And I wanted to too. Because something really was off. And I like things making sense, me. As well as that, though, life was bigger here. Louder, brighter colours. Jesus Christ, I had had one of them in my hand touching my skin, and any other day I would be in my bed, stupid bitching it, squeezing my skull, waiting for it to fade away. Here, it wasn’t even the biggest thing that had happened, not compared with Ruby’s morning at school and Dillon crying and Gus’s sadness and what the cops might say.
Ten
It was evening before we got to the studio. I had heard people say that the day just disappears when there’s kids, and I never bought it-thought they needed to get a grip and how could a person call the shots who was so small you could just pick them up and put them where you wanted them to be? That Wednesday afternoon was boot camp. Ruby needed a bath. Gus wanted a long walk. Dillon wouldn’t go in his pushchair. The milk in the couch was starting to stink. Three times I filled a basin with hot soapy water and it cooled, unused. Dillon’s nappy. Ruby was hungry. Gus came back and needed quiet to make some calls. They both got wet in tide pools when we were staying out the way. Ruby didn’t like what clothes were clean. Gus wanted to find some paperwork he needed for the undertakers. Dillon was hungry but only for sweeties, not for food. Ruby wanted to walk to the shop on the caravan site. Dillon wouldn’t go in his pushchair. Gus had a headache and wanted a bath. There was no hot water. Go to the shop in the car. Ruby wouldn’t go in her car seat. Dillon wouldn’t be left behind.
“I’ll just take your pushchair in case you get tired,” I said.
“Noooooo!” he squealed.
“He wants a carry,” said Ruby, making trouble.
“No,” Dillon sobbed. “Walk. Pomise. Pomise, Jessie.”
“Will he walk?” I asked. Gus was standing heating up pans of water on the cooker-top, wrapped in a towel. I was trying not to look at him. Topless men never seem to think they’re as naked as I think they are.
“No chance,” said Gus. “Dillberry, why don’t you have a bath with Daddy and let the girls go shopping?”
“Not much good for your headache,” I said. “I’ll carry him. He’s only a baby. I’m a big strong girl.”
But God almighty it was a long way. We were hardly on the sand before he was lifting his arms and smiling up at me, batting his lashes. I hoisted him onto one hip. It seemed okay. Twenty paces later, it felt like I was carrying a bag of rocks. I shifted him to the other side. Ten paces later, I put him down.
“Nooooo,” he moaned, as if I’d dropped him in a pit in the woods and left him there.
“How about a kelly-coad?” I said. Dillon sniffed and stared. “A piggy-back.”
“His legs are too short,” said Ruby.
“Noooo,” said Dillon.
“High-shoulders?” That did the trick, but there’s a reason it’s always men you see with kids on their necks. It kills your back and it doesn’t make them weigh any less. By the time we were at the end of the beach, going up the track to the shop and shower block, my legs felt rubbery enough to make me worry I would slip and drop him. And my arms had pins and needles from holding onto his feet, so putting him down didn’t feel that possible either. There was no one around to ask for help. Just the blank gaze of all those caravans with their net curtains drawn across their single eyes.
Ruby ran ahead over the car park and leapt at the door handle. She bounced back. Tried again. Turned to me.
The lights were off inside. Just the drinks fridge glowing.
“I think it’s closed, honey,” I said.
Ruby stuck her bottom lip out and glared at me. “It is not closed, you stupid!” she said. “It’s open when Mummy comes.”
And right enough, the hours said Wednesday 10 to 5, and it was just on four now. Four o’clock on an October afternoon, with two grumpy kids and a stiff neck, and a sore ear from the cold wind and the other one set to catch it all the way back. I banged hard on the door and shouted.
“Shop!” Ruby giggled at that.
“Hello?” I called.
Over at the house, a door walloped open and a woman in a toweling kaftan, bright yellow, no excuse for it, stood scowling in the doorway with her hands on her hips.
“We’re shut!” she shouted.
“How come?” I shouted back. “It’s nowhere near five.”
“We’re short-handed,” she said, and made to close the door.
“You might have put a sign up!” I said. “In emergency, call at house or something.”
“What emergency?” she said. “There’s a shop at Gatehouse.”
“Aw, come on,” I said. “I’ve lugged this pair right along the beach promising sweeties. Two minutes, eh?”
“You’re not the only one having a bad day, hen,” said the woman and slammed the door.
“Shop!” shouted Ruby. Dillon joined in.
“Shop! Shop!”
“I’ll make pancakes,” I said. “Come on. And Dillon, pal, you’ll have to walk for a wee bit because my neck is killing me.”
We were a sorry procession that trailed back down to the beach. Ruby was whining, Dillon was whining. I nearly joined in. I held them by the hand, one on each side, and dragged them along. It looked even farther this way, the outcrop of rock tiny at the end of the sands. And it had started raining too; sore, cold rain lashing across our faces. The beach was deserted. One of the houses had a light on-the one with the kayaks-but it was the light that people leave on when they’re out: one lamp in the front window, not the kitchen strip lights, not a reading light by an armchair, just the light that tells burglars the place is empty.
We trudged on.
“Wanna carry,” said Dillon.
“You’ve had a carry,” said Ruby. “I want a carry.”
I said nothing.
“Jessie, I want a carry,” she said again.
I was staring along the beach at someone approaching. A tall someone with flapping hair pushing an empty buggy.
“Here’s Daddy,” I said, pointing.
“Good,” said Ruby. “You’re rubbish.” She sat down on the sand, getting her second wet bum of the day. Dillon sat down and leaned against her. I ripped the hood off of my borrowed kagoul, put it Velcro side down on the sand, and sat down too. Gus broke into a run and, as he drew near, I could hear him making nee-naw siren sounds.
“The shop was shut, Dad,” Ruby said.
“We’ll go to Gatehouse,” said Gus. “Buggy, Dillon. No discussion. Cuddy-back, Roobs.”
“What a waste of a hot bath,” I said, shuffling, ready to get up. Gus put out his hands and hauled me to my feet. “You’ll be in a muck sweat again.” He kissed my forehead before I had time to dodge it, and I felt the kiss, the ghost of it, for the rest of the day. It was like when you scoop for a dog and your hand’s got that radio-active feel till you wash it. Except good, not manky, but otherwise the same.
I turned away from the endless whipping wind coming off the sea, sheltering myself while I velcroed my hood back on (and to get my face to stop smiling in case I embarrassed him), and that’s when I saw a shadow just flitting between two of the caravans. I wiped my wet hair out of my eyes and looked harder.
It was him. I was sure it was. His hair was even wilder than the night before, and I could see the black on the bottom half of his face from here. He was standing pressed hard against the wall of the caravan now, peering round the corner, like the pink panther, or whoever it is, because Steve’s always telling me how the pink panther isn’t the pink panther at all, like Frankenstein.
“What is it?” asked Gus. The guy had ducked out of view as soon as Gus turned to face him.
He’d told me he didn’t want to know. “Nothing,” I said.
“You’ve had a hell of day, haven’t you?”