out the Anti Bact and wipes the
counter again, and then uses the cloth to wipe
her fingers. Will the chemicals eat away at her
skin? She doesn't care. The layer underneath
will be clean and new. No foul gremlin germs
to seep inside her. She hates it in here, every
single second of it, but she's got to stick it out.
She needs to earn whatever she can, and there
aren't any other part-time jobs round here. Not
out of season.
But one day she'll really be something. She'll
get a top job doing something important and
worthy and she'll drive up here in a flashy
black car and she'll stick two fingers up at
Barry Ludd.
* * *
Fern sits round the side from River's View , on
the edge of the concrete slipway. She is
watching two guests in matching yellow jackets
try to navigate the dinghy out towards the
middle of the river. It's warm again, last night's
rain already dried away, so they're going off
fishing. Dad's told them the best places, but
they keep drifting back towards the mud-slugged
shore, as if the boat is trying to force
them home.
'Use both oars equally.' She cups her hands
around her mouth, calling to them across the
water.
She's heard Dad shout that at guests a
thousand times, but rowing is harder than it
looks, especially when the tide is really
running. Beginners usually give up and come
back in again, full of exclamations about the
pull of the undertow.
Dad used to row guests himself on a Sunday –
he even took Alix and her mum when they stayed
– but he couldn't do it now. Every step 'outside' is
a giant effort, her and Mum holding him up, all
of them drained – and somehow more defeated –
when it's over. Dad was ill before he was ill, the
disease already eating into him before the
symptoms showed. Fern thinks about how bad
things can be pulling at you, even when you don't
know they're there. The undertow of life.
They have a small shingle beach just to the
right of the slipway. Amongst the beiges and
browns, the sun catches now on a glint of glass.
It glitters up at Fern, bottle-green starlight
amongst the mud and stones.
She jumps down onto the beach, lifting the
glass and wiping the dirt away with her thumb. It
is smooth, hazy, beaten soft. When she was small
she used to pretend things like this were jewels
washed in from an underwater castle. She made
the castle once, all sequins and tinfoil, placing the
glass treasure in a magic circle round the outside.
She was the mermaid princess, the glittering
turrets her home. She can picture that Princess
now, diving deep into the silent depths, her long
hair streamed like reeds. She'd loved the silence of
this underwater fantasy. Loved the freedom as
she moved through it. In her real life, even now,
she cannot swim.
Pushing her hand in her jacket pocket she
checks her mobile for about the millionth time.
No messages.
No missed calls.
Loosening her mind to a fresher fantasy, she
lets herself imagine him coming to find her,
jumping down from the slipway, his trainers
crunching on the stones as he lands. She won't
turn round. It's more romantic for her to be
gazing out across the water. He'll stand behind
her and put his hands over her eyes just like
someone in a film. ' Guess who,' he'll say.
' I guess you,' she'll reply. Her voice, as she
says this, will be dreamy and soft. And she'll
turn round and he'll be standing there,
probably smiling, arms stretched out to pull
her close.
And then she hears a car scrunch in round
the corner, and her loosened-up mind seizes
tight with panic. What if it's really him?
She squints in the direction of the sound. A
door slams. Footsteps.
'Hi.'
It isn't Aaron – it's Alix.
'Hi.'
'Thought I'd drive over and check that you
survived last night. Are you hung over?'
'I didn't drink much.' What did Aaron tell
her? Maybe it's him who really wants to
know how she is?
'I felt like death when I woke up. I'm never
touching alcohol again.' Alix wrinkles her nose
as she jumps down onto the shingle and stands
beside Fern.
counter again, and then uses the cloth to wipe
her fingers. Will the chemicals eat away at her
skin? She doesn't care. The layer underneath
will be clean and new. No foul gremlin germs
to seep inside her. She hates it in here, every
single second of it, but she's got to stick it out.
She needs to earn whatever she can, and there
aren't any other part-time jobs round here. Not
out of season.
But one day she'll really be something. She'll
get a top job doing something important and
worthy and she'll drive up here in a flashy
black car and she'll stick two fingers up at
Barry Ludd.
* * *
Fern sits round the side from River's View , on
the edge of the concrete slipway. She is
watching two guests in matching yellow jackets
try to navigate the dinghy out towards the
middle of the river. It's warm again, last night's
rain already dried away, so they're going off
fishing. Dad's told them the best places, but
they keep drifting back towards the mud-slugged
shore, as if the boat is trying to force
them home.
'Use both oars equally.' She cups her hands
around her mouth, calling to them across the
water.
She's heard Dad shout that at guests a
thousand times, but rowing is harder than it
looks, especially when the tide is really
running. Beginners usually give up and come
back in again, full of exclamations about the
pull of the undertow.
Dad used to row guests himself on a Sunday –
he even took Alix and her mum when they stayed
– but he couldn't do it now. Every step 'outside' is
a giant effort, her and Mum holding him up, all
of them drained – and somehow more defeated –
when it's over. Dad was ill before he was ill, the
disease already eating into him before the
symptoms showed. Fern thinks about how bad
things can be pulling at you, even when you don't
know they're there. The undertow of life.
They have a small shingle beach just to the
right of the slipway. Amongst the beiges and
browns, the sun catches now on a glint of glass.
It glitters up at Fern, bottle-green starlight
amongst the mud and stones.
She jumps down onto the beach, lifting the
glass and wiping the dirt away with her thumb. It
is smooth, hazy, beaten soft. When she was small
she used to pretend things like this were jewels
washed in from an underwater castle. She made
the castle once, all sequins and tinfoil, placing the
glass treasure in a magic circle round the outside.
She was the mermaid princess, the glittering
turrets her home. She can picture that Princess
now, diving deep into the silent depths, her long
hair streamed like reeds. She'd loved the silence of
this underwater fantasy. Loved the freedom as
she moved through it. In her real life, even now,
she cannot swim.
Pushing her hand in her jacket pocket she
checks her mobile for about the millionth time.
No messages.
No missed calls.
Loosening her mind to a fresher fantasy, she
lets herself imagine him coming to find her,
jumping down from the slipway, his trainers
crunching on the stones as he lands. She won't
turn round. It's more romantic for her to be
gazing out across the water. He'll stand behind
her and put his hands over her eyes just like
someone in a film. ' Guess who,' he'll say.
' I guess you,' she'll reply. Her voice, as she
says this, will be dreamy and soft. And she'll
turn round and he'll be standing there,
probably smiling, arms stretched out to pull
her close.
And then she hears a car scrunch in round
the corner, and her loosened-up mind seizes
tight with panic. What if it's really him?
She squints in the direction of the sound. A
door slams. Footsteps.
'Hi.'
It isn't Aaron – it's Alix.
'Hi.'
'Thought I'd drive over and check that you
survived last night. Are you hung over?'
'I didn't drink much.' What did Aaron tell
her? Maybe it's him who really wants to
know how she is?
'I felt like death when I woke up. I'm never
touching alcohol again.' Alix wrinkles her nose
as she jumps down onto the shingle and stands
beside Fern.
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