by Galaxy Craze
Praise for By the Shore
“Completely delightful.”—Fay Weldon
“By the Shore is astoundingly well-written. Craze doesn’t drop topical references, nor does she patronize her narrator as adults taking on a child’s voice often do. In fact, she never falters . . . . Craze has created an ageless coming-of-age story.”—
Seattle Weekly
“In May, Craze has crafted a fully realized portrait of a young girl who is leaving her childhood behind.... In its tender, playful final moment, the novel opens into a world after childhood, yet inspired by its promise.”
— The National Post (Canada)
“Craze draws these characters with a feathery touch, just light enough to trace the essentials without leaving a smudge.”
—Los Angeles Times
“By the Shore is a beautifully realized evocation of a child’s world, a glimpse into an experience not yet sufficiently explored: the life of a child of a child of the 60’s. This book is entirely original, full of rich detail and a slant and quirky wit.”
—Mary Gordon
“Craze paints a gentle picture of the vulnerability and venom of childhood . . . . By the Shore [is] an amusing, gritty debut which has rightly been making waves in the literary world.”
— The Independent on Sunday (London)
“Intelligent . . . Moving . . . An impressive and thoughtful debut.”
— The Guardian (London)
“Craze’s odd, lovely book . . . patiently floats along in its own strange sea . . . . [Its] charm lies in Craze’s slightly skewed perspective, the way she tells things ‘slant,’ as Emily Dickinson put it.”
—Time Out New York
“Lovely and understated . . . Rarely has an author captured the thoughts and emotions of a painfully sensitive, precocious adolescent girl so well.”
—The Austin Chronicle
“By the Shore is one of the better books by any new writer on the scene at the moment . . . . A truly skillful novel.”
— The Express (London)
“The pure beauty of [By the Shore] is in the author’s ability to convey monumental moments in a girl’s life with minimal action.”
—The Oakland Press
“The great thing about Craze’s vision is that although she is so clearsighted about the traumas of adolescence . . . she also manages to remind you of that strange, fizzy joy that most of us remember from our teenage days.”
— Vogue (Britain)
BY THE SHORE
A NOVEL BY
Galaxy Craze
Copyright © 1999 by Galaxy Craze
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Any members of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or publishers who would like to obtain permission to include the work in an anthology, should send their inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 841 Broadway, New York, NY 10003.
Published simultaneously in Canada
Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Craze, Galaxy.
By the shore / Galaxy Craze.
p. cm.
eBook ISBN-13: 978-0-8021-9683-5
I. Title.
PR6053.R378B98 1999
823′.914—dc2I
98-50520
CIP
DESIGN BY LAURA HAMMOND HOUGH
Grove Press
841 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
For my grandmother Polly Smith,
my mother Sophy Craze
and in loving memory of my grandmother
Hannah Craze
BY
THE
SHORE
One
It can be dangerous to live by the shore. In the winter, after a storm, things wash up on it: rusty pieces of sharp metal, glass, jellyfish. You must be careful where you tread. Sometimes I see a lone fish that has suffocated on the shore and think for days that there are fish in the water waiting for it to return. Then I think, There is nowhere to be safe.
But in the summer, when the guests are here, there are different things in the sand: suntan lotion, coins, and flip-flops. I even found a silver watch and it was still ticking. Once I found what I thought was a piece of skin buried in the sand. I made my brother Eden pick it up with a twig and put it in a jar of water.
This house used to be a girls’ school. It had a bareness, which was its beauty. There were rusty coat hooks in the front hall and wooden cubbyholes with the names of the girls etched in them.
My mother, my brother Eden, and I moved here from London two years ago. I was ten, then, and Eden was four. When we first walked into the house, I thought, There is so much room, I can do whatever I want; I can do cartwheels down the hallways. But then we moved into the old headmistress’s flat on the top floor, which had small rooms and slanted ceilings. The rest of the house was for the guests. Annabel, my mother’s friend from London, came to help decorate; she hung curtains and put soap dishes in the bathrooms.
In the summer all the rooms are full. People come to swim in the sea, to sunbathe on the rocks. During the autumn and winter hardly anyone comes to stay, and I move into one of the empty guest rooms at the bottom of the house.
One afternoon, near the end of October, I came home from school and all my books, clothes and china animals had been moved. As I stood in the doorway, I thought, I must have walked into the wrong room. A broom lay on the floor next to a dustpan. The sheets had been taken off the bed. The windows were open and the rain was coming in.
I walked out of the room along the stone passageway and the steps that led to the back staircase. Then I walked up three flights of stairs, to our flat at the top of the house, to find my mother.
She was in the kitchen making tea. Annabel, who was visiting from London, sat at the table holding a cigarette.
“I thought I heard elephant footsteps,” Annabel said, when she saw me. I didn’t look at her.
“What have you done to my room?” My mother had her back to me. She was pouring water into the teapot. Eden sat on the floor, practising his handwriting.
“I did nothing. Annabel put everything in a box.”
“Why?”
“A guest wants it. Would you like a cup of tea?” She put the pot on the table and sat down.
“Why don’t you put the guest in one of the rooms on the first floor?” I asked, standing with my arms crossed. I had the feeling she had done this to spite me.
“He wanted the quietest rooms in the house. You can stay in one of the others if you want.”
“I can’t sleep there.” It was true; some nights I would hear the sound of opera music below us. I would sit up in bed and listen. I heard what sounded like a party coming from the guest sitting room on the first floor: voices and the clink of glasses, a fire crackling and someone’s laugh. But when I looked, walking slowly down the stairs, the room went quiet. It was dark and there was no one in it.
“I’m sorry, darling, but we need the money.”
“He’s not going to like that dungeon when he sees it,” Annabel said. I liked Annabel; she brought the city with her.
“He’s a writer,” my mother said.
“A writer?” Annabel said. “You didn’t tell me. Who is it?”
My mother was mixing butter and honey with a knife on her plate. She looked confused.
“Well, what did he sound like?” Annabel asked.
“Who?”
“The writer.”
“I never spoke to him. A woman phoned
and made the bookings.”
“His wife?” Annabel asked.
“How long is he planning on staying?” I asked. I sat down at the table with them. I wanted some tea.
“She said until Christmas.” She spread the mixed-up butter and honey on a piece of bread and cut it in half. I took one of the pieces.
“Do you think he’s famous?” Annabel asked. “I do love a star in the house.”
…
Annabel took Eden and me to see Fantasia. When the film ended she said she fancied a sausage roll. We drove to the shop, but it was closed. I remembered it was Sunday night, and I had two lots of maths homework to do. We drove home in the drizzle.
When we arrived back at the house there was a woman standing outside the door. The rain was thicker now and she had wedged herself in the corner of the doorway, trying not to get wet.
At first I thought she was the crazy woman from London, asking to use the loo. During the summer holidays I spent a week with Annabel in London. In the middle of the afternoon a woman rang the bell. When Annabel said hello, the woman asked if she could use the loo. “Is she mad?” Annabel asked me, and we peeked out of the window to see what she looked like. All we saw was the back of her, bright yellow hair and a skirt suit that made her look like a stewardess. Then she came back the next day and asked again.
“Hello!” the woman by the door shouted to us as we were getting out of the car. “Are you Lucy?”
“No, I’m not,” Annabel said.
“Do you know where she is? I’ve been ringing the bell for at least ten minutes but no one’s answering.” She was wearing a shiny black raincoat and high leather boots.
“The bell is broken.” Annabel grabbed Eden by the wrist and walked quickly towards the door, as though they were crossing a busy street. “Are you here for a room?” she asked, as she opened the door and let her inside.
“Yes,” the woman said as she tried to brush the raindrops from her coat. “I phoned the other day about two rooms.” Then I knew who she was, the one who wanted the quietest ones.
“Oh, for the writer?” Annabel turned to me with a bounce and said, “Be an angel and find your mother, will you?” I stood there. They were both looking at me. I was trying to leave but I couldn’t move. I felt so heavy.
“Well, hurry up,” Annabel said, and gave me a push on the back that got me going.
The staircase was long and made of dark wood. I walked slowly. The air was thick from the rain.
My mother was sitting on the sofa in our sitting room, a cup of tea in her hand. She had her back to me.
“There’s a woman downstairs.”
I could see the top of her head jerk up.
“Christ,” she said. Then she stood up and looked at me. “Don’t come up behind me like that.” She had spilled her tea; it was running down her arm and onto her shirt. She held the hand with the cup out as though it were being pulled by a string.
“Get me something,” she said.
“There’s a woman downstairs waiting for you,” I said again.
“I have to change,” she said, unbuttoning her shirt. “It’s one of my favourite shirts, you know. Run down and tell her I’ll be right there.”
I didn’t go back downstairs. I went into the kitchen to get something to eat. There were three baked potatoes on the stove that were still warm. I took one and cut it in half and put salt and pieces of butter in it, and then I closed it back up and waited for the butter to melt. I stood there with my hands wrapped around the potato. My stomach hurt. I thought about the polar bear in the zoo, the way he walks back and forth against the bars of his cage, back and forth, up and down. Every day he must wonder, How did this happen, and when will it end?
Two
My mother woke me at six for school the next morning. She sat on the edge of my bed and rubbed her hands in a circle on my back. “Do you want an egg and soldiers for breakfast?” she asked. I pretended to sleep so she would keep rubbing. “I’ll bring you a cup of tea.”
When she left, I got out of bed. It was still dark outside. I opened my wardrobe to get my uniform, but it wasn’t there. I went into the kitchen to see if it was hanging over the stove; it wasn’t. I went to the bathroom and found it in the laundry basket surrounded by socks and dirty knickers. I picked it out. It looked awful: crumpled and smelly, the white shirt nearly grey, two buttons missing. I threw it on the floor.
“I can’t go to school today.” I yelled this at my mother. I was already angry because I really thought she would try to make me wear it. She would think it was funny, breaking the rules.
“Why not?”
“My uniform is too dirty. Look at it! It’s all dirty and wrinkled. I can’t wear it.” This was true; we were not allowed to go to school in dirty clothes.
“Wash it now and you can go after lunch, then.” She sat at the round wooden table, eating her egg. She was wearing a short nightgown with a sweatshirt pulled over it and her old dirty flat moccasins. Eden was already dressed and sitting quietly and straight in the chair next to hers, carefully dipping a strip of toast into his egg.
“Eat your breakfast before it gets cold.” A place was set for me: a brown egg, sitting in a pink eggcup, a piece of brown toast cut in strips in a saucer. I sat down to eat. We were all very quiet; it was a grey morning and the rest of the house was still asleep.
Eden raised an arm and threw the piece of toast that he had been examining to the floor.
“What did you just do?” my mother asked.
He was staring at the floor, blowing his cheeks out, his face turning red. He didn’t answer.
“He’s choking. Oh, my God, he’s choking!” She pulled him off his chair and banged him on the back. She always thought he was about to die.
“Get off of me!” he yelled, flinging his thin arms at her. “There was white on it!”
“What?”
“The white got on it! You didn’t cook it enough!” he said. His face was still red.
“Well, why didn’t you just pick it off?” she asked, trying to calm him down.
“Because he’s scared of it,” I said, leaning forward to look at him. “Aren’t you? Last night he wouldn’t walk down the stairs because he saw a ball of dust floating around and he started shaking. Didn’t you?”
“Stop it. I’ve already got a headache, so just don’t you start too,” my mother said, loudly. We went silent. She took her cup of tea and stood up. “You are a ridiculous child, Eden. What do you think the white is going to do to you?”
“I don’t like it.” He looked at the ground.
“He’s choking, he’s choking!” I said, in her panicked voice. This made him laugh.
“Right. I’m going to put my coat on. Then we’ll be off, so get ready. I’ve got a headache now.” When she spoke like this she was trying to sound like a different mother. She left the room to get her coat.
My brother stood next to his chair. I sat across the table from him. His uniform had been washed and ironed. His straight brown hair was combed over to the side; he had his school hat in his hand. He looked perfect.
We were alone. I ate my toast and swung my legs under the chair, humming.
“Aren’t you going to school today?” he asked me.
I stuck my finger in my egg, walked around the table, and wiped it on the back of his navy blue jacket. He saw me coming; he stood still, his eyes wide, he let me do it. He dropped his hat and opened his mouth. I ran out of the room.
…
I went to the bathroom and filled the sink with warm water and soap. Too much soap, but I wanted it clean. I was feeling mean; my breath was short. First I washed the white shirt, then the blue dress in the leftover water. That was something my grandmother had taught me: never waste water or toilet paper. She had caught me once, leaving the tap running while I brushed my teeth. She slapped my fingers and turned it off tightly, saying, “That’s what those American girls all do.” She knew about them, the Americans; she had married one, a businessman
with three daughters.
I scrubbed the collar together and the sleeve cuffs that had pencil marks on them. Everyone complained about the uniform, but I liked it.
…
At the school I went to in London, before we moved here, we were allowed to wear whatever we liked. My mother dressed me in striped overalls and boots. I had short hair. It had been long, past my shoulders, until her friend Gary, the hairdresser, came over. “Let him cut your hair,” my mother told me. “He’s the most fashionable hairdresser in London. He cut Mick Jagger’s hair last week.”
It was the end of the summer; the air coming in through the windows was still damp and warm. I was used to staying up late with her friends, doing what they wanted, fetching ashtrays, putting the kettle on, and now getting my hair cut. I sat on a stool. It took a long time; they were smoking and talking. I must have fallen asleep because I didn’t see it until the next morning when I went into my mother’s room. She was in bed asleep and he was next to her. They were under the covers, naked. I could tell. The room smelled. The mirror was on the floor, leaning against a chair. I sat down to look at my hair. It was short, messy, like a boy’s. I was so angry. I had lost something. I started crying, right there on the floor, with the hairdresser in the bed.
“It looks really great,” Gary said, leaning up on his elbows, his bare chest showing.
“It’s ugly,” I said. That word “ugly” felt so right. Square and heavy.
“Stop feeling so sorry for yourself, it’ll grow,” my mother said, laying her face on his chest. I thought she liked to embarrass me in front of men. It made her seem more like an older sister than a mother. She was twenty seven then and I was eight.
I kept thinking about how she said “feeling sorry for yourself”. Those words were like a slap, and every time I heard them in my head I felt myself blush. I sat on the floor of my room with my legs crossed and just sat. My mother came in and asked if I wanted to go out for breakfast with them. I shook my head. She told me my hair looked “really great”. I didn’t say anything, and she came over and kissed me on the top of my head. When I knew they were gone I jumped up and ran to the mirror again. I liked to watch myself cry.