This Isn't the Sort of Thing That Happens to Someone Like You Part 4

New York.

New York.

Okay. So there are these guys, these two guys, and they're standing by the side of the road, waiting for something. What are they waiting for? We don't know what they're waiting for. Not yet. That's part of the suspense, okay? Okay. So they're standing there, they're looking kinda tired, kinda downbeat, y'know? Yeah. Regular-looking, I guess. The one guy, he's older, he's sorta late-forties, early-fifties, getting a little thin on top. Big mustache. No, forget the mustache. But he hasn't had, like, a shave, not in a while. Okay. And the other guy, he's a bit younger, he's in his twenties, he's kinda good-looking but rough around the edges with it, y'know? Also, they've both got this kinda old European look about them, nothing obvious, not the mustache or anything but just enough that when they start talking we ain't surprised to hear they got these sorta like thick Polish accents, y'know? You with me? Right. Only they can't both have the Polish accents, otherwise how come they'd be talking in English at all, right? So let's say the younger guy it's more of a Slovak accent or something. I don't know. They got to have different enough accents that we accept them talking English when it's obvious they don't talk all that much English, y'know what I'm saying?

I told you already, New York. It's set in New York. Right.

So these two guys, they're standing by the side of the road and they're waiting for something. We don't know what they're waiting for but they're waiting. That's the f.u.c.ken suspense right there. They both got bags with them, these little plastic dime-store bags, with like a lunch-sack and a flask of coffee and maybe some work-clothes in them. So they look like working men, okay? They look like they've been working all day. So we think maybe they've finished work and they're waiting for a ride home. And the camera pulls back a bit and we see a bunch of people waiting with them, same type of people, same clothes, bags, whatever, so we get a little context. But it's clear that these two guys are, y'know, the guys. And it's clear they've been waiting a while, because as the camera pulls back a bit more and we see the fields and farmhouses in the background we can see it's getting near that kinda summertime dusk that comes real late in the evening, like nine or ten in the evening. Five to ten, whatever. f.u.c.ken magic hour.

Fields and farmhouses, right. Yeah, like I said already: New York, Lincolns.h.i.+re. Right. Lincolns.h.i.+re, England. They got the original New York right there. Little two-bit place. Coupla houses and a shop and a long straight road that goes all the way through to Boston. Right, Boston, Lincolns.h.i.+re. I told you this already. Flat fields. Bitter wind. Crows and s.h.i.+t in the trees. The works.

So. Anyway. We got these establis.h.i.+ng shots: our two guys, the wider group, the empty fields, the skies and all that, right? So then we give it some of that testing-the-audience's-patience European-style time-pa.s.sing, y'know what I mean, all that with the first he scratches his eyebrow, then he sniffs, then a tractor goes past real slow. All that. To establish the mood! To make sure the audience knows these guys are tired as all s.h.i.+t, and get them wondering what's with the waiting. Okay? And then we're into the dialogue. This piece is all about the dialogue, you with me? So first up the one guy goes, *It's cold.' Right? And we just had a location caption saying, *New York,' so we're kinda making the connection ourselves and hearing it as *New York, it's cold.' Right. You with me? That ring any bells for you? Okay, so then they talk about the weather a little bit, and what time it is, and then they start b.i.t.c.hing about how the supervisor or whoever is taking so long coming back with the mini-van to pick them all up and take them back to their place of residence. And the one guy says something about him never being early. And the other guy says how he's always late. You getting this yet? No? They're waiting for their van, right? Van, man, whatever. We get right into the dialogue and they're all talking about how hard the day's been, like picking whatever it is they've been picking in the field all day long, like cabbages or something, I don't know, onions and celery and all that, some real back-breaking dawn-till-dusk s.h.i.+t and now the supervisor has left them stranded while he's all off down in the village or whatever. The village. Right. Exactly. You're with me now. So they're talking about how they're sick of it, the working conditions, the money, all that. And the audience get to wondering about the dialogue, like how come it sounds so awkward and disjointed, and like, all right already so these guys are foreign but that don't really explain it, there's something else going on, something kinda funny, and some of these lines sound kinda familiar. All right. So the younger guy's doing most of the b.i.t.c.hing, but the older guy, he's the wise one, he's giving it all that you-do-what-you-gotta-do, and the younger guy's not having it so he gets to saying that's it, that's enough already, he's out of there, he's leaving today. And then the audience are like, right, now we get it. Okay? You with me? They don't got no words of their own, they're just saying all this second-hand s.h.i.+t they heard on the radio, and they're making us think of the new New York, the one we all know about, the one which is, like, built on immigration and exploitation and the hard f.u.c.ken labour of the huddled ma.s.ses like our two friends right here.

f.u.c.ken I don't know, Wiktor and Andrej. Whatever. Right.

So they keep talking, and we're still with the Euro-style f.u.c.ken longueurs and like meaningful glances and s.h.i.+t. Y'know. Old man rides past on a bike, real slow. Birds rise up from the trees and circle round and settle back in the trees. All these long pauses, like, signifying the pa.s.sing of time. Because they're waiting for this ride back to their residence, right? And the one guy, he's still talking about how he's sick of this work and the money and everything and he'd rather be back home, and the older guy's all, like: there's no work back home! What would you do? You'd be walking the streets drinking knock-off vodka and getting ripped off by the cops! Y'know, basically the same s.h.i.+t migrant workers have always talked about. But still, everything they're saying is like lines we've heard before, y'know? One of them says he's going if he has to walk, the other one says something about it not being that far, the one of them goes he came looking for a job. All that. And we're taking it like a game now, this is we the audience I mean, like trying to recognise s.h.i.+t. But then we're thinking, well, hold up now, this don't make no sense. How come these guys don't got their own words for these things? How come they're talking all this borrowed s.h.i.+t? Right? So then we get to thinking, wait a minute now, so maybe the joke's on us. Maybe we're hearing all this second-hand cliched stuff because we can't really hear what these guys are saying. We see them standing at the side of the road and we're like, right, yeah, we know this one, migrant labourers, tired and weary, getting paid s.h.i.+t, getting ripped off, taking it in turns to sleep in the same bed, sending money home, the engine room of the modern economy, all that headline c.r.a.p. But we don't know s.h.i.+t. We really don't know. So if we were to stop and listen to them talking for a minute, we wouldn't even hear what they were saying anyhow. This is the f.u.c.ken point which is being elaborated before the audience's very eyes, y'know?

I mean, talk to me about appropriation, right? The city don't even got its own name! And here are these two guys standing in the original New York! Y'know?

Right. Anyway. So. Meanwhile it's pretty much dark, and our two guys are still standing there. They smoke a cigarette, they drink a bit of coffee from the flask, some kids drive past and shout some kinda nasty s.h.i.+t at them. All that. And while we're getting the hang of all this the-joke's-on-us kinda stuff, we don't hardly notice that they've started talking about some friend of theirs, this other migrant guy who's died in a like tragic fire at some other place of residence, and how are they going to get to the funeral, and what clothes can they wear, and does anyone even know how to get word to his family. Right? And by the time we do notice, they've quit talking about it anyway. So that's another twist for the audience right there: how is it we were too busy thinking about the meaning of what's going on with the dialogue to even notice that these two guys were having some individualistic s.h.i.+tty f.u.c.ken narrative in their own lives? Which just goes to prove the point, right? Well, it do, don't it?

So. Anyway, that's about it right there. Yeah. Their ride never shows up. They pour out some more coffee and the one guy spits it out and goes, *Is cold.' That being the first line of dialogue we heard, meaning they're trapped in some kinda Beckettian loop or whatever. Yeah. We fade out and roll credits or whatever.

Of course it's f.u.c.ken conceptual. What do I look like to you?

French Tea.

Sutton-on-Sea.

I was wiping tables. It was quiet. We hadn't done many lunches, and they were all gone. There was only that woman in, with a tea. She was talking on, the way she does. I could see the floor needed mopping but I didn't think I could do it while she was there. There was a swell on the sea, and a rainstorm pa.s.sing over to the south. You could see the windmills really going for it, catching the light from somewhere. The only people out on the beach were the ones walking their dogs. She was saying how that was a proper pot of tea I'd made her. Going on the way she does. The usual about how you don't always get a proper pot of tea these days, and how some places they don't even use a pot. *Just dump the bag straight in the mug and expect you to fish it out yourself,' she says. *Not like this,' she says. *This is a proper pot of tea.' It's never even that clear who she thinks she's talking to. I give her a nod or a smile now and again but that only seems to confuse her, so mostly I let her get on with it. It's not like she's not said all this about the tea before. I could probably have said most of it word for word.

*I went to London once,' she says, *and this young man made me a tea using the water from a coffee machine, a coffee machine, I couldn't believe it, he used the hot water from a coffee machine and filled up one of those bowl-shaped mugs, hot water mind you, it wasn't even boiling, it was hot water, and he put the tea-bag on the saucer and just left it sitting there.' I was doing the condiments by then. Most people take that as a hint but she doesn't. I collected up all the salt and pepper pots and checked them over. *The water getting colder and colder and the tea-bag just sitting there on the saucer doing absolutely no good to anyone, and there's me standing at the counter watching him,' she says. I took all the lids off the tomatoes and topped up the ketchup. She was getting a bit heated. It was usually about now that other people would notice, if they were in, and start moving away. She says, *I told him, I said do you mind, could you please, please put the tea-bag into the water, please, what on earth are you doing, are you making me a cup of French tea there?'

She more or less said that all in one go. It got her quite out of breath. It usually does. She said about the young man asking her what French tea was, and how she'd told him that in England we make tea with boiling water and we make d.a.m.n well sure the water stays hot and that whatever it was he was doing it looked like something they'd do on the Continent. *I went to France once,' she says. She looked out the window when she said it, peering over the sea as if she could see land. She said she went on a day trip there, and that was how they made their tea, and she didn't much care for it. There were some other things she didn't much care for but she didn't go into details. Or at least she did, but she mumbled them under her breath, as if they were too shameful to say out loud.

All the dishes were done by then, and the condiments. I was wiping over the menus. The wind must have changed direction. The rain came up the beach and against the windows. I could see the dog-walkers making a run for it. One of them came charging in the door and I had to tell him to leave the dog outside. He just stood there without ordering anything, dripping on the floor. I was glad I hadn't done the mopping. The woman carried on talking, and I could tell he was trying to work out if she was talking to him or not. He figured it out soon enough. *I've never bothered going back, I'm not much of a one for travelling,' she says. *What's the point of going away? You only have to come back.'

The man didn't really know where to look, I could tell. I told him the rain would blow over soon enough and he nodded.

*All these people jetting off all over the place,' the woman said, still rattling on. *I don't know what they think they're going to find. It's all the same. People are the same. And you can't get a decent cup of tea. Not for love nor money. This is a decent cup of tea. In a pot. Proper china. Fresh milk. It's not rocket science. But that man just stood there looking at me, asking me what I meant, and all the while the tea-bag was just sitting on the saucer and the water was getting colder and colder. I ask you. Really.'

The rain stopped and the man went out. His dog came bounding over and shook all the water off while the door was still open, so that went all over the floor. I went and put the door on the catch, and turned the boilers off, and started cas.h.i.+ng up.

*Take my daughter,' she says. *She's off working in some country or other. Doesn't seem to have broadened her mind. She's been gone nearly a year now and she's barely even written. Don't even rightly know where she is. And you can bet your bottom dollar she's not getting a decent cup of tea. This is a decent cup of tea. This is a proper cup of tea. This is what you want to expect when you ask for a tea. A pot and a jug and some good china. It's important to know what to expect. You expect to get what you expect. You don't get that when you go away. You don't know what to expect. Leaving the bag on the saucer like that, with the water going cold. And you only have to come back.'

The sun was out for a minute, and the sea was s.h.i.+ning, but there was another shower coming in. I started filling the mop bucket, and turned a couple of chairs over. She started getting all her bags together. She shook her head a few times, as if she was annoyed with something.

*Listen to me going on,' she said. The way she says it, it sounds like that's really what she means. What she wants. But I had things to be getting on with.

Close.

Gainsborough.

She wouldn't tell Patricia. She'd decided that before even saying goodbye, before she'd stood there and listened to his footsteps crunch away through the gravel. What was there to tell anyway. It was only talking.

And he'd approached her first. When they were standing in the reception room, holding their information leaflets and waiting for the tour of the Imperial Palace to begin. You're English right, he'd said, and she'd nodded, and he'd asked if they might swap cameras for the morning, for the duration of the tour. Which she hadn't understood straight away. He wanted his picture taken, he'd explained, with his camera, and he wanted to return the favour. Which was no sort of favour at all because she didn't like being in her own holiday photos. She knew what she looked like.

It'll save us swapping back and forth every time, he'd said.

It had seemed rude to say no, once he'd asked. And there had been other people standing there, other people he could have asked, but he'd asked her. Which was something.

He was in j.a.pan for three weeks, he'd told her. Tokyo, Kyoto, Osaka. The whole shebang. Spending his army pension, because he figured what the hey it's just sitting there and he happened to have this time on his hands. He was between jobs, he said, smiling in a way which was surprising for such a big man. Boyish was the word she thought of, although she didn't think he was any younger than her. Ex-US Army Engineers, so he'd seen a few countries in his time but had never been to j.a.pan, always wanted to. Been working in a repair shop the last few years, welding, but the work had dried up. Living in Duluth, Minnesota, which when you figured all the countries he'd been through it was funny how it wasn't a million miles from where he'd started out. Good place to be, and it was handy for where his kids lived now.

He'd told her all this before the tour had even started, and in return she'd told him that she was a school secretary from Gainsborough, Lincolns.h.i.+re a like the artist, she'd said, although it's no oil painting, and she'd been surprised when he laughed a and that she was only here for a week. He'd done more of the talking, it was fair to say.

And when they'd introduced themselves, just as the tour began, he'd held out his hand for her to shake. Which she hadn't been expecting. He had a very large hand. He was really quite a large man, he looked sort of like a rugby player or something and she could see even from where she was standing that none of it was fat. Shaking hands with him had made her feel sort of pet.i.te. Which she certainly wasn't used to.

Wade, he'd said. Elizabeth, she'd replied.

That room though. If they were going to have that many people waiting in there for the tours to begin, they should have had a fan or something. Air-conditioning. It was too hot, really. Close.

He'd asked her to take the first picture almost immediately, as the group was walking across the great expanse of white gravel, the crunch of their footsteps swallowed up by the hot, still air. He'd been asking where else she was visiting while she was here, if she'd been out of Kyoto at all, and she'd said yes, there were day trips organised as part of the package she was on: to Nara, Himeji, Hiros.h.i.+ma. She'd felt awkward mentioning Hiros.h.i.+ma, as if he might have felt some kind of a.s.sociation. Oh yeah, he'd said, I went to Hiros.h.i.+ma, day before last. That was something else. Awesome. And he'd made this long, loud sigh, as if he was trying to clear stale air from his lungs. Not really a fun trip, but you kind of have to, he'd said, looking at her. Waiting for her agreement, which she'd happily given, nodding and saying oh absolutely I think so. Which was when he'd looked round at the first of the palace buildings and suggested getting a picture right there, standing and framing himself against it while she lifted his camera to her face.

And if she does tell someone about this when she gets home, not Patricia but someone at least, she'll say that this was when she first noticed, properly, what he looked like. There was the moustache, of course, and the sheer solid size of the man. But there was something else, something soft and quiet in his face and his eyes, something that contrasted with his loud talk and his oversized hands. It was nice, looking at him like that through the viewfinder.

They'd changed places then, as the rest of the group moved away, and she'd felt her already flushed face colour further as he'd looked at her through her camera, and wished she'd been wearing a different outfit. Something cooler. Something less pink. And something other than that pair of trousers. Patricia had told her before that they didn't work a they don't do anything to help with your size is all I'm saying, she'd said, the only time Elizabeth had worn them in the office a but she'd got up in a hurry that morning and they were the first thing that had come to hand, and the whole outfit had looked nice in the air-conditioned hotel room, had looked cool and elegant and English-roseish. But now, standing for a picture she didn't want taken anyway, she just felt hot, and pink, and fat. And so why did she even think he might have been interested. She wasn't seventeen any more. Not by a long way.

The tour guide had already started by the time they'd caught up with the rest of the group. His Imperial Majesty would arrive from long journey in ox-drawn carriage, she was saying, p.r.o.nouncing ox-der-awn-car-riage very precisely, as if it was essential that they understood. She described the entrance building behind her, with its low flight of steps and receding series of empty rooms lined with painted silk screens and tatami-mat floors.

She'd felt Wade nudging her. How d'you find life in Gainsborrow? he'd whispered. She'd been a bit embarra.s.sed that he was talking while the guide was talking, but still.

It's Gainsborough, she'd whispered back, and he'd put his hand over his mouth and made an apologetic face, which was nice that he thought it was important. Sorry, he'd whispered; how's life in Gains-bor-ough, splitting the word up the way the tour guide had done with ox-drawn carriage, which was maybe a bit mean but very funny as well the way he did it, and so then it had been her turn to put her hand over her mouth, to hide her laughter. It's not bad, she'd said, it's not the centre of the universe but it's a nice place to live. He'd held up his hands when she'd said that. Hey, he'd whispered, we can't all live in the centre of the universe, can we? It'd be a bit crowded if we did; and that had made her laugh again, and this time one or two people had turned around to look.

They'd clicked very quickly, that was the thing. That was something else that was new.

So, the guide had said then; please now to the Oi-ke-ni-wa Garden. And everyone had turned and followed her across the gravel, except that by some silent agreement Wade and Elizabeth had waited and lagged a short way behind.

Wade and Elizabeth. It had a ring to it, but what was she thinking.

She'd asked him if he liked living in Minnesota, and he'd said, sure it was fine, it was home, and he'd mentioned again that it was good to be near to his kids. He'd asked her if she enjoyed being a school secretary, and she'd said she supposed there were worse jobs she could be doing. He'd laughed, and said that was true enough, and she'd asked about his children. You mentioned your children were nearby, she'd said: are they at university or something? Surprising herself even as she said it, because she didn't always find small talk easy but this time she had. Which had made her think.

He'd looked at her, and she'd realised straight away that she'd missed the point. No, he'd said, they're too young for that just yet. They're living with their mother.

She could have died. Right there. Really.

Oh, she'd said. I'm sorry. I didn't think.

No, it's okay, he'd said. It was a while ago now. These things happen, you know how it is. He'd made a face, a sort of knowing frown, as if to say I'd rather not go into details but I'm sure you can guess. She wasn't sure that she could. The thing kind of got out of hand in the end, he'd said. The moment had kind of pa.s.sed. She nodded slowly, in a way which she hoped looked like sympathetic recognition. You got children? he asked.

No, she said, no I haven't.

He looked like he was waiting for her to add something, but she didn't. Because what would she have said. Because what else was there to say.

The other people on the tour had all been younger than her and Wade, and she'd wondered how it was that young people these days seemed able to travel anywhere in the world that took their fancy. This was just one holiday among many for them, and the ones who didn't know each other already were asking about it; none of them saying where you from?, she noticed, but rather where you been? and where you headed? One of them, a tall American girl in a sleeveless top and a pair of sensible walking shorts, all long brown limbs and neat blonde hair, had turned to Wade and said hey how's it going, as the tour guide led them through the garden to the next talking point, and Wade had said hey, good, thanks in reply. Leaving Elizabeth a bit stranded as they started a conversation of their own.

It was a beautiful garden. There was a lake, a large pond really, with a low arched bridge at one end, and a pebbled sh.o.r.e, and a stream winding down towards it from a stand of bamboo. There were the usual clipped and twisted trees, and carefully placed rocks, and mossy seating areas. The whole garden felt natural and artificial at the same time, and she wondered if there were hidden meanings to the arrangement which you were meant to decode. She'd wanted to say something to Wade about it, but he'd still been talking to that girl, asking her where the best temples in Cambodia were a the girl had been to Cambodia, of course a and she couldn't catch his eye. She'd waited for them to finish their conversation, and when she'd realised she'd been standing there too long she'd moved away a little, looking at the bridge on the far side of the lake, looking at the tour guide, looking at the palace buildings and the other people in the group. Because it didn't matter if he wanted to talk to someone else. Because why would that matter to her. She stood off to one side, holding his camera, waiting. Like some sort of she didn't know what. Spear-carrier. Spare part.

That girl though. It must be sunny all the time where she was from, judging by how tanned those long slim limbs were, the carefree freckles on her face. She must have never lost a night's sleep over anything, she'd thought, and been surprised by her own bitterness. Because was this who she'd become, already. She tried to remember, and she couldn't, when she'd last been able to wear shorts, or anything without sleeves.

What sort of a name was Wade anyway, she'd found herself thinking.

So, please, the guide had said then; please, this is Oh-ga-ku-mon-jo. In festival times poetry recitals would be held here, she'd said, and gestured towards a painted silk screen in an open room behind her. The painting showed a group of finely dressed courtiers sitting cross-legged in a garden, and the guide had explained that this was the garden they were standing in now. If you look, these courtiers are sitting beside stream, she'd said; and this is same stream here, with same group of three rocks also.

She just didn't know her way around this sort of thing, was the problem. She wasn't familiar with the territory. She couldn't read the situation, if there was ever a situation to read. Patricia had told her once that she was better off without a man, that she couldn't imagine the trouble they caused. Elizabeth a.s.sumed she'd meant well, but she really hadn't appreciated it. She'd said, Patricia, if I want your opinion on my private life I'll ask and until then I'd rather not have that sort of comment thank you. Which Patricia hadn't responded to, but when she'd refilled the paper tray on the photocopier she'd slammed it so hard that Elizabeth had been surprised it didn't break.

At these poetry recitals there was a particular tradition, the guide had continued, gesturing towards the painted screen again; there would be small cups of sake in folded paper boats floating down from the top of the stream. And aim was to invent short poem on given subject before boat reaches you, she said; if you could not think of poem quickly enough then you were not permitted to drink sake, you must allow boat to pa.s.s by.

Which would be enough to make you never want to go to a garden party again, she'd thought. Being put on the spot like that. Watching the little paper boat wobble past you and not being able to think of a thing to say. Because it would feel sort of exposed, something like that.

The tour guide had smiled then, and asked if there were any questions, and led the group off towards the last point of the tour. Elizabeth had hung back for a moment, looking at the painted screen, the four figures seated on the moss around the stream. They were so plump it was difficult to see if they were men or women: their long black hair coiled around their heads, their kimonos folded richly around them. They didn't look nervous. They didn't look as if they'd have trouble thinking of something witty and poetic in the short time they had, reciting their lines, reaching out to take the cup before the paper boat had pa.s.sed them, before it folded and crumpled into the water and the sake spilt away downstream.

Wade had been waiting for her at the exit, smiling. I was starting to worry about you, he said. Which, she hadn't known what to say to that. And then he'd said, so, I guess that's us, isn't it?

Yes, she said. I suppose it is.

He'd lowered his head to take her camera from round his neck, and for a moment she'd thought he was bowing in the traditional j.a.panese style, and she'd started to bow in return before she'd realised he wasn't at all. And she was sure he'd noticed, but he didn't say anything. Which stuck in her mind, because some people would have laughed at her right there. But he didn't laugh. He shook her hand again, and said goodbye, and see you around, and take care, and then he kept talking. He asked if she was going straight back to work when she got home, what she wanted to do if she didn't want to be a secretary for ever, and she said I don't know, teach? Which had been funny somehow. She asked him how long he thought he'd be between jobs for, if he was planning to stay in Minnesota. I think I will, he said, I feel like it's where I belong now. It's beautiful country round there, he said, and she'd been surprised by the feeling with which he'd said it; had tried to imagine ever feeling that way about Gainsborough or Lincolns.h.i.+re or anywhere she lived. You ever been? he asked. To the States? she said. No, to Minnesota, he said, to Duluth, and she smiled and said, well anyway no, neither. You should come over sometime, he said. You'd like it.

Which was when Patricia would say she should have said something, just then. When she got home and told her about it. But she said nothing, only goodbye and take care and see you around.

And she decided, as she stood in the deep green shade of a cypress tree and listened to his footsteps crunch away along the gravelled path, to go back and have another look at the palace garden. She wanted to get a picture of the stream, and the rocks, and the small stand of bamboo trees. If she was quick she could get back in before the palace guides closed up, before they locked the gates and put out the No Entry signs and asked her to come back and try again another day.

We Wave And Call.

Wainfleet.

And sometimes it happens like this: a young man lying face down in the ocean, his limbs hanging loosely beneath him, a motorboat droning slowly across the bay, his body moving in long, slow ripples with each pa.s.sing shallow wave, the water moving softly across his skin, m.u.f.fled shouts carrying out across the water, and the electric crackle of waves sliding up against the rocks and birds in the trees and the body of a young man lying in the ocean, face down and breathlessly still.

You open your eyes, blinking against the light which pulses through the water. You look down at the sea floor, hearing only the hollow suck and sigh of your own breath through the snorkel, seeing the broken sh.e.l.ls, the rusting beer cans, the polished pieces of broken gla.s.s. Black-spiked sea-urchins clinging to the rocks. Tiny black fish moving through the sea-gra.s.s. A carrier-bag tumbling in tight circles at the foot of the sh.o.r.eline rocks. You hold out your hands, seeing how pale they look in the water, the skin of your fingers beginning to pucker a little. The sea feels as warm as bath-water, and you're almost drifting off to sleep when you hear the sudden smack and plunge of something hitting the water nearby.

You turn your head, and see a young boy sinking through the water, his knees to his chest and his eyes squeezed shut. Above, way up in the air, another three boys are falling from a high rocky outcrop, their shorts ballooning out around their hips, their hair rising, their mouths held open in antic.i.p.atory cries. One of them flaps his hands, trying to slow his fall. The other two reach out and touch the tips of their fingers together. All three of them look down at the water with something like fear and joy.

Your friends are watching as well, sprawled across a wide concrete ledge jutting out over the sea. Claire turns and looks for you, waving, brus.h.i.+ng the knots from her wet tangled hair. Her pale skin is s.h.i.+ny with sun-cream and seawater.

*We're making a move now,' she calls; *you coming?'

The others are already standing up, brus.h.i.+ng bits of dirt from their skin and shaking out their towels. You lift the mask from your face and take the snorkel from your mouth and tell her you're staying in a bit longer. You'll catch them up in a minute, you say.

They pick up the sun-cream and water bottles, the paperback books, the leaflets from the tourist information office in town. The girls lift up their damp hair, squeezing out the water and letting it run down their backs. Andy b.u.t.tons his s.h.i.+rt and steps into his unlaced trainers.

*We're not waiting for you,' Claire says. You wave her off and say that's fine. You'll be out in a minute or two.

The night before, sitting at a table outside one of the cafes in the old town, the girls had got up to go to the toilet together, leaving their tall gla.s.ses of beer on the table and tugging at their skirts. Andy had caught your eye, and lifted his drink in salute, and you'd both smiled broadly at your good fortune. Nothing had needed to be said. You'd left behind long months of exams and anxieties in the flat grey east of England and landed suddenly in this new world of cheap beer and suns.h.i.+ne, of clear blue seas and girls who wore bikinis and short skirts and slept in the room next door. It felt like something you'd both been waiting years for; something you've long been promised. It felt like adulthood. The girls have already made it clear, by their pointing out of waiters and boys on scooters, that they're more interested in the locals than in the two of you. But there's still a chance. A feeling that something could happen; that anything could happen. It seems worth thinking about, at least.

You put the mask over your eyes and lie back in the water for a while, looking up at the steep sides of the bay, kicking your legs to send yourself drifting away from the rocks. You're not sure you ever want to get out. At home, the beach is a few minutes away, and you've grown up running in and out of the sea. But you've never really swum; there, you run in, shouting against the shock of the cold, and run out again as soon as you can. Here, you could sleep in the clear warm water. You watch the others making their way up the path between the pine trees and oleander bushes. A bus drives along the road at the top of the hillside, stops near the gap in the railings, and moves off. A young couple on a scooter overtake it, the boy riding without a s.h.i.+rt or a helmet, the girl wearing a knee-length wraparound skirt and a bikini top, her hair flowing out behind her. Birds hang still in the warm currents of air drifting up the side of the hill. The gra.s.shoppers sound out their steady sc.r.a.ping shriek. The air is thick with the scent of crushed pine needles and scorched rosemary, heavy with heat.

Along the bay, at the bottom of a steep flight of steps cut straight from the rock, there's another small bathing jetty. A girl in a black swimming costume sits on the edge, her feet in the water, a white towel hanging over her head, reading a book.

Further along, where the bay curves round to form a long headland jutting out into the sea, there's an ugly concrete hotel with its name spelt out in white skyline letters. Half the letters are missing, and when you look again you see that the whole building is a ruin: the windows shot to pieces, gaping holes blown in the walls, coils of barbed wire rolling across the golden sands. Shreds of curtain material hang limply from windows and patio doors, lifting and dropping in the occasional breeze.

You hear some girls screaming, and look round to see a group of boys soaking them with water bottles, laughing when the girls scramble to their feet and retaliate with flat stinging hands. The sounds carry softly across the water.

You'd seen a map, this morning, at the entrance to the city walls, marked with cl.u.s.ters of red dots. The red dots were to show where mortar sh.e.l.ls had landed during the war, where fires had started, where roofs had come cras.h.i.+ng in. It was the only sign you could see, at first, that anything had happened here. Everything in the town seemed neat and clean and smooth: the streets polished to a s.h.i.+ne, the ancient stonework unaffected by the destruction which had so recently poured down upon it. But when you'd looked closer you'd seen that the famous handmade roof tiles had been outnumbered by replacements in a uniform orange-red, and that the stonework of the historic city walls alternated between a weathered grey and the hard white gleam of something new. There were whole streets boarded off from the public, piled with rubble. There were buildings whose frontages had been cleaned and repaired but which were still gutted behind the shutters. And in a tiny courtyard workshop, under the shade of a tall lemon tree, you'd seen a fat-shouldered stonemason carving replica cornices and crests, the shattered originals laid out in fragments in front of him, glancing over his shoulder as if to be sure that no one could see. You'd wondered how long it would take for this rebuilding to be complete. How much longer it would take for the new stones to look anything like the old.

The others are halfway up the hill now, walking slowly along the pine-needled path, letting their hands trail through the sweet-smelling bushes, stopping for a drink of water and looking down at the calm s.h.i.+ning sea. You watch them for a moment. You wave, but none of them sees. You call. If you were to get out now you might be able to catch up with them before they get on the bus. But if you wait for the next bus, they'll have cleared up by the time you get back, and got some food ready, and be waiting for you. Jo went out to the market before lunch, so the apartment's small kitchen is well stocked. You can imagine arriving back to find the others sitting on the terrace around a table loaded with food: bread and cheese and oranges, olives and pickles and jam, big packets of paprika-flavoured crisps. You can imagine cracking open a beer and joining them, making plans for the night.

You turn your face into the water for one more look before you get out, sucking in warm air through the snorkel. You catch sight of a larger fish than the ones you've seen so far. Something silver-blue, twice the length of your hand, drifting slowly between the rocks. It flicks its tail and glides away, and you push back with your legs to glide after it, trying not to splash. It slows again, leaning down to nibble at the wavering tips of seaweed, and as it flicks into another glide you follow, watching from above, quietly kicking your legs to keep pace.

And you think about last night. About what might have happened with Jo. Walking between the cafe and the bus stop, the alleys crowded, the buildings still giving out the heat of the day, the dark sky overhead squeezed between window-boxes and was.h.i.+ng lines and women leaning out to smoke and look down at the crowds below. You lost sight of the others for a while, and then Jo was there, saying something, touching two fingers against your chest, letting one finger catch in the opening of your s.h.i.+rt. What did she say? It could have been nothing. The whole thing might have been nothing. But there were her fingers against your chest. That smile and turn. Walking behind her, and all the side-alleys and courtyards that might have been ducked into. And then catching up with the others at the bus stop, and nothing more being said.

You watch the fish flick its tail beneath you, stopping and starting through the sea-gra.s.s, and you curl your body across the surface to keep pace, the sun hot and sore across your back.

It happened once, last year, at a party after the exams. In the back garden, kissing against the wall of the house, and for what must have been only a few minutes there was nothing but the taste of her mouth, the movements of her hands, the press of her body. And then she'd stopped, and kissed you on the cheek, and walked unsteadily into the house, and nothing had been said about it since. It might have been nothing.