SUNK (4 page)

That sand-dribbling thing is all very well but it gets boring after an hour or two.

It’s Saturday. The day of the Sculpture on the Beach contest. It was Eric’s idea, and Mrs Mawes’s and Mum’s and Dad’s actually, but at no point was it my idea that I should enter. I don’t like sculpture, I don’t know anything about art, and I don’t much like beaches. Except when they’re empty or with jet skis or something. Not Bywater-by-Sea’s skanky dead-starfish beach, with sunburned
families in too-small bathing suits and REAL ARTISTS.

There’s this tall skinny couple hopping around with seaweed that they’re draping over a broken piece of fibreglass boat. ‘Reminds one of Hockney, don’t you think, Orlando?’

‘You’re so right, Sappho. It’s etiolated, and so in the now, of the moment. Genius.’

To me, it looks very much like a piece of yellow fibreglass with a blob of seaweed. I turn back to my creation. So far I’ve moved a lot of sand from one place to another and found a toothpaste-tube lid and the head of a Barbie doll.

Eric is, in theory, helping me. In fact, he’s watching everyone with his binoculars and taking notes. He’s doing it from underneath a sheet of black nylon. ‘It’s a fact: black is better at keeping out the UV rays, Tom.’ But I notice
that the tiny corner of his elbow that sticks out is already turning red. I move my beach umbrella so that it covers him better.

I can see that everyone else on the beach had an idea before they arrived. In my case it was last minute. Like, eight o’clock this morning last minute.

‘So what I’m thinking,’ said Eric, ‘is that I’ll help you do the Sculpture on the Beach contest and that way keep an eye on things. We can both be on duty as it were.’ Which is why we’re here, unprepared, with a bunch of arty people who actually want to do it.

I knock the top from my sand dribbling and flatten the site. Even though there’s only an hour left, sometimes things just have to start again.

‘How’s Leonardo getting on?’ asks Jacob, appearing behind me, ice cream in hand. ‘Want any help?’

I look up in surprise.

‘I’m doing that empathy thing,’ he says, taking a large lick from his ice cream, which is already flowing freely over his hand. ‘I imagined that what my mum wanted was some soup, so I made her some.’

Eric pulls the black sheet from his head and stares. ‘You made your mum some soup?’

Jacob nods happily. ‘Yes. I got a load of stuff from the fridge, stuck it through the blender and boiled it up.’

‘What sort of stuff?’ I ask, plunging my spade into the sand, and digging a ring around a central pile.

‘Oh, you know – onions and pineapple and bacon and yoghurt and stuff she likes. She was so pleased she sent me off with the money to buy myself an ice cream.’

‘Wow,’ says Eric, pulling the sheet back over
his head. ‘Wow, wow and double wow.’

‘So I’m wondering if I can help you now, Tom?’

Jacob’s feet sink slightly into the sand and his ice cream drips on my trench. I’d really like to send him away but I know, because Eric has told me, that if Jacob is ever to become a better person he needs to understand how much pleasure being nice can give to everyone.

‘Well,’ I say, ‘you could dig this ring for me. I was thinking of something … striking. Something modern.’

The skinny couple along the beach catch the word ‘modern’ and nod at each other and rub imaginary beards.

Jacob digs with enthusiasm, much like a dog, scattering sandy blobs over me and Eric and his sheet and even towards the arty couple. ‘So what are you doing, Snot Face? Turning red?’

‘I’m watching out,’ whispers Eric.

‘For what?’

‘More anomalies,’ says Eric.

Jacob looks confused.

‘More things like the violent deckchair and crazed bucket,’ I say. ‘He’s being a kind of lifeguard.’

The light of understanding comes on behind Jacob’s eyes.

And we dig.

‘Five minutes,’ calls the man with the megaphone. ‘Five minutes to finish your creations.’

Eric wakes up under his sheet. ‘What? Has anything happened?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘What shall we do with this? Suggestions – quick.’

We stare at our construction. It’s a mound. Not round, not square, not rectangular, just a mound. Like a termite nest or a pile of gravel. I
look across the beach. Stretching away towards the sea are dozens of beautifully arranged castles, sand people, shells and creatures made of driftwood, all obviously made by people with more than a gram of art in their bodies. People for whom artistic achievement means more than tracing a badger from a book.

I look back at the mound and feel about 13% good. It’s not that I want to be good at art. I just don’t want to be laughed at.

‘Can we do anything?’ asks Eric, staring across the acres of other people’s efforts.

‘I could trash all the others?’ says Jacob helpfully.

We ignore him.

Beyond the arty couple, a family have built an enormous sand house with gardens and plants and bridges and tiny people made of driftwood. For a moment I wonder if I should
just shrink something to put on the mound. Something that would be unbelievably cute and win us the prize, and then I remember that that would be wrong. I stuff my hands in my pockets and, along with the toothpaste-tube lid, I find Barbie’s head. Pulling it out, I yank her sandy knotted nylon hair straight and jam her in the top of the mound.

‘There,’ I say.

‘What? That’s it?’ asks Jacob.

‘Yup,’ I say. ‘Where’s the entry form, Eric?’

Eric pulls a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and hands me a pen.

Buried
, I write. And then I put my name and address and skewer it with a seagull feather to the sand.

‘Done,’ I say, wiping the sand from my hands on my shorts.

Which is when it all kicks off.

People run fast when they’re scared.

Two children come first, dodging the artworks, racing over the shingle, followed by their pink and flustered mother.

‘Is this it?’ says Eric, peering past with his binoculars. ‘I can’t see anything.’

‘That’s because you’re looking the wrong way,’ says Jacob. ‘Flippin’ heck!’

I turn to see what Jacob’s looking at.

Three angry deckchairs are stumbling over the sand, mashing the sculptures and
sending people running. Alongside them, a small parasol charges at a man and smacks him on his backside. It tires of hitting him and moves on quickly to a woman and does the same to her.

‘Oh no,’ I say, watching the beautiful sand house mangled by a furious windbreak. It dances and stamps and thwacks until the house lies pulverised, then it paces over to a carefully constructed miniature helter-skelter and dashes it to the ground. Briefly occupied by the destruction of the remaining fairground it’s wrestled to the ground by a family and trussed with a yellow bikini. The deckchairs, on the other hand, are now encircling a group of screaming toddlers, slowing down and looking altogether more menacing.

‘What are we going to do?’ asks Eric, looking as if he’d quite like to run from the beach too.

‘We’re goin’ to mash ’em,’ says Jacob, struggling to his feet.

‘With what?’ shouts Eric at Jacob’s back.

But Jacob doesn’t hear. He’s charging directly at the deckchairs. I catch up easily and try to get a sight on them, but I can’t shrink the deckchairs without shrinking the children. ‘Jacob!’ I shout. ‘Be careful, the children.’

‘Help!’ From behind us comes a voice that sounds awfully like Eric’s. ‘Tom! Jacob!’

My legs keep running but I turn my top half. Eric’s pinned to the ground by a deckchair. All I can see are arms and legs. ‘I’ll be back in a second,’ I shout to him, almost overtaking Jacob.

A flash of fire leaps from the ends of Jacob’s fingers – I don’t think anyone else sees; I think they’re too busy running from the chairs – and
strikes the nearest deckchair. It twists, and if a deckchair can glare, it glares at Jacob. As if they could communicate with each other, the deckchairs leave the toddlers and form a line in front of us.

I raise my hand – this time I can shrink them. I form an O with my thumb and forefinger.

Click.

At exactly the same moment Jacob unleashes a cloud of sparks that shower the chairs. I look into my hand immediately after the shrinking to find a collection of tiny writhing burning things while around us the beach falls suddenly calm, filled with nothing more than a puff of smoke and some confused people.

‘HELP!’ comes a strangled cry. I stuff the chairs in my pocket and we reach Eric at the same time as Albert Fogg, who grabs the
chair and wrenches it off Eric’s chest. It takes all four of us to pin it to the ground and it doesn’t go down easily, snapping its wooden jaws and trapping our fingers.

‘Ow!’ says Jacob, his eyes flashing red as he emits a random cloud of sparks.

‘Jacob,’ I hiss. ‘Don’t, not here.’

We stand on the four corners of the chair while it squirms beneath our feet.

‘Well,’ says Albert Fogg, taking his battered blue hat from his battered brown head and wiping his brow. ‘That was one hell of a gust of wind.’

‘Wind?’ says Jacob. ‘Wind?!’

‘You can get some shocking squalls along here – fair take your breath away – and those deckchairs present a big face to the wind.’

Beneath our feet, the deckchair quivers. Mr Fogg leans over and slips a leather belt
round the wooden structure and tips it on its side. ‘Anyway, thanks, lads,’ he says, and he wanders off along the beach dragging the chair behind him.

I reach into my pocket to have a look at the tiny singed chairs. They’re lying flat, folded and peaceful.

‘Have you got a crisp packet or something, Jacob?’ I ask. ‘For these.’

Jacob searches his pockets while Eric stares at my catch. Jacob hands me an empty bag of Super Cheese Crunch Puffs and I pop the deckchairs inside.

We sit back on the sand next to our mound, which has survived intact. Even Barbie’s hair is untroubled.

The arty couple next to us return and fiddle with their fibreglass, which was flattened by the deckchair furore, arranging it completely
differently but looking quite pleased with the result.

We sit in silence, staring, thinking, listening.

‘Gosh, what a shock that wind was,’ says a woman.

‘A gale – all of a sudden,’ replies her husband.

‘I’d call that a storm,’ says another.

‘Always thought this was such a sheltered place – perhaps we should try Bywater Regis next time, they do jet skis there too.’

‘Oh yes, Bywater Regis is very nice. Faces south too.’

Some people pack up their things and leave the beach. Others rebuild their sculptures and sit nervously staring out to sea.

‘There’s no way that was a gust of wind,’ I say in the end.

‘No, well, we know it wasn’t, because of old clever clogs here,’ says Jacob.

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘but what I’m saying is that Mr Fogg can’t possibly think it was either. He’s already had three incidents on the beach. He must have seen them all.’

‘Hmmm,’ says Eric. ‘Perhaps we need to talk to him – subtly, you know.’

And then the ice-cream van arrives.

De-ding-de-ding-ding.

‘Free ice cream for everyone! Come and get it!’ blares the horn on the top of the van.

‘Really?’ says Jacob, springing to his feet.

We wander over to see what’s happening. The mayor is inside the ice-cream van handing out lollies and cornets. Beside him, Albert Fogg is sweating and smiling and looking nervous. ‘Roll up, roll up,’ says Mr Fogg. ‘Get your
free ice cream, best ice cream in the Bywater area – far better than Bywater Regis.’

Some of the families who had packed up to leave the beach trail back and loiter by the van.

‘Can I have one, Mum?’ says a little girl.

‘They’ll be free all day,’ says the mayor, handing down a cone dotted with sprinkles and raspberry sauce. ‘To make up for the wind.’

‘Oh, I suppose so,’ says the mother. ‘I’ll have one too.’ She drops the beach rugs on the ground and takes an ice cream from the mayor, licking chocolate sauce from her fingers.

Jacob takes an extra-large, double chocolate golden syrup sponge ninety-nine and eats it in two bites.

Eric and I sit on the sea wall. Jacob joins us and we all have to move up to make room for his massive bottom.

‘No chance of talking to Albert Fogg now,’ says Eric. ‘Far too public.’

We sit in silence, listening to seagulls and watching families slowly returning to the beach.

‘It’s both of them, isn’t it?’ I say eventually.

‘The mayor too?’ asks Eric.

‘Yup,’ I reply, taking out the crisp packet and staring in at the three deckchairs. ‘They wouldn’t make all this effort if they believed the wind story.’

‘So why are they covering up?’ he asks.

I wave my arm to show all the families on the beach and the others wandering up and down the promenade. ‘Because of business,’ I say. ‘If Bywater-by-Sea gets a reputation for crazed deckchairs the families won’t come. They won’t go to the cafés or stay in the hotels or buy things from the shops. Even the model village will lose out.’

‘Oh,’ says Eric, obviously thinking about money for the first time in his life. ‘I get it. But …’ He furrows his brow. ‘If they let it go on like this, someone’s going to get seriously hurt.’

‘They’re going to need a bigger ice-cream van,’ says Jacob, licking his lips.

‘Exactly,’ I say.

Much to my surprise, Mum hands me a box of jelly fruits when I get home.

‘You won Sculpture on the Beach,’ she says. ‘I knew you were arty. I can see it now: your first exhibition at the Tate. I’ve got your whole career mapped out.’

‘How?’ I say. ‘Most of the sculptures got mashed by … the wind. There can’t have been many left to judge.’

‘Gimme,’ says Tilly, marching into the kitchen and spying my jelly fruits. ‘I’ll have those.’

‘But you don’t even like jelly fruits,’ I say, clutching them to my chest.

‘Nor do you,’ she says.

‘But they’re mine,’ I say.

‘And they left this comment about your work,’ says Mum, ignoring Tilly. ‘Where is it? Oh yes.
A timeless modernist piece, so witty and enlightening. The juxtaposition of consumerist society with the earthy fundamentalism of the sand made a profound commentary. Bravo
.’

‘What does that mean?’ I ask, still clutching my jelly fruits.

She reads it again. ‘No idea,’ she says. ‘But it means you’re doing Art Club.’

‘He can’t do Art Club,’ says Tilly. ‘I do Art Club and I don’t want him there.’

I didn’t want her at Field Craft, but she came – though I don’t think I actually said anything to Mum.

Mum pulls a tight smile and faces Tilly. She doesn’t even say anything.

Tilly stares. Her face crumples and spouting tears she runs from the kitchen. ‘Nobody loves me,’ she wails, racing up the stairs and slamming her bedroom door.

In my room I empty the three miniature deckchairs out of the bag and examine them. They’re really cute. So cute I’d love to show them to Tilly, because I actually feel quite sorry for her. Never in her whole life have people stood up to her, but now, for the first time, Mum is taking a stand. I’ve always felt very alone in my wars with Tilly. She seemed to be able to bend Mum and Dad round her little finger and it must be a shock for it to end.

Actually, perhaps I don’t feel that sorry.

I look around for something really secure for the deckchairs and dig out a tin of pirates. Emptying the pirates on the floor I jam the deckchairs in and the lid on and then tie my belt round it. I’ll be fine as long as I remember to check them regularly.

I open the pack of jelly fruits and stick one in my mouth. It’s not very nice and I’m chewing and swallowing just as Tilly appears in the doorway, no sign of tears any more. She sticks her hand out. ‘Can I have one?’ she demands.

‘Say please,’ I say.

‘Please may I have one?’ she says, her voice filled with sugar.

I hold the box out.

‘Which one’s your favourite?’ she asks.

I look. They’re all disgusting but probably the blackcurrant. I point at a purple sweet.

‘Right,’ she says, picking it from the box, sticking it in her mouth and then almost immediately spitting it out of the window.

‘What did you do that for?’ I ask. ‘That was the only one I liked.’

‘Exactly,’ says Tilly, leaving the room.

I don’t feel even a little scrap sorry for her any more.