The Daydreamer (12 page)

Peter finished his toast and stood up. Through the window he could see The Beach Gang running along the shoreline towards the cave. What a waste of energy so early in the day!

‘I’m going to phone my work,’ Peter announced importantly to the room, ‘and I’m going to go for a stroll.’ Was there ever anything duller and more grown-up than a stroll? His father grunted. His mother said, ‘Fine,’ and Gwendoline stared at her plate.

In the hallway, he dialled his assistant at the laboratory in London. All inventors have at least one assistant.

‘How’s the anti-gravity machine coming along?’ Peter asked. ‘Did you get my latest drawings?’

‘Your drawings made everything clear,’ the assistant said. ‘We made the changes you suggested, then we switched the machine on for five seconds. Everything in the room started floating about, just as you said. Before we try again we’re going to have to screw the tables and chairs to the floor.’

‘I don’t want you to try again until I’m back from holiday,’ Peter said. ‘I want to see it for myself. I’ll drive back at the weekend.’

When he had finished on the phone, he stepped out into the orchard and stood by the stream. It was a beautiful day. The water flowing under the wooden footbridge made a lovely sound and he was excited about his new invention. But for some reason he did not feel like moving away from the house. He heard a sound behind him and turned. Gwendoline was standing in the doorway, watching him. Peter felt the tightness in his stomach again. It was a cold, falling sensation. He felt a little weak about the knees. Gwendoline rested her arm on the rim of the ancient water butt which stood by the front door. Morning sunlight, broken by the leaves of the apple trees, bobbed about her shoulders and in her hair. In all his twenty-one years, Peter had never seen anything so, well, perfect, delicious, brilliant, beautiful … there was no word good enough for what he saw. Her green eyes were fixed on his.

‘So you’re going for a walk,’ she said lightly.

Peter could hardly trust himself to speak. He cleared his throat. ‘Yes. Want to come?’

They went down through the orchard to the raised cinder path where the railway track had once been. They talked about nothing in particular – about the holiday, the weather, news- paper stories – anything to avoid talking about themselves. She put her smooth cool hand in his as they walked along. Peter seriously thought he might float off to the tops of the trees. He had heard about boys and girls, men and women, falling in love and feeling crazy, but he had always thought that people made too much of it. After all, how much can you really like someone? And in movies, those bits which they always had to have, when the hero and heroine took time off to get soppy and gaze into each other’s eyes and kiss had always seemed to him ridiculous time-wasting junk that did nothing more than hold up the story for minutes on end. Now here he was, melting away at the mere touch of Gwendoline’s hand, and he wanted to shout, to roar for joy.

They came to the tunnel, and without stopping to talk about it, they stepped through the gap in the boards, into the cold smoky blackness. They clung to each other as they went further in, and giggled when they trod in puddles. The tunnel was not very long. Already they could see the far end, glowing like a pink star. Half-way along they stopped. They stood close. Their arms and faces were still warm from the sun’s heat. They stood close together and, to the sound of scurrying animals and water plop-plopping into puddles, they kissed. Peter knew that in all the years of a happy childhood, and even in its very best moments, like playing out with The Beach Gang on a summer’s evening, he had never done anything better, anything so thrilling and strange as kiss Gwendoline in the railway tunnel.

As they walked on towards the light she told him how one day she would be a doctor and a scientist and she would work on new cures for deadly diseases. They stepped blinking into the sunshine and found a place under the trees where blue flowers grew on slender bendy stems. They lay on their backs, eyes closed, side by side in the long grass, surrounded by murmuring insects. He told her about his invention, the antigravity machine. They could set off together soon, climb into his green open-topped two-seater sports car and drive through the narrow lanes of Cornwall and Devon to London. They would stop at a restaurant along the way and order up chocolate mousse and ice-cream, and lemonade by the bucket. They would arrive at midnight outside the building. They would ride up in the lift. He would unlock the laboratory and show her the machine with its dials and warmly glowing lights. He would throw the switch, and together they would bump and tumble gently in the air with the tables and chairs …

He must have fallen asleep in the grass as he was telling her this. Sports car, he thought dozily, chocolate mousse, midnight, stay up as late as I want, and Gwendoline … It was at this point that he realised he was staring not at the sky, but at his bedroom ceiling. He got out of bed and went to his window which overlooked the beach. He could see the Gang, way in the distance. The tide was out, the rock pools were waiting. He slipped on his shorts and a T-shirt and hurried downstairs. It was late, everyone had finished breakfast long ago. He gulped down a glass of orange juice, took a bread roll and ran out- side, across the tiny back garden and on to the beach. The sand was already hot under his feet, and his parents and their friends were already set up with their books and beach-chairs and parasols.

His mother waved at him. ‘That was a good sleep. You needed that.’

His friends had seen him and were calling, ‘Peter, Peter, come and look!’

Excited, he began to run towards them, and he must have been half-way when he stopped and turned to look at the grown-ups one more time. In the shade of the parasol they leaned in towards each other as they talked. He felt differently about them now. There were things they knew and liked which for him were only just appearing, like shapes in a mist. There were adventures ahead of him after all.

As usual, Gwendoline was sitting apart with her books and papers, studying for her exam. She saw him and raised her hand. Was she simply adjusting her sun-glasses, or was it a wave? He would never know.

He turned and faced the ocean. It was sparkling, right to the wide horizon. It stretched before him, vast and unknown. One after the other the endless waves came tumbling and tin-kling against the shore, and they seemed to Peter like all the ideas and fantasies he would have in his life.

He heard his name called again. His sister, Kate, was dancing and hopping on the wet sand. ‘We’ve found treasure, Peter!’ Behind her, Harriet was standing on one leg, hands on hips, drawing a circle in the sand with her big toe. Toby and Charlie and the little ones were jostling to take turns leaping off a rock into a saltwater puddle. And behind all this human movement the ocean bobbed and folded and slid, for nothing could keep still, not people, not water, not time.

‘Treasure!’ Kate called again.

‘I’m coming,’ Peter shouted, ‘I’m coming!’ and he began to sprint towards the water’s edge. He felt nimble and weightless as he skimmed across the sand. I’m about to take off, he thought. Was he daydreaming, or was he flying?