by Agnes Owens
‘I don’t want to,’ he said, stamping his feet in temper. ‘I want to go back to that other beach where Mummy left us.’
It was then she decided she’d had enough of his tantrums. ‘Go then,’ she said, giving him a shove so that he tottered on blindly for a few steps. ‘I don’t want to ever see you again.’
When he turned round she was racing along the beach at a fair speed. He called on her to come back, though it was doubtful she heard him above the cries of the seagulls, but even if she had, she probably wouldn’t have stopped anyway.
On arriving at the lighthouse, she saw there was no way to get close to it as it was surrounded by water, not unless she waited until the tide went out, and that would take hours. Sullenly, she looked up at its round turreted shape thinking it was much more boring from this angle than it had seemed from a distance. She wished she’d never come. The sea was stormy now with the waves lashing over the rocks. The whole venture had been a complete waste of time and energy, she decided. Suddenly her attention was riveted to what looked like a body in the water. For a split second she thought it was Bobby, which would have been quite impossible considering the distance she’d come. Nevertheless, it was a great relief to discover this was only a mooring buoy. She laughed at her mistake then began to feel uneasy. She could picture him stumbling into the sea for a paddle thinking it was all shallow water. It was the kind of stupid thing he was liable to do. Panic swept over her. What if something terrible happened to him? She should never have left him like that. Without another thought for the lighthouse or anything but Bobby, she began running back to where she’d left him, praying that he’d be all right.
From a distance she saw him hunkered down, digging in the sand. He must have gone up the sand dunes to get his pail and spade after all, she thought. She slowed down, her legs tired and aching, then to her dismay she saw the man they’d met on the golf course. He was hovering a few yards behind Bobby poking some debris on the shore with a stick.
‘Bobby!’ she called out sharply. ‘Come over to me at once.’
He either didn’t hear this or pretended not to, but the man did. He looked up at her and began to walk smartly in their direction. Galvanised into taking some kind of action, she ran forward to reach Bobby first. In fact she’d almost got to him when she slipped on a stone covered in seaweed and went down, the back of her head hitting off its sharp edge.
Her eyes were staring up at the sky as the man and Bobby crouched beside her. Bobby said, ‘You shouldn’t have left me. I’m telling Mummy.’
The man pulled him back. ‘Leave her alone. She’s in bad enough shape.’ Then he put his lips close to her ear. ‘Can you hear me?’
When her eyes flickered he put his hand over her mouth and nose and held it there for a considerable time. After that he turned to Bobby saying, ‘We’ll have to get an ambulance. You can come with me.’
Bobby said he didn’t want to get an ambulance. He wanted to go back to the other beach.
‘All right,’ said the man, taking him by the hand and dragging him towards the sand dunes with Bobby protesting all the way. His cries died down when they vanished over the top.
Later that afternoon, a strong breeze sprang up along the shore, lifting clouds of sand into the air as well as the strands of Megan’s hair drifting across her race. Seagulls came down to stand on her and poke her with their beaks, then, as if not liking what they found, they flew off to the horizon whilst imperceptibly and gradually her body sank into the sand, making a groove for itself. A passer-by might have thought she was asleep, she looked so peaceful. But no one came by that day, and in the evening when the sun went down she was gone with the tide.
The Collectors
Davey came up over the steep, stony track that would lead him to the golf course once he had climbed a fence and crossed a burn. Sometimes he stopped to catch his breath. He was coming up for sixty and a hard life had taken its toll. When he reached the fence he became uneasy. Tam Duggan sat on a tree stump, arms folded as if patiently waiting on him.
‘Saw ye comin’ in the distance,’ said Tam with a jovial smile. ‘I thought I might as well go along wi’ ye.’
‘Aye,’ said Davey with a nod. He could hardly refuse the offer for Tam was a big strong-looking fellow in his early twenties with a police record as long as his arm, mainly for assault.
He climbed stiffly over the fence then jumped the narrow burn with Tam following more easily.
‘Up collectin’ your golf ba’s?’ said Tam. ‘I hear you dae quite well.’
‘No’ bad,’ mumbled Davey, his voice lost in the wind that had sprung up carrying a drizzle of rain with it.
He gave his companion a sidelong glance, wondering if he was as bad as folk said – it was easy to be in trouble nowadays, especially if you were young and had nothing to take up your time.
Tam faced him and said humbly, ‘I hope you don’t mind me comin’ along wi’ ye. I thought I might try some collectin’ masel’.’
His coarse, handsome face was marred by a scar running the length of the left cheek.
‘Why no’?’ said Davey. ‘It’s a free country,’ though his heart sank. He didn’t want anyone else poaching, at least not alongside him. Others who collected golf balls were usually solitary figures in the distance, acting as if they were out for a stroll and keeping well clear of each other.
‘It’s right cauld up here,’ said Tam, ducking his head from the wind and sticking his hands in the pockets of his flimsy black anorak.
‘The higher you climb, the caulder it gets,’ said Davey, himself warm enough under the thick cloth of a donkey jacket purchased from an ex-Youth Training Scheme employee.
He paused to pick up a golf ball a few inches off the path. Tam looked round and said with surprise, ‘You’ve got wan already and we’re naewhere near the course?’
‘Ye can get the odd wan as far doon as the fermer’s field but up the tap beside the golf course is the best place.’ The words were hardly out of Davey’s mouth when Tam was bounding on ahead. ‘I hope he stays oot ma road,’ said Davey under his breath. Without hurrying he found two more golf balls on the way up. When he reached the top Tam was standing not far from the path, his face a picture of misery.
‘Ma feet are soakin,’ he said. ‘It’s a bog here.’
‘Ah well,’ said Davey, regarding his own heavy wellingtons complacently, ‘you’ve got to put on the right gear for this business.’
‘How was I tae know?’ said Tam, staring ahead in a sullen manner at the long stretch of grass, moss and whin bushes parallel to the golf course.
‘You can always go back,’ said Davey.
‘I might as well stay noo that I’m up here,’ said Tam, walking on slowly. Then his long arm swooped down on the rough grass. ‘A golf ba’,’ he shouted, ‘a pure yellow wan tae. It’s a beauty.’
Davey came up to join him.
‘Very nice. A good make as well. You’ve done no’ bad.’
‘No’ bad! I’ve done better than you. This is pure yellow and you’ve only got a white wan.’
‘I’ve got three,’ said Davey, tapping his pocket.
‘Ye never telt me that,’ said Tam, looking put out. ‘How no’?’
‘Dae I have tae tell ye everythin’?’ said Davey, suddenly feeling fed up and wishing he had turned back when he first clapped eyes on this big pest. Abruptly he veered off through the moss down towards a drainage ditch where he immediately found two balls under the water. His pleasure was lost when Tam called, ‘Don’t tell me you’ve got anither wan.’
‘Naw, two,’ Davey called back, deciding that he was going to try and ignore Tam’s attitude as best he could for there was no point in getting worked up about it. The guy was worse than bad – he was mentally retarded. At the same time he was almost glad when five minutes later Tam found a ball within a clump of gorse, cursing the needles pricking his hand as he pulled it out.
‘Anither wan,’ he shouted, holding it up for Davey’s inspec
tion.
Thank God for that, thought Davey to himself. Being forced to study it he noticed it was chipped but said, ‘Aye, very good,’ with a false encouraging nod.
The wind died down and the rain became heavier. The view of the town below was blanked out with mist. Tam said to Davey, ‘This weather would sicken ye.’
‘Aye,’ replied Davey, thinking it wasn’t the only thing. He added, ‘At least it keeps the golfers away.’ So far he had seen only three on the other side of the course and they appeared to be hurrying in the direction of the clubhouse.
‘Them!’ said Tam contemptuously. ‘They want their heids examined.’
By the time they were halfway along the edge of the course, Davey had found another three and Tam another one, which Davey had kicked in his direction when Tam wasn’t looking, simply to keep his mouth shut. For a minute or two it did the trick, then he began to complain again.
‘I’m soaked through.’
‘There’s a hut no’ far away,’ Davey told him. ‘We’ll take a bit shelter and see whit happens.’
Before they reached the hut Tam said in an urgent tone, ‘Listen – how much dae ye get for golf ba’s?’
‘How much?’ said Davey, frowning thoughtfully. ‘Oh well, at the maist three for a pound.’
‘Is that a’?’ said Tam, looking offended. ‘I heard ye got a pound each.’
‘I don’t know where ye heard that, but I’ve only ever got three for a pound.’
‘So you’re tellin’ me,’ said Tam, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
‘As ye know yersel’,’ said Davey, trying to keep his temper, ‘stolen property loses hauf its value by the time it reaches a buyer.’
‘I bet I could get two quid for that yellow golf ba’ any day,’ said Tam. He snapped his fingers in the air. ‘Jist like that.’
‘You try it then,’ said Davey, thankful to be nearing the hut. He would take a rest, drink the can of super lager he had in the back pocket of his trousers, then return home. He’d had enough of this fellow. They entered the hut and sat on a bench against the back wall – Tam gingerly on the edge of it, as it was exceedingly damp, and Davey leaning back carelessly with his legs stretched out.
‘It’s as cauld and wet in here than whit it is ootside,’ said Tam.
Davey brought out his can of super lager. He offered it to Tam.
‘Here, take a wee drap o’ this. It might heat ye up.’
‘No thanks,’ said Tam, with a look of disgust. ‘I cannae go that stuff. It tastes like gnats’ piss.’
‘Maybe so,’ said Davey, ‘but ye get accustomed tae the taste. Besides, it’s the effect I’m efter.’
‘Whit effect?’ sneered Tam, staring moodily through the wide-open doorway of the hut. ‘I’d rather have a hauf bottle o’ Bell’s, or even a joint. Dae you know there’s mair effect wi’ a joint than that stuff ?’
‘I widnae know,’ said Davey, putting the can to his mouth and wishing he had another two to go with it, for there really wasn’t much effect from one can when he came to think of it.
‘How many golf ba’s did ye say ye had?’ Tam suddenly asked.
‘Er – eh, five,’ said Davey vaguely.
‘So, I’ve got three and that makes eight. If we got anither two that would be ten. I know where I could sell them for a pound each and that would be a fiver tae you and a fiver tae me.’
Davey took another pull at his can. Definitely there was no effect from it at all and there wouldn’t likely to be with this blowhard rabbiting on in his ear.
‘I’m gaun hame shortly,’ he said. ‘I don’t feel sae good.’
‘Haw – flyman,’ jibed Tam.
This angered Davey. ‘Whit dae ye mean – flyman? I’m gaun hame, and that’s that.’
‘Aye, because you’ve got the maist ba’s, that’s how.’
‘So whit, if I have,’ said Davey, beginning to feel a slight hit off the lager, which increased his anger. ‘I found them, didn’t I?’
‘That’s only because you were lucky. I wis lookin’ every bit as hard as you and soaked tae the skin intae the bargain. Look at ma trainers. They’re ruined.’
Davey continued to drink his lager while Tam paced up and down the mud floor of the hut, his face grim and determined. He stopped suddenly to point his forefinger at Davey’s face.
‘OK, if you’re no’ collectin’ I want yer golf ba’s.’
‘You’re no gettin’ them,’ said Davey, his voice less strong than he had intended as Tam leaned over him and growled, ‘Haund them ower, pal.’
Davey’s patience was broken. He flung the contents of his can straight at Tam’s face, blinding him with lager.
‘Ye auld bastard,’ roared Tam, wiping his eyes with the back of his hands, then unzipping the top of his anorak to wipe his neck as he wriggled about to ease his discomfort. ‘That lager’s fuckin’ frozen,’ he added in an anguished tone. ‘As if I’m no’ wet enough.’
Eventually he calmed down and glared at Davey as though wondering how best to deal with him. At that point Davey said, ‘Ye can have the golf ba’s then.’
He took the golf balls out from his pocket and flung them on the mud floor one by one, but only five of them. Tam looked down at the golf balls like a dog distracted by a bone. Then he glared back at Davey, clenching his fists.
‘Listen, you,’ he began to say when a voice from the doorway spoke.
‘I say, you fellows, have either of you seen a red golf ball? I hit it in this direction and I’m damned if I can see it anywhere.’
The speaker wore a short yellow oilskin with its hood tied tightly under his chin. What could be seen of his face was fat and ruddy-cheeked. He could have been any age between thirty and forty, and he was holding a golf-club. Tam turned and snarled, ‘Naw, we huvnae,’ the rage still plain on his face. The golfer’s eyes narrowed when he saw the golf balls lying on the mud.
‘You’ve been stealing our golf balls, I see.’
‘We never stole them,’ said Tam. ‘We found them and they’re oors.’
The golfer laughed unpleasantly. ‘You can tell that to the manager for I’m going to report you as soon as I get back to the club.’
‘Report away,’ said Tam with an equally unpleasant laugh.
‘In the meantime,’ said the golfer, ‘you can give me up those golf balls and I might let you away with it this time. That is,’ he wagged an admonishing finger at Tam, ‘if I don’t ever see either of you up here again.’
He then addressed Davey, who had never moved off the bench, sitting with his empty can of lager in his hand and his legs crossed like a disinterested onlooker.
‘As for you, you’re always up here pinching our golf balls. You definitely should be reported.’
He was about to say a lot more, when Tam tapped him on the shoulder with a look of disbelief on his face and said, ‘Dae you mean to say ye want me tae bend doon and pick up these ba’s and personally haund them ower tae you?’
‘Exactly.’
‘That’ll be right,’ said Tam as he began to kick them one by one under the bench. ‘If you want them get them yersel’.’
‘Right,’ said the golfer, his cheeks turning purple. ‘I will and you’ll definitely be reported.’
As he bent down to retrieve them Tam gave him a shove. The golfer landed flat on the mud, his nose barely missing the bench. Tam let out a guffaw of laughter.
‘There wis nae need for that,’ said Davey helping the golfer to his feet and making feeble attempts to wipe the mud off his chin. The golfer backed off outside the doorway shaking his fist.
‘Just wait,’ he shouted, ‘I’ll be back with my mates. You’ve both had it, I can tell you.’ His voice became fainter as he vanished round the side of the hut.
‘I soon got rid o’ him,’ said Tam to Davey as if nothing amiss had happened between them. Then he froze and pointed outwards. ‘Christ, he’s left his golf-club.’ He picked it up and went outside to hit great chunks of moss into the air, calling to Da
vey, ‘This is a’ right. I think I’ll have a go roon the park wi’ this club.’
Davey placed his empty can under the bench and came out into the open.
‘We’d best get crackin’ afore these golfers come back.’
They were a good bit down the path when Tam said, ‘Christ, the golf ba’s. I forgot them,’ and ran back towards the hut.
Davey kept walking, hoping the golfers would meet up with Tam and beat him to a pulp. It didn’t happen. Tam came back five minutes later, his pockets bulging.
‘Fancy forgetting them,’ he said, laughing.
Davey looked behind. When he saw there was no one following, he said to Tam, ‘You walk on. I cannae keep up wi’ ye.’
‘I’ll walk slow,’ said Tam. ‘I came oot wi’ ye. I might as well go back wi’ ye.’ Then after a pause he reached into his pocket, adding, ‘You can take four ba’s back and that’ll be four each. That’s fair enough, isn’t it?’
‘Very fair,’ said Davey, just wanting to get rid of Tam at all costs.
Tam went on, ‘Dae ye know whit I’ve been thinkin’?’
‘Naw – whit?’
‘I’ve been thinkin’ I’ll gie ma golf ba’s and the club to the young yins that hit ba’s roon the park. It’s a bloody shame they cannae afford tae play on a real course. Dae ye no’ think it would be a nice gesture?’
‘Very nice indeed,’ said Davey after picking up a red golf ball halfway down the path. Tam didn’t notice, being bemused with his thoughts.
They reached the fence, climbed over it and were crossing the fields when Tam said, ‘Dae ye know, I enjoyed masel’ the day. It’s a great wee hobby collectin’ golf ba’s. But the next time we go we should try that private course up at Lynmoor. We can always get the bus up. It’s no that dear –’
He broke off as Davey began to run – not very fast though because of his wellingtons for one thing and his age for another. Tam caught up with him easily. He said, ‘Whit’s wrang wi’ you? Are you in a huff or somethin’?’