don’t know anything about his relatives – I don’t think he has any. I don’t think anyone could be related to anything as vile as Pinhead.”
“No, he does sound – unpleasant. What does he do? Except for dabbling in property development and keeping people apart?”
“Import and Export – that’s what he says topeople. But I think he’s a gun runner.”
My mouth suddenly dries up.
A gun runner?
And I’d thought he was something to do with pork.
Do I have enough of an inner hero? Can I, like Scarface McCready in
The Secret of the Lost Uncle,
do good in the face of extreme danger, unrecognised, warmed by the inner knowledge of extreme selflessness in the cause of justice and friendship? I feel a surge of righteous power and my little flame of courage bursts into a raging fire; Sophia needs me, she needs me to help her do SOMETHING EXCITING. Just me; only me.
I’m thinking of the changed me, the
something happened to me,
that I’ll have afterwards. It’ll be awesome.
“I’m hungry,” says Sophia. “And thirsty.”
Apart from our wetsuits, there really isn’t anything to eat, but if I’m going to be Sophia’s heroic best friend I need to find something. I look around. The beach is pebbly; at the top, some sad plants with yellow flowers struggle on the edge of a sandy cliff. I wander over. They’re that sea broccoli stuff – Dad once cooked it down at Portland with mackerel; it was disgusting, but it’s food.
Raw food.
I pick the flowers and try one. It tastes like cabbage. Peppery, disgusting, but not inedible. I bring back some flowers for Sophia.
She sticks one in her mouth and chews. I expect her to choke, or spit it out, but she says: “Thank you, Lottie. Thank you.”
The affair of the giant lobster
We struggle on until it gets dark and decide to camp under an upturned rowing boat. Things crawl all around us, poppy things that crunch if you walk on the sand. They’re probably edible if you could catch them, and if you had a cooking pot.
And a fire.
And some salt and pepper.
And water.
We huddle together in our wetsuits, listening for footsteps and feeling hungry. We’ve eaten sea-cabbage flowers, sorrel leaves and the end of a piece of bread that some picnickers left on the beach.Apart from a tap for washing sand from wetsuits, we haven’t found any water, and I’m not sure we should have drunk from it but bad water seems preferable to no water.
My stomach rumbles for the millionth time. I’m thinking about chocolate bars. I can’t help it; they keep coming into my head. I’ve had a particularly strong sense of Swiss chocolate bunnies, the ones wrapped in gold paper. Ned can’t bear them, he says it’s like eating happiness, so I always save him from that by eating his too. “What would you really like to eat just now?” I blurt out.
“Spaghetti con vongole,” Sophia says. “With loads of parmesan.”
“Oh,” I say, not wanting to show my ignorance by asking what it is. “I’d settle for chocolate.”
We sit in silence, listening to the crunching things on the beach. I imagine they’re probably eating each other. I pull my legs in closer. I daren’t lie down, I don’t want the sea things to move into my hair.
There’s a bit in
Sand for Sandy,
where Sandy has to battle with an enormous crab. She kills it with an umbrella. It’s quite dramatic and heroic.
But just at the moment, I’m not feeling veryheroic, and I don’t have an umbrella.
“I wonder if my parents know yet?” I ask.
“They’ll have rung them straight away. They always ring Pinhead the moment I take off.”
“Ours are off camping in Cornwall – they probably didn’t take a mobile phone.”
“Really?” asks Sophia. “I didn’t think anyone went anywhere without a phone.”
I shrug. “My parents are different.”
“They are,” says Sophia. “I liked them.”
“Oh!” I say, feeling a confusing sense of pride and embarrassment. “That’s—”
“I’ve lived all over
“No, he does sound – unpleasant. What does he do? Except for dabbling in property development and keeping people apart?”
“Import and Export – that’s what he says topeople. But I think he’s a gun runner.”
My mouth suddenly dries up.
A gun runner?
And I’d thought he was something to do with pork.
Do I have enough of an inner hero? Can I, like Scarface McCready in
The Secret of the Lost Uncle,
do good in the face of extreme danger, unrecognised, warmed by the inner knowledge of extreme selflessness in the cause of justice and friendship? I feel a surge of righteous power and my little flame of courage bursts into a raging fire; Sophia needs me, she needs me to help her do SOMETHING EXCITING. Just me; only me.
I’m thinking of the changed me, the
something happened to me,
that I’ll have afterwards. It’ll be awesome.
“I’m hungry,” says Sophia. “And thirsty.”
Apart from our wetsuits, there really isn’t anything to eat, but if I’m going to be Sophia’s heroic best friend I need to find something. I look around. The beach is pebbly; at the top, some sad plants with yellow flowers struggle on the edge of a sandy cliff. I wander over. They’re that sea broccoli stuff – Dad once cooked it down at Portland with mackerel; it was disgusting, but it’s food.
Raw food.
I pick the flowers and try one. It tastes like cabbage. Peppery, disgusting, but not inedible. I bring back some flowers for Sophia.
She sticks one in her mouth and chews. I expect her to choke, or spit it out, but she says: “Thank you, Lottie. Thank you.”
The affair of the giant lobster
We struggle on until it gets dark and decide to camp under an upturned rowing boat. Things crawl all around us, poppy things that crunch if you walk on the sand. They’re probably edible if you could catch them, and if you had a cooking pot.
And a fire.
And some salt and pepper.
And water.
We huddle together in our wetsuits, listening for footsteps and feeling hungry. We’ve eaten sea-cabbage flowers, sorrel leaves and the end of a piece of bread that some picnickers left on the beach.Apart from a tap for washing sand from wetsuits, we haven’t found any water, and I’m not sure we should have drunk from it but bad water seems preferable to no water.
My stomach rumbles for the millionth time. I’m thinking about chocolate bars. I can’t help it; they keep coming into my head. I’ve had a particularly strong sense of Swiss chocolate bunnies, the ones wrapped in gold paper. Ned can’t bear them, he says it’s like eating happiness, so I always save him from that by eating his too. “What would you really like to eat just now?” I blurt out.
“Spaghetti con vongole,” Sophia says. “With loads of parmesan.”
“Oh,” I say, not wanting to show my ignorance by asking what it is. “I’d settle for chocolate.”
We sit in silence, listening to the crunching things on the beach. I imagine they’re probably eating each other. I pull my legs in closer. I daren’t lie down, I don’t want the sea things to move into my hair.
There’s a bit in
Sand for Sandy,
where Sandy has to battle with an enormous crab. She kills it with an umbrella. It’s quite dramatic and heroic.
But just at the moment, I’m not feeling veryheroic, and I don’t have an umbrella.
“I wonder if my parents know yet?” I ask.
“They’ll have rung them straight away. They always ring Pinhead the moment I take off.”
“Ours are off camping in Cornwall – they probably didn’t take a mobile phone.”
“Really?” asks Sophia. “I didn’t think anyone went anywhere without a phone.”
I shrug. “My parents are different.”
“They are,” says Sophia. “I liked them.”
“Oh!” I say, feeling a confusing sense of pride and embarrassment. “That’s—”
“I’ve lived all over
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