In the early morning sunlight, everything shines. Silver light glints off the sea, reflects in the pools of water on the ridged sand. The tide has gone down again. I can hear voices: faint laughter. Tim and Isla are swimming together, their heads dark like seals. I watch them swim out side by side and then stop, turn on to their backs to float for a moment, and come together in an embrace. I look away.
I know Finn’s awake and has seen them too.
Last night he was happy; he swam with her, went with her to get help. But later, by the fire, and in the night, it was obvious that it’s Tim she wants to be with, not him.
Is it always like this? The two who are happy, the unhappy third?
I wriggle out of my sleeping bag. The air is cool. I stoke up the fire with driftwood.
Finn watches me. ‘Put on smaller bits of wood to begin with, to get it going,’ he says.
‘OK.’ I don’t usually like people telling me how to do things, but he’s right, it does work better. Flames lick along the thin strips of wood, the fire begins to rustle and spit as it comes to life.
‘Do you want a walk with me, before everyone wakes up?’ Finn asks.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’d love that.’
We don’t mention the fact that Tim and Isla are already up. I pull on my boots and my thick jumper. Everything else, I’m wearing already: kept it on all night. I stretch out my spine, ease out the stiffness in my shoulders.
We walk across the sand in the opposite direction from Tim and Isla, keeping our backs to them. The jeep stands forlornly in the middle of the beach. We walk past it.
Finn stops. ‘Hang on.’ He runs back, opens the bonnet and leaves it propped up. ‘Let the morning sun and the air dry it all out a bit,’ he explains when he catches up.
It’s still quiet. The seabirds are only just beginning to stir. Black and white oystercatchers stand in rows on the small island of rock offshore, all facing the same way. ‘They look as if they’re doing some sort of morning ritual,’ I say. ‘A salute to the sun.’
‘They’re warming themselves up,’ Finn says.
The birds fly off as we get nearer, and their peep-peeping cry echoes mournfully over the bay.
‘Why do they sound so sad?’ I ask.
‘They don’t,’ Finn answers. ‘Not to me, anyway. Perhaps it’s because you are sad.’
I don’t know what to say to that.
‘Talk about it,’ Finn says. ‘I’m good at listening.’
We walk slowly the whole length of the sandy bay and first I tell him about Mum and Dad, and about what will happen when I go home. ‘Dad will move out,’ I say, and my eyes are full of tears again.
This is how it is going to be, and I’ve got to get used to it.
‘It’s tough when parents mess up,’ Finn says. ‘And there’s nothing you can do about it. It’s hard seeing how flawed they are, I guess. When you’re a child, you don’t really think about your parents making mistakes, getting things wrong, wanting different things for themselves. It’s part of growing up, having to face that they’re just human, and fallible.’
‘But they do their best,’ I insist. ‘I know they love me. Mum hasn’t done anything wrong.’
‘No?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There are always two sides to a story. Things are not simply right or wrong. One person’s fault. They are shades of grey, rather than black and white.’
We stop at the rocks and sit there, staring out to sea. A cormorant is diving for fish, surfacing, going under again. Finn gets the binoculars out of his pocket. ‘There’s a diving bird out there too,’ he says. ‘A black-throated diver. Gavia arctica. Quite rare. Take a look.’ He passes me the binoculars.
It’s hard to see in the brightness of the sun. I can make out two birds, dark coloured, one smaller than the other.
‘Who taught you the names of everything?’ I ask.
‘My parents, to begin with. Now I teach myself. Look things up. I like knowing the names. It makes me pay particular attention to the detail of each bird, or plant. What makes it special and individual.’
‘You’re like my dad!’ I say.
‘Is that a good thing or a bad thing?’
‘Neither,’ I say. ‘It’s neutral. A shade of grey, I mean.’
He laughs. ‘You learn fast,’ he says.
I pass the binoculars back, sit quietly next to him while he watches the water.
‘It’s very comforting being with you,’ I tell Finn. ‘You make me feel calm, and steadier, somehow.’
As soon as I’ve said that out loud, I’m remembering Finn in the exhibition hall at Martinstown. Finn upset and angry, not calm at all. And then I realise that I’m getting to know him, that’s all. I’m seeing him as a whole person, beginning to understand him, see his strengths and his weaknesses and accept it all. That’s what you have to do to get closer to someone. Not imagine it all, make it up in your head: a fantasy person.
Is that the mistake I made with Sam? Did I make up a person in my head, and it wasn’t who he really was at all? Or was it simply that I could see something in him that no one else saw: the real Sam underneath all the other stuff?
‘There’s this boy,’ I start. ‘Sam.’ I pause. I watch a tiny blue butterfly flit across the rocks. It settles, spreads out its wings in the sun.
Finn looks at me. ‘Yes?’
‘Can I tell you about him?’
Finn nods. ‘If you want to.’
‘Sam – I met him at the bus stop – quite random really. He went to the boys’ school, not my one. He was older than me. Good-looking. Funny and original and surprising. He was doing A Level sciences: he was really clever. At least, clever about things like physics and geography; mad about the stars and planets and the origins of the universe and all that sort of thing. He could have done anything he wanted. Could have gone out with anyone he wanted, but he chose me.’
Finn frowns slightly. ‘Why wouldn’t he? You’re clever and pretty and interesting too. I don’t know why you are so surprised when people like you.’
I let that sink in.
‘So? What happened?’
‘There was a much darker side to him I didn’t see at first. I gradually realised I couldn’t tell what he really thought about me. He’d be friendly and lovely one day, and then he wouldn’t phone me for ages – I didn’t know what was going on. His family was messed up – I mean, I know mine is too, but not like that. His was in a whole different league. There wasn’t enough food for the kids to eat even – he ended up living with his nan half the time. I worked it all out gradually. He wouldn’t tell me anything. I suppose he wanted to keep it all hidden. Like he was ashamed of it.’
‘You’re talking about him in the past tense.’
‘Am I? Well, it’s all over, that’s why. The night after he passed his driving test – he borrowed his gran’s old car, as a kind of celebration. She didn’t even know, I realised afterwards. Freedom, he said. At last we can get out of this dump!
‘To begin with it was fine, until we got out of town. He said he was fed up with going along at thirty. He wanted to see how fast he could go.
‘I was terrified. He wouldn’t listen to me. I didn’t know what to do. It was late by then. There wasn’t much traffic luckily. But then this car came out of a side road, and we had to slow right down again and it made him mad. He started swearing and revving the engine, and then he swerved out to overtake, but there was a bend in the road . . . and another car coming – I thought we were going to die.’
‘But you didn’t. Obviously.’
‘No, we didn’t die.
‘We got past the car in front, just – and the car coming the other way – it had to swerve and we didn’t crash head on like I thought we were going to – but that car lost control, and it went off the road – there was a huge crash – breaking glass, the most horrible sound –’
‘Hey,’ Finn says, ‘Kate – you don’t have to tell me –’
‘But I do, I really want to.’ I pull myself together, take a deep breath. ‘I screamed at him to stop. I don’t think he would have done, if I hadn’t screamed so much. He’d have kept on driving. He was silent, and shaking and scared. I said we had to go back and help. I dialled 999 and I think the person in the car behind us must have done that already, because the ambulances came so quickly and the police and everything.’
‘Did he die? The bloke in the car that crashed?’
‘It was a woman. No, she didn’t die. She broke her leg, and hurt her back, and she’ll be in hospital for ages.’
‘And Sam?’
‘They arrested him for dangerous driving. I had to be a witness. It was awful. But I couldn’t lie.’
‘No. You couldn’t. You did the right thing. None of it was your fault, Kate.’
I’m shaking all over again. I stare at the sea, at the waves rolling in, one after another after another.
‘And last night, on the beach – that’s what was wrong with you? You were remembering all this?’
I nod.
‘So, is he in prison? Sam.’
‘No. He got bail – and he’ll probably get a community order in the end – on account of his promising A levels and school reports and messed-up family and things. He’s lucky, I suppose.’
Finn doesn’t say anything for a while.
‘My parents made me promise not to see him again,’ I say.
‘And you’re surprised? Honestly, Kate! They love you and want to look after you, of course!’ He looks at me. ‘Did you want to see him, after all that?’
‘I don’t know – yes, sometimes I did. Still do. It’s confusing. I didn’t stop liking him, even though what he did was awful.’
‘More fool you,’ Finn says.
‘That’s a bit harsh,’ I say.
‘The truth is sometimes.’
I bite my lip, trying to stop myself crying.
Finn shuffles closer; he puts his arm round me for a quick hug. It’s all I can do to stop myself leaning on him, putting my head on his shoulder and sobbing my heart out. If he’d given the slightest sign, I would have done. I’m longing for someone to hold me close, to make me feel safe and wanted.
But he doesn’t. He takes his arm away; it’s the briefest of hugs.
The blue butterfly’s still sunning itself on the rock. Its wings are such frail things, like pale blue tissue with veins of brown and flecks of gold along the edge.
‘Common Blue, female,’ Finn says. ‘Variation found on Western Isles.’
‘Sam won’t be able to go to university,’ I say. ‘It’s such a waste. He’s clever enough to study astronomy or astrophysics or whatever he wanted to do; he could have a brilliant career. But his family won’t support him. His nan doesn’t have any money. He’ll have to get work of some kind. And now he’ll have a criminal record.’
The butterfly folds it wings: the undersides are pale fawn and brown, not blue at all. It spreads them again, takes off. For a second it alights on Finn’s hand: we watch the way it trembles. It flies off again: tiny and perfect and resilient. The pale blue wings merge into blue sky so I can’t see it any longer.
‘He’ll be all right,’ Finn says. ‘He’ll find a way, if he wants it enough. You should forget about him now.’
‘It isn’t that easy,’ I say.
‘No. But you have to decide to do it.’
I lie back against the sun-warmed rock and close my eyes. It’s all very well for him to say that . . .
We stay there a long time without speaking. Finn has his back to me. He’s still staring out to sea.
‘What about you?’ I ask him. ‘Have you got a story about some girl?’ I hesitate, then come straight out and ask. ‘You really like Isla, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘But she has a thing for Tim, as you can see.’ There’s an edge to his voice. He clearly doesn’t want to talk about this with me.
I don’t push it.
At the other end of the beach, smoke from the fire spirals up into the clean air. They’re probably all up and cooking breakfast by now. I’m suddenly ravenously hungry.
‘Shall we go back?’ I say.
‘You go. I’m going to stay here a bit longer. Might walk over to the next bay. I’ll see you later.’
I glance at his face. That closed look: I recognise it because I get like that too, sometimes. I hesitate for a second: I could offer to go with him. But I don’t: he so obviously wants to be by himself.
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Thanks for listening to me.’
He doesn’t reply.
I jog slowly back along the sand. I’ve got better at it, what with all the cycling and walking I’ve done these last couple of weeks. It’s a beautiful morning.
My feet sink slightly into the soft sand; the wind’s at my back; the sun is dazzling on the sea.
I’m full of sadness, about Sam, and about my family, but right now, I realise, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere but here.
It’s a new, surprising thought.