SUNK (7 page)

We go with Mr Fogg to the Trusty Tramper, the café in the harbour that the sailors use.

‘The usual, Albert?’ asks Cheery Charlie, the woman that runs the place.

‘Aye,’ says Mr Fogg, wiping his nose on his yellow sou’wester coat and shaking his head.

She provides him with a mug of tea and we cluster around a small yellow table by the door.

‘So when did it start, Mr F?’ asks Eric, arranging sugar.

Mr Fogg stares long and hard at the tiny wisp of steam rising from his cup.

‘January. No – March.’ He takes off his cap and scratches his head. ‘Or was it before Christmas?’ He stares out of the window at the approaching darkness. ‘February it was. February, just as I got them out for a bit of a clean-up. That’s when I noticed something was up.’

‘What kind of thing?’ I ask.

‘Well.’ Mr Fogg sips his tea and sits back. ‘It’s difficult to say. There was a bit of this and a bit of that.’

Jacob lets a long whistle out from between his front teeth. ‘Let me know if you find anything out,’ he says, standing up. ‘I’m just going to get a hot chocolate.’

I check my pockets for change. I’ve no money.

I try again. ‘What kind of thing – exactly?’

‘At the start of the season I like to check the chairs, wash ’em down, clean up the pedalos, see there’s no mouse holes in the windbreaks – that sort of thing.’

‘Oh yes,’ I say.

‘So it was a sunny day, and I opened up the shed there, and pulled out one or two chairs and they were – frisky.’

‘Frisky?’

‘Yes – frisky. Dancing about a bit in the wind, harder to pick up, put down and fold. I didn’t think anything of it, but then the next time I opened it up, probably about a week later, one of the chairs sort of fell – well, launched itself at me.’

‘Oh?’

‘And then, during Easter, it’s been getting worse. I found the ones at the side of the store
were less of a problem, but the ones towards the back have been the worst – so uppity – and as the season’s gone on I’ve had to hire out more of them, and now I’ve had to use the difficult ones or disappoint people.’

‘So what’s causing it?’ asks Eric.

‘Search me,’ he says, blowing on his cup. ‘No idea – kept the chairs in that lock-up all my life. Nothing’s been in, nothing’s changed.’

‘And have you found any way to stop them?’ I ask, thinking of the four little chairs still jammed in Jacob’s sweet tin, which are dancing around under my blazer, letting out occasional crashings and bangings.

Mr Fogg shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says. ‘All I’ve managed to do is to truss them up or tie them down. I’ve never seen them go quiet like those ones you saw on the beach just now – it’s as if they’re alive.’

‘Shouldn’t be using them,’ says Eric. ‘I mean, someone’s going to get hurt sooner or later.’

‘I agree,’ says Mr Fogg. ‘I tried to say that to the mayor – I said, “Someone’s going to get hurt sooner or later” – and he said we had to keep it quiet.’

‘I get that it would be bad for trade,’ I say.

‘It’s not just that,’ says Mr Fogg. ‘It’s the Best Beach contest.’

‘I can see it would be nice to win it …’

‘No – you don’t understand. He’s
desperate
to win it. He’s attracted all these big businesses. Did you know that there’s a big burger chain from America sniffing around Marigold Tours? Or that the Royal Hotel could soon be known as the Royal Gogleplex Hotel? It’s already been sold. Also, he’s selling off the beach and the rights to sell deckchairs. He’s got a Chinese sofa company in mind – apparently people
want something more comfortable these days – AND, in order for those deals to go through, we need to win the Best Beach contest.’

‘Oh!’ says Eric.

‘I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘Why are you keeping it a secret? If he’s selling it off, what would you be doing? Won’t it be the end of your job?’

‘Ah – thing is, they’d let me stop at last. Been trying to retire for the last few years. I’ve got me a little web-design company in Regis Bottom that I’d love to have more time with. But they keep on asking me back. Been Foggs doing the deckchairs since 1875, you know. Foggis Fogg was the very first, then it was his son, Foggit Fogg …’

‘But wouldn’t you be sad at seeing the deckchairs go after so many generations?’ asks Eric.

Mr Fogg stares into space. ‘Honestly – not much. I’m pretty fed up with it.’

Eric looks a little weepy-eyed.

‘Well,’ says Mr Fogg, relenting, ‘I’d miss it, of course I would, for about five minutes, but, imagine, I’ve almost never felt grass beneath my feet on a sunny day, always blasted sand between my toes. Plays merry hell with my corns.’

‘You must have had some pretty terrific summers on the beach?’ I say.

‘Seventy-six was good – and then we had a lovely time in eighty-two.’ He sips his tea. ‘Yes. I don’t want to do it, but I suppose it’s a tradition for the town.’

Jacob sits back down with a mug of steaming-hot chocolate. It smells divine. I think of Grandma’s promised tripe à la mode de Caen, and feel even hungrier.

‘And what about you?’ I ask Mr Fogg. ‘Do you want to win the Best Beach competition? Does it mean anything to you?’

Mr Fogg examines the back of his hand. ‘It would be the pinnacle of my career,’ he says carefully. ‘Yes – I would like to win it.’

‘So, if I’ve got this right – if the deckchairs behave themselves, we’ll win the Best Beach contest and end up with them replaced by sofas from some multinational company from Shanghai, and if they don’t …?’ I trail off.

Mr Fogg raises his eyebrow. ‘Who knows?

‘So,’ says Eric. ‘Can we have a look in the storage cave?’

Mr Fogg has a fantastic set of torches. Most of them must be left over from the Victorians. ‘Ready?’ he says, and he unlocks the padlock.

We stand in the doorway waiting to be attacked, our eyes acclimatising to the gloom.

‘What are we looking for?’ asks Jacob, stepping through the door.

‘Signs of life – anything odd really,’ says Eric.

‘Do you mind if I stay here?’ says Mr Fogg,
loitering in the entrance with a broom. ‘Just in case any of the beggars make a run for it.’ He looks scared.

I put my tin down by the entrance. The four deckchairs inside have gone quite quiet. Perhaps they’re asleep. I’m conscious that I need to get rid of them soon, before they grow any more. I can’t handle four full-sized mad creatures in my bedroom.

I shine my torch into the store. Cobwebs festoon the vaulted ceiling.

‘Not really a cave, so much as a cellar,’ mutters Eric.

Jacob pushes through the front line of chairs, the ones we hastily stacked inside after he and Eric subdued them. They smell of wet bonfires, and are totally passive. Behind them, something scuttles.

I stop, listening and watching the nearest
cobweb flex under the weight of a particularly heavy spider.

The scuttling stops.

I push my way past the scorched chairs and stop by a collection of dusty windbreaks. They aren’t moving, but it feels as if they’re watching me.

‘Tom?’ says Eric from my right. ‘Are you there?’

I stumble between two lobster pots, reaching Eric’s side, and look into the pool of torchlight.

A beach volleyball set is limboing around itself, over and under, knotting and unknotting. He shines the light higher and reveals a huge dripping crack in the wall. A gash with bright green mossy sides.

‘What is it?’ asks Jacob, appearing beside us. ‘Is it an alien?’

‘No – I don’t think so,’ says Eric. ‘But it is a cleft in the rock.’

‘Through which water is running,’ I say.

Jacob looks at us, shining his torch from his chin upwards making a ghost pig face. ‘I don’t understand.’

On the way home, Jacob walks backwards.

It’s annoying, but then practically everything about Jacob is annoying. The only person more annoying than Jacob is Tilly. I remember home and humiliation and forget feeling hungry.

‘So why’s the rock important?’ he asks again.

‘It’s a meteorite,’ says Eric patiently. ‘The same meteorite that makes everything around here behave so oddly.’

‘Oh,’ says Jacob, thumping backwards over a kerb.

His brain cogs come up with the next question. ‘So what’s the water got to do with it?’

Eric sighs. ‘I think, and it’s only a theory, that the meteorite dust, all the stuff that was mined last year, is dissolving in the groundwater and then dripping into Mr Fogg’s store.’

‘So we could stop it happening then – couldn’t we?’ asks Jacob.

‘Possibly, but I’m not sure we want to,’ I say.

‘Why?’ says Jacob.

‘Because if the beach wins the Best Beach award, they’ll sell it off to someone – it’ll be covered in plastic sofas and takeaways and then it won’t be the same any more.’

‘Is that a bad thing?’ asks Jacob.

‘Yes,’ we say in chorus.

Jacob goes home to a tea of sausage, mash and beans.

Eric and I walk on in almost total darkness and empty the tin of deckchairs through the letter box into the tiny lock-up. I just hope that Mrs Santos who keeps it doesn't go in for a few days. I wouldn't want her to be attacked.

‘Why did they give up?' says Eric.

‘What – who?'

‘The chairs. I don't understand why they gave up on the beach like that. It was like a
full-scale battle and then suddenly they lay down and surrendered.'

‘Perhaps it was the combination of fire and water – like steam-cleaning.'

‘You're probably right,' says Eric. ‘So what shall we do about it? We can't leave it like it is. Poor Mr Fogg, he wants to win the contest, but he's having a terrible time and the beach is downright dangerous.'

‘We could move all the chairs, steam-clean them, seal up the hole and solve it …'

‘But that would mean that the mayor could sell it all off and Bywater-by-Sea just wouldn't be Bywater-by-Sea any more.'

We stand in the darkness listening to the sand fleas hopping all over the beach in the dark.

‘It's the mayor – we need a new one – properly elected. I think it's time we got your dad and my mum to join forces.'

‘Really?' says Eric. ‘You'd do that?'

I think of the combined embarrassment factor and then I think about Bywater-by-Sea and the whole town sold to a plastic corporation and say, ‘Really.'

‘So we thought that perhaps you might like to work together,' I say to Mum who is combing nits from Tilly's hair into a salad bowl full of shampoo and frantically paddling head lice.

‘OW!' screams Tilly. ‘What? Mum team up with Colin Threepwood? Per-leaze. That is not happening.'

‘Tilly!' barks Mum. ‘That's none of your business.' She yanks the comb through Tilly's hair. ‘Although – I'm not sure I think it's a good idea.'

‘Because you've given up all hope of becoming mayor?' says Tilly hopefully.

Mum pulls extra hard on Tilly's hair. ‘No – that's not it.' But she doesn't say why.

I suspect that, in spite of Mum and Dad's bravado, Tilly's little trick with the baby photos and the karaoke has sort of worked. Mum is feeling dented.

‘You see,' says Eric, ‘we think that together you could pool your voters and get enough people on board to defeat the current mayor.'

Tilly swings round. ‘You are not serious! Surely. I can't think of anything, anything at all, that would be worse for my image at school.'

We all stare at Tilly. She goes bright red.

‘Because the current mayor is not good for the town. We overheard –' I look at Eric, who nods – ‘we sort of overheard that he's selling off the beach, the Royal Hotel and probably some other places.'

Mum puts down the nit comb. ‘Who to?'

‘Global conglomerates,' says Eric.

‘Sofa companies,' I say.

She looks at Eric, her mouth hanging open. ‘Does your dad know this?'

‘No,' says Eric. ‘I don't think so.'

Mum rushes to the sink to wash the nit gloop from her fingers. ‘I think we'd better tell him.'

‘What about me?' says Tilly plaintively from underneath her louse-infested conditioner. ‘I'm only half done – I've still got nits.'

‘What about you?' says Mum, grabbing my and Eric's arms. ‘Come on, boys, let's go.'

‘Don't mention anything about the crazed deckchairs,' I mutter to Eric as we scuttle up the hill to his house. ‘Because, you know, it's just easier if she doesn't know.'

‘Mum's the word,' he says, zipping his lips.

Eric and I pretend to eat alfalfa and peanut falafels in the kitchen while Mum talks earnestly to Eric's dad over the table and drinks quinoa juice.

Eric's dad nods wisely as Mum outlines her attack. ‘Mayor and vice mayor, Colin,' she says. ‘You can be the front man – everyone loves you. I'll be the administrator – how does that sound?'

‘You mean we run together? We enter this bold new part of our lives in tandem?'

Mum raises her eyebrows. ‘Sort of,' she says.

‘It seems to be working,' says Eric. ‘They're getting on. But what are we going to do about the chairs? The election isn't until next week. Someone'll be killed between now and then.'

‘But the Best Beach contest is this weekend, on Saturday.' I try to swallow a particularly
solid piece of falafel. ‘We have to keep the chairs in order so they don't kill anyone, but let them be just uncomfortable enough to make the beach a less lovely spot. I suppose after that we can try to cure them.'

‘Let's hope it rains so that no one goes onto the beach until we do.'

Mum and I go home and she spends the evening printing Eric's dad's name alongside hers on all the dayglo posters. When she tells Dad and Grandma about the mayor's plans they're horrified.

‘But that's awful!' says Dad.

‘It explains a lot of things,' says Grandma. ‘All those people with clipboards, and the sudden price hike in the Curl Up and Dye hairdressers – and other things.' She stares at me.

Dad makes soup and Grandma and Mum line up loads of posters. The only person who doesn't help is Tilly, who sticks her tongue out, says she'd never eat Dad's soup even if he paid her, looks murderously at Mum, and goes off scratching her head to torture her Woodland Friends.

Grandma offers to stick the new posters all over town in the dark.

‘Tom, dear, you can help,' she says, grabbing a handful of posters and a load of tape.

‘Can I?' I say.

‘Oh yes, we'll do a better job together.'

‘So,' says Grandma when we're outside. ‘Can you shrink those two there?'

‘Shrink?' Grandma hates me shrinking things.

‘Yup,' she says. ‘We can paste them up on the model village houses. We're open this weekend and people will see them.'

‘If you're sure,' I say, making an O with my thumb and forefinger round the posters.

Click.

The two posters shrink to about the size of a matchbox and I hand one to Grandma and we tape them to the front of the tiny church.

There's a huge desert of silence while we leave the model village and walk out into the empty high street. I hold the posters while she tapes one to a telegraph pole.

‘So how's poor Mr Fogg?' she says in the end.

‘Fine, fine – I imagine.'

‘Just that I gathered from Cheerful Charlie in the café that you'd been in with him and he seemed quite shaken.'

‘Oh,' I say. ‘Yes.' Grandma knows everything in this town. Everything. So there's no point in lying. ‘He's struggling.'

‘With the beach furniture?'

‘Yes,' I say. Trying to keep it minimal.

‘Right,' says Grandma. ‘And what are you doing about it?'

‘It's all under control,' I say.

‘Good,' she says, sticking the last poster on the village horse trough. ‘So long as you've got it under control we'll be fine. But if you need help, Tom, dear, do let me know.'