‘I don’t know how you could do such a thing,’ barks Mum, marching Tilly back to the car.
Tilly doesn’t speak. She can’t wipe the smile off her face and I’m wondering whether when I kill her, I’ll bother to hide the evidence.
She scratches her head and turns to stare out of the window, but I can still see the reflection of her smile.
We drive home in silence and, suitably, it begins to rain, driving a fine sea mist over the windscreen and merging low cloud with the oncoming night.
I lie awake for hours that night thinking dark thoughts about Tilly, deckchairs, parasols, Mr Fogg and then even darker thoughts about Tilly.
I sleep badly, waiting for the awfulness of morning. On balance I’d rather deal with violent deckchairs than public humiliation.
‘So – Mumsy-wumsy’s a singer, is she, Tom?’ says Jacob before I’ve even taken my place on the bus.
I stare rigidly through the window.
‘And Daddy too,’ he says, and then he breaks into song: ‘I’m walking oooooooon sunshshshshshineeeee – ooooooh – ooohhhh …’
Belt up, Jacob, I think. But I don’t say anything.
Tilly’s talking in a loud voice to her friend, Milly. ‘Well, I thought why should I have to suffer? It’s their fault, they can suffer.’
‘But it’s not really Tom’s fault,’ says Milly. ‘And it must be horrible for him.’
For the first time ever I feel something vaguely warm towards Tilly’s best friend.
Eric glances over the top of Extra Physics for Lively Youngsters. ‘Sorry, Tom,’ he says. ‘It was funny though.’
I don’t reply. I feel completely betrayed.
It gets worse.
‘Had a good time in the bathroom, Mr Perks?’ says someone.
‘Are we going to have a singing mayor?’ asks another.
Mr Bell doesn’t mention it all the way through ICT, until we get to the very end.
‘So, as Tom’s parents’ illustrated so well last night, we do all need to be very careful what we put on the Internet. It can come back to haunt us.’ He beams at me and I try really hard not to run out of the room screaming.
I walk home, which takes ages, and Eric walks with me because he’s essentially empathetic.
Jacob comes too. He’s not empathetic. He’s curious and he can’t resist bringing up last night’s humiliation at every turn.
‘Walking on sunshine … oo-ooooh! How does it go, Tom?’ says Jacob. ‘What’s the next bit?’
The rain is slightly less than torrential and slightly more than drizzle.
‘Yo – Tom,’ Jacob says. ‘Yo! LOL – yo! Or is it both bits at once? Like … YOLO! Isn’t that what your dad says?’
We splat through puddles and around the ancient overflowing gutters and drains of the town.
‘So, Model Village, how does it feel to have such idiots as parents?’
‘Don’t,’ says Eric quietly behind me.
‘Why not?’ says Jacob.
‘Because it’s unkind,’ says Eric.
‘Oh!’ says Jacob. As if he’s surprised by the news.
I’m so obsessed by the whole Tilly public-humiliation thing that I’ve forgotten all about the beach.
Skirting the front of the castle we get a view over the sea. A tiny group of people are huddling under an umbrella. ‘Who’s that?’ says Jacob. ‘What are they doing?’
We cut down across the castle green. It’s soggy – boggy actually – and my school shoes are not built for it – so now I’m wet from the top down and the bottom up.
We stop by the pier and look at the beach. No one’s lolling around on deckchairs, but Mr Fogg’s there in his full yellow sea-going gear. Also, the mayor in a skimpy cagoule, and a couple of reporters. Next to them a white pedalo lies on the sand with two quivering girls shivering next to it.
The mayor’s children. They don’t go to our school, but I recognise them. They’re about our age.
The rain beating on my hood means that I can’t hear anything, so I drop down the steps to the sheltered patch of beach under the pier, and take off my hood.
Over the scrunching sound of Jacob’s feet on the sand I can just about hear the conversation.
‘… so I have absolute faith in the beach, proven by my willingness to put my own children, my very own flesh and blood, in one of our 100% safe Bywater-by-Sea pedalos. They’ll be out on the sea every day of the summer season …’
Mr Fogg nods in agreement, although he looks slightly less happy than the mayor.
‘He’s not sending them out in this – is he?’ says Eric, indicating the rain that has now moved on to torrential. ‘They’ll drown.’
‘That would be interesting,’ says Jacob.
We watch the two girls clamber into the pedalo and Albert Fogg push them towards the sea. The journalists are frantically snapping away and I’m wondering if we shouldn’t run to the rescue when a wave breaks over the front of the pedalo. The first girl leaps out of the boat and rushes back to the sand, shortly followed by the other.
The mayor argues with them, but they shake their heads in fury and stomp up the beach.
‘Phew,’ says Eric.
‘Pity,’ says Jacob.
The next day is sunny, actually warm, and most people run around outside.
‘Art Club?’ says Mrs Mawes.
‘Um,’ I say.
It turns out that Art Club is exactly what I feared. An hour of free time wrecked by cutting and sticking. Tilly’s there, with Milly and a bunch of friends.
I am the only boy over the age of seven.
‘Now, Tom – winner of the Sculpture on the Beach contest – I’m sure you don’t need any help from me. Here are some materials, let’s see what you can do.’
I stare dumbly at the pots of glue, paint and glitter, and wonder if life can actually get worse.