Waves
The deep blue August sky descended over the beach, washing itself out into a pale watercolour just above the sea. Gulls wheeled through the twilight, beaks flashing. Their shrieks had settled from a mid-day frenzy into a wail muffled by the rushing waves. As they swept through the air, one landed with a soft thud on something just above the reaches of the purple-grey foam. The tide inched higher, hissing as it caught the edges of the object. The gull moodily thrust its head at a long black strap that floated back and forth like seaweed through the foam.
Just as the object began to tip under the weight of a wave, a blur of limbs darted down the beach, breaking through the wave to grab the bag. It streamed water as it swung from the boy’s shoulder, and beat against his hip as he strode back across the beach. The glow at the horizon was now faltering. A thin sand path wove up a craggy hill tufted with grass and pocked with rocks and rabbit holes. He scrambled up the hillside and broke through the undergrowth into the parking lot.
It had begun to rain. The drizzle made a halo out of the single streetlamp. The boy suddenly lurched forward over the bag, a sob bursting from his body and rattling around the parking lot. He sucked in cold air, steadied himself. He unzipped the bag and gazed at the contents: a sandy pair of trainers; a pale, bloated copy of The Waves; a bag of Tangfastics. As always.
*
‘What kept you?’ his mother asked, lifting her head from her newspaper. She studied her son from across the room. Bedraggled as he was, he was beautiful, with blue-green eyes and dark curling hair, as if he had sprung fully formed from the sea. The children, she thought wryly, were the one thing she and their father had cooperated on.
‘Sorry. Forgot my bag.’ He swung an arm around her shoulder and kissed her on the cheek. She smiled, appeased.
‘Right, well – fine. Get it out of here, you’re dripping all over the floor,’ she said, gesturing at the growing puddle.
‘Honestly Max,’ she mused, after a pause, ‘this must be the fifteenth time you’ve done that.’
‘Third, actually,’ he mouthed. She didn’t hear.
‘It’s a good job it’s not been washed away yet.’
*
Max hung the bag to dry, then climbed the two flights of stairs to his bedroom. When they had left London (and Max’s father) for Dorset ten years ago, the prospect of an attic room was all that could brighten Max’s seven-year-old attitude. Propping the trainers by the radiator, he laid the packet of sweets and the book on his desk. The yellow Tangfastics bear grinned up at him. Again he felt that sudden welling in his chest and throat, a wave ready to consume him. Exhaling sharply, he threw himself onto his bed and lay face-up, scanning the wall. It was covered with race numbers from countless cross-country events. The familiarity calmed him, though a dull ache remained in his chest, and he turned his head to look once again at the objects on his desk. He would return them tomorrow.
*
When Max awoke the next morning his room was that pale golden colour that promises a rare cloudless summer day. He felt for his phone – it read 07:47, Saturday 8 August. He’d taken to waking up early in the holidays, and today of all days was not one to wallow in bed. He dressed quickly and slipped down the stairs, past his snoring brothers’ rooms.
‘Tea, Max?’ his mother asked, her back to the kitchen door.
‘Cheers. Normal is good,’ he answered. He swung open the fridge door and plucked out a silver takeaway carton.
‘Sleep alright?’ She set the mug in his spot at the kitchen table. He pursed his lips, formed the words Yeah, fine, and shook his head.
‘Not great, actually.’ His mother stopped suddenly and looked at him.
‘It’s today, isn’t it. Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.’ She took the container from his hands, placed it on the table, and hugged him tightly. He leaned his forehead against her shoulder, as if he wasn’t nearly a foot taller.
‘Thanks, ma,’ he mumbled. He smiled weakly. ‘Time for breakfast I think.’
*
The Huxleys’ house was ten minutes by bike. The two families were very close, and he knew the house like his own. He left his bike in the driveway, hitched the bag higher on his shoulder, and peered through the backdoor, which stood open to the sun.
‘Anyone home?’ Max called, stepping into the kitchen.
‘Max!’ Mrs Huxley appeared, smoothing her frizzy hair. It seemed like someone had crackled electricity through her.
‘I just thought I’d pop by to see you and Lucy,’ he said. Mrs Huxley nodded, sighing heavily.
‘Thanks, Max. She’s in her room.’
Max hesitated outside Lucy’s room, glancing down the hallway at a closed door with PERCY across the front in painted wooden letters.
‘Lucy, can I come in? It’s Max.’ He heard rustling, the sound of eight-year-old feet on the carpet, the lock turning in the door, the feet padding away again. He opened it gently and stepped into her room. Sunlight filtered through the cartoon seascape of the drawn curtains, tinting the room an underwater blue. Lucy said nothing, just watched him from her nest of blankets. He sat on the edge of her bed and pulled the bag onto his lap. Her eyes widened.
‘No! It’s for him!’ Lucy’s bottom lip quivered dangerously.
‘I know, but he would want you to keep it to remember him better.’
‘But it’s his stuff! He needs to have it.’
‘Lucy –’
‘How is he going to run, or read, or eat any sweets where he is?’ she asked desperately.
‘I’m sure he has everything he needs. Look, I know it’s hard, but he’d be sharing these sweets with us anyway. And he’d want you to read this.’ Lucy gave a watery smile.
‘I just miss him. When can I see him?’ she whispered.
‘I know.’ Max stroked her blonde hair. He missed Percy too - his best friend, the first person he had met when they’d moved from London, with whom he’d shared divorcing parents and cross-country running. Who had drowned three years ago today. ‘We’ll see him one day, I promise.’
*
Stepping into the blinding warmth of the day, Max felt a tremendous weight lifting from him. He’d left Lucy in a slightly better state than he had found her: at least now her door was unlocked. He breathed deeply as he cycled home, exhaling out as much pent-up grief as he could. It had been a draining morning. He arrived home with his mind clearer than it had been for a while. Perhaps it was comforting Lucy that had been so therapeutic. He resolved to spend the rest of the day doing absolutely nothing.
*
Later that day he lay sprawled on his stomach in the garden reading his book, his shadow lengthening across the grass in front of him. He heard the landline ringing through the open door of the house and got up to answer it.
‘Hello?’ he said, balancing the phone on his shoulder. He wandered absently through to the kitchen, holding his book open between the fingers of his left hand, and reached for the fridge door with the right.
‘Oh, hi there Max, have you got Lucy with you?’ It was Mrs Huxley.
‘No, she’s not at ours. Why d’you ask?’
‘She’s out of her room, thank God, but she said she was going to see someone and hasn’t come back. Oh well – I’m sure she’ll be back soon. Thanks Max!” Mrs Huxley chattered.
Max’s mouth went dry. ‘Oh my God,’ was all he managed, as he dropped the phone.
He was at the parking lot in minutes. His bike clattered to the tarmac as he tore down the path towards the beach. He skidded to a halt atop the cliff, wildly scanning the sand. A few clusters of rainbow towels, the odd umbrella, but no sign of her bright blonde hair among the few placid beachgoers. Holding his breath, he lifted his eyes to the edge of the sea. A cold shock jolted through his body. How could nobody have noticed? He bellowed Lucy’s name. Just about where the bag had been yesterday, something floated back and forth like seaweed on the surface of the waves.