cheese,’ he said, as he let the pale-yellow curls fall from his fingers.
‘Or maybe it’s sand,’ I suggested. ‘Cheesy sand, on a cheesy beach.’
He grinned. ‘Dad said you’d been to the beach at the weekend. Did you go rock-pooling?’
I lifted the pizza carefully and slid it into the oven. ‘Not this time, no,’ I said. ‘Do you like rock-pooling?’
‘Yeah!’ he said, as if that was the most stupid question he’d ever heard. ‘Course I do! It’s my favourite thing on holiday. My aunty Amanda lives by the sea. She is soooo lucky, lucky, lucky.’
‘Mmm,’ I said distractedly, shutting the oven door. ‘My aunty used to live by the beach too. She loved having the sea as her next-door neighbour.’
‘When I’m a grown-up, I’m going to live right on a beach,’ he told me, wiping his cheesy hands on his school trousers before I could stop him. Oops. Emily wouldn’t thank me for that. ‘I’m going to build myself a sand CASTLE to live in – do you get it, a real castle, made of sand? – and I’m going to go rock-pooling ALL DAY .’
‘That sounds good,’ I said, ‘but only if I’m allowed to visit you.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll build a special bit of the castle just for you,’ he promised. ‘A whole wing!’ He laughed. ‘Hey, isn’t it weird that castles have wings, like birds do? As if they could fly away!’
I ruffled his hair, a surge of love for him stopping me speaking for a moment. ‘You’re a sweetheart,’ I told him. ‘Now – are we going to set this table, or what?’
I dreamed of the beach at Carrawen that night. It was a cold, crisp day in my dream, with that pale-blue early-morning light you get at the coast in winter. The sea was luminescent, sleek and calm, the weak sunlight glittering on its rippled surface like a million sequins. I was the only person there and I stood right in the centre of the bay, gazing out at the indigo-blue line of the horizon, letting the peace and stillness fill me all the way up. I was so happy. So content. So calm . . .
Then the radio sprang into life beside my head, burbling DJ nonsense and shattering that perfect peaceful moment. I groaned, stretching out a hand and fumbling to hit the Snooze button. I wanted to slip back into my dream, wanted to be swallowed up again by the empty calm of that winter beach, but annoyingly I couldn’t return a second time.
I rolled over towards Matthew’s side of the bed, but it was empty and I guessed he must already be up and having breakfast with Saul. He had to take him in to school on Thursday mornings, and lived in fear of running late and thereby suffering the wrath of Emily. She had spies at the school, according to Matthew; a crack team of mums who clocked what time he arrived with Saul and reported back every detail of the viewing.
Emily was always perfectly civil to me, if not actually friendly. She was a nurse: a brisk, uber-organized sort of a person, who seemed to iron everything that had a crease in it (even Saul’s pants, for goodness’ sake), and generally ran her house, and life, like clockwork. Hospital corners on all of her beds, I bet. I got the impression that she judged our household accordingly. (Not a whole lot of ironing attempted, and not a single properly made bed, needless to say.)
Matthew and Emily had split up five and a half years ago when she’d gone off with a dashing young paramedic called Dan, whom Saul (and presumably Emily) idolized, although Matthew professed to loathe him, disparagingly calling him ‘Doctor Dan’ whenever he was forced to refer to him. A fleeting shadow passed over Matthew’s face whenever Saul talked about Dan, and I sympathized – it must have been hard for Matthew, having his son grow up with another man. Not just that, but another man who, according to Saul, told the best jokes ever, was brilliant at football, and had spent an entire weekend painting a really cool Doctor Who mural on his bedroom wall as a birthday surprise.
I
‘Or maybe it’s sand,’ I suggested. ‘Cheesy sand, on a cheesy beach.’
He grinned. ‘Dad said you’d been to the beach at the weekend. Did you go rock-pooling?’
I lifted the pizza carefully and slid it into the oven. ‘Not this time, no,’ I said. ‘Do you like rock-pooling?’
‘Yeah!’ he said, as if that was the most stupid question he’d ever heard. ‘Course I do! It’s my favourite thing on holiday. My aunty Amanda lives by the sea. She is soooo lucky, lucky, lucky.’
‘Mmm,’ I said distractedly, shutting the oven door. ‘My aunty used to live by the beach too. She loved having the sea as her next-door neighbour.’
‘When I’m a grown-up, I’m going to live right on a beach,’ he told me, wiping his cheesy hands on his school trousers before I could stop him. Oops. Emily wouldn’t thank me for that. ‘I’m going to build myself a sand CASTLE to live in – do you get it, a real castle, made of sand? – and I’m going to go rock-pooling ALL DAY .’
‘That sounds good,’ I said, ‘but only if I’m allowed to visit you.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll build a special bit of the castle just for you,’ he promised. ‘A whole wing!’ He laughed. ‘Hey, isn’t it weird that castles have wings, like birds do? As if they could fly away!’
I ruffled his hair, a surge of love for him stopping me speaking for a moment. ‘You’re a sweetheart,’ I told him. ‘Now – are we going to set this table, or what?’
I dreamed of the beach at Carrawen that night. It was a cold, crisp day in my dream, with that pale-blue early-morning light you get at the coast in winter. The sea was luminescent, sleek and calm, the weak sunlight glittering on its rippled surface like a million sequins. I was the only person there and I stood right in the centre of the bay, gazing out at the indigo-blue line of the horizon, letting the peace and stillness fill me all the way up. I was so happy. So content. So calm . . .
Then the radio sprang into life beside my head, burbling DJ nonsense and shattering that perfect peaceful moment. I groaned, stretching out a hand and fumbling to hit the Snooze button. I wanted to slip back into my dream, wanted to be swallowed up again by the empty calm of that winter beach, but annoyingly I couldn’t return a second time.
I rolled over towards Matthew’s side of the bed, but it was empty and I guessed he must already be up and having breakfast with Saul. He had to take him in to school on Thursday mornings, and lived in fear of running late and thereby suffering the wrath of Emily. She had spies at the school, according to Matthew; a crack team of mums who clocked what time he arrived with Saul and reported back every detail of the viewing.
Emily was always perfectly civil to me, if not actually friendly. She was a nurse: a brisk, uber-organized sort of a person, who seemed to iron everything that had a crease in it (even Saul’s pants, for goodness’ sake), and generally ran her house, and life, like clockwork. Hospital corners on all of her beds, I bet. I got the impression that she judged our household accordingly. (Not a whole lot of ironing attempted, and not a single properly made bed, needless to say.)
Matthew and Emily had split up five and a half years ago when she’d gone off with a dashing young paramedic called Dan, whom Saul (and presumably Emily) idolized, although Matthew professed to loathe him, disparagingly calling him ‘Doctor Dan’ whenever he was forced to refer to him. A fleeting shadow passed over Matthew’s face whenever Saul talked about Dan, and I sympathized – it must have been hard for Matthew, having his son grow up with another man. Not just that, but another man who, according to Saul, told the best jokes ever, was brilliant at football, and had spent an entire weekend painting a really cool Doctor Who mural on his bedroom wall as a birthday surprise.
I
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