by Olivia Levez
English is unit four, and all morning I’m waiting for her to notice.
I’m waiting for her to read it.
Miss reads it and is delighted, ’course she is. Her blonde wavy hair is up in a messy knot today. She wears vintagey clothes. There’s always a button missing or a tiny hole in her cardigan. She doesn’t look like she tries too hard.
‘Let’s be critique partners,’ she says.
She knows and I know that she’s playing it cool. Doesn’t want to scare off the difficult girl.
But then she leans forward and starts to give me feedback, and it’s careful and precise and she’s really read it, you can tell. She’s even placed Post-its in the pages with scribbled comments. She really cares about this memory, these words.
I can feel them turning into a story.
‘So, try to develop your characters a little more,’ she says.
And she puts the notebook back on my desk. Turns to write on the board.
I snatch it up and put it in my bag, and it’s like a prize, this book. All day I think about it, lying there at the bottom like a dragon’s egg.
Once upon a Time
In my story, I have a character called Carrie and there’s this girl called Anna and her little brother Jake. A nasty bloke called Aaron moves in and once he shoves Jake so hard when he’s whining that Jake falls against the table and gets a massive bruise on his face. Anna and Jake are always hungry and Carrie is always asleep.
There isn’t a bedroom for Jake or Carrie because all the rooms except for the lounge and Anna’s room are filled with junk, so Jake has to sleep in Anna’s bedroom with her. Anna doesn’t mind. She once spent a whole night reading Jake The Magic Faraway Tree.
My story’s a good one.
I really get into it once I’m past chapter seven, and I start describing this crazy dream Anna and Jake have:
‘So we’re living together in my house, and I’ve got a little job. I’m an artist. I paint the sea, and always there’s this view of the sea, like when we went to Weymouth that time, do you remember?’
Anna snuggled closer to Jake and smelled the shampoo and warm scalp smell of his little head. She’d washed his hair that night, because it was Sunday and she didn’t want him to get bullied at school for being a ‘gyppo’.
His soft hand squeezed hers.
‘More, Annie,’ he whispered. ‘Tell me more about the house.’
‘Well,’ she said quietly, ‘it’s in Weymouth, just on the seafront, and it’s only a little house, just a terrace really, but it’s the best one on the row.’
‘Why is it the best one, Annie?’
‘Because it has a bright painted door – yellow because it’s a happy colour – and it has the best front garden. Only tiny, but it’s paved in shells that we’ve collected from the beach, and this is where you do your homework, Jake, and I sit sipping Pinot and watching the sea.’
‘What’s Pinot, Annie?’
‘It’s nice white wine, Jake, which is what I’ll be drinking when we’re there.’
I’ve stopped the conversation there because Miss said it’s not a good idea to make dialogue go on too long.
‘You’ve got to weave in some action,’ she said.
So.
Just as Anna was describing the tiny bedrooms up in the loft, the white walls and smell of clean, fresh paint, and Jake was snuggling in close, his warm breath huffing on her cheek, the door burst open.
‘Get that boy to his own bed,’ bellowed Aaron, his pig eyes glinting in the half-light.
He leaned lower, his mean breath beer-sour.
‘He’d better not have bleeding well wet the bed again.’
The Could-be Pile
The sun beats down as I saw into the plastic with my safety knife. Dog and I have decided to cut up the life raft because it’s definitely punctured and there’s no chance of us sailing away on it like The Owl and the frickin Pussy-cat. No way. So we might as well put it to good use. It’s good work; if I get our new shelter finished today, we’ll sleep well tonight.
It’s on the fringe of the forest but I don’t mind because Dog is with me now and he’ll chase any monsters away.
The tin cans are wedged in our fire, the water inside them bubbling away. Whatever happens, I make sure that the fire’s always going.
It’s the last thing me and Dog do before we snuggle down for the night: make sure that we shove another couple of logs on, so that we’re warm and safe and our water’s always boiled.
Sometimes we get it wrong and the driftwood must be too wet or something because the smoke billows into our faces and sets Dog wheezing and me coughing, but still it’s better than the alternative.
The fire can’t ever go out.
We have a could-be pile, Dog and me; it’s where we store things that might be useful some day: bits of rope and broken plastic crates and lifebuoys and oil drums and even a rubber duck we found caught up in some roots. Our could-be pile is growing day by day with all the stuff we bring back from our foraging trips to the swamp.
We’re making the roof of the raft into a hammock. I use a sharp rock to pierce it at opposite ends and then thread blue nylon rope through it. I pull the rope tight and then tie the edges to each tree so that it’s secure.
Dog waits in the shade as I use one of the life-raft pieces as a sheet to help me drag a big piece of driftwood over the beach. He wags his tail when he sees me, his little rump wriggling in the sand. I lie down to take a break from the sun and Dog jumps on me and headbutts me with licks till I roll away, laughing.
‘Oh my God, Dog – leave off, won’t you?’
He sits nicely then, grinning like hell.
It’s a good spot we’ve chosen, Dog and me; sunlight plays around the edge of the palms and scribbles crazy patterns on the soft sand. We’re not close enough so that we get could-be nuts hurled on our heads but I can still watch the palm leaves sharpened by the sun.
From here I can see:
One Tree Beach.
Fang Rock.
And, right at the other end of the beach, the little cluster of rocks that hide the swamp.
Squinting at it reminds me that we need more plastic bottles for water. And while we’re at it –
‘Coming to check for fishies, Dog?’
His little tail wags so hard I swear it’ll whizz away.
Dog’s fish-trap is the best; it’s basically his own travel bag but with stones weighing it down inside. When it got washed up by the sea, we set it in the shallows at the start of low tide with its door propped open; then all we had to do was to go away and come back again. When we came back that first time, a squid and two fish were waiting for us. The fish are so stupid they get washed inside and when the tide drags back they can’t find a way out again.
Today there are three big blue fish and one that kills me, it’s so beautiful; when I hold it up it shimmers pink and coral mother-of-pearl and its fins spread like delicate lacy fans.
I toss a blue fish to Dog and he swallows it whole. Beautiful or not, we’ve got to eat.
‘Didn’t even taste that, did you? Pig.’
He grins at me, tail whirling, and I decide to leave collecting the other fish until later.
If you climb over the rocks at the far end of One Tree Beach and wade right out, even further than Fang Rock, you can just see the white flash of another beach, tucked up tight in its cliffs. Except it’s deceptive ’cause when you finally get there (after swim-wading for hours), it’s not sand but swamp, and it’s crawling with weird, twisted roots with leafy tops like trees. I think they might be mangroves, like they have in Florida.
This swamp is the best place for foraging.
I’m wearing my new shoes. I’ve made them by cutting up my bra and using the cups as the front section and the straps around my heels. Pity they’re only 34B but it’s a lot better than using a T-shirt or leggings. At least they don’t come off all the time.
We wade further into the swamp; well, I wade and Dog swim
s hard as he can. Dog immediately climbs up on a root-bank ’cause he’s knackered after swimming so far; he can’t paddle for long with those short legs.
A bright light glints, down by my foot. I bend down and tug and it’s a pink plastic mirror, with most of its glass missing. There’s an arrow-shaped shard left and I peer into it curiously.
A stranger looks back at me; I see a wide green eye, a triangle of dirty brown skin, a straggle of tangled hair. I turn the mirror this way and that and see hollows under those eyes, the sharp edge of a cheekbone.
Dog is bored; he gives a very small whine and looks at me hopefully.
‘?’ he says.
I put the mirror carefully into my bag.
‘Want Frannie to pick you up?’
I’m about to take him when I see a small movement in the water. I thrust the jam jar in, quick as thinking; hold it up to the light.
Inside, a sea horse floats like a ghost.
I tilt the jar and stare.
It’s a perfect thing, transparent, all its pulsing life on show.
If I wanted I could turn it to stone. I could freeze its furling fins, its unblinking eye, its coiling tail. Turn it to ice.
It floats and trusts in my hands. I am a giant.
I set it free, watch it slide like a sigh into the folding water.
I watch for a long time.
Shark Swamp
Dog waits on the bank as I climb down to inspect the roots.
Today there’s good pickings. So much that I have to leave some of it behind for later. Tucked up between the twisted stems I find:
3 large tin cans, labels scratched off by the sea
2 broken flip-flops, different sizes
1 big, empty white tub with MARINA BAIT on its side
1 glass jar with a label that says it once contained gherkins
3 empty fizzy-drinks bottles: Fanta, Sprite and Dr Pepper
I’m glad that I’ve found more tins; they’ll be useful for cooking. I’ve been thinking of making fish stew with could-be nut water. I don’t want to leave the drinks bottles because they’re so useful for storing the water I’ve boiled on our fire, but then I remember that the pool’s been looking a bit low lately and think that maybe we don’t need so many after all.
What about when the water runs out? a sneaking voice says, but I shove the thought out of my head and get back to my task.
We pile everything carefully between two gnarly could-be mangroves that look like they’re having an arm-wrestle and I stuff what I can into my bag. I can’t imagine chucking any old crap into this beautiful sea, but then I remember my drunken rage on the life raft. I suppose it’s good for me and Dog that fishermen are such tossers.
I tug yet another plastic bottle from the white roots. This time it’s a Pepsi Max bottle, still with its lid on and some brown liquid in it. I sniff it and slug it and it’s warm and wonderful, such a magic-chemical taste after coconut water.
It’s when I’m shoving the bottles into my rucksack and other ideas of how I could use them are buzzing round my head –
great for catching rain and maybe even small fish if I weight one down on its side, and what about gutters? –
that I see it.
A fin, yellow-grey and smooth as a smile, is knifing through the water.
Shark.
Fin
Now I’m splashing, dropping all my things – backpack, knife, bottles – scrambling up on to the root-bank.
‘Dog. Dog – stay where you are,’ I pant.
For a horrible moment I think he’s going to jump back into the shallows; his little feet are skittering on the roots as he peers down.
We huddle on the bank, watching the shark as it coasts, leaving an oily trail in its wake. From above we can see it quite clearly; it’s about as long as my leg, freckled on its back like a pebble. It’s ultra confident, I can see that; knows these waters well. I wonder if the scratches on my legs and feet have left blood-traces. Maybe it’s tasting me as we watch.
We shrink back when it reaches our bank.
It’s definitely man-eating, I think. Will it rear up? Will it rear up like a crocodile?
It’s only when it changes course and starts heading back to the open sea that I start breathing again.
‘Stay,’ I tell Dog.
He whimpers, tail quivering.
Keeping the dark hook of the fin in sight, I slide back into the water and retrieve my stuff, every minute expecting to feel a jaw clamp down on my ankle.
There could be more. These waters could be infested with sharks.
Dog whines.
‘All right, Frannie’s here.’
I stoop to pick up my knife, drifting in the water with its string unfurling. I’ll need to reattach the tin-lid blade. I made the knife by inserting a tin lid into a piece of driftwood, then binding rags and string round and round the handle. It’s a lot sharper than the safety knife – if you don’t mind the risk of losing your fingers.
The fin is a distant speck now, far out to sea. I start to relax.
Till something touches me on my leg and I scream.
Ghost
It’s only a fishing net, wrapped around my leg.
I unravel it and follow it like that hero with the ball of wool in the Minotaur’s maze. It’s all twined around the roots like a giant web.
I’m excited; this is a Real Fishing Net which is going to double our food if I can mend it. I unsnag it from the roots, quick as my fumbling fingers will let me, and my heart’s skidding because Dog doesn’t seem at all happy up there on the bank, and I’m trying not to think of the shark nosing round like it owns the island.
‘Frannie’s nearly finished, Monkey,’ I say.
Did I really say that?
I stare into Dog’s trusting eyes as my fingers workworkwork to undo those knots.
‘!’ he shouts.
And it’s back.
The water is cut in two as it slices straight towards us.
I yank the net and then I’m grappling at twisted roots, fingers sliding through mud, feet slipping and sucking.
‘Oh God, oh my frickin God –’
And all the time Dog’s barkingbarkingbarking like he’s ready to take on five sharks, if only I’d let him.
I see a flash of its skin, freckled and pale; it leers, opens its jagged mouth, and tears at the section of net that’s still trailing in the water. I whimper, breath ragged. Claw myself up on to the roots.
Dog’s vanished; then I see him on another tree island. He’s looking around, darting back and forward. That’s when I notice that the sea has come in; we’re surrounded by water and Dog’s little tree island is shrinking fast. He’ll get cut off. Only the leafy tops of the mangrove-trees are showing now, their scrubby roots snaking over the water. There’s barely any bank left; his tiny island has all but disappeared.
‘Dog, go home,’ I shout. ‘Go home!’
Dog barks at me, his little feet scrabbling. And then he’s gone; he’s scrambled through the remaining root-banks back to One Tree Beach, in the next cove.
But I’ll have to swim back. I have no choice but to get back in the water.
Smile
Nearly there.
My backpack’s hitched high on my shoulders, bra-shoes, bottles and what remains of the knife and net shoved safely inside. I’m swimming with nice long strokes and so far nothing’s happened. To calm myself down, I make myself think about how we can leave the net in the sea overnight, weighted down with bottles. I try to decide how this would actually work; where I’d need to tie them.
And Fang Rock is right in front of me, I’m really close now; I can see the late sun glinting on its seaweedy back. My arm-strokes are soothing. I can see lit-up pearls of water on my dark skin.
Then the monster rises.
For an instant I see:
An eye, black and evil.
A lemon-grey flank, satin smooth.
A mouth like an upside-down smile.
I pull mysel
f through the water, lungs screaming, checking back every so often to see if the shark’s following me.
It is.
It’s like a wasp, but casual. It’s not flapping around, this one. Just waits for me to become a piece of drift-meat.
I’ll not go without a fight though.
I’ll kick it. Punch it between the eyes.
I tread water as its fin carves out an arc in the water, straight towards me.
Then two things happen:
The first is that three humps appear with fins like sickles, and the shark leaves, fast as a knife through grease.
The second is that I feel the bump of sand beneath my feet.
I’m home, but there’s no Dog on the beach to greet me.
Cardboard and Parakeets
Cassie’s put cardboard at all the windows in the lounge again. Only good thing about our flat and she covers it up.
‘Can’t sleep with all that light,’ she moans, cringing from sunlight like Edward frickin Cullen.
I rip it away like I always do. There’s tidemarks of old tape criss-crossed all over the glass.
‘Ow, ow,’ whimpers Cassie.
I chuck a pillow at her and she pulls it over her face.
She’s in her usual nest on the settee. Eats, shags and sleeps on a pile of grubby blankets. Around her, the fug of flat lager, old bedding and stale skunk. The stink of being Frickin Useless.
A handful of crisp tenners is sticking out of her grotty bag. I whip two for myself and tuck the rest away in her purse in case she loses them when Wayne comes calling.
Still raining, but the sun is out.
We have a balcony – not that you could call it that really. It’s more a dumping ground for old crap. I swing open the door and breathe in rain and sun and mown grass. Then I step over all the carrier bags of empty bottles and beer cans; the old pushchair that was Johnny’s; the dead runner beans that Cassie tried to grow from a free seed packet on a magazine. I step over and lean on the railing overlooking the park. Mouldering clothes hang forgotten on a sodden washing line. I push a pair of Cassie’s huge leggings aside and watch a bird fly out of one treetop into another. It’s bright green, the colour of McDonald’s walls.