The If Game

by Catherine Storr

  They got away at a quarter past seven. Not bad, considering that just on the point of leaving, Stephen realized that he’d forgotten to bring his swimming trunks. The front door had to be unlocked for him to go back and find them, which took time, because he hadn’t an idea where they were. It was just chance that while he was searching, his eye fell on his jar of keys and he snatched it up, then decided that he was fed up with them. He left the jar by his bed, and ran out to the car. He’d expected Dad to be cross, but nothing was said, and they drove up the street, across town and out into the country.

  It seemed a long drive, even though they weren’t going to Wales or Cornwall. After the first hour they stopped at a service station and had a sort of breakfast which would do for lunch. Stephen was ravenous and ate sausages and bacon and eggs and mushrooms and fried bread as if he hadn’t had a meal for a week. His dad ate less and studied the map, drinking coffee. Presently he said, ‘Martelsea.’

  Stephen said, ‘What?’

  That’s where we’ll make for. Look! Here on the map.’

  Stephen saw the name on the map. In small writing, not a big place, one side of a little headland sticking out into the English Channel. Nothing to mark it out as different from thirty other places on the south coast. He said, ‘You been there, Dad?’

  ‘Not for years. It was all right then. Not touristy, undeveloped you might say. We’ll try there.’

  ‘How long will it take us from here?’

  ‘About an hour. If you’ve finished, let’s get going.’

  It took rather more than an hour to reach Martelsea, and it was another two before they had found a place to pitch the tent. They had driven over heath and wooded lanes which wound up and down hills and finally came out into the town, which was small and old fashioned, two streets running down steeply towards the glittering steel-coloured expanse a little way beyond, which must be the sea. But before reaching that, Stephen’s dad insisted they must find the place where they were to spend the night.

  They were refused permission to camp more than once before they struck lucky. And it was luck. They had gone into a small shop, half grocery and fruit and veg, half post office, on the edge of the little town, to ask the man behind the counter if he could tell them of anyone locally who might allow them to camp on their land. He was vague and unhelpful and they were just leaving when a woman who had heard the conversation while she was buying stamps, asked Dad who else was with him and how long he wanted to stay. When she heard that it would be for three or four nights, and that he and Stephen made up the whole party, she offered the bit of ground at the end of her garden for their site. She explained that it was rough ground which her nephews had used for playing football when they were younger. She added that there was an outside toilet in her garden which they were welcome to use, and they could come to her door and ask for water if they needed to.

  Stephen was anxious. His dad didn’t like accepting favours, wasn’t easy with anyone, especially strangers. But it was all right. Dad said, ‘That’s kind of you. Should we pay a sort of rent?’ and the woman laughed and said she wouldn’t know how much to charge for three nights in a field. She came out of the shop with them and directed Dad to the road that went past her house.

  ‘You can take your things through my garden. You’ll see, there’s a gap in the hedge. The football pitch’s the other side of that,’ she said.

  The place was perfect. A small area of rough grass, not as big as a real football pitch, separated from the woman’s garden and from the road by thick hedges and young trees. Stephen was surprised by the way his dad got the tent rigged up, quick and unfussed, as if he’d been doing it all his life instead of once or twice a long time ago. He could tell from the way his dad went about it, and showed him how to help, that he was in a good temper, which made it easier for Stephen to say, when they’d finished everything, down to unpacking everything they’d need for the night, ‘Can we go and look at the sea now?’

  ‘What? Tonight? It’ll be getting dark in half an hour.’

  ‘We could go in the car. That’d be quicker.’

  ‘What about eating? We’ve to eat some time.’

  ‘Couldn’t we get fish and chips somewhere in the town? On our way back.’

  ‘We can’t stop long at the sea.’

  ‘I don’t want to stop long. Just to look at it.’

  Dad said, ‘Right!’ and they went back, through the woman’s garden, with pale flowers that smelt more strongly now that it was twilight, into the car, down the hill past shops, mostly shut, towards the sea. Before they reached the shore, Stephen could smell it. It smelt of salt and of hot pebbles and old fish and drying seaweed. He drew long breaths in and wished he could hold them for ever. They drove past tracts of empty land, covered with thistles and long grass and rubbish and came out on to what would, in a prosperous seaside town, have been the front or the esplanade. Here, in this neglected part of the coast, there was a road running parallel to the sea, with a few buildings on the land side; a dilapidated block of flats, a tired looking small hotel, and a row of beach huts. On the sea side there was the sea wall level with the road. The shingle on the shore was piled up almost as high as the wall. The further side of the shingle was the sea.

  Now that he was close to it, Stephen saw that what had looked, from a distance, flat and still, was anything but that. It was still grey rather than blue or green, but it was a tumbled grey with moving darker shadows and light points that appeared and disappeared almost before he had caught sight of them. And on the shore below him small waves were curling in over the shingle, coming up, one chasing the wave before it, and then retreating before the next, with a slow rasping sound as the water pulled back between the stones. It was a wonderful noise, and as Stephen’s eyes moved across the restless surface to the curved, empty horizon, he knew that it was a wonderful sight. He felt that he could watch the sea for ever.

  He looked sideways at his dad and saw that he too was watching the sea. He said, ‘It’s grand, isn’t it?’ He wanted to say, Thanks for bringing me here,’ but he knew that his dad hated any expressions of feeling so he kept quiet.

  The light was fading fast. Dad said, ‘If we stay here any longer, we’ll get caught in the dark,’ and turned away towards the car.

  Stephen reluctantly turned too, then saw something that made him stop. ‘What’s that?’ he asked, pointing. A small squat tower was placed, incongruously it seemed, right on the edge of the sea wall. It might have been part of a castle wall, but there was no castle near. It looked out of place; even, in the gathering dusk, a little sinister.

  ‘That’s the Martello Tower,’ Dad said.

  ‘What’s a Martello Tower? Why is it there?’

  ‘They built them to prevent the French from landing. Napoleon. You know.’

  Stephen did know, vaguely. Napoleon, hundreds of years ago. Before wars were fought with planes and flying bombs. He said, ‘Like the Armada?’

  They were back in the car now and driving over the empty land between sea and town. Dad said, ‘You’re only about two hundred years out. But like the Armada because the danger was from the sea. People expected the French troops to land anywhere along here. The Martello towers were built as defences against them. There are several of them, all along the south coast.’

  ‘Can we see some of them? Can I go and look at this one properly tomorrow?’

  Dad, as usual, said, ‘We’ll see.’

  But they were driving up one of the little steep streets and Stephen called out, ‘Dad! There’s a fish and chips! Stop!’

  The fish and chips were delicious. They tasted quite different from any others Stephen had had, eaten while sitting on the grass outside the tent, in the light of a hurricane lamp—Mike’s dad’s, of course. After which, both tired, they decided for bed. Stephen opted to sleep out, promising to come into the tent if it started raining. His dad disappeared under the canvas. Stephen had meant to stay awake to luxuriate in being where he was, to count the stars,
to watch the moon rising. But he did none of these things. He was asleep before he had done one of them.

  11

  They spent the morning on the beach, throwing stones at cairns they had built, eating ice creams from a van that came tinkling along the beach road, reading the paper—that was Dad—looking at the sea. That, of course, was Stephen. The sun shone, it was warm. Stephen thought he would try swimming, and did eventually get over painful shingle into water that felt icy at first, but which gradually became bearable, even gentle, and at last was waist deep and he could really swim. It was exhilarating, wonderful. But he was shivering when he came out and his dad made him run on the crunching pebbles for ten minutes. Hard work. He was warm again when he stopped.

  He made himself a sort of seat, by pushing the stones around so that he could lean back against them. He began examining them properly. They were all sorts, all colours, all shapes. He found one with a hole right through it and pretended to use it as a spyglass. Very childish, but there was no one to see, and anyway, at the seaside you could be a bit of a child. He collected on his towel the stones he liked best. A small black stone which fitted snugly, as if custom made, into his closed hand. A big black and white stone, with scrawls traced across the white side as if someone was trying to draw something. A very precious amber-coloured stone, almost translucent. An almond shaped stone, so exactly like a sweet that he could have offered it to Dad to suck and taken him in. A smooth brown stone like a bread roll. And there were other treasures. A ball made up of brittle spheres which Dad told him was made of a cuttlefish’s egg cases. Half of a broken, long, pale pink and brown razor shell. Clumps of seaweed. Three winkle shells, one badly chipped.

  ‘You’ll find other things if you look at the high tide mark,’ his dad said, raising his head for a moment from the paper.

  So he went up the shifting shingle to the line of seaweed and assorted rubbish that ran just under the sea wall. There were things there he didn’t want to find, including several dead birds with oil encrusted feathers. Horrid, he avoided them. There was too much drowned paper, bright orange string, wooden spatulas from ice creams, a canvas sandal, innumerable plastic bottles and bags. He left it, disheartened.

  To his surprise, his dad wasn’t reading the paper. He was half leaning back, half lying on the shingle, just looking at the sea. Stephen had almost never seen him like this, doing nothing. He sat down beside him and also looked at the sea.

  ‘Like it?’ Dad asked.

  Stephen couldn’t think of any way of expressing how much he liked it, especially to Dad, so he just said, ‘Mm.’

  ‘There’s a boat going out,’ Dad said.

  It was a largish boat with a squat funnel and a great deal of white superstructure, pitted with small square panes of glass above the darker main hull.

  ‘Wonder where to,’ Stephen said.

  ‘Cross Channel ferry. Going to Dieppe.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind going.’

  ‘If we had longer.’

  ‘It’s great here too,’ Stephen said. He didn’t want to sound as if this holiday wasn’t the best he’d ever had.

  ‘Time to get something to eat. I wouldn’t mind a pub with a garden.’

  In the afternoon they went back to the beach. Dad lay back on the stones and went to sleep. Stephen went exploring.

  He walked along the front to have a look at what his dad had said was the Martello Tower. It was like a child’s idea of a tower, round and stubby and built straight on to the sea wall. You could walk round three quarters of its circle on the road side, the last quarter hung over the shingle on the beach just below. It was made of small bricks cemented together and he could feel, even from outside, how thick and solid the walls must be, so that inside it would be small compared to its outer appearance. It had uneven spaces for windows and at ground level a barred wooden door. Stephen gave it a push, and it creaked, but did not yield. He tried to imagine what it would have been like to be a soldier in there, waiting for Napoleon to come over the sea with an army, to take over England. He would have a gun of some sort, he supposed. Perhaps a sword too. And probably a small cannon, so that he could fire at any ship that looked as if it was a part of the French invading fleet.

  It was then that he noticed the change in the weather. The white clouds in the sky were moving faster and sometimes cutting out the sun, there were more white horses out at sea. There was a wind, too, whereas before it had been absolutely calm and hot. He did not hurry back to where his dad was sleeping, but when he got there, Dad was sitting up and looking at the sky, now overcast.

  ‘Hi!’ Stephen said, dropping on to the stones beside him.

  ‘Been for a walk?’

  ‘You were asleep.’

  ‘I was awake in the night.’

  ‘You should try sleeping out. It was great.’

  ‘Not tonight, I won’t. Weather’s changing.’

  ‘There’s more wind,’ Stephen said. At the same moment, a gust picked up his dad’s newspaper, shook it into separate sheets and blew them off over the shingle, up towards the road.

  ‘Catch it!’ his dad shouted and he and Stephen raced as fast as they could through the shifting stones. They didn’t succeed in getting all the sheets before the last two were blown up to the road and out of sight. They came back to collect the rest of their belongings with what remained of the paper scrunched in their hands.

  ‘It’s going to rain,’ Dad said.

  ‘No, look. Sun’s trying to come out,’ Stephen said, as a shaft of sunlight passed swiftly over the shore. It disappeared almost at once, and there was a patter of raindrops on stones and concrete. Then the downpour. They ran for the car.

  ‘You wet?’

  ‘Mm. Dripping.’

  ‘We’ll have to dry out somehow back there.’

  It is difficult to dry out in a tent when everything outside it is wetter than you are. Stephen was very soon shivering and in a filthy temper. At last his dad said, ‘Why don’t you go and ask the lady if you can sit in her kitchen for a bit?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To get warm. She’s got an Aga. I saw it.’

  ‘What’s an Aga?’

  ‘Sort of stove. Stays on all the time. It’d be warm.’

  Stephen baulked. ‘I don’t like to.’

  ‘She said we could ask.’

  ‘She said for water. That isn’t water.’

  It’s because of rain. That’s water, isn’t it?’ One of his dad’s rare jokes.

  ‘But . . . it’d mean staying there.’

  ‘Not for long, it wouldn’t.’

  Stephen didn’t want to. He thought he could count on his dad’s dislike of strangers and of asking favours. He was surprised when dad walked out of the tent in his anorak and came back a minute later with the lady under an umbrella. She called to him through the tent flap door. ‘You in there! You’re to come into the house to get dry. And bring your wet things.’

  Dad was there, collecting his soaking shirt and trousers for him. ‘Go on!’

  ‘Aren’t you coming?’

  ‘I’m not as wet as you. You can take my trousers, though. She says she’ll hang the things up near the Aga and they’ll be dry by morning.’

  So Stephen found himself conducted under a vast striped umbrella up to the kitchen door, where the dripping garments were taken from him and hung on a curious contraption that hung from the ceiling near the compact bulk of the Aga stove. He had to admit it was good to sit in a warm dry place to feel his feet gradually thawing out. The lady sat at the kitchen table, opposite to him. She was shelling peas into a white pudding basin. Besides vegetables, the table was also covered with papers. A newspaper, a writing block, and a pile of opened letters.

  ‘How did you manage to get so wet?’ she asked.

  ‘We were on the beach. It was sunny at first. Then the wind started blowing and all of sudden there was the rain.’

  ‘It can take you by surprise.’

  ‘I didn’t think it could
change so suddenly.’

  ‘The wind can get up in minutes. There’s going to be a proper storm tonight.’

  ‘Will there be big waves?’

  ‘Over the road. Probably.’

  He watched her. She was quite old. Sixty at least, he thought. She had grey hair pulled back from a bony face and fastened at the back of her neck in an untidy sort of knot. She was wearing a man’s check shirt in red and orange colours and denim jeans. He decided that he liked her looks. He didn’t like ladies who dressed up too much. He said, ‘Shall I help you with the peas?’

  She said, ‘Thank you, but they’re almost done.’

  He felt awkward just sitting there, doing nothing, but he didn’t want to leave this comfort. ‘Anything you’d like me to do?’

  ‘Can you peel potatoes?’

  ‘Easy. Only I don’t like peelers. I’m better with a knife.’

  She said, ‘So am I.’ She put before him three large potatoes and a knife. It was beautifully sharp. ‘When you’ve done them, would you put them in this bowl?’ She pushed a pudding basin half full of water across the table. She was now slicing onions, very fast.

  ‘What’s the water for?’

  ‘To prevent them going the wrong colour. It’s water with lemon in it.’

  There was a question he wanted to ask, but he felt awkward about it. He kept on putting it off, so that at last it came out too fast and sounded almost angry. Not at all what he felt. He said, ‘I don’t know your name.’

  ‘It’s Oddie. I’m Miss Oddie. It used to be quite a common name around here. Now I think I’m almost the only one. I don’t know your name, either.’