The Last Weekend (32 page)

Though the sky was black as a Pennine graveyard, Ollie insisted on everyone having breakfast outside, as if we’d suffocate if we stayed indoors. He wasn’t far wrong. When I went in, to help Daisy take the croissants from the oven, it was as though I were drowning in lava, hot slurry closing over my head. This wasn’t the moment to discuss our future so I stuck to small talk instead. I was just saying something about the weather forecast when we heard a high-soprano scream. Both of us rushed outside.

Em and Milo were already in attendance, Milo pulling Bethany onto his lap while Em asked her where it hurt. She was crying too hard to speak but pointed to her arm. We huddled round, as if for a baptism: a screaming infant with a wet head cradled by a solemn adult. The wasp sting looked minuscule — a pinprick — but Bethany was enjoying the drama too much to calm down: an audience of grown-ups, raptly attentive, and she centre stage. Ollie, in a panic, rushed off to fetch ointments, sticking plasters, antihistamines. The only sensible one there was Em, who tried to squeeze out the sting. What is it with kids and pain? You’d think, from Bethany’s screams, no human had ever been stung by a wasp before.
Come on, boy, walkies,
I said, to get Rufus away. Exposure to screaming brats is bad for dogs. They’re sensitive animals.

Ten minutes’ tantrum later, Bethany calmed down. After that, no one except me felt like croissants. But the episode had a happy outcome, persuading Milo it was time he headed home.

‘Do you
really
have to?’ Daisy protested. But after last night she had more sense than to push it. The girls ran off to help their dad fetch the bags.

‘Making a run for it, is he?’ I said, sitting next to Ollie.

‘Yes, to beat the traffic,’ he said, missing the point.

‘Nasty bugger.’

‘Yes, it must have been a big wasp, the poor girl got quite a shock,’ he said, missing it again.

Ten minutes later, we gathered in the drive. There were kisses all round, but Milo, to avoid suspicion, gave Daisy just a peck on the cheek. As we stood waving them off, I watched her for signs of emotion. Was that a tear in her eye? It didn’t matter now. One less rival, I thought, as Milo’s Saab turned out of sight.

‘Game of cards?’ I asked.

Ollie shook his head and suggested a walk by the sea instead. I muttered about having to leave soon.

‘There’s time. I’ll have you back within the hour.’

I’d no great enthusiasm for the idea, but with a long journey ahead of us, it made sense to give Rufus some exercise.

‘Let’s take swimming trunks, in case,’ one or other of us said.

Em, upstairs packing and not best pleased, declined to come, as did Daisy, who was already making us sandwiches for the journey. With Archie asleep after his night wanderings, that left just the two of us, as Ollie doubtless intended.

The weather wasn’t MGB weather. But Ollie, resurgent, had the hood down before I could protest, and Rufus, his head hanging out the side of the car, appreciated the open ride. Hills and hedges went by while Ollie rattled on. It could have been university again and him driving us to a golf course or country pub. Mostly he talked about his father: that last holiday and the fun they’d had before the drowning. I kept my eyes closed till we reached the sea and he cut the engine. I wanted to love him, as I’d always loved him. But he had made himself a stranger with his lies.

The beach was the same one we had cycled to. But under cloud, in the seeping light, the place looked unfamiliar. Those tar-black wooden huts housing oily winches — had they been there the previous day? And the fishing boats tilted to one side? And the concrete blocks thrown like giant dice in the dunes, the gaps between them too narrow for German tanks to pass through — shouldn’t such fortifications have been removed by now, seven decades on? A roar came from the tideline, where the water was kicking up a storm. Rufus scuttered off into the marram grass, puppily excited by the scent of other dogs, though there were none to be seen, no humans either. The light was weary and the beach smelled of decay, but I marvelled at the emptiness. On this overcrowded island, on the last weekend of summer, we had the coastline to ourselves.

I knelt down to unlace my trainers, while a barefoot Ollie headed off towards the dunes. The mist keeping us under wraps was partly fog and partly sea spray. To the north, just visible through the haze, were a stripy lighthouse and red-brick houses tumbling into the sea; to the south, a grisly power station and a comical water tower; in between, unpeopled dunes and shingle. Even the gulls had deserted the place, off for richer pickings out at sea.

We followed Rufus along the ridge of the dunes. There was nothing to stop us descending to the beach — no wartime barbed wire or vertical drops. And a walk by the shoreline, over flat white stones with clumps of sea cabbage, would have been easier than slogging through sand. But we kept to higher ground, as if a view of the sea put us in command. Not that the sea looked dangerous, not exactly. But its animation was surprising, each fresh collapse shuffling the stones. Last night’s storm had died from the wind but was living in the water — in the waves, grinding the shingle, and the black, capricious depths beyond.

‘I love this place,’ Ollie said. ‘If I’d time, I’d look for a house here.’

‘Make time,’ I said. ‘Ring some estate agents.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

We were sitting in a sandy hollow looking out to sea. I couldn’t let it pass again.

‘You don’t have cancer, Ollie. I’ve talked to Daisy. I know.’

There was a clump of marram grass beside him. He yanked at it till a blade came free, which he brandished like a sword.

‘I’ve tried telling Daisy. She won’t listen.’

‘You told me you
hadn’t
told her.’

‘I asked you not to bring it up, that’s all.’

‘She says there’s probably nothing wrong with you.’

‘That’s what she wants me to think.’

‘It’s what the consultant says. It’s the truth, Ollie.’

He stood up, looming over me.

‘Whose side are you on?’ he shouted.

We were alone in a peaceful hollow at the edge of a long beach, not a soul for miles, the sea stretching blackly to the fogged horizon. And there was Ollie, shouting, a spear of marram grass in his hand.

‘It’s not about sides,’ I said, grabbing the spear from him, aware how absurd we must look, though there was no one to see.

‘You just accused me of lying!’

‘A man close to death can’t ride a bike like you did yesterday.’

He paused a moment, then reached down to touch my shoulder and said, in a softer voice: ‘It’s because you’re my friend that you don’t want to believe the worst, Ian, and I appreciate that. Come on. Let’s hit the beach.’

We scrambled down the sand cliff to the shingle, where Rufus had found a dead cuttlefish, which he brought over and dropped at my feet like a bone. I threw it in the sea for him
to swim for and stood at the tideline, letting the waves slide froth-tipped to my feet. Ollie’s stubbornness didn’t surprise me. He hated losing arguments or being caught out. I felt better for confronting him, nevertheless, purged and refreshed. The closer to the waves I stood, the wetter the waft of sea spray on my face. There was a breeze, too — the energy of pounded water — where the dunes had been windless. A good blow, my mother would have called it. I felt sorry for Ollie, exposed as a fantasist and denied the finale of our bet. But I was pleased I’d had my say.

One plunge into the water was enough for Rufus: he dropped the cuttlebone, shook himself out and ambled off. The froth swirling round my feet was feathery and brownish white, like the dead owl I’d found. The waves looked taller than they had from the cliff — but choppy, irregular, not surfers’ waves. Above them, through the mist, a fishing trawler was heading in, gulls flying from it like pennants. The sea must have been rough when the crew set sail at dawn, but here they were, safely returning.

‘Fishing boat,’ I shouted, but Ollie, twenty yards off, couldn’t hear because of the waves, so I pointed and gestured instead. Behind him, over the dunes, the sky was splitting up, a blue-black crack — the colour of agapanthus — breaking the monotonous grey.

‘What?’ he shouted, at my side.

‘There’s a fishing boat. See?’

‘I thought you meant the buoys.’

He pointed left and right offshore. Beyond the breakers, a hundred yards apart, two white heads were bobbing, like the buoys we’d seen on the other beach.

‘Who’d moor a boat here?’ I said. ‘Unless the buoys are to warn against rocks.’

‘There are no rocks.’

‘Why are they there, then?’

‘To denote safe bathing.’

‘It doesn’t look safe,’ I said.

‘Of course it’s safe. I remember swimming here with my father. They’re probably the same buoys as then — white, see. All the modern buoys are orange.’

The story seemed a typical Ollie story. I held my tongue.

Rufus scurried between us, in the water. I looked at my watch: 12.13 it said, which should have told me.

‘So, did you bring your trunks?’

‘Shit. I left them in the car. Did you?’

‘Who needs them? There’s nobody around.’

‘You’re not serious?’

‘I will if you will.’

‘Go on, then.’

We began stripping off.

‘We must be mad,’ I said, trying not to look at Ollie’s cock. I was still undressing when he stepped into the violet water.

‘Anyway,’ he shouted, wading in past his knees.

‘Anyway what?’ I shouted, dropping my boxers on the cairn of clothes.

By the time I looked up, I’d already lost him in the breakers. It seemed amazing he had got out so far in such a short time, all the more so when I tried to follow. The shallows were knotty as a mangrove swamp, with rips and swirls I had to hack through. The shingle sharpened as it fell away, slashing my feet, till my soles found a shelf of sand. Cold swirled round my balls and chest. My body wasn’t up to this. I thought of retreating. But the tide was dragging me out, and surrender seemed the easiest course.

I let go and pushed off, through the foothills towards the peaks. It was impossible to swim straight out — the rip tide
pulled diagonally — but by gripping the water and hurling it behind me I crawled to where I’d last seen Ollie.

After the struggle to reach them, the breakers, when they came, were quickly surmounted: a few slaps round the head and mouthfuls of water, and I was through.

Behind the break point I found Ollie, in a trough of calm.

‘It’ll be easier now,’ he said.

‘Liar,’ I gasped, but it was true: the first buoy was only twenty yards away, and the swell looked steady and benign.

We were bobbing alongside and looking in each other’s eyes. I can’t remember who spoke first.

‘Let’s settle it then.’

‘What?’

‘We’ll start from one buoy and race to the other. Winner takes all.’

‘Swimming’s not my forte.’

‘Nor mine. We’ve an equal chance.’

‘Which stroke?’

‘Any. Freestyle. Are you on?’

‘Sure.’

We shook hands as we bobbed there.

The waves swept across us from behind. Floating on our backs to conserve strength, we drifted towards the first buoy, the start line. I felt calm, energised by the cold, ready for action. But then, just as we reached the buoy, Rufus appeared. It was stupid to have assumed he wouldn’t follow us. If I’d said ‘Sit, wait’ back on the beach, he’d have sulked and whined but obeyed. But I’d forgotten the magic words.

‘Rufus, good boy,’ Ollie said. He seemed less bothered by his presence than I was and suggested we let him paddle with us as we raced. But I didn’t want the distraction or the worry. This was no place for dogs. Rufus had to go back.

A thin black branch was floating nearby and I hurled it for
him to pursue. It died a few yards away, and he quickly retrieved it. With me beside him in the water, he seemed to find our fetch game enthralling. But after cursing and shoving him shore-wards several times, I finally showed him who was boss. Defeated, he turned his baleful eye from me and paddled back.

‘Ready?’ Ollie said. We were by the first buoy, him with his right hand pressed against it, me on the other side with my left.

‘Ready.’

‘Go.’

I can’t honestly claim to have been expecting a ‘Steady’ in between, but the speed of Ollie’s getaway caught me unawares. He was only doing breaststroke, and by opting for crawl I should have drawn level, but even flat out I failed to close the gap. As it widened I consoled myself that he’d gone off too fast. The second buoy was still a good distance away, with the waves — sweeping diagonally to the shore — more against than behind us. But though the conditions were the same for both of us, Ollie was coping far better. When he turned and took in how far behind I was, I thought he might let up. But winning wasn’t enough for Ollie. He wanted to humiliate me.