by Lucy Wood
August
Here are the last words of Yana: Can somebody …?
Here are the last words of Fletcher: Can anybody …?
No one heard the last words of Dina.
September
The cliffs down the coastline go like this: Mussel Rock, Pigsback Rock, Squench Rock, Cow and Calf, Tense Rocks. The sea chips away at them bit by bit.
A twelve-year-old boy called Rowan fell. His friends called him Yo-Yo. He tried to jump the gap that split a headland into two jutting points. He was wearing a red jumper and the red moved slowly down through the last dried pinks of the thrift and the heather. A group of oystercatchers went up like flares.
In their condolences everyone said he was too young, too full of potential. But the boy’s father, stunned and silent, couldn’t stop thinking of the boy’s wildness: he’d run away from home when he was eight, at ten had broken both wrists falling off a stolen quad. He remembered the hot night back in July when he saw the boy slip into his room, red-eyed and reeking of petrol. That’s when he should have done something, that’s when he should have stepped in. ‘But there was no proof,’ he murmured along to the eulogy. After the service, people kept asking why they could smell petrol in the church; did someone’s car have a leak that needed seeing to?
Daisy could see herself lying in hospital (she was somewhere at the back, towards the ceiling). Look at all the flowers and cards they’d given her. Listen to the nice things they were saying about her. She shook her head and tried to speak, to correct them – they didn’t know about the time she’d left her ailing, fractious mother in a room alone all day, did they? Or the twenty pounds she’d taken from that collection bucket, or how, when her daughter was four and wouldn’t stop biting, she’d bitten her right back.
Deano was noted for his wit. You should have seen his impressions. Everyone wanted to stand behind him in a queue; it made the time go so much quicker, it made the day a little bit easier. No one knew that every morning he had to roll his loneliness, his disappointments, down to his feet and step out of them, like a layer of old skin.
For Iris they sang ‘Abide With Me’ when she’d expected ‘Ain’t No Sunshine’.
For Peter they bought lilies, forgetting about his allergies.
Only five people came to Radley’s – since then he’s been passing through walls, knocking on doors, trying to make sure that no one forgets him.
No one’s forgotten Greta. She married all three of the Randall brothers and once beat Lonnie in an arm-wrestling match. She had a kind word for everyone, even if it was just the drink talking.
Clement, on the other hand, was an arsehole.
October
More houses went up. More gardens were ripped out for parking. It’s endless round here, isn’t it? There’s a constant shifting of absolutely bloody everything.
A boot washed up on the town beach. People said it was Jamie Silver’s. There was the mark of his needle and thread at the soles – no one else in town repaired their own shoes.
A hand washed up as well, but how am I meant to know who that belongs to?
Selma Richards left her body at the bottom of the stairs and got up feeling so much lighter. That thing had always been a burden, what with its aches and its twinges, its cracked veins and its dry skin, its ridged nails and its gammy eyes, its stiff hips and its dropped arches, its swollen glands and its knotty hair and its wisdom teeth only ever half coming through.
Giles left a house full of things he couldn’t throw away – damp newspapers, tins, plastic bottles. It was stacked up to the ceilings. He had his own elaborate systems. If you squint you might see him over there in the corner, slowly reordering it, folding bags, flattening cardboard boxes, dust in his hair, dust on his clothes. When he was nine, he’d thrown away his favourite toy – a bear with warm, coppery fur – because someone said he was too old for it. He’d looked for it for days but never found it.
There were a few more sloes, a few less people. The cliffs turned almost burgundy. Geese flew over, creaking like trains. There was one tangled in the weeds by the road, well, just its feathers – the whole thing sort of broken open the way a thistle-head opens.
Dooley, the thatcher, left his signature twist of straw in every roof in the area.
Gregory left nothing worth mentioning.
Myrtle left five sons, twelve grandchildren, eighteen great-grandchildren: a whole bloody dynasty.
November
Pinky Rowe went out in the lightning again. No one wants to be the one to say it, but people never really learn do they.
Farley, for example, never learned to say no to anything.
Hazel never gave up those burnt bits – the black edges of toast, the dark crackling, the scrapings at the side of the pot. The doctor said they’d take five years off her. It was probably worth it.
December
The problem is, there’s always too much happening. There’s one thing and then there’s always another. How am I supposed to get it all down, what am I supposed to say exactly?
I could tell you, I suppose, that Kenny’s last thought was the sound of the leaves on the poplar tree in his first garden.
And the last thought of Ikey involved that bright sauce from the Chinese takeaway. (He wished it had been something more highfalutin.)
Or maybe I should say that Vanda wished for one more kiss of the lobe of her husband’s ear.
Or that Opal’s wish was so small, so secret, that no one could hear?
Then there’s Davey, who could have.
And Bunny, who should have.
And what about Floyd, who’d done everything he wanted? When he’d worked at the pub on the cliffs collecting empty glasses, he held the record for a stack of fifty. He’d given money to charity, been a godfather to a baby. He’d stroked a tiger at the carnival, had witnessed a glittering sweep of phosphorescence out across the water. And once, he’d caught the cleanest wave at Salthouse and ridden it right in, the dark green of it arching beautifully, smoothly, behind his back.
What the hell am I meant to do with that?
Thank God the year’s almost ending. Although that just means there’s another one coming.
It’s hard to keep track, what with all the comings, what with all the goings. And I suppose it’s up to me to see what happens next, is it? The cliffs are still crumbling, the fossil’s getting buried deeper in the stones. Houses are still going up. Houses are still coming down. All that earth’s still shifting around. Every bloody year it’s like this – everything changing, everything staying the same.
Cables
‘There’s those holes again,’ Morrie says. He leans back against the bench and puts his hands in his coat pockets.
‘They weren’t there yesterday,’ Fran says. She watches a gull that is watching her. The concrete under the bench is sandy. There are bits of dry seaweed and cigarette butts that roll in the wind.
‘It must have happened in the night.’
‘That’s when it usually happens.’
A woman walks towards them speaking into a phone. They stop talking and tilt their heads until she’s gone past.
‘There’s a lot of them this time,’ Morrie says. ‘They’re right across the beach.’
‘Down to the water.’
‘The sand’s been flung everywhere.’
‘Look how deep that one is.’
‘Look how deep that one is.’
‘You could climb a ladder down that one.’
Their eyes follow the holes across the sand.
‘Apparently there’s a pattern,’ Morrie says.
‘Is there?’
‘That’s what I heard.’
‘Who said that?’
‘I heard it.’
‘What pattern?’
‘It’s systematic.’
They look from left to right along the sand, then from the top of the beach to the bottom. The gull edges closer and Fran claps her hands. The gull stops, but still watches them.
> ‘The tide will come in soon,’ Morrie says. ‘It’ll cover them over.’
‘It’s halfway in now.’
They look out at the sea. Small waves surge. There is a deeper, darker line of water where a current moves. The shadows of clouds skim across like boats.
Morrie sighs and rests his hands on his stomach. ‘Then he’ll come back with his spade and dig more.’
Fran zips her coat up tighter. ‘That’s what he always does.’
‘Listening.’
‘Digging.’
‘Listening.’
The waves break then drag back across the stones. The stones clatter as they turn.
‘He didn’t always hear it,’ Morrie says. ‘He was just going along, doing what he always did.’
‘Listening.’
‘Finding things out.’
‘He knew everything around here.’
‘About everyone.’
‘You couldn’t tell him anything – he’d already heard it.’
‘Who stole that statue.’
‘What happened to Lonnie.’
They fold their arms and hunch against the wind.
‘He had to know everything,’ Morrie says.
‘He did.’
‘He always had to know more.’
‘He did.’
‘Then he started thinking about the cables.’ Morrie leans back and stretches out his legs. ‘How they come in under the beach. How they’re passing by, right under his feet. With all that information. All those communications.’
‘I heard it’s telephone calls.’
‘I heard it’s emails.’
‘Financial transactions.’
‘The stock exchange.’
‘Internet searches.’
‘Messages.’
‘All of it.’
‘Everything.’
‘Right here, under the sand.’
They look out across the beach. The gull takes a few running steps forward, then stops and sidles back.
‘He couldn’t stop thinking about it all.’
‘He wouldn’t stop thinking about it all.’
‘Coming in every minute.’
‘Every second.’
‘Then, one day, he heard buzzing.’
‘It was only faint at first.’
‘He hardly noticed it,’ Morrie says. ‘He told himself it was just a fly, or machinery in the distance.’
‘Like when someone’s vacuuming in another house up the street.’
‘Or you walk past the tattoo place.’
‘Or when a bulb’s about to go.’
‘It was faint. But it carried on. After three days he went and got checked. He thought it could be something inside his ears.’
‘Maybe it was.’
‘They said there was nothing wrong.’
‘Maybe there wasn’t.’
‘But then it started getting louder.’
‘How loud?’
‘Like a lawnmower.’
‘I’d have said a Strimmer.’
‘He started hearing it every day. It would suddenly start up when he was at the pub, and he’d glance around, seeing if anyone else could hear it. He’d shake his head and rub over the top of his jaw. Gradually it would fade and he’d tell himself he was imagining it. Then, later, when he was walking down the street, he’d notice it again.’
‘What about at work?’
‘I heard he doesn’t work any more.’
They stop and their heads slowly tilt. Two people walk past talking quietly to each other.
Fran looks back at the road. There is sand, fields, a few scattered houses. ‘He lives somewhere up there, doesn’t he?’
‘He does now.’
‘By himself?’
‘He is now.’
Fran sighs and shakes her head. The gull walks a bit closer, then stops just out of reach of their feet. It stares at something.
‘He couldn’t sleep. He stopped reading the paper. He stopped watching TV. You’d be trying to have a conversation with him and he’d just be staring out towards the beach.’
‘I wouldn’t like that,’ Fran says.
‘He put earplugs in. He walked around with his hands over his ears. It helped at first, but then the noise changed.’
‘How did it change?’
‘It got closer. It was very close, like it was inside the ear itself. It was more high-pitched, a sort of rushing sound.’
‘Constant?’
‘All the time.’
Fran sighs again. The tide presses in. Water and sand pour into one of the holes. When the wave pulls back, the hole is full and level again with the beach.
‘I heard he’s got maps,’ Morrie says. ‘Where he thinks they come in. The different beaches. Working out where to dig. How to get to them.’
‘Who said that?’
‘I heard it.’
‘They must be deep.’
‘They’ve got to be deep, cables like that.’
‘And he reckons he can hear them?’
They lean forward slowly. There is the wind and the low beat of the waves. The bench creaks under them.
‘I can’t hear them,’ Fran says.
Morrie leans further forward. ‘I don’t know if I just heard something.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know. Something.’
Fran tilts her head and frowns. ‘Maybe I heard something too.’
‘What?’
They listen. The sand blows lightly over their feet. The gull scrapes one of its claws against the concrete and tenses.
‘What if you did start thinking about it?’ Fran says.
‘All of it.’
‘Everything.’
‘Passing you by.’
‘Every minute.’
‘Every second.’
They glance at each other, then sit upright on the bench. The gull rushes forward, grabs a cold chip from between Fran’s feet and flies away.
Morrie leans back. ‘I don’t think I can hear it any more.’
‘Neither can I.’
They watch the tide fill in another hole. The waves break then drag back against the stones. The stones clatter as they turn.
Morrie shifts again on the bench. ‘Did you hear about what happened with those neighbours?’
‘The ones with the ditch?’
‘The ones with the ditch.’
Fran reaches down and brushes the sand off her shoes. ‘I might have heard something about it,’ she says.
The Sing of the Shore
He’d been driving all day and his eyes were dry, his shoulders cracking like pipes. Three hours, maybe four, that’s how long he’d thought it would take, but he’d been driving for over eight. The roads had narrowed the closer he got, and now they were single track, with clumps of grass down the middle and flanked by bulky hedges. Beyond them were ridged fields, pylons, a few barns with collapsed roofs, the wet wind dousing everything.
The road turned stony. Potholes made the car jump. The road narrowed again and Bryce stopped, tried to see where he was, then kept going. He was sure he’d missed it. Nothing around here looked exactly as he remembered – that farmhouse wasn’t there before, was it? And that dark mass of trees? He stopped again and got out. Daffodils lit the bank like torches. He climbed up and looked over, could just glimpse the sea at the bottom of the fields. He stood there for a long time. There was the same old wind above and the same old waves below, knuckling together like they were shaping loaves of bread.
He drove forward again, then stopped suddenly at a gate, which was open and hanging off its hinges. He turned in and parked on the long grass. There were the campsite’s corrugated huts – the kitchen, the laundry, the shower block. There was the office – a caravan at the bottom of the slope – and the swing; but it was all rusted out, overgrown, and one of the swing’s chains had snapped. There was no one around. It was early spring and there should have been people staying by now; the fields scattered with tents and campfir
es, the roar of gas from stoves.
He took his bag out and crossed over to the bungalow to find Kensa. Skylarks rose up from the grass, their songs tangling together. He could smell clover, gorse, the mucky, shitty smell from the next field over. A tractor was ploughing in the distance, gulls following behind like a reel of cotton unspooling.
He was almost at the house when he looked up and saw a woman standing in the window, talking on a phone. He was about to wave then stopped, almost stumbling in the furrowed mud. It wasn’t his sister. He turned and scanned the fields, then turned back to the house. The woman was staring at him and pointing at something over his shoulder. It took him a moment to realise that she meant the caravan. He nodded, pulled his bag higher onto his shoulder, and made his way down the slope.
There was a low sound coming from somewhere – almost too low to notice. The further down the field he went, the louder it got. It was a sort of booming. He stopped and looked around, but couldn’t see anything. It wasn’t the waves; he could hear those breaking slowly against the rocks. This was deeper, more like an echo, or a murmur behind a wall. He kept going through the long grass. After a while he told himself he couldn’t hear it any more.
The caravan’s door was shut and there were curtains across the windows. He went up the step and knocked. He waited a moment then knocked again, and when there was no answer he pushed gently on the door. Inside, the room was cramped and stale. He was expecting the desk and the swivel chair, but there was also a mattress on the floor with a blanket on it he recognised. There was a gas heater, and a pan on the hob. Kensa must have rigged the caravan up to the mains because the fridge under the sink was humming and there was a dim lamp in the corner.