The Sandfather Page 7

  The warmer weather had brought out more people today; an elderly couple down on the beach with two spaniels, someone in shorts and a vest, jogging, and a mother with two little girls, toddlers, collecting shells. Hal looked at this group, because they were the first black people he’d seen since arriving at Ryton. ‘Vera!’ called the mother. ‘Come and see what Grace has found.’ She smiled at Hal as he passed. She’d made a sort of camp, sheltered by the groyne, with a blanket and buckets and spades and a book lying face-down, and a chill-bag that must have had a picnic in it. But they’d have to move soon, because the tide was racing in - higher than yesterday, already beyond the point where Hal had started making the whale.

  He was annoyed. He wanted the beach to himself, and he wanted a big expanse of sand. And he’d left the spade-bat in Don’s hut, but he didn’t want to go and explain why he needed it.

  Remembering the plastic spade he’d seen washed up, he wondered if he might find something else he could use. A bit of old wood might do. While he was looking for that, he found an odd flip-flop, a green bottle (no message, though he checked just in case), and a length of orange string. Then a hinged frame, a clothes-airer like the one Mum stood in the bath at home. When he pulled it open and stood it upright, pushing its legs into the stones, he thought of displaying various other items on it, like a weird selection of laundry, so he used the string to fasten the flip-flop to its rails. The bottle he tucked into the pebbles underneath. Then he walked along the line of seaweed to see what else he could find.

  A ragged sweatshirt was next, badly unravelled. When he turned back with that, he saw with indignation that the skinny boy - the one who’d been watching him yesterday - was standing by the clothes-airer, fiddling with it. Hal jogged back, ready for a confrontation.

  ‘Hey, leave that alone!’ he yelled, from a few metres away.

  The boy looked at him, startled. He had a thin, pointy face and big eyes, and wore the same red hoodie and black knitted hat he’d had on before. Shrugging, he backed off at once.

  ‘I only help,’ he said. Hal saw that he’d been adding a contribution - he’d got a red plastic wheel, and was trying to tie it to the bottom rung. He hadn’t done it yet, because the string was too long and too tangly, and too strong to be snapped by hand; the wheel fell to the ground, and he made to move forward for it, but then looked anxiously at Hal. He was clearly afraid of being hit or grabbed. And now, up close, seeing how skinny and small the kid was, Hal gave up any idea of toughing it out. He’d been in trouble at school recently for picking on someone smaller than him (picking on! On Jason Green, stocky, shaven-headed, fiercer than ten Rottweilers!) and he knew at once that there was no point taking on this boy. It wouldn’t even be a challenge.

  ‘You can help if you want,’ he conceded. This kid looked as lonely as he was. Why wasn’t he at school? Had he been chucked out, too?

  ‘Thank you!’ The boy gave a big, shy smile. He spoke with some kind of accent. Maybe he was just here on holiday. Perhaps he didn’t even speak much English.

  Hal set off in one direction, the boy in the other. Soon he held up something and waved it at Hal - a Wellington boot. Hal didn’t find anything new for a while apart from the broken skeleton of what must have once been a gull, with a few tattered feathers still attached. But by the time he went back to the clothes-airer with only a bedraggled striped sock to add, the foreign boy had amassed quite a collection: besides the boot, he’d found a DVD case, a sodden tennis ball, another bottle and a dog-bowl. He tied the boot to one side of the airer, while Hal arranged the other things underneath. But now the tide was lapping at their feet, sucking at the pebbles. Their strange work of art would soon be taken back by the sea. It was daft anyway - pointless.

  ‘I go now,’ said the boy. He hesitated. ‘I watch you yesterday. When you make a big sand fish.’

  ‘Uh.’ Hal was trying to disentangle himself from the string. ‘Yeah. Saw you too.’

  ‘I come here again tomorrow. Hal, is your name? I heard the man call.’

  Hal nodded. ‘You?’

  Again the wide, shy smile. ‘I am Czeszka.’

  ‘Say again? Chesska?’

  ‘Czeszka. Franczeszka. Is Polish. Franczeszka Kazimierz.’

  ‘Uh?’ went Hal, and then, as if one image had been snatched away to be replaced by another, saw what he hadn’t seen before - that the face smiling at him wasn’t a boy’s, but a girl’s. She walked off fast, but turned to give him a friendly wave. He felt aggrieved, as if she’d deliberately set out to trick him.

  ‘I’ve been sleeping and resting all day,’ said Mum, on the phone. ‘And being waited on hand and foot. I’ll make the most of it, while it lasts!’

  There she was, Mum, talking to him in her normal voice. Everything would be all right.

  They chatted for a few minutes more; then Aunt Jude took over. ‘Oh yes - yes, he’s settled in fine, no trouble at all,’ she told Mum. He expected her to add, ‘Apart from scarpering down to the beach when I told him to stay in,’ but she didn’t.

  When she’d finished, she passed the phone back to Hal for a final few words. ‘Bye then, Prince Hal,’ Mum said. ‘Aunt Jude’s going to bring you up to visit on Friday or Saturday, so I’ll see you soon - but we’ll talk again tomorrow.’

  Hal went out into the garden feeling almost happy. Till his mobile made its plunking sound in his pocket. Message from Luke: U MIST GR8 MATCH WE WON 3-1 GREENY GOT HAT TRICK C YA.

  Gaaah! The luck of Jason Green, cocky little—Three goals! There’d be no stopping him now. Hal chucked his mobile right across the lawn, then had to go and retrieve it from among thorny rose-stems, spiking his hands. He didn’t bother answering. Typical Luke, that was, texting only to wind him up.

  Don was back earlier today and had started making curry: he was grinding spices, chopping up onions and garlic. ‘Not too much garlic, if you don’t mind!’ said Aunt Jude, kitchen assistant. ‘I don’t want to breathe fumes over everyone.’ She was going out after they’d eaten, to her Tuesday choir practice.

  Don’s curry was delicious, better than any curry Hal had ever tasted in his life - the spicy flavours bursting in his mouth and on his tongue, the meat succulent. Aunt Jude hurried off to the Town Hall, and Hal helped Don with the clearing up. Then, because the evening was so mild and still, they went to the beach. It felt different there on the shore as darkness fell and the town lights came on; as if the sea was whispering secrets for just the two of them to hear. The tide was far out, obeying the pull of the moon; and there was the moon, a sliver of it, throwing a glimmery path out to sea.

  ‘Clocks go back this weekend,’ Don said. ‘Then it’ll really feel like winter’s coming.’

  They walked all the way along the sands, climbing over the limpet-clad groynes, as far as the old lifeboat-house, a flint-clad building with a big concrete ramp sloping down to the beach. Hal went over for a closer look, though Don was reluctant. ‘I liked it the way it was,’ he grumbled. ‘Don’t know why they have to go - k! - messing about with it.’

  They wandered round to the landward side, where the changes were more obvious. There was a gravelled car park, with an electrician’s van parked alongside and two cars. In a big glass extension to the old building, three men were at work: one high on a ladder, the others working at floor level. Hal saw a shiny wooden floor, and zig-zag screens standing ready. This must be the new gallery, where Amanda Whatsit wanted to put Don’s paintings. That’d be cool, Hal thought; but all Don said, after one brief glance, was, ‘They’ll have to work round the clock to get that finished in time.’

  It was gone ten when Aunt Jude came home. By then, Don had fallen asleep in front of the TV news, and Hal had zapped to a different channel.

  ‘Come on, Hal, you should be in bed by now.’ Aunt Jude sounded a bit flustered. Don was still snoring gently. She went over and shook him awake.

  Hal thought she’d chivvy Don straight out of the house, round to the flat, but when Hal came out of the bathroom he could
hear them talking. They were in the kitchen, Aunt Jude’s voice low, Don’s still a bit sleepy.

  Afterwards, mentally replaying what he heard, over and over and over, Hal wasn’t sure whether he’d paused deliberately to listen, or whether Aunt Jude’s words had floated up to him.

  ‘. . . What if Hal finds out?’

  He heard that quite clearly, even though Aunt Jude seemed to be speaking in a quiet, urgent tone.

  Finds out what?

  A chill shivered through him as he stood. It had to be something about Mum, didn’t it? Something bad, something terrible? What if she’d died, died suddenly in hospital, and Aunt Jude wasn’t telling him?

  Willing the floorboards not to creak, he crept down the stairs on bare feet. The kitchen door was ajar, and through the gap he saw Aunt Jude moving towards the table, and sitting down; Don was out of view. Hal crouched at the turn of the stairs, ears straining so hard that they seemed to be stretched out like antennae.

  ‘—turn up now, of all times, with Hal here!’ Aunt Jude was saying.

  ‘Who’s turned up?’ Don’s words were muffled in a yawn.

  For all his concentrating, Hal couldn’t pick out the next bit; Aunt Jude had dropped her voice. He edged along towards the kitchen, alert, ready to dart back if anyone came out; his right ear was as close to the door-edge as he could get it without being seen.

  ‘—nice young woman called Valerie. Her first time tonight,’ said Aunt Jude.

  Not bad news about Mum, then. But still - he had to know what this was about.

  ‘So I chatted to her in the break,’ Aunt Jude went on. ‘She’s new to Ryton, just moved here. But she told me her husband lived here till he was twenty-one, then spent some time in Jamaica, where they met. He’s got family there.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ went Don, as if he didn’t see the point of all this.

  ‘I didn’t make the connection - why would I? - but when we finished he was waiting for her outside, in the car with two little girls asleep in the back. And she was keen to introduce me. Wesley! Wesley Prince! I nearly fell over. Tina’s old boyfriend!’

  ‘What, you mean he’s . . .’

  Hal couldn’t hear the rest of what Don said, but then Aunt Jude spoke again:

  ‘I’d never seen Hal till the funeral, remember. No, Tina’s never said, and I’ve never asked - it’s up to her whether she tells me or not. But as soon as I saw Hal, I knew it must be Wesley. Has to be.’

  The words got inside Hal’s head and zipped about like mosquitoes, dizzying him. They almost stopped him from hearing any more. He pressed forward. Concentrate. Keep still. Don’t miss a word.

  This Wesley she was talking about - his father - his father! He had to be - that was what Don had asked, wasn’t it? Aunt Jude had just said so - she’d seen him - spoken to him! Did they all know, did everyone know? The blood throbbed in Hal’s head, in his ears, even in his eyes. He’d managed to stand on his own foot, almost tripping; he extricated himself, and froze as the door creaked slightly, but no one noticed.

  ‘He and Tina were practically joined at the hip,’ said Aunt Jude, ‘that last summer before I went off to Portugal. So now what? Now Wesley’s here with his wife and family? Does he even know about Hal? Does she - Valerie, I mean? And should I tell Tina? Or not?’

  ‘Can’t you find out from this Wesley?’

  ‘I couldn’t do that! Go poking my nose in!’

  Don humphed. ‘Doesn’t usually stop you.’

  ‘But what if Wesley doesn’t know?’

  A pause, then: ‘Well, he ought to, didn’t he? If he’s got a strapping young son? It’s not fair to keep that from him.’

  ‘Mmm,’ went Aunt Jude. ‘I suppose you’re right. But that’s Tina’s business, not mine.’

  She got up from the table and started clearing up. What they said now was drowned by the gush of water, clink of crockery, and cupboard doors closing, but then Hal heard distinctly, ‘Anyway, I’d best be going,’ from Don.

  Hal darted, silent-footed, back to the stairs and up to the landing, where the banister rail hid him from view. Aunt Jude and Don came to the front door.

  ‘See you tomorrow then. There’s nothing you can do, so don’t lose sleep over it,’ Don said.

  ‘OK,’ Aunt Jude replied, in a Yeah, right kind of way; but then she said, ‘Thanks, Don,’ in a kinder voice. They hugged each other briefly, rather to Hal’s surprise, then the front door opened and closed, and Don was gone. Aunt Jude slipped the chain across and stood there for a moment, deep in thought.

  Hal couldn’t think why Don didn’t have a bed here, as he was around so much; but now his brain was on fast-spin, full of what he’d heard. He crept back to his room and sat on the bed.

  Wesley Prince. Wesley Prince, who had been Mum’s boyfriend. Who Aunt Jude said was his father. Had to be.

  With family in Jamaica.

  Prince Hal. That had always been Mum’s nickname for him; he thought it was her way of saying he was special, her prince. And she’d told him about the Prince Hal in Shakespeare’s play.

  Prince Hal.

  Was that because he might easily have been Hal Prince?

  10

  SEARCH

  Two o’clock in the morning, and Hal was awake. His brain was a knot of anger, confusion, excitement; his thoughts twined and tangled. He was too hot under his duvet, then he kicked it off and was cold. He was hungry, and thought of going down to the kitchen to find something to eat; next moment he thought he’d throw up. He was tired, utterly weary, but there was no way he could sleep.

  The night seemed to be lasting for ever.

  When Aunt Jude came upstairs after Don left, Hal had got into bed and pulled the duvet over himself, pretending to be asleep; he heard her come to his open door and pause there, then go to her own room. For a while he heard the burble of talk on her radio, until it was switched off and the house was in silence. Hal must have slept for a short while, but now he was fully awake, his new knowledge clear in his mind.

  Wesley Prince.

  His father. Mum’s boyfriend.

  Aunt Jude hadn’t actually said he was black, but he must be, for her to think he was Hal’s father. And he had family in Jamaica, and had met his wife there.

  Only now did Hal remember the young woman he’d seen at the beach, with two little girls collecting shells. She’d smiled at him in a friendly, interested way. What were the names she’d called out? Grace, one of them - what was the other? He hadn’t taken much notice at the time; just that they were black. And he hadn’t registered the easy lilt of her accent, but heard it now as he replayed the scene in his head. Jamaican, it had to be, like Addis in year ten, who exaggerated the way he spoke because it sounded so cool.

  How many Jamaican families could there be in Ryton-on-Sea, families with two young girls?

  Wesley’s wife. Wesley’s wife - Valerie, wasn’t that what Aunt Jude had said? And Wesley’s little girls. They must be.

  So those girls were his half-sisters? Weird that he hadn’t known they existed till now, and they had no idea that he did.

  The idea was like a bony finger jabbing at his ribs. He resented them for having a dad, when he didn’t. They had his dad.

  But—

  Why couldn’t Wesley and Mum have stayed together, if they were so keen on each other, like Aunt Jude said? Now it was all messed up. Mum with no boyfriend, Wesley with a wife and child. A Jamaican wife. Was that the problem with Mum? That she was white?

  Was Wesley racist? That was one of the things Luke had come out with. That Hal wasn’t black enough for his father to want him.

  Not black enough, not good enough.

  Hey, thanks, Luke. Thanks a lot. With friends like you—

  Fidgeting, unable to settle, Hal rolled over and back again, the duvet twisting round his legs. He kicked himself free, sat up and turned on the light. He’d go raving mad before daylight, at this rate.

  He could call Mum and demand that she told him what he already knew. ‘I know
about Wesley Prince,’ he’d say. ‘He’s my father, isn’t he?’

  His mobile was in his hand; he got as far as selecting Mum’s number, waiting for the ring tone. But what would she say back?

  ‘Yes, Hal, but he doesn’t know.’

  ‘Yes, Hal, but he didn’t want you. And he’s got a family now.’ (But did Mum know that?)

  ‘No, Hal, he isn’t. Whatever gave you that idea?’

  Which would be worse? What would he do?

  Anyway, she probably had her mobile turned off, in the hospital ward at night. He couldn’t leave a message like that on Voicemail. He cancelled the call and sat turning his mobile over and over in his hands.

  He had a father. At last. And his father was here in Ryton, quite close, not the vaguely distant Somewhere Else that had always been in his mind.

  What’d he do about it?

  Ask Mum. Tomorrow. He had to. Ask if it were true.

  But would she tell him? She hadn’t so far, had she? He’d asked and asked and asked, but never once had she said Yes, you’ve got a father, and his name’s Wesley Prince.

  So there must be some reason why she didn’t want him to know.

  Something bad about Wesley? Could that be it?

  What he’d do, he decided, before he let on that he knew anything at all, was find Wesley Prince for himself. Get a look at him. His wife was in Aunt Jude’s choir; she’d been down on the beach with the little girls. They’d be around. How hard could it be?

  Turning on the bedside lamp, he opened the drawer of the small cabinet. There they were, like a kind of promise: the marbles his father - Wesley! - had given Mum. He reached in without looking and lifted out the first one his fingers closed round.

  It was his favourite, the tiger’s eye, with its glowing amber colour and its darker centre. It was a wise and knowing eye that gazed at him steadily. I know, it said. I’ve always known.