Chapter Fifty-Nine
Fifty-Nine
Swoop
Before Caleb can even begin to dry out, he unwinds the kite string and pitches our fake eagle into the air. It catches flight straight away and I watch him mess around with it, sending it swooping to the ground, then into the air again. After a few moments, he brings it to me to try, holding it out proudly.
I’ve never been able to get a kite to fly, but Betty was right – this kite soars effortlessly and I lose myself for a few minutes in pure, unadulterated joy.
Caleb shouts and then motions to something else in the air, and I see that we’ve attracted a very fierce kestrel mother, who swoops on our fake eagle even though it is approximately fifty times larger than her. At some point, the bird seems to realise our kite is not a threat, because she returns to the cliffside, where presumably she has a nest.
Caleb names the female kestrel Kendra. The male kestrel with greyer markings, who keeps his distance, he decides to call Ken.
Part of me finds it sweet that the stoned version of Caleb has immediately started naming the wildlife. The other part of me is affronted.
‘Why does Kendra have to be named after her boyfriend?’ I say, bristling. ‘Why can’t she have her own name?’
‘He’s named after her,’ Caleb says, smiling. ‘He’s taken her name. The diminutive form.’
*
The kite flies itself: I’m walking along the beach, holding the string in one hand, without having to adjust it or even look at it, when I notice Caleb stoop to pick something up.
Look at him, I think, beachcombing. After all the nagging he directed at me.
It turns out to be an old piece of pottery. He passes it to me with the words, ‘For you, milady.’
I wonder why he’s making a point of this emphasis and then I look at the shard. It’s snowy white but there are three letters on it in grey transfer print, which I know because of Max’s enthusiasms. The letters are EWE.
He lets out a tiny little lamb bleat, which apparently, I find completely hilarious.
Eventually, when I’ve calmed myself out of the giggles and just have hiccups, he turns serious again.
‘From jewellery?’ he says. ‘Maybe an old lid to a China box?’
‘Or more likely brewery,’ I say. ‘A lot of beer products end up in the sea. I don’t know why, but they do. Perhaps from drunkards throwing them off the cliffs? Anyway, this is standard transfer print.’
‘Are you a professional beachcomber?’ he asks. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘I did some mudlarking with my ex-boyfriend. Only a bit as it’s not my thing, but he can recognise every style of pottery, every mark and letter on a coin, and if he doesn’t, he has all the obscure reference books to look it up.’
He glances at the horizon, where an ominous looking oil tanker has slid into view.
‘Are you still in touch with him?’
‘No. The shit sort of hit the fan.’
‘What happened?’ He’s looking right at me, all sensual mouth and high cheekbones.
I shake my head. ‘He moved on.’
We lock eyes for a second and I notice again how nice his eyes are.
‘So, he’s a mudlark?’
‘Yeah. He’s very into the whole “found in the ground” and “luck in the muck” movement. He has a thriving YouTube channel with thousands of fans. Tens of thousands now, in fact.’
Caleb seems impressed.
‘I’ve always wondered about going down to the Thames foreshore and having a look for treasure,’ he says. ‘You need a licence though to pick anything up and I never managed to get around to applying.’
‘Yes, it’s very on-trend,’ I say. ‘But doesn’t really appeal to me. I was happy for him to go off on his own and explore. Although it didn’t end brilliantly.’
‘So how did it end?’ he asks, making another long stretch of eye contact with me.
‘He met another mudlark with a YouTube channel of her own and then dumped me for her.’
I don’t mention that the other woman looks like a supermodel. Or that, even though I was devastated to be dumped, another part of me was quite pleased for Max. I wouldn’t have thought a woman like that would have looked twice at him.
‘That sucks.’
‘Yeah, especially for Nemo.’
He looks confused and I explain.
‘Originally he was actually Max’s cat, but it turns out that his new girlfriend is allergic, so I ended up taking him. It was that or Battersea Dogs Cats Home.’
Caleb’s eyes widen in disbelief.
‘That seems harsh. I can’t believe he just gave up on him like that. Couldn’t the new girlfriend at least try antihistamines?’
‘That’s what I said, but no, and to be honest I don’t think she wanted to. As well as being allergic, I don’t think she much liked Nemo.’
He looks thoughtful. ‘I don’t much like cats either – and yours does seem like a bit of a handful – but life is a process of toleration, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I suppose.’
‘That’s how you bridge the differences with other people – other species, even. Tolerance.’
I’ve never really thought about it like this, but maybe he’s right. I’ve tried to withdraw from differences that I found uncomfortable or alienating. I was all about retreat.
‘I think I prefer the company of like-minded souls. If I’m being honest.’
‘Who doesn’t?’ he says. ‘But if we only surround ourselves with people who think the same way, and make the same sorts of choices as us, we’d never be able to grow or leave our comfort zones.’
‘Huh,’ I say. ‘This is very philosophical for our first real conversation.’
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘It must be the weed cookies. Have you sent your ex any updates about Nemo since you took him on?’
I bite my lip. ‘Well, I sent him a photo of Nemo on the boat to Loor, but he didn’t receive it.’
‘No signal out on the water?’
‘I accidentally sent it to my friend Clint.’
He nods, and I wait for him to laugh, but he doesn’t.
‘That’s a shame,’ he says, looking slightly baffled.
I start laughing and can’t seem to make myself stop.
‘My friend CLINT,’ I manage to gasp, tears beginning to stream from my eyes.
Eventually, after I’ve almost laughed myself into a cardiac arrest, he gets it.
‘Oh, because your friend Clint was saved into your phone next to the offensive nickname you’ve given your ex. Right, right, yes. Very witty.’
‘Caleb, I don’t have a friend called Clint and I didn’t send a picture.’
He winces at me. ‘Oh right, I’m terrible at understanding jokes. Sorry.’
When we’ve both calmed down our heightened nervous systems and settled into a long silence, he turns to me.
‘I don’t know if I made it clear, but I really am sorry I couldn’t help you out with Ted,’ he says.
‘It’s okay. You were right. He’s my responsibility.’
‘I think fevers might bring out the worst in me.’
‘Is that why you’re being so nice to me now?’ I ask, narrowing my eyes. ‘Basal body temp returned to normal?’
‘I’m not, particularly. It’s just that I was being a dick before. Do you forgive me?’
‘I’ll think about it,’ I say, smiling.