Really, both his parents lived in half-houses, which made sense, because when they didn’t hate each other because of sex, they had lived in one whole house. Simon didn’t like that everything was smaller since the separation — which was what came before a divorce — and his dad had no garden and at his mother’s they had to share with the lady upstairs who owned all the flowers, which wasn’t sharing — it was putting up with someone being greedy.
And his dad had Sandra in his halved house — up the stairs with the worn-out carpet and this is your room for when you come: wardrobe with a creaky door and sheets that smelled funny. Sandra made his dad scared. He would try and hide it, but that just meant that Simon would look and have to pretend he didn’t see when his dad’s face got frightened and sad. It was to do with kissing. After kissing. Or during. Not at first, but always it would happen. Like the fat man getting undressed and then being no use in the water, disappointing himself.
He was finished with trying to swim — the fat man — and creeping up to his towel, most of him red with the cold and his legs perhaps not exactly doing what he expected, due to being tired.
Simon watched.
The man didn’t like being watched.
Simon watched more.
His dog snuggled and pushed, then smoothed back to stillness.
She could be perfectly, amazingly still. The moment before he bent to lift her she would drop into this peace, would be only waiting for him and peace. It tingled his fingers.
The man was unpeaceful, doubled over and his towel flapping round his legs as he fussed inside it and his wet trunks appearing, clinging down his shins. He’d still be wet when he put on his trousers. He hadn’t been enjoying himself.
Adults didn’t know how to enjoy anything. They did stuff and then wondered why they’d bothered. They couldn’t decide what they wanted.
Simon’s dad would think that they ought to all squash on the sofa in the lounge at his place and watch DVDs, but it was awkward. There’d be proper adventures and good bits in the films, but then the top man and top woman would have sex, or at least kissing. And Simon would be caught between his dad — who’d miss breaths during the kisses — and Sandra — who was made of bigness and curves and trying not to laugh. The three of them would have to stay put until the sex stopped. Then his dad would ask if anyone wanted tea, or crisps, or a can of something and he’d go off and be sort of hiding, while Simon and Sandra pretended that he wasn’t, and then he’d come back and kiss both of them on the cheek, but still be not happy.
Simon’s dad was with Sandra because of sex.
His mum was not with anyone because of sex.
Simon knew sex made you scared: scared and sad. And angry as well.
Sex made you want to go and want to stay, which was impossible. It wasn’t a way of getting enjoyment.
Simon felt his dog shift again. He looked at her and she looked back, gave a broad yawn. Before she could close her mouth again he set his thumb between her teeth and so she gave him a tiny, hot, secret bite. They did that — it had a meaning for them.
She coiled, uncoiled and scrambled until she was set and organised and on her feet, ready for goings-on, braced. Simon stood — his legs cold where she wasn’t any more — and threw her ball, saw her leap into a half-spin and pursue it. They were heading away from the fat man and his troubles. Simon decided to hate him and gave him a farewell stare. The man stumbled. Simon wondered if being ignored would make someone stumble as much as being stared at, but didn’t check.
Next he wondered why people would be naked with each other and do what they did when they were so ugly. Or, after the first time, it wasn’t clear to him how they’d keep on. Simon knew that he’d never be able to, wouldn’t want to. He wouldn’t be that kind of idiot, either.
He rubbed his hands together. In movies and on telly, people did that to show they were cold.
He was.
Forgot his gloves.
Like his own kind of idiot.
It would take twenty minutes to get home, which wasn’t long. He could add another ten or fifteen minutes with dodging about, but there wouldn’t be much point.
Up ahead, birds were fretting in a mob not far offshore. Simon slipped and trudged closer until he could see they were mainly terns — the spiky, small ones, sharp wingtips — hovering and peering and then throwing themselves into the water like something angry. Like being furious. They would spring up to the surface again with thin silver trembles of fish in their beaks. So there must be a shoal trapped underneath and they were raiding it, killing. Bobbing by itself was a tall, round-headed bird, pale and noticeable. Simon wasn’t sure what it was until it started a long, clumsy flap across the wave tops and then eased into the air: mournful, winding upwards, huge and slow. A young gannet. Which shouldn’t be here. They were for cliffs and up-high places. Its problem was that it was young and didn’t know what it should do.
The dog rattled up and dropped the ball, which Simon threw without caring about where, so that it splashed into the shallows. He was concentrating on the gannet as it wheeled in a long, cream reach. He saw the wings hinge, swing and tuck themselves back until the bird was brought to a clean point before it sleeked into the sea and disappeared. It stayed under for ages, was better than the others and strong against the current and okay.
His dog was snapping at the waves, baffled, eyeing the ball as it wagged and teased, floating. She didn’t want to get her feet wet: she’d never had wet feet before.
Some of the terns grew anxious.
The gannet emerged to sway on the waves and eat. It belonged in the water and in the air. It was an expert. Simon and his dog were just land things, which seemed limiting, although Simon could think better than a bird’s thinking. He could think that he was fast in the brain and cleverer than any type of animal probably. He made plans. Which was why he knew he had to tell his parents about the gannet. It would rescue everything. Simon would stand here as he was against the salt wind and he would concentrate and teach himself how to get correctly excited about the bird and how to pass on wildlife information. Then he would go home and be what got their attention. His dad was interested in nature and his mum wanted him to have the benefit from lots of good experiences, and the gannet story would satisfy them both.
But his dog wanted the ball, worried at the shoreline, yipped and pounced, and either this or his coming to make her quiet lost him the gannet. It stretched and pounded back into flight and turned from them both, whiter and whiter as it shrank, left.
So there wouldn’t be enough to say.
This was his dog’s fault, but Simon’s, too.
His dog scampered to him, put her paws against his shins to greet him and he shut his eyes for a moment. Then he looked at her, found her, let her find him. She whined, because he wasn’t rubbing her ears, or fussing at her yet. He drew back a step and she let him go, before sitting — perhaps surprised — in front of him, liver-and-white and brave and wonderful.
He kicked her.
Never mind.
The worst thing he had ever done.
Never mind.
The one short cry she made hit into him and then she was quiet and crouching and batting against him and her head dropped and her tail uncertain and she touched him and touched him and touched him and he knelt and held her and whispered he was sorry and held her more and rubbed his face next to hers and let her lick it.
Never mind.
His one hand was cupped under her ribs, and the whole of who she was and would be was in there and was moving and was all for him. She would let him do anything and was his.