They stand together looking at the horizon, holding hands.
‘It’s getting too cold,’ he says.
Reluctantly she turns away, and they begin their walk down the beach. He crouches over a large stranded jellyfish, a pudding of flesh almost a metre across, with a mob of whelk boring into it.
‘Is it dead?’ he asks. ‘They’re eating it.’
‘I don’t think so,’ she replies. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Can it feel?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’
He picks up a whelk by its conical shell. With nothing to attach itself to, the sucker squirms about blindly. He puts it back on the jellyfish and watches as it begins to dig into smooth, clear meat. He thinks: it must have a mouth in its foot. Then he straightens up and limps onwards. Pain curls through his foot and shoots up the muscles of his lower leg. He turns back, and looks at his mother.
‘Alright,’ she says, ‘we can go back.’
But they stand still for a while. There is no-one else on the beach. They are alone with the white light, the noises of sea and wind, the long converging lines of the shore. Am I alive or dead, he asks. Is my mother alive or dead? Can we feel? He hears his mother’s voice reply: I don’t think so. I don’t know.
* * *
It is a hot morning. He sits staring at the patch of light falling through the open door. When he doesn’t blink for a while, phantom colours emerge from the rectangle of light and drift across it. When he does close his eyes, the lids sting pleasantly. His mother is working in the kitchen, humming. It is a wordless song about being tired, and wanting things she doesn’t have, and about having things she doesn’t want.
He turns back to the rectangle of light. He can feel its heat on the surface of his eyes. It is a dangerous desert, and he is flying safely in a boat above it.
He is distracted by the irregular beat of an engine. It approaches the cottage and pulls up with a sharp squeaking of springs. His mother falls silent, and a door creaks open. They wait. Then, as the visitor’s shadow falls across his patch of light, a reek of unwashed flesh enters too.
It is hard to see the man who stands at the door, because of the glare behind him. He is tall and has long, wild hair. He clears his throat and asks, ‘Would this be the home of Caitlin Turner?’
The boy scrambles to his feet. He looks around, to see his mother approaching. She drops the plate she holds – it breaks with a dull sound into two uneven pieces – and then she stands quite still.
‘Caitlin,’ says the visitor, ‘Caitlin – it’s been . . .’ His voice tails off, and he starts again, almost pleading: ‘It’s been a long time.’
She bends down and picks up the pieces of the plate. She straightens and says, ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’
He comes in then, his smell overpowering the small room. She looks at him in dismay.
‘God, Arthur, you’re a mess,’ she says. ‘How on earth did this happen?’
He gestures lamely, lets his hand fall.
‘I don’t know,’ he replies. ‘One thing after another . . . I lost control, I suppose, quite badly.’
As if driven by the same impulse, their heads turn to the boy.
‘Is he the one?’ asks the old man.
She nods: ‘His name is Luke.’
The man and the boy study each other. There is something wild about the man’s face and eyes, his skin is brown with ancient dirt, his fingers are long and bony; they tremble when he raises his hand and scratches his chin. It frightens the boy.
‘Luke,’ says his mother, ‘this is your grandfather, Arthur Turner. You can call him Arthur.’
The old man grins desperately, showing gaps in his teeth. His eyes are moist. He advances on Luke, holding out his hand. Luke shrinks back, and his grandfather stops.
‘I suppose not,’ he mumbles. The grin vanishes. ‘It’s all too much for him.’
Luke limps to his mother’s side. Half his fear is her speech, her voice: usually when she speaks, it is as if she moves through deep water, or is caught dreaming in a heavy rain. Now it comes out too quickly and tastes sour. The old man has changed her into a different mother.
Her hand goes down to his shoulder and stays there. The grandfather fills the room with uncertainty. He seems to be casting about, trying to find his bearings.
‘Caitlin,’ he says, ‘I suppose people have told you that he is frighteningly beautiful.’
‘People around here don’t talk. They don’t talk to me. But I know that he is.’
Her hand tightens on his shoulder, to protect him from this dangerous idea. Again, there is a terrible silence. Then his mother says, ‘I suppose you’d like some tea.’
‘I don’t suppose you have any brandy?’
‘There is no alcohol,’ she replies bluntly.
‘Ah, well. Tea then, thank you.’
They move into the kitchen, where there is a worn table and four chairs. Caitlin opens both windows as wide as possible, and the back door as well. She fills the kettle and switches it on.
‘I’d forgotten,’ Arthur Turner remarks, ‘how charming this place is.’
She ignores him, and keeps her back turned as she gathers what she needs. He makes no further attempt at conversation until the tea is ready. All the while, a mist of pain builds up in the air. Luke knows that it isn’t his own, though he can feel it.
Caitlin pours for her father, and her son, and then for herself. The old man takes a sip and grimaces. ‘Rooibos tea,’ he says, ‘of course.’
She watches him expressionlessly, and waits. He takes another sip. ‘It’s not bad, really,’ he adds hastily. Still she says nothing.
He abandons the effort to communicate with her then, his eyes rove about the room, aimlessly picking out details: the cheap stove, the paraffin fridge, the blue shelves, the stacks of chipped plates, the patchy distemper, the forlorn etching on the wall. He sips his tea, and she sips hers. Perhaps a century passes in this way, while Luke studies the grain of the table surface, as he has many times before, the waves of dry brown colour that converge and then shake themselves free of each other and march in endless ranks from horizon to horizon.
Arthur puts down his empty cup, his hand trembling.
‘No quarter given, Caitlin. I should have expected it. I’m sorry, I made a mistake. I was stupid to come back here.’
Her shoulders hunch; she leans forward and asks, ‘What was a mistake, Arthur? Coming here like this, or staying away for five years? I’d really like to know.’
‘I didn’t come here to fight with you,’ he replies, rising, his lower lip trembling visibly. As he does so, his chair falls over backwards; they both wince as it crashes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeats, bending over to pick up the chair. He straightens, his face white under the grime. ‘I’ll leave you now. But please bear in mind that it was you – it was your decision – it was you who refused all contact, afterwards, after it happened.’
His eyes stray to the boy. It appears that he wants to say something to Luke, a struggle of indecision passes over his features. Then he turns round and leaves the kitchen heavily.
‘That is true,’ Caitlin mumbles, not to Luke; but she remains hunched in her chair.
The door of Arthur Turner’s car slams shut. There is a prolonged silence. The car door creaks open again.
‘I think he’s coming back,’ says Luke.
His mother