swimming away

devilin_poop

She is sitting on the beach, alone. Herlegs are curled under her, and herhands are feeling the pebbles at herside. They are smooth, like ducks'eggs. They fit snugly into her palm.The kind of pebble David used to killGoliath, she thinks. She looks out overthe sea. It is pewter, it is lead. Thewaves are bloated and sullen. Theyclutch at the shore and rasp as theyretreat, surly as a kicked cur. The wetshore shines with the slug trail residueof the waves. The cliffs, honey andbutter in sunshine, are the grey ofgravestones and loneliness.

devilin_poop

She turns the pebbles over andover, rhythmically, rocking. The windhas turned her long hair into whipswhich lash her cheeks red and raw.She does not tuck it behind her ears.She does not look at the bag thatsquats beside her. She thinks back, tothe time before. She can't help it. Then,the sun was shining and the beachwas innocent.

devilin_poop

"Mum!" The child's voice is high andexcited. "Look!" Rosie is holding up a strand ofbladder wrack as long as her wholebody. It is wrapping itself around herlegs and slapping against her plumplittle tummy encased in its white,poppy-splattered costume. "Great!" says Rosie's Mum. "Themermaid's tail." She is busy fashioningthe stones into a face and body: driedseaweed for hair, razor bills forearrings, limbs a line of carefullychosen white pebbles. Together theyplace the bladder wrack under thelimpet-shell belt and curve the tiptowards the sea.

devilin_poop

"She's taller than me," says Rosie,and she lies flat on her back, armsoutstretched, to demonstrate theexceptional height of the mermaidwith her weedy tail. "When the waves come in, will sheswim away?" "Maybe," says her Mum. "Maybe shewill."

devilin_poop

She starts to dig. At first, she is careful.She lifts the pebbles out, one by one,and piles them to one side. They forma cairn. As she gets down below thefirst layer, the stones are smaller,spikier, wetter, with more sand in themixture. She scrabbles at them but, asshe scrapes, the sides cave in on top ofher hands. The hole remains shallow.The fingernail on the middle finger ofher left hand jangles with pain as aflint drives under the nail. Pleased, shepresses down on the stone. A drop ofblood falls into the mix. It is deepenough. She begins to widen,lengthen and shape the trench.

devilin_poop

Hand in hand they skip down thebeach. The waves are big today,topped by white horses whipped upby a summer breeze, but they are clearand clean as they slap on the shingle.The sea has left a sandy strip whichsnakes the length of the pebbly beach.Rosie and her Mum want to see theirfootprints: two big, two small. Thesand sucks at their feet as they leap. "Look how far I can jump, Mum!"cries Rosie, and leaps so high and sofar that her Mum thinks she will reachthe sun.

devilin_poop

"Look how far Mum can jump!" criesMum, and it is not so very far, really,but she laughs and hugs Rosie andthe sun catches her daughter's hairand turns it into mermaid gold.

devilin_poop

She has finished. There is a shapegouged out of the pebbles. A humanfigure. A head, two arms, a torso, legs,no tail. Recognisable. Carefully sheselects a pebble, white, round, aduck's egg, and places it on the edgeof the shoulder. She finds a second,pure white, and lays it next to the first,not quite touching. She is drawing anoutline. Like a murder victim at anAmerican crime scene, she thinks, butthe bubble of laughter does not rise inher throat. She does not know whyshe glances up, at that moment. A manis standing on the edge of the cliff. Toher, he is the size of the middle fingerof her left hand. Panic sweeps over herlike sweat. He is too far away to hearher when she screams, to far to feelthe stone she throws, David at Goliath.*

devilin_poop

"When's Daddy coming back?" saysRosie. "In a while," says her Mum, butshe's been wondering too. He's gonefor ice-creams and a stroll. He doesn'tlike the beach. He says the cliffs makehim claustrophobic. That the stonesdig into his feet. "I want to paddle," says Rosie andshe grabs at her beach shoes. Theyare at the bottom of the basket, underthe picnic. As she pulls the shoes out,the Tupperware box with thesandwiches in it breaks open and theham and the cheese and thewholemeal bread slices fall into thesand, butter side down.

devilin_poop

"Rosie! Watch what you're doing!"Her Mum is sharp, harsh. Rosie shrinks,crouching to pull on her shoes, headbowed, face concealed. Her Mumsighs.

devilin_poop

"Never mind. We'll be mermaidswhen we eat it. I bet they're used tosand in their sandwiches." Rosie liftsher head and grins.

devilin_poop

"D'you think mermaids' bread getssoggy underwater, Mum? D'you thinkthey have Weetabix for breakfast? CanI stick seaweed on my legs to make atail?" Rosie chatters as her Mum picksup the food, carefully brushing thesand from each piece to make it clean.

devilin_poop

The man has gone. She is alone again.Alone with her shape, white-rimmed,bleached. She smoothes the body,strokes the face. Arms and legssplayed, it is like the sand angel a childmakes when she throws herselfspread-eagled on to the first beach ofthe summer. She wonders whether it isa comfortable shape. Should she haveformed a curled figure, foetal,protected, warm? Is the sand angeltoo exposed? Or does it feel wild andfree?

devilin_poop

The mobile trills. Rosie's Mumscrabbles through the beach bag. Ican c u, the text reads. Her heart thudsas if they were still new lovers and shelooks up and around, smiling. Thereare families on the beach, throwingballs, eating, lying in the sun. She can'tsee him. She looks further up. Sheshades her eyes against the sun withher hand. There is a man, the size ofthe middle finger of her left hand,standing on the top of the cliff. He iswaving. She laughs, and stands up,waving back. He is still waving. Now,he is waving with both arms. Shewaves back, with both arms, amused.His arms are flailing, urgent. She ispuzzled. Is he pointing? She turnsaround.

devilin_poop

On the top of the nearest wave bobsa white swimming costume splatteredwith poppies. It disappears from sight.

devilin_poop

She reaches into her bag, lifts out thetin canister and stands it on thepebbles. She hesitates before sheunscrews the lid and her handtrembles as she reaches inside. Thereis not much in there, considering. Shetakes a handful of ash. The flakes arelarge and sticky. She starts with thehead. She trickles the cinders into heroutline, filling it in, turning it pale grey.

devilin_poop

Running in slow motion. She must gofaster, her legs are rocks, she isdragging them and then she is in thewater, diving, gasping, down, under,eyes open, arms out stretching,searching, empty, up for air, screaming‘Help!', swallowing and choking, thenunder again, into the swirl of thewaves, the water thick, roaring in herears, blocking her but clear and cleanand she sees floating down a flash ofwhite and thrusts towards it, grabbingand pulling, bubbles coming from atiny mouth, hair weed flowing from atiny head and out of the waterbursting, gasping, holding herdaughter in her arms and crying andhugging and struggling to the shore,she puts the little body flat on the sandand wipes the hair from the face.

devilin_poop

Rosie's eyes open and she smiles. "I was a mermaid, Mum, swimminglike a mermaid!" She is laughing and crying andhugging and kissing the belovedcheeks, still shiny salty wet. Rosie hasheld her breath. No water in hermouth, no water in her lungs, nodamage, the smile wide and warm.Alive.

devilin_poop

Her breathing slows and her heartcalms. She remembers. She looks up,expectant, to the cliff edge, a waveand a smile hovering. There is no-onethere. At the bottom of the cliff there isa huddle of people, their backs to thesea, bending over something, staring.A woman is running away from thegroup, towards the café at the end ofthe beach. All the families on the beachare staring at the group at the bottomof the cliff.

devilin_poop

As if it belongs to someone else, shehears her heart begin to pound andthe blood rush into her ears.