The If Game (8 page)

He looked sideways at his dad and saw that he too was watching the sea. He said, ‘It's grand, isn't it?' He wanted to say, Thanks for bringing me here,' but he knew that his dad hated any expressions of feeling so he kept quiet.

The light was fading fast. Dad said, ‘If we stay here any longer, we'll get caught in the dark,' and turned away towards the car.

Stephen reluctantly turned too, then saw something that made him stop. ‘What's that?' he asked, pointing. A small squat tower was placed, incongruously it seemed, right on the edge of the sea wall. It might have been part
of a castle wall, but there was no castle near. It looked out of place; even, in the gathering dusk, a little sinister.

‘That's the Martello Tower,' Dad said.

‘What's a Martello Tower? Why is it there?'

‘They built them to prevent the French from landing. Napoleon. You know.'

Stephen did know, vaguely. Napoleon, hundreds of years ago. Before wars were fought with planes and flying bombs. He said, ‘Like the Armada?'

They were back in the car now and driving over the empty land between sea and town. Dad said, ‘You're only about two hundred years out. But like the Armada because the danger was from the sea. People expected the French troops to land anywhere along here. The Martello towers were built as defences against them. There are several of them, all along the south coast.'

‘Can we see some of them? Can I go and look at this one properly tomorrow?'

Dad, as usual, said, ‘We'll see.'

But they were driving up one of the little steep streets and Stephen called out, ‘Dad! There's a fish and chips! Stop!'

The fish and chips were delicious. They tasted quite different from any others Stephen had had, eaten while sitting on the grass outside the tent, in the light of a hurricane lamp—Mike's dad's, of course. After which, both tired, they decided for bed. Stephen opted to sleep out, promising to come into the tent if it started raining. His dad disappeared under the canvas. Stephen had meant to stay awake to luxuriate in being where he was, to count the stars, to watch the moon rising. But he did none of these things. He was asleep before he had done one of them.

They spent the morning on the beach, throwing stones at cairns they had built, eating ice creams from a van that came tinkling along the beach road, reading the paper—that was Dad—looking at the sea. That, of course, was Stephen. The sun shone, it was warm. Stephen thought he would try swimming, and did eventually get over painful shingle into water that felt icy at first, but which gradually became bearable, even gentle, and at last was waist deep and he could really swim. It was exhilarating, wonderful. But he was shivering when he came out and his dad made him run on the crunching pebbles for ten minutes. Hard work. He was warm again when he stopped.

He made himself a sort of seat, by pushing the stones around so that he could lean back against them. He began examining them properly. They were all sorts, all colours, all shapes. He found one with a hole right through it and pretended to use it as a spyglass. Very childish, but there was no one to see, and anyway, at the seaside you could be a bit of a child. He collected on his towel the stones he liked best. A small black stone which fitted snugly, as if custom made, into his closed hand. A big black and white stone, with scrawls traced across the white side as if someone was trying to draw something. A very precious amber-coloured stone, almost translucent. An almond shaped stone, so exactly like a sweet that he could have offered it to Dad to suck and taken him in. A smooth brown stone like a bread roll. And there were
other treasures. A ball made up of brittle spheres which Dad told him was made of a cuttlefish's egg cases. Half of a broken, long, pale pink and brown razor shell. Clumps of seaweed. Three winkle shells, one badly chipped.

‘You'll find other things if you look at the high tide mark,' his dad said, raising his head for a moment from the paper.

So he went up the shifting shingle to the line of seaweed and assorted rubbish that ran just under the sea wall. There were things there he didn't want to find, including several dead birds with oil encrusted feathers. Horrid, he avoided them. There was too much drowned paper, bright orange string, wooden spatulas from ice creams, a canvas sandal, innumerable plastic bottles and bags. He left it, disheartened.

To his surprise, his dad wasn't reading the paper. He was half leaning back, half lying on the shingle, just looking at the sea. Stephen had almost never seen him like this, doing nothing. He sat down beside him and also looked at the sea.

‘Like it?' Dad asked.

Stephen couldn't think of any way of expressing how much he liked it, especially to Dad, so he just said, ‘Mm.'

‘There's a boat going out,' Dad said.

It was a largish boat with a squat funnel and a great deal of white superstructure, pitted with small square panes of glass above the darker main hull.

‘Wonder where to,' Stephen said.

‘Cross Channel ferry. Going to Dieppe.'

‘I wouldn't mind going.'

‘If we had longer.'

‘It's great here too,' Stephen said. He didn't want to sound as if this holiday wasn't the best he'd ever had.

‘Time to get something to eat. I wouldn't mind a pub with a garden.'

In the afternoon they went back to the beach. Dad lay back on the stones and went to sleep. Stephen went exploring.

He walked along the front to have a look at what his dad had said was the Martello Tower. It was like a child's idea of a tower, round and stubby and built straight on to the sea wall. You could walk round three quarters of its circle on the road side, the last quarter hung over the shingle on the beach just below. It was made of small bricks cemented together and he could feel, even from outside, how thick and solid the walls must be, so that inside it would be small compared to its outer appearance. It had uneven spaces for windows and at ground level a barred wooden door. Stephen gave it a push, and it creaked, but did not yield. He tried to imagine what it would have been like to be a soldier in there, waiting for Napoleon to come over the sea with an army, to take over England. He would have a gun of some sort, he supposed. Perhaps a sword too. And probably a small cannon, so that he could fire at any ship that looked as if it was a part of the French invading fleet.

It was then that he noticed the change in the weather. The white clouds in the sky were moving faster and sometimes cutting out the sun, there were more white horses out at sea. There was a wind, too, whereas before it had been absolutely calm and hot. He did not hurry back to where his dad was sleeping, but when he got there, Dad was sitting up and looking at the sky, now overcast.

‘Hi!' Stephen said, dropping on to the stones beside him.

‘Been for a walk?'

‘You were asleep.'

‘I was awake in the night.'

‘You should try sleeping out. It was great.'

‘Not tonight, I won't. Weather's changing.'

‘There's more wind,' Stephen said. At the same moment, a gust picked up his dad's newspaper, shook it into separate sheets and blew them off over the shingle, up towards the road.

‘Catch it!' his dad shouted and he and Stephen raced as fast as they could through the shifting stones. They didn't succeed in getting all the sheets before the last two were blown up to the road and out of sight. They came back to collect the rest of their belongings with what remained of the paper scrunched in their hands.

‘It's going to rain,' Dad said.

‘No, look. Sun's trying to come out,' Stephen said, as a shaft of sunlight passed swiftly over the shore. It disappeared almost at once, and there was a patter of raindrops on stones and concrete. Then the downpour. They ran for the car.

‘You wet?'

‘Mm. Dripping.'

‘We'll have to dry out somehow back there.'

It is difficult to dry out in a tent when everything outside it is wetter than you are. Stephen was very soon shivering and in a filthy temper. At last his dad said, ‘Why don't you go and ask the lady if you can sit in her kitchen for a bit?'

‘What for?'

‘To get warm. She's got an Aga. I saw it.'

‘What's an Aga?'

‘Sort of stove. Stays on all the time. It'd be warm.'

Stephen baulked. ‘I don't like to.'

‘She said we could ask.'

‘She said for water. That isn't water.'

It's because of rain. That's water, isn't it?' One of his dad's rare jokes.

‘But . . . it'd mean staying there.'

‘Not for long, it wouldn't.'

Stephen didn't want to. He thought he could count on his dad's dislike of strangers and of asking favours. He was surprised when dad walked out of the tent in his anorak and came back a minute later with the lady under an umbrella. She called to him through the tent flap door. ‘You in there! You're to come into the house to get dry. And bring your wet things.'

Dad was there, collecting his soaking shirt and trousers for him. ‘Go on!'

‘Aren't you coming?'

‘I'm not as wet as you. You can take my trousers, though. She says she'll hang the things up near the Aga and they'll be dry by morning.'

So Stephen found himself conducted under a vast striped umbrella up to the kitchen door, where the dripping garments were taken from him and hung on a curious contraption that hung from the ceiling near the compact bulk of the Aga stove. He had to admit it was good to sit in a warm dry place to feel his feet gradually thawing out. The lady sat at the kitchen table, opposite to him. She was shelling peas into a white pudding basin. Besides vegetables, the table was also covered with papers. A newspaper, a writing block, and a pile of opened letters.

‘How did you manage to get so wet?' she asked.

‘We were on the beach. It was sunny at first. Then the wind started blowing and all of sudden there was the rain.'

‘It can take you by surprise.'

‘I didn't think it could change so suddenly.'

‘The wind can get up in minutes. There's going to be a proper storm tonight.'

‘Will there be big waves?'

‘Over the road. Probably.'

He watched her. She was quite old. Sixty at least, he thought. She had grey hair pulled back from a bony face and fastened at the back of her neck in an untidy sort of knot. She was wearing a man's check shirt in red and orange colours and denim jeans. He decided that he liked her looks. He didn't like ladies who dressed up too much. He said, ‘Shall I help you with the peas?'

She said, ‘Thank you, but they're almost done.'

He felt awkward just sitting there, doing nothing, but he didn't want to leave this comfort. ‘Anything you'd like me to do?'

‘Can you peel potatoes?'

‘Easy. Only I don't like peelers. I'm better with a knife.'

She said, ‘So am I.' She put before him three large potatoes and a knife. It was beautifully sharp. ‘When you've done them, would you put them in this bowl?' She pushed a pudding basin half full of water across the table. She was now slicing onions, very fast.

‘What's the water for?'

‘To prevent them going the wrong colour. It's water with lemon in it.'

There was a question he wanted to ask, but he felt awkward about it. He kept on putting it off, so that at last it came out too fast and sounded almost angry. Not at all what he felt. He said, ‘I don't know your name.'

‘It's Oddie. I'm Miss Oddie. It used to be quite a common name around here. Now I think I'm almost the only one. I don't know your name, either.'

‘I'm Stephen.'

‘That's a nice name. I've known several Stephens and I've liked them all.'

He was embarrassed. ‘I've done the potatoes.'

‘That's fine. Thank you very much.'

‘You're welcome.'

She left the table and put a pan of water on the Aga.

‘Who cooks most when you're at home?' she asked.

‘Dad mostly. I'm not much good except for fry-ups.'

He dreaded the question which was sure to come next. ‘Is your mother a good cook?' When she asked it, what was he going to answer? But to his immense relief and surprise she didn't ask it. Instead, she came back to the table and began to clear it of pea husks and potato peelings. Then she began to sort the pile of letters.

‘I'd better be getting back,' Stephen said. He didn't want to outstay his welcome.

‘Not unless you want to. Wait until you're warm all through. Would you like a hot drink? Tea?'

‘Tea'd be great. Thanks,' Stephen said.

She made the tea in a small china teapot, ribbed and rounded, with a delicate pink and white pattern. The prettiest he'd ever seen. It matched the cup and saucer she put in front of him. He wondered if she treated all her visitors so grandly. He'd never had a whole pot of tea just for himself. There was also a milk jug and a sugar basin full of white lumps. The biscuits came out of a tin like a red pillarbox.

‘Aren't you having any tea?' he asked.

‘I had mine an hour ago. But thank you for asking.'

While he ate and drank, she continued to sort the letters. Presently she looked up and asked, ‘Do you collect stamps?'

He said, ‘No.'

‘Pity. I get some quite interesting foreign ones.'

There seemed no answer to this.

‘Do you collect anything? Badges? Memorabilia?'

‘I don't know what that is.'

‘I'm not sure that I do, either. Things, I think. Things that remind you of something. Anything.'

‘Doesn't sound very interesting.'

‘I don't think it is. Not very. Often just a lot of clutter.'

Without knowing he was going to, he heard himself say, ‘I do collect keys.'

‘Keys? Do you? What sort of keys?'