It thumped off the ground, sending shock waves into his shoulder. He was beginning to regret taking the stupid thing and he wondered if he should leave it behind the hedge. It would be difficult to come back for it when the tide came in, though.
The government car, which always seemed to be parked in front of the house these days, had not yet arrived. He was pleased to know that he’d got the better of them. Turning, he went under the archway that was the entrance to the garden. He checked on the stream he’d fixed; the water flowed smoothly, straightly down to the sea. It was clearer now that the earth had settled, now that the worms and cigarette butts had been washed away. He scooped a handful into his mouth. It tasted of rust.
Pushing his way between the pines at the foot of the lawn, he arrived at the top of the cliffs. The headland curled away to his left and right like crab claws, peninsulas that belonged to his family but were never used. They were too near the sea for the deer, and the ground wasn’t good enough to grow anything other than rough grass. Owen Mór had once asked Philip’s father if he could put his sheep there. His father had said yes but retracted his offer when Francis convinced him that it wasn’t a good idea, that the animals would get in and ruin the gardens. Francis didn’t much like Owen Mór, because his blue-daubed sheep had a habit of jumping in front of the car on the way to town.
Philip went down the winding sandy path. It was steep, and he used the shovel to steady himself. The tide was out, leaving behind seawater-filled rivulets on the sand and a few jellyfish, their tentacles plastered to the beach, dying slowly. Philip stopped to look at one; it lay half in, half out of a pool. There was no sign that it was alive, but he wasn’t sure how to tell. Did jellyfish breathe? Lifting the spade as high as he could, he cut the creature in two. It was like slicing through trifle, each side stayed intact, nothing spilled out, no blood and guts, it just wobbled for a moment and was still. In fact, unless you looked at it closely, you couldn’t even see that it had been cut in half at all. Philip brought the spade down again and cut it into quarters, then into eighths, clearly, symmetrically, as if he was drawing a mathematical diagram. To finish the job, he severed the tentacles where they met the body. He imagined the water coming in and lifting it, intact at first, then separate, each piece floating off in a different direction, on the tide.
As he walked on, he looked back a couple of times, but he couldn’t distinguish his jellyfish from the others now. The water was still a long way out when he reached the slippery rocks that formed the base of the island. They were covered in bladder-wrack; the oily sacks popped under his feet. He slowly climbed up to where the baby mussels were, the only surface with a decent foothold.
When he and Kate came out here with their parents, his father told him that Philip the First had made the flagstone path that wound from the rocks to the chapel. Philip the First was his ancestor, the one who’d built Dulough. Philip’s father always said “PhiliptheFirst” as if it were one word. He would chuckle afterwards, amused at making him sound like one of the kings of England. His father took particular care to tell him stories about Philip the First, as if he would be more interested because they shared a name. As a result, this Philip was much better versed in the history of Dulough than his sister.
The path was overgrown, and some of the flagstones had broken in two where the roots pushed up underneath. The church had been built right in the center of the island, but now it was imperceptibly nearer the far end, as the waves that crashed against the seaward side slowly eroded the rocks. Through neglect, and because of the battering it got from the wind and rain, the church had fallen derelict. The roof was long gone, and grass grew amongst the
The government car, which always seemed to be parked in front of the house these days, had not yet arrived. He was pleased to know that he’d got the better of them. Turning, he went under the archway that was the entrance to the garden. He checked on the stream he’d fixed; the water flowed smoothly, straightly down to the sea. It was clearer now that the earth had settled, now that the worms and cigarette butts had been washed away. He scooped a handful into his mouth. It tasted of rust.
Pushing his way between the pines at the foot of the lawn, he arrived at the top of the cliffs. The headland curled away to his left and right like crab claws, peninsulas that belonged to his family but were never used. They were too near the sea for the deer, and the ground wasn’t good enough to grow anything other than rough grass. Owen Mór had once asked Philip’s father if he could put his sheep there. His father had said yes but retracted his offer when Francis convinced him that it wasn’t a good idea, that the animals would get in and ruin the gardens. Francis didn’t much like Owen Mór, because his blue-daubed sheep had a habit of jumping in front of the car on the way to town.
Philip went down the winding sandy path. It was steep, and he used the shovel to steady himself. The tide was out, leaving behind seawater-filled rivulets on the sand and a few jellyfish, their tentacles plastered to the beach, dying slowly. Philip stopped to look at one; it lay half in, half out of a pool. There was no sign that it was alive, but he wasn’t sure how to tell. Did jellyfish breathe? Lifting the spade as high as he could, he cut the creature in two. It was like slicing through trifle, each side stayed intact, nothing spilled out, no blood and guts, it just wobbled for a moment and was still. In fact, unless you looked at it closely, you couldn’t even see that it had been cut in half at all. Philip brought the spade down again and cut it into quarters, then into eighths, clearly, symmetrically, as if he was drawing a mathematical diagram. To finish the job, he severed the tentacles where they met the body. He imagined the water coming in and lifting it, intact at first, then separate, each piece floating off in a different direction, on the tide.
As he walked on, he looked back a couple of times, but he couldn’t distinguish his jellyfish from the others now. The water was still a long way out when he reached the slippery rocks that formed the base of the island. They were covered in bladder-wrack; the oily sacks popped under his feet. He slowly climbed up to where the baby mussels were, the only surface with a decent foothold.
When he and Kate came out here with their parents, his father told him that Philip the First had made the flagstone path that wound from the rocks to the chapel. Philip the First was his ancestor, the one who’d built Dulough. Philip’s father always said “PhiliptheFirst” as if it were one word. He would chuckle afterwards, amused at making him sound like one of the kings of England. His father took particular care to tell him stories about Philip the First, as if he would be more interested because they shared a name. As a result, this Philip was much better versed in the history of Dulough than his sister.
The path was overgrown, and some of the flagstones had broken in two where the roots pushed up underneath. The church had been built right in the center of the island, but now it was imperceptibly nearer the far end, as the waves that crashed against the seaward side slowly eroded the rocks. Through neglect, and because of the battering it got from the wind and rain, the church had fallen derelict. The roof was long gone, and grass grew amongst the
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