18
Donna phoned first thing the next morning. ‘Look, babe, I know it’s Sunday, and I’m sorry to hassle you on your day off an’ all… but your muh still hasn’t arranged to fix my boiler.’
‘Still? Right. Gosh, I’m so sorry, Donna. I did call her. She’s usually right on the case.’
‘Yeah, but not this time, lover, innit. Look, is embarrassin’…’ her voice dropped to a whisper ‘‘Me and Jez did the biz last night and can’t even have a shower. Is right minging.’’
‘Leave it with me.’
Polly could do without this, as she was in a rush. Max would be arriving any minute to take them out. The day looked set to be one of those freakishly hot April days when all and sundry stagger outside blinking into the glaring sun and go, ‘Phew, what a scorcher!’
He’d phoned about an hour ago to announce that they were all off to the seaside. ‘What a fabulous idea!’ she’d said, feeling a thrill as going to the beach always made her feel like a big kid. Even if it was Berrow Sands just up from Weston-super-Mud. ‘Woo hoo! Come on, lazy bones,’ she’d said to Rowan, waking up her sleepy daughter and rubbing her face with a flannel. ‘We’re going to the seaside!’
With Rowan dressed, sandwiches made, wrapped and packed, Polly set about trying to calm down her daughter, who was practically beside herself, running about squealing, asking if she could take this (her favourite My Little Pony – yes, she could) and that (her big box of Duplo – no, she couldn’t), and demanding to know just when it was they were all going.
‘Is it now?’
‘No.’
‘Now?’
‘No. Go and watch a DVD until Max arrives.’ To be fair, Polly was excited too. The morning had dawned with her in a positive frame of mind. She’d decided to put Spike and that whole kiss thing right out of her head and to concentrate instead on the fact that for the first time in ever such a long while she had her own bona fide boyfriend! Who was gorgeous and sexy, and well into her. Spike wasn’t the only one who could move on.
Still, mundane matters called. Just enough time to give her mum a bell.
‘Yes. That you, Polly?’ Suze sounded uncharacteristically hoarse down the line.
‘Morning, Mother. Look, I’ve had Donna on the phone because her boiler is still not fixed.’
‘Don’t go on, darling. I’ve had other things on my mind.’
Polly couldn’t believe how self-centred her mother could be at times. (Well, she could, but it still caught her by surprise.)
‘Shall I call a plumber this end?’ Polly gave a sigh of exasperation.
‘No. It’s fine. I’ll get Brian on to it.’ Which was unusual, as Suze – being a control freak – liked to sort everything herself rather than delegate. Even to Brian, her live-in lover. Perhaps she was mellowing.
‘Right you are. So long as that’s sorted. Only I must dash,’ said Polly. ‘Am off to the seaside. With my new boyfriend.’
‘That’s nice,’ said Suze, sounding as if it wasn’t particularly.
As Polly replaced the receiver, she was left with a nagging feeling that something was amiss. Her mother had not insisted on a blow-by-blow account of how, when and why Polly had a new boyfriend – or even what his name was. Also, Polly was irritated with herself that she’d forgotten to ask Suze about her visit to the Nuffield Hospital in Clifton last week.
Oh well, the sun was shining and she had sandwiches and bucket and spade all ready. Toot toot. Max had arrived.
‘Come in, come in,’ she said, opening her front door. ‘I’ve nearly got everything ready.’
Max propelled a ginger-haired boy into the house. ‘This is Ben.’
‘Oh, hello, Ben.’ ( He has got rather a weaselly face , she thought. Nothing at all like Max. Poor boy probably takes after his mother .) Polly must have been staring as Max was giving her a decidedly quizzical look.
‘I am just catching up with how yummy you are,’ she said, affecting a speedy recovery.
‘Stop it,’ Max whispered into her ear. Placing his hand on Ben’s head, he told him to say hello to Rowan, who was now peeking round the door frame of the sitting room, unusually shy. Ben, however, had no such reservations, running straight for Rowan and bellowing ‘Yaaarrgghh!’ in her face before wrestling a rainbow My Little Pony out of her hand.
‘Ben!’ Max swiftly took it off him to hand to Rowan, who was rooted to the spot, not sure quite what to do. There was never any rough play allowed at her Montessori nursery.
‘Now play nicely,’ Max instructed Ben.
‘Righty-ho!’ said Polly – forcing jollity into her voice. ‘Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?’
‘Look! I can see the sea!’ Polly called over her shoulder to Rowan and Ben, who were both safely strapped in child seats in the rear of Max’s car. She wouldn’t be sorry to arrive as Ben had been kicking the back of Polly’s seat for most of the journey, and no amount of her asking him not to had made a blind bit of difference. Still, she was determined that they’d all have a lovely day, so she gritted her teeth. ‘Look, there!’
‘Where?’ said Rowan, craning her neck to try and see around the confines of her seat. ‘Where?’
Soon they were parked up on the beach in front of the high dunes of Berrow Sands, and all piling out of the car. The wind blew hard off the Bristol Channel as Max set about knocking in the pegs of their windbreak. Polly watched a man on a kite surfboard in the middle distance whizz across the wet sands at a fast lick; his board rising up in the air, then back down to hit the sands with a soft slap. The sea was a long way out, the colour of brown from mud and churned-up sand in a channel where tides swirled treacherously, Polly knew. Her dad, Jeff, used to bring her here with Gillian for Sunday outings.
Polly shivered, pulling her fake leopardskin car coat (authentic ’60s buy from a friend’s retro shop) around her. She zipped up a protesting Rowan’s brightly coloured jacket.
‘It’s freezing,’ Polly called over to Max, her voice nearly carried away by a sharp south-westerly. Although sunny, those April gusts had a bite to them.
‘It’ll be fine once we’re out of this wind!’ he called back.
Just like a real family holiday , thought Polly, as she smiled and took some snaps. There, I’ll load these up onto Facebook when I get back. Ha! See? Two can play that game, Spike Monaghan. Oh stop it . She’d promised herself she was going to enjoy this trip and not fret about the whole making-a-right-pillock-of-herself-with-Spike thing. After all, here she was with her fabulous boyfriend, and his son. ( Okay, his devil- child son , she thought, now looking across to where Ben was charging around going ‘Raaaaar!’ – for no apparent reason. Should have called him Damien!) Ben had far more freckles than Max; his hair stuck up, giving him the look of someone who’d run from a barber’s clutches before he could finish his haircut; his nose was snub, and he had a mischievous- looking turned-up mouth and a tight wiry body. In short, he resembled an archetypal scamp.
When she glanced across fondly at Max, he gave her a thumbs-up. Her very own proper boyfriend doing manly boyfriend stuff like hammering. I could get used to this , she thought, even though her hair kept blowing across her face in tatty rats’ tails as she tried to push it back. ( Soon be thick with salt and sand… Oh, do stop moaning! Just enjoy! )
She decided to enjoy a bit of chasing Rowan into the sand dunes. Cue much squealing on Rowan’s part and fun had by the two of them, until Damien/Ben stuck his foot out, sending Rowan headlong – ‘Oof!’ – onto the hard windblown sand.
‘Ha ha ha!’ he said, sticking out his chest before scampering off.
Rowan let out a good long cry as Polly scooped her into her arms and proceeded to carry her – sand sinking and soft with each step – back to Max. Ben arrived before them in a sliding stop any baseball player would be proud of.
She decided to ignore Ben. ‘Phew! You weigh a ton, missy,’ she said, placing her daughter next to Max, who tickled her under the chin before standing to dust off his jeans, clearly chuffed at his hammering-in of windbreak pegs.
‘There,’ he said, as proud as if he’d just knocked up a house. ‘That should do the trick. Coffee?’ Screwing the top off a thermos flask, he poured some out for her.
‘Ta. Just what I needed,’ she said, cupping her hands around the beaker, and when Max moved in to place his arm about her shoulder, she thought how lovely it was to have a boyfriend she could go on family outings with, and how clever she was to land a single dad who was a dab hand at windbreaks and thermos flasks, and who wasn’t going to want her to stay out late watching his band, or get bladdered on drink and recreational drugs. She smiled up at him. Yep. Max was a real catch. Gorgeous, and fabulous in bed.
‘Stop smiling at me like that,’ he said, then whispered, ‘You’ve given me another stiffy.’ Polly had to admit there was some impressive straining-at-the-jeans going on down there. She felt a bit squirmy herself.
‘It’s no good… I’m going to have to recite the whole of Bristol City football team in my head. Unless,’ he said, grabbing her hand, ‘you want to help me out…’
‘Oi,’ she said, skipping out of his way, ‘behave, you’ – before reaching into the car for the blankets and picnic basket. He gave out a groan… ‘Stop showing me your bottom, then.’
‘Not now… Later.’
‘I’ll hold you to that.’ He walked a little way then turned. ‘You know your friend Mel?’
‘What about her?’
He walked back and, lowering his voice, added, ‘She’s a lesbian, isn’t she?’
‘Well?’
‘Have you two ever – you know…’ He gave her a small nod and wink. ‘I could just watch…’ Polly gave him a shove. ‘Or join in – if you like?’ he added.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! Boys and their fantasies!’
Rowan was diligently digging with her spade just on the periphery of their windbreak boundary. It was quiet on the beach and their nearest neighbours were a good fifty yards away.
‘Where’s Ben?’ said Polly, looking about her. A seagull hung in the sky like a spotter plane. She caught sight of Ben. ‘Ah, there he is. I can just see his feet,’ she called to Max. Ben’s feet were poking out from behind a sand dune. She strolled over, just in time to see him tunnelling into the dune with his spade. ‘Oh no, you don’t,’ she said, reaching in to pull him back out.
‘Get off!’ he screamed in a loud voice. ‘Get off, get off!’ and tried to scrabble in further. But Polly had him by the waist now and was just about to pull him free when Max appeared to see what all the commotion was about.
Right at that moment, a nude sunbather chose to saunter past, his tackle in full dangle smack-bang in Polly’s eyeline. ‘Good morning,’ he said, and she was so startled she let go of Ben and fell backwards – hard – onto her coccyx. ‘Ouch!’
Max had his son out of the makeshift tunnel and onto his feet in front of him as he set about dusting him down.
‘Right, there we are,’ he said. ‘No harm done.’
‘Did you see that?’ said Polly.
‘Chill, Poll,’ said Max. ‘So Ben dug a tunnel. All boys do that.’
‘No. I meant the nudist.’
‘Naturist, they’re called,’ he said. ‘Better leave the digging, Ben. Now go and join Rowan, there’s a good boy.’ He stood up. ‘This part’s the naturists’ beach, Poll.’
‘Well, you could have said, because I wouldn’t have brought Rowan if I’d known.’
‘Whyever not? I didn’t have you down as a prude.’
‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘But everyone knows that paedophiles try and join naturists’ clubs to get an eyeful of naked children.’
‘That’s very un-PC of you, Polly, and I’m sure it’s an urban myth. Or rubbish, more like.’
She felt rather ashamed. He was probably right. Poor man was just enjoying a bit of a breeze around his nether regions.
‘You shouldn’t worry so much,’ said Max, guiding her back to their spot where Ben now appeared to have snatched Rowan’s spade and was whacking the sand – a spade in each fist – close to where she sat, hanging onto her bucket.
‘Want to dig a tunnel!’ Ben whinged.
‘Not now, mate, okay?’ said Max.
‘In any case,’ Polly said, addressing Ben, ‘it’s not safe. A boy was killed here a couple of years ago. He got buried alive on this beach, because he was digging a tunnel in the dunes – just like you were – when it collapsed on top of him.’
Ben’s eyes lit up. ‘Cool,’ he said. ‘Did he die?’
‘Yes. I’m afraid he did.’
‘Did anyone see it? Did they, like, dig and dig, with their bare hands, but they couldn’t reach him? Was he like this?’ and Ben put both hands around his neck and made a choking sound. ‘Blahhhh.’ Rowan watched – rapt. ‘Did he turn blue…’ Ben continued ‘and—’
‘Ben! Enough!’ Polly said, rather more sharply than she intended. ‘Rowan’s listening, and you’ll scare her.’
Ben looked at Rowan in disgust. ‘But Dad said she was deaf!’
Max suggested Polly take Ben to the ice-cream van while Max helped Rowan build a sandcastle. She wasn’t sure it was a good idea but he insisted, saying, ‘I think I can manage to keep an eye on your daughter, Polly.’ About ten yards from the car was a dip in the wet sand – forming a natural pool – from where Max could send Rowan to collect sea water in her bucket. ‘She’ll be fine,’ he insisted. ‘Off you go.’
*
‘Can I have two flakes with my 99?’ Ben demanded loudly once they’d reached the window of the van. The man looked expectantly at Polly.
‘You’ll have one flake like everybody else,’ she said, returning the man’s look. ‘Sorry.’
‘Why are you saying sorry to that man? What have you done to him?’
‘Nothing.’
‘If you buy me an extra flake then he’ll have extra money, and you’ll have made it up to him.’
‘Ben, I don’t have to make amends.’ She gave the man an embarrassed shrug. ‘I’ve not done anything to him.’
‘Then why are you sorry?’
The man finished loading the four cones with ice cream, poking a flake into each, and stood awaiting Polly’s decision.
‘Just the one flake,’ she said, sticking to her guns, as she knew full well it was not a good idea to change your mind once you’d said No to a child.
‘I’ll pay for the extra flake with my own pocket money,’ Ben insisted. Ice-cream man frozen to the spot, ice cream starting to melt and dribble down the cones. Ben continued. ‘That’s fair, isn’t it?’
‘Seems fair to me,’ said the man, smiling encouragingly at Polly. ‘Sometimes it’s best not to dig yer heels in, love,’ he added, as he reached for the contentious extra flake.
‘And strawberry syrup?’ said Ben, a triumphant look on his face.
Triumphant yet angelic , thought Polly, as she contemplated Max’s son. That’s a hard look to carry off .
Job done, money paid, Ben charged through the dunes ahead of her, guzzling his double-flake-99 as he pelted along.
As Polly rounded the sand dune to where they were parked, she could see Max patting the sandcastle and, as she cast about for her daughter, she handed him his cornet. Shielding her eyes from the sun peeking out from behind a grey cloud, she asked, ‘Where’s Rowan?’
*
Everything seemed to slow down as she took in Max’s dawning realisation, felt her head turn – hair slewing round in slo-mo – as she scanned her eyeline. Max, to her left, was saying, ‘Where is she? I sent her for some water!’
No. No. This is not going to happen. Not today. Not ever , thought Polly, then – There! A tiny figure, a long way off, was heading steadfastly out to sea – the tide a long way out. Oh God! Oh God! Polly dropped her ice cream, kicked off her shoes and began to run, then running backwards, she shrieked to Max, ‘If it looks like we’re stuck – call the coastguard! 999!’
She didn’t wait for his reply but turned once more to face the sea, head up, feet firmly on the ground, as she took off like the sprinter she used to be at school, bursting out of the blocks. Running through her mind was the accident at Weston-super-Mare when a small child got stuck in the quicksand and mud, and how her father had tried to rescue her, but they’d both been sucked down and held fast by the sand and mud so that they were drowned by the incoming tide. Not my Rowan!
Polly’s feet pounded the sand. Thud, huh huh huh. Thud, huh huh huh. Her daughter growing in size as Polly gained on her: bigger and bigger as she got closer and closer. The sand wetter now, giving slightly under her toes with each step. Each slap of her feet flattening surface whorls, made by burrowing creatures – cockles? – who knew, who cared? Then as Polly neared Rowan, her daughter spun round, saw her mother and – clearly thinking it was a game of chase – chortled and ran, giggling, away from her. Towards the sea!
‘Ro! Stop! Ro! Stop!’ No good. Polly knew her daughter couldn’t hear her, and in any case, Polly needed her breath for running. She had to catch her before the quicksand; the ground now sucking ever so slightly at her feet as she ran, trying to slow her, trying to pull her to a stop.
The image of the white horse in that film The NeverEnding Story sprang to Polly’s mind. Floundering in a bog, going under while his boy owner cried and wailed, unable to keep its head up, unable to stop it being pulled down.
Well, the mud isn’t going to get my daughter. Fuck off, you bitch , she thought as she stepped things up into Ripley-from- Alien mode, adrenaline pumping her legs and heart as she flew across the sand; flying to her daughter’s rescue.
As she reached her, caught her and swung her into her arms, Polly shouted, ‘Don’t you ever! Ever do that again!’
Rowan, startled, patted her mother’s cheeks in best Eric Morecambe-style and went, ‘Ahhh. Mummee.’
‘Never ever run off to the sea again,’ said Polly, directly into her smiling child’s face. Knowing she’d have to explain it all to her daughter later, she hugged her tight, pent-up emotion nearly bursting her chest as she checked there was no damage anywhere. Then, holding her daughter’s hand, she began to walk back. Thanking God, and whoever, that there was going to be a later.
Max and Ben were waiting for them. ‘There you go,’ said Max. ‘No harm done.’ Polly had never felt so alone.
*
They drove back in relative silence, apart, that is, from Polly having to turn round every now and then to stop Ben from sticking his finger up Rowan’s nose, or bonking her on the head with his toy car, or kicking the blinking back of Polly’s seat again. Honestly. That boy. Did he have ADHD or what?
Max was due to drop Ben off at Claire’s, but first he helped Polly indoors with her things: basket, rugs, picnic, child seat. He asked if he could use her loo.
‘Sure,’ she said, wondering why he couldn’t have hung on until he got home – they’d stopped off at a service station on the M5 where he’d taken Ben to the toilets and she’d done the same with Rowan. Hadn’t he gone then? Or was this some kind of male-marking-territory thing? She tried not to imagine him spraying her bathroom with his wee, like some big two-legged tomcat, and instead she switched the kettle on and left the kids playing in the front room.
It began to dawn on her that whereas before the kids had been pretty noisy – what with running about and screeching – now all was quiet. Unnaturally so. Better go check, she thought, as in her experience, quiet and young children invariably equalled trouble.
Careful not to make a noise – hoping to catch them at whatever it was they were doing – Polly gently pushed open the sitting-room door. There stood Rowan, with her back to Polly. Ben was bent in front of her with his head up and under her dress. Rowan must have heard Polly enter, as she looked over her shoulder. Ben quickly ducked out and stood to attention, giving Polly a defiant it-wasn’t-me-guv look. It was then that she noticed he wasn’t wearing any trousers – or pants! She couldn’t have been more surprised at the little scenario she’d just witnessed if the Phantom Flan Flinger had leapt out from behind her Cap’n Jack pirate and splatted her face with a custard pie.
What the…? ‘Ben!’ she shouted.
Ben jumped up and down on the spot a few times, his little willy jiggling up and down as he let out a squeal, and then rushed to sit in front of Rowan’s box of Lego, where he noisily rummaged around in it as if that was what he’d been doing all along.
Rowan turned to face her mother, a puzzled look on her face. ‘Mummy?’ she said. ‘Ben tickled my china!’
‘Come on,’ said Max – at her door with a fully trousered Ben. ‘You’ve got to admit, it was pretty funny.’
‘Funny?’ she said, unable to credit that Max appeared unfazed by the behaviour of his son.
Max was helping Ben into his jacket. ‘You’re having a serious sense of humour failure, here.’ He straightened up, gripping Ben by the shoulder.
She regarded Ben. He was only a kid; Max was right. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her shoulders drooping. ‘I guess I’m not used to boys.’
He leant forwards to give her a kiss on the cheek. ‘Shall I come by later, as arranged?’
Feeling somewhat reassured that there was nothing to fear, and that Ben was not a budding pervert, Polly smiled back at Max. ‘Yes. That would be lovely.’
‘Okey-doke. We’ll be off, then. Say goodbye to Polly, Ben.’
‘Goodbye, Polly,’ said Ben, as he fidgeted from one foot to the other.
‘Better get this young man back to his mother,’ said Max.
But truth be told, Polly still had some nagging doubts.
*
After they’d gone, she decided it would be a good thing to talk through the whole boy thing. Get more perspective on whether she had overreacted. She punched Mel’s number into her mobile. No reply. Instead it went to voicemail.
‘Ring me when you can, Mel. Be good to speak.’
She wandered back into the sitting room, where Rowan had her back to her, doggedly completing a large-piece jigsaw.
Perhaps – and she had no idea why – she’d taken an instant dislike to Ben for no reason, and that was colouring her opinion. Daisy , she thought. She’ll be in. Yes. Daisy knows all about boys. She’s raised one of them, after all. And very successfully too – Zak was a lovely boy: polite and respectful… Unlike Max’s prince-of-darkness child.
She tapped her daughter on the shoulder and, as Rowan turned her open face to her mother’s, Polly was struck by how like her father she looked.
‘C’mon, sunshine,’ she said, and was rewarded with a beam from Rowan. ‘Let’s go see Daisy and Morwenna.’