The Endless Beach Read online

  She certainly never made him smile like that, or laugh so his white teeth showed. They were a good-looking couple too, she thought. Who was she? It couldn’t be . . . It wasn’t as if Saif couldn’t have found a girlfriend, was it? After all, he’d meet someone one day, right? But she had comforted herself so much by thinking that he was just too loyal, too respectful to his wife, to ever . . .

  “Hello!” said Saif. He was definitely in a better mood than he had been the last few weeks when he’d been exhausted and strung out, picking up his furious, uncommunicative children, watching with a parental heartbreak Lorna recognized very well as his children were left out of playground games, unpicked, alone in the corner of the school.

  Today his face was sunnier, more open, and Ash—was that child walking? Lorna had never seen him on the ground before. She waited for him to try and cling to her as he usually did, but instead—and this stung frightfully—he held the tall woman’s hand.

  “Lorenah. Miss MacLeod,” said Saif, smiling. “This is Neda Okonjo. She’s the social worker who’s helping us . . . She looked after the boys in Glasgow.”

  “Hello,” said Lorna, more stiffly than she meant. She hadn’t realized social workers were quite so glamorous these days. Saif wondered why she was being weird.

  “Hello,” said Neda. “Hey, I think you’re doing a great job with the boys.”

  Lorna blinked. She, personally, had not been thinking that at all. She’d been worried she was failing them desperately. She couldn’t get them to say a word of English, or join in, or respond to anything.

  “They understand everything we’re saying already!” said Neda. “Great job.”

  Lorna frowned. “Do they?”

  “Look at Ibrahim,” said Neda, grinning. The boy immediately flushed and stared at the ground.

  “He’s pretending he doesn’t understand. But he does. He’s a very handsome boy.”

  Ibrahim blushed even more. Saif couldn’t believe it.

  “And he’s much better at football than he thinks he is.”

  “You’re a miracle worker,” said Lorna.

  “No. You are,” said Neda. “Trust the process. Both of you. Trust how clever the boys are and how much they’re taking in, even when they don’t realize it. Treat them like the other boys. Please. No more carrying.”

  Lorna nodded.

  “No letting Ibrahim on computers. If he can manage not to hit anyone—eh, Ibrahim? No hitting?”

  Ibrahim shrugged.

  “Let’s make a deal. I bet if you stop it, you’ll be playing football with everyone in a week.”

  “Don’t care.”

  “In English.”

  And he did. “I don’t care,” he said, pink to the ears.

  “You don’t have to care,” said Neda softly. “You just need to play.”

  And the bell rang, and for once the children disappeared inside the school building on their own, getting caught up in the little stream of boys and girls, getting lost in it—just like normal children going about their day. And Saif and Lorna stared at each other in disbelief.

  “Right,” said Neda, turning round. “Let’s have a look at the home setup. Don’t worry, I’m just ticking boxes. You’re obviously going to be fine.”

  “You’re amazing,” said Lorna, glancing back toward her classroom.

  “Well, it was nice to meet you too,” said Neda and she turned round and marched off down the hill, Saif turning to follow her, in awe, and Lorna reflected that she’d fallen in love with Neda in ten seconds flat, and she didn’t blame Saif in the slightest if he’d just done exactly the same thing.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Joel woke up early, feeling trepidatious, like it was his first day at school. Of course it was already light outside. He realized it was at least a month since they’d had to put any lights on at all. Such a strange sensation.

  He clambered into the “rugged” clothes his secretary Margo had bought him last year. They didn’t feel right at all—he preferred a well-cut suit, as armor, something that allowed him to vanish subtly into the background of any room he was in. The moleskin trousers and the rough-hewn pale checked shirt with a waterproof lining felt odd. Also, putting them on, he became conscious of how much weight he’d lost and grimaced. Then he set out into a misty morning, the gray haar obliterating all distinction between land and sea; the kind of morning, in fact, that often burned off into a glorious afternoon, but it made heavy weather of the first part of the day. He took the piece of paper that had arrived the day before.

  Grabbing a coffee, he set out up the hill. That he was working with Flora’s ex-boyfriend, and her archenemy, hadn’t escaped him. He was aware he hadn’t mentioned it in the café. She had looked so disappointed that he wasn’t going to the party, he didn’t want to make matters even worse.

  Not knowing the way, as it turned out, was no problem: the bright orange tents and screams and yells of the boys were visible and audible from miles away, as was the scent of sizzling sausages on the fire.

  Charlie was there, on his own third cup of coffee, typically weary as he always was. Every group of troubled youngsters had a bed wetter and some tiny fiends who liked to tell horror stories, although many of them had already lived through their own horror stories. He nodded to Joel, taking in—in a way that surprised Joel mightily—the expensiveness of his outdoor clothing.

  “Morning.”

  “Hey.”

  Joel felt awkward. He held out his envelope. “I brought this.”

  Charlie just tipped his head. “Give it to Jan. She handles all the paperwork.”

  “Who are you, mister?”

  A small boy of about eight or nine was standing in front of him. His head, which might have been blond, was shaved down to the wood, his body was skinny and none too clean looking, and there were dark hollows under his eyes. His posture was defensive; he had the look about him of a kid who was always waiting for a telling-off.

  “I’m Joel,” he said mildly. They looked at each other. Joel wasn’t about to say anything else. Adults asking questions was probably more than this kid ever needed.

  “Are you American?” said the boy, eyes widening. “You sound weird.”

  “Yes, I’m from America originally.”

  “What are you doing in this shithole then?”

  “Caleb,” said Charlie, but in a relaxed way. “What did we say about swearing?”

  “Shit isn’t swearing,” said the lad. “Fuck is swearing.”

  “No, shit definitely counts.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” He readdressed his question. “Why are you in a poo-hole like this?”

  “I happen to like it,” said Joel.

  “Like it more than America? With like sunshine and guns and cars with no tops on and California and skyscrapers and stuff?” The kid’s eyes widened farther.

  “It’s not all like that.”

  “It’s naaat allll laaak that.” The child tried out a dreadful imitation of Joel’s drawl, then called the others. “Aye! Ye gadgies! Yon mon here’s a Yank!”

  Other shaved heads emerged. Joel knew on one level that small boys having short hair simply made practical sense. But his hair was always shorn when he was a boy because nobody loved him enough to comb it. He’d worn his dark curls longer than was usual for a lawyer, long enough to flop over his high forehead, ever since. Flora adored it, and would have loved it even more if she’d known the reason why.

  The boys gathered around Joel as an object of curiosity, and Joel wished he’d brought some sweets to hand out. They all wanted to know about gangs and guns and the streets and all sorts of notions and appeared to have picked up most of their American assumptions from playing Grand Theft Auto, but he helped as much as he could. He noticed Charlie watching him, not in a disapproving fashion.

  Jan arrived, looking scrubbed down as usual.

  “Hand over that,” she said, gesturing at the envelope in his hands, and he did so. “Right,” she said, studying it carefully. “Yo
u can take down the tents and wash up while we start our forest walk. Has everyone got their squirrel charts?”

  “Can he no’ come with?” said Caleb, the boy who’d first spoken.

  “Not this time,” said Jan. “You can stay and wash up if you like.”

  There was a pause.

  “Aye, all right,” said the young lad.

  “You’ll have fun on your walk,” said Charlie.

  “Neh, he wants to stay behind and get felt up by yon teacher,” said a huge overgrown lad, bulky of shoulder, his voice already breaking, to an outbreak of laughter from the others. Joel went puce.

  “You want to go home, Fingal Connarty?” shot Jan, sharp as you like. “I don’t want to send you home, son. I want you to stay. Can you stay?”

  The huge boy shrugged.

  “Then you keep a civil tongue in this place.”

  Caleb, however, heard none of this. He had turned bright red, and went charging up toward Fingal, fists outstretched, and despite being several inches shorter than the other lad, still managed to get a reasonable uppercut into Fingal’s pudgy nose.

  “Oi, you little fucker!”

  Fingal rugby-tackled Caleb, bringing him down to the ground, and was about to start pounding on him when Charlie and Joel managed to pull them both apart.

  Jan then did a surprising thing. She went to both of the boys and put her arms around them.

  “It’s OKAY,” she said. “It’s okay. Can you apologize?”

  “He called me names!”

  “So what?” said Jan.

  “I’ve got a bleeding nose! I’m going to kill you!”

  It was decided, fairly speedily, that Caleb would in fact stay behind with Joel and help with taking down the camp. Joel was starting to worry he’d made a terrible decision.

  Charlie gave him a walkie-talkie, as phones didn’t work up the hill, and told him they’d be back in two hours, if he wouldn’t mind organizing their main breakfast.

  “How many are you?” said Joel.

  “Thirty,” said Charlie. “See you later!”

  * * *

  Caleb said that the night before they’d taken the dishes to a nearby stream, so they decided to do so again. As Joel had thought, the haar began to burn off, and from up here the sheep on the farm were tiny fluffy dots, and the sailing boats and great steaming tankers were toys on the horizon. It was quiet away from the sea, only the birds calling and chirruping to one another.

  Joel answered Caleb’s questions about America as entertainingly as he could, even into the second half hour about Avengers Assemble.

  But oddly, he didn’t mind. It was the first time in a long time that he’d spoken to anyone who wasn’t telling him terrible news or trying to ferret information out of him. Caleb was the first person he’d met since he couldn’t remember when who didn’t want anything from him, who didn’t care who he was.

  “I want to go to America,” said the boy eventually.

  “Well, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t,” said Joel. “Just work hard at school and get a job.”

  Caleb laughed. “Ha. What’s the point?”

  “Well, I wanted to travel.”

  “Yeah,” said Caleb, kicking the dirt. “You’re not from where I’m from.”

  Joel looked at him. “I grew up in a foster home.”

  The boy blinked. “Aye?” he said cautiously. They were scrubbing the frying pan, neither of them particularly well.

  “Aye,” said Joel, rather clumsily.

  “And you went to college and that?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you still came here?”

  Joel laughed and splashed him with bubbles. “Watch it,” he said.

  But Caleb still stared at him curiously.

  Joel set about making breakfast without too much clattering. It was odd how he found that the simple chopping up of mushrooms and tomatoes was exactly what he needed: calming and meditative. He could see straightaway what Flora got from it. It was pleasant to be out here, in the breezy early morning air, rather than stuck inside an office staring at a screen. He glanced up and found himself being regarded by a large hare, who flattened its ears then bounded off across a field of wildflowers. Joel found himself doing something uncharacteristic: he was smiling.

  He turned round then at a sound. At first, he thought it was just one of the birds, but as he listened he realized it sounded more like a stifled sob.

  He walked over to behind a copse and found little Caleb, his face absolutely filthy, desperately trying to stifle sobs. As soon as he saw Joel, he turned his face away fiercely, wiping his nose on his grubby sleeve.

  “Hey,” said Joel, as casually as he could. “Are you hiding to get away from helping with breakfast duties?”

  Caleb shrugged. Joel wanted to go and sit beside him but didn’t feel that would be the right approach. It was like dealing with a terrified animal.

  “I’m sorry,” said Joel, realizing. “I didn’t mean to splash you with bubbles. I was trying to mess about, that was all. It’s my first day.”

  “It’s no’ you, mister,” came the small voice.

  “Are the other boys being assholes?”

  Caleb shrugged.

  Joel sat down, pretended to be very busy looking at his cup of coffee, and didn’t say anything for a moment. In the distance, two cormorants circled the cliff at the end of the beach.

  “They’re stupid,” said Caleb. “Anyway, their mas are rubbish. Hoors the lot of them.”

  “Don’t say that,” said Joel gently.

  Caleb rubbed his face again.

  “Were they talking about mothers?”

  Caleb shrugged. “I don’t care.”

  Most of the boys had mums, whom they lived with on and off; many were with their grandparents; nearly all had some kind of family contact. Only Caleb was truly alone, it transpired: in a residential home, for as long as he could remember; never adopted. He wasn’t cute, with his scrawny rattish features and embittered expression. Oh, Joel knew it all so well.

  “Everyone wants girls, don’t they?”

  He didn’t even know why he said it.

  Caleb nodded fiercely. “They want the cute ones. Blah, blah, blah, ooh, kissy cuddle face.”

  He scowled again.

  “In my day, they wanted boys to work the land,” said Joel. “I didn’t look like I could do that either.”

  Caleb looked up. “Did they make you?”

  “They tried,” winced Joel, remembering one particularly long summer on a cotton farm in Virginia. There had been a lot of shouting. He had been so tired he had fallen asleep every night at the dinner table. Theo the farmhand had thought he was useless and bullied him endlessly. The smell of the fields had haunted him for years. Mind you, he’d had no problem with insomnia then, he found himself thinking.

  Caleb sat up and they both threw rocks into the stream for a bit, not speaking even as they could hear the other boys, returning to the camp, shouting things.

  “It sucks,” said Caleb.

  “It does,” said Joel, throwing a stone with exceptional force. “It sucks ass.”

  Caleb shot him a sideways glance. “Does it get better?”

  And Joel thought about it. “Yes,” he said, “it does. Now wash your face and we’ll get to breakfast.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Saif was definitely on a post-Neda high when he decided that a Saturday afternoon walk in the blowy mountains might be quite the thing—it would help Ib forget about his iPad for one.

  It had also occurred to him, as Neda had told him, that he would have to talk about their mother at some point. And possibly being high up in the hills might provide . . . well . . . a safer space. A space for all of them that wasn’t just tiptoeing about the house, with the constant sound of computer games and Ash whimpering in his sleep. He didn’t want to carry Ash up the hill—one good thing since they’d gotten here was that he was filling out and putting on some weight. There weren’t quite the hollows
under his eyes that there had been before, and he was getting heavier to carry everywhere. Though his hollows had transferred themselves directly to his father.

  Nonetheless Saif tried to be jolly as he got them, grumbling, into raincoats and Wellingtons. It was cool and breezy outside, and the grass bent in the wind. Ibrahim moaned and complained the entire way. Ash was bouncier, particularly when he saw a hawk that Saif pointed out to him.

  Annie’s Café by the Sea was busy as he popped in for some rolls to take with them, and Flora was looking slightly distracted.

  “How’s Joel?” said Saif casually. Joel hadn’t come to see him to ask for drugs, and Saif was unsure as to whether this was a good or a bad thing.

  Flora stiffened. “You’d have to ask him,” she said, and Saif regretted mentioning it immediately. Ash was pointing at the big jam-and-cream scones at the front of the display and Saif made a promise he could have one if he climbed to the top of the hill, which Ash agreed to do, whereupon Saif bought it for him and Ash immediately dissolved into tears and demanded it now and Saif eventually gave in and gave him a little bit, which brought on more tears and a full door-slamming stomp-out from Ib and the same sinking feeling in Saif’s stomach that nobody—nobody—could be doing a worse job with the boys than he was, and he was their father. He was conscious not just of the loss of Amena, who would surely know what to do in that beautiful smiling way of hers, but his own mother, long dead, and the way she could soothe him when he was upset and the way she seemed to move . . .

  He shut it down and pasted on a smile, trying to channel Neda.

  “Come on! Let’s go! Last up is a loser!”