounded by trees on all sides, making the night even blacker. When I was young, the lights were always on at home and there was always someone around. It may have been too crowded sometimes, there may have been too much noise and too many siblings. But there was always someone about. Night was scary in a different way, back then. Night was a fight breaking out between Mum and Dad, Dad drunk, coming upstairs belt in hand, Mum running out of the house screaming that this time Dad was going to kill us all. Night was Val holding on to me, promising me that Dad would never do it and Mum would come back and everything would be all right in the morning. And she was right. It always was. But now I am on my own. The hedges of the road on either side make the night seem blacker, the only light is the moon whose rays illuminate the road behind me. Ahead, I can barely make out the shapes of the trees. I try not to think about what tomorrow might bring. I try not to think that I won’t achieve my mission, find a boat, get out of here. I’m only forty-two, for Christ’s sake, no age at all. Too fucking young to die.