The Sing of the Shore

by Lucy Wood

  Jory stepped quickly from rock to rock, like some kind of pro. He was carrying his metal detector in one hand, his other hand was in his pocket, and Freya’s bottle clinked in his rucksack. Freya didn’t have her metal detector any more. She was down on all fours, making low, grumbling sounds.

  ‘I’m getting cramp,’ she said. ‘I can feel it in my leg.’

  ‘We’re almost there,’ I told her, which was a lie because I couldn’t even see the cove yet. Those rocks went on for ever; they were so bony and ridged it was like being on the moon or something.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ Freya said. ‘God I am so hungry.’

  ‘We need to get round quicker than this,’ I said.

  ‘I need salt. That’s why my leg’s cramping. I need salt.’

  ‘Stop thinking about it,’ I told her. Freya’s cramps are the bane of my entire life. One time there was this guy at a party and let’s just say things were progressing, and then Freya came up, almost bent over with pain. I asked her what the matter was, thinking it was something really bad, and she said it was cramp in her little toe. She couldn’t walk or do anything. She took herself off into a corner like some animal nobly going off to die, and I ended up having to bend her toe back for over an hour until it eased, and the guy went off with someone else.

  Freya stopped crawling and sat down.

  ‘We don’t have any salt,’ I said. ‘Get up.’

  Jory kept walking, thank God, but a second later he stopped. He pointed at a clump of seaweed. ‘You can eat that,’ he said.

  Freya looked at it. ‘You serious?’ she said.

  ‘We don’t have time for this,’ I told her.

  ‘That one’s nice,’ Jory said. ‘Salty.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ I said.

  Freya went over and picked up a handful of dark green strands. She raised them up to her mouth.

  ‘Wait,’ Jory said suddenly. ‘Don’t eat it.’

  Freya dropped the seaweed and spat on the rocks. She kept spitting even though she hadn’t eaten any of it. ‘You’re a frigging fiend,’ she said. ‘You told me I could eat it.’

  Jory pointed at a trickle of yellow on the rock. ‘I think Mercury got there first.’

  I started clambering again. This time I didn’t wait to see if they were following. If I’d waited, we’d have been stuck on those rocks until the tide covered us slowly over.

  Tide: 1.2 metres

  After a while Jory caught up with me. I could hear Freya somewhere far behind, crawling along next to Mercury, complaining to her, and Mercury making these small yippy replies, complaining right back.

  I watched Jory as he moved. He never slipped. I was watching him quite a lot and then there was a trench between two rocks and my foot went down into it. He came over and pulled me back up. His hand was cool and slightly rough. I got this sudden memory of him from when we were younger. He was in the playground looking at the bark chips under the swing, and he reached down, picked one up, and ate it. He chewed on it for a long time with his eyes closed, as if there was no one else around him. I actually get that memory quite a lot. I wonder what he’d think if he knew I’d watched him, and that I remembered it almost every time I saw him.

  I looked over towards the cove. ‘What if we find it?’ I said.

  Jory was looking at the cliffs. ‘There are supposed to be fossils round here.’

  ‘It’s meant to be right over there,’ I said. ‘Just waiting, under the sand.’

  ‘They’re like ferns,’ Jory said. ‘We could look for them sometime, if you want.’

  ‘What will Lyn say if I find it?’ I said. The edge of the cove was up ahead. I’d only ever seen it from the top of the cliff before. It looked wider from here and it was covered in bits of thin, slatey rock, as if a roof had slid down and smashed. A few more minutes and we’d be there.

  My hand started to feel very hot. I looked down and realised I was still holding Jory’s hand.

  Jory looked down too but he didn’t move. My hand was so hot it was almost burning.

  ‘The tide’s going to turn soon,’ I said.

  Jory nodded. His hand slipped away. He jumped over a rock and I followed.

  ‘I liked that bit in your drawings,’ he said, ‘where the man knows it’s about to get dark, but he decides to try one more door.’

  I stopped. ‘You remember that?’ I said.

  A crow glided down and landed on top of a rock. It watched us carefully.

  Jory reached across and helped me over another gulley and suddenly we were there, on the gritty sand in the cove.

  Tide: 0.5 metres

  No one had been there for a long time. I know the tide comes in and washes everyone’s footprints away so it’s not like you can ever really tell, but it felt like no one had been on that beach for a really long time. There was a sort of hush to it. I could hear every loose stone that rolled.

  I called to Freya to hurry up, then I switched my metal detector on and started going up the beach towards the cliffs.

  ‘Wait a second,’ Freya shouted. ‘Mercury’s seen something.’ I turned round and Mercury was staring down past the rocks towards the water. Even her tail was tense.

  ‘Come on,’ I said.

  ‘I think there’s a bird down there,’ Jory said.

  ‘She’s about to go,’ Freya said. ‘Look at her.’

  ‘It might be a plover,’ Jory said.

  ‘Come on,’ I said again, but I knew they weren’t going to. They were never going to. Bloody Jory with his seaweed and his birds and his boat. Bloody Freya, clinging on to my neck and dragging me under. I turned away and walked faster up the beach.

  The slates crunched under my shoes. I went past heaps of rope and wood and plastic boxes that had been stranded by the tide. There were little flies jumping all over them. The seaweed looked baked and brittle.

  Behind me, Mercury let out a low, strangled bark, Freya shouted something, and there was the sound of feet against stones. When I looked back, the three of them were no more than specks on the wet sand at the edge of the water.

  I moved my detector in slow wide arcs. It made no sound, not even the smallest beep.

  Tide: 1.1 metres

  I started walking in zigzags to cover more ground, swinging the metal detector from one side to the other. I went up a stony slope and then across a series of slates that cracked under my feet. I went back down the slope. I climbed over a pile of wooden boards and pushed the detector right under them, but still there was nothing.

  I moved across the back of the cove, so that I was right at the base of the cliffs. The stones and shingle had all been churned up, just like they’d told me. A whole layer of stones had been scraped off, and underneath the sand looked raw and pale.

  I went right over that sand, every millimetre of it. At one point my detector let out a faint whine and I stopped, bent down and dug with my hand around the stones, but all I found was a sweet wrapper. I dropped it and kept going. I went back the way I’d come, working backwards and forwards over the same area. I must have missed something, I must have. I checked my metal detector, running it over the tops of my shoes. It let out a long, wavering beep.

  I turned and looked down at the water. The lowest line of rocks had already been covered back over. I ran to the next bit of sand, and then the next.

  Something moved behind me and I think I must have swung the metal detector round because there was a yelp and then I saw it was Mercury, standing right next to my legs.

  ‘Shit, you stupid hound,’ I said. ‘What are you doing?’

  She leaned into me and I stroked her bony head.

  ‘Find it then,’ I said. ‘Find the cache.’

  She looked at me like she didn’t know what a cache was either.

  ‘The treasure,’ I said. ‘Find the treasure, OK?’

  She barked at me, then arched her back and sidled away, like a crab or something. Then she darted back and lunged at my shoes.

  ‘Piss off,’ I said.

 
; She darted backwards, then lunged again. I skipped my feet out of the way.

  ‘Piss off Mercury,’ I said.

  I pushed the detector under a stone and moved it around. Then I pushed it under another one. Mercury lunged again. Bits of grit clattered quietly down the cliff.

  I let her gnaw on my shoes until she got bored and ran away. I sat down and let the metal detector fall on the ground behind me. My legs were aching. My throat was parched. Bits of shingle dug into my thighs and arse.

  I closed my eyes. When I opened them again I could see Freya and Jory messing around down in the shallows. They were pushing each other and suddenly Freya reared up and tipped Jory right in. I heard the splash from up the beach. He got up, flailing, and ran at her. She sidestepped somehow. They were both laughing their asses off and I was laughing too and I got up and started making my way down to them. I was going to push Freya in and then I was going to, well I didn’t know what I was going to do to Jory.

  That’s when my detector started to beep. I stopped and looked back at it. I thought I’d probably knocked it on my way past. The noise was louder than usual, more insistent. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ I said. I kicked it but it didn’t stop.

  I looked back at the sea. My throat got even dryer. I crouched down and dug into the cold sand. My fingers touched something hard. I kept digging until I found an edge. I scraped the sand off and there was the corner of a metal box.

  I stopped digging and looked up. Freya was waving her arms at me and Jory was wringing out his wet hair. The water was glinting off them and the light was this weird haze – I can’t really describe it, but you know when light comes down through trees, it was kind of like that, and I know there were no trees, I’m not an idiot, but the beach was deserted, it was all empty and it was ours, the whole place was ours.

  They started coming back up the beach and Jory called something but I couldn’t hear what he said.

  My hand was on the edge of the box.

  Freya waved again. ‘Next year,’ she shouted. ‘Next year, OK, dickhead?’

  Next year. I ran my hands right around the edge. It was big. It felt heavy and wedged in. I started to prise it out.

  What had I said to them? We could do something else. I thought of being on Freya’s shoulders, and heaving her out of the water. I thought of the way I had drifted in Jory’s boat.

  I moved my hand and pushed a heap of sand forwards. Then I did it again, pushing with both hands. I kept pushing the sand until the box was buried. I covered it right over and stamped down around it. When I looked up Mercury was back. She was just standing there, watching me. We stared at each other for a moment, then I got up and ran down to the rocks.

  ‘I was calling you for ages,’ Freya said.

  I brushed the sand off my hands. It was so sharp and gritty it had left scratches in my nails.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Freya said. ‘You look weird.’

  Jory looked at me closely. He smelled like sweat and the sea. ‘It was a good idea,’ he said. ‘Coming over here.’

  ‘You almost made me eat piss,’ Freya said.

  We went back across the rocks. The sea came in and covered them over, millimetre by millimetre, and all the time it glittered like coins.

  Mercury kept turning round to look at me and I had this feeling that she’d seen the box, that she knew, and would look at me differently now with her wild blue eye.

  We got back to the beach. We got in the van. We drove away.

  And that’s it. That’s all I really have to tell you. I suppose you’ll want to know that I went back. It was a few days later and I waited until low tide and tried to get round but it wasn’t low enough and halfway there I had to turn back, water lapping at my ankles.

  I suppose you’ll want to know that I didn’t tell Lyn or Ricky or Jake anything about it. And that, after the autumn storms, in reference to another conversation entirely, they said that the sand and the stones in the cove had heaped up and shifted around and that it all looked completely different again.

  I suppose you’ll want to know that last night I ate crispy titting beef.

  And I suppose you’ll want to know why I did it. What am I supposed to tell you? Sometimes you feel like opening something up and sometimes you don’t. And that’s all I have to say about it, OK.

  One Foot in Front of the Other

  She walks down the track and climbs the first gate. Her legs ache. They are heavy as wet bales. She’s been walking for a long time, although she can’t remember how long exactly. Her jeans are soaked to the knees; there’s a bramble hooked on the back of her shirt and another around her foot. Her grey hair is damp, brittle, and there’s a moth caught in it. There’s a scratch along the bottom of her jaw.

  She climbs the first gate. She’s been walking for a long time. She doesn’t have anything with her unless you count the brambles or the moth. She walks over the field, which is bare and dewy. The barley has just been cut back to stubble. It’s early and the air is wet – damp gusts blow in like smoke before the fire’s got going properly. It will be hot later; the sun will break through and parch everything. She walks faster. A gunshot goes off in the distance. All she wants to do is get back. There is the constant sound of hammering from somewhere, and chainsaws, and the terrible screech of an angle grinder.

  She crosses the field and comes to the next gate. There are cows standing on the other side of it. She stops for a moment in the churned, hoofy mud. The tree next to her is bent at the hips, staring at the ground. There’s a line of ants down there, carrying a green dragonfly. She goes over to the gate and climbs the first rung. The cows huddle together and press against the bars. They are a dark brown mass. She claps her hands but they don’t move. She rattles the gate but they don’t move. She climbs down. The cows’ skin twitches, as if something has run over it.

  She crosses the field and goes into the next one. There is the constant sound of hammering from somewhere. The gate is in the far corner and she walks over to it. A gunshot goes off in the distance. There is a drinking trough in front of the gate. She’s suddenly thirsty. It feels like a long time since she’s eaten or had a drink of anything. She goes over to the trough and dips her hands in. The water is dark and cold. There are flies stuck on the creased surface. She dips her hands in and cups some water and splashes it over her face and down her throat. The water is so cold she almost can’t feel it. She splashes some more. Her hands and throat are numb. She still feels thirsty.

  When she looks up there’s a herd in front of her, pressing against the other side of the gate. They are pressed silently, tensely, as if they are waiting for something. She doesn’t know if they’re the same cows or not. They are a dark brown mass. A cow leans its head over the top bar and rubs its jaw along the metal. One eye watches her while the other rolls.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she says. ‘Get away.’ She climbs the gate and bangs her hands on the bar. The cows don’t move. Their breath comes in thick shapes on the air.

  She waits a moment. All she wants to do is get back. She’s been walking a long time and her legs ache. But the cows still don’t move. Only their tails flick. She turns and looks back at the way she’s come. There is a chainsaw somewhere, and the terrible screech of an angle grinder. The gates through the fields are the quickest way of crossing down, she remembers that much, even though she hasn’t been back for a long time. Otherwise she’d have to loop right up to the main road, hike along for a few miles, then come down that way. She doesn’t want to go up to the main road. What she needs to do is cross the fields, get onto the lane, aim for the slope, then cut across the trees from there.

  She follows the edge of the field until she finds a gap in the hedge. She pushes through it. Brambles catch at her clothes. The sleeve of her shirt tears. She gets a scratch across the wrist. Finally she is out and in the lane. The lane is narrow and stony. The nettles on the banks are taller than her and there’s cow parsley with stems as thick as fingers. She keeps going.
Her legs ache and her hair is damp. The potholes are filled with oily water. A jackdaw is splayed on the ground.

  There’s a low noise ahead but she keeps going. The nettles thicken on either side until she’s brushing past them with both shoulders. Flies knock into her. The nettles lean. There’s a sort of clopping noise coming from somewhere. A gunshot goes off in the distance. The lane dips downwards. She turns a corner and the cows are coming up the lane in front of her, three abreast, walking slowly and looking straight at her.

  She raises her arms. ‘Get away,’ she says. ‘Get away.’

  The cows come forwards slowly. They’re pressed into each other, their flanks are rasping, and the cows at each edge push into the nettles, bending and trampling them.

  She waves her arms. They don’t stop. She stamps her feet and shouts but they keep coming. She turns and walks back to the hedge and goes along it, looking for the gap. The cows are closer now. She walks quickly along the hedge. There’s no gap. The cows are right behind her. They’re walking slowly and steadily. She pushes her hands into the hedge. It’s too thick to get through. She pushes again. Something cuts her hand. A nettle loops over her foot. She pushes harder. There’s the gap. She stumbles in and crouches on the ground. The cows walk carefully, pressing into the hedge. When they reach the gap they slow down and then stop. They smell of old grass and dry skin and the sticky mud around their feet. They stand in the lane and shift their weight from side to side. She stays crouched. Her legs ache. There is a small bone and some fur on the ground by her foot. Whenever she moves the cows’ skin twitches.