to interrupt my flow’.
So in lieu of somewhere foreign, my parents and I have been going for walks on the weekends and I am doing my best to remain calm. I say things like: ‘Oh yes, I’d like to go for a walk,’ and ‘Cool, Mum! A walk!’
We have exhausted most of the other Gower walks – Mewslade to Fall Bay, Whitford Sands, Caswell to Langland – and so, today, we are doing Rhossili. It is very brave of us, as a family, because at one end of the down is Llangennith, home to Graham and Mum, the surfing lessons and the wee-woo. It is also the place where Jordana had a serious conversation with an older boy called Lewis, who seemed nice, which was the middle of the end for us. To the south is Worm’s Head. And beyond that, a few miles around the coast, Port Eynon and Graham’s house and the broken porthole window. So this is the Tate family showing that we are strong like ox.
We parked up next to the village church and walked down the steps on to the beach. We didn’t talk much as we walked along. Mum did well not to mention surfing or whether the waves were good or bad.
We passed a group of learner surfers in a circle around their instructor. You can tell the beginners because they use enormous blue polystyrene boards. They were practising their stance, pretending to catch waves on dry land.
We walked on the hard, damp sand. There were hundreds and thousands of those tiny, translucent sand-shrimp. They usually only appear when you start digging a hole, but today they were everywhere, just lying out on the surface, catching rays. With each step that we took, the shrimplets would jump. They were not jumping in terror or respect or anger, because primordial creatures don’t make such judgements. They felt the vibration of a foot landing on sand and they made a simple choice.
Sometimes they would jump into my shoe.
Then we turned up to walk through the dunes and climb Rhossili Downs, which is a hill – steep enough for a neck sweat – that rises up behind the beach. This is where we stopped for our picnic, at the gun installation.
‘Who would want to attack Swansea?’ I ask.
‘Swansea was a very important port,’ Dad says.
He finishes off the cashews, tipping the corner of the packet into his mouth: salt dust and nut crumbs tumble in. I watch him chew.
‘It was the fifth city on Hitler’s hit list,’ Mum says. She is not a historian.
‘Wow,’ I say.
The wind is making Mum’s weak tear ducts produce. She wipes the tears away with her sleeve.
‘The guns were never used though,’ Dad says.
Mum starts packing our rubbish into a Sainsbury’s bag: scrunched-up foil, an empty bag of Salt and Malt Vinegar McCoy’s, three banana skins and the wrappers from four Rocky Robins. She stuffs the plastic bag into the green rucksack and hands it to Dad for carrying. He dons the rucksack without fuss.
My parents are a well-oiled machine.
We stand up and start back towards Rhossili village.
‘Look,’ Mum says, laughing, ‘a political statement.’ She is pointing at one of the walls of the crumbling bunker. Some graffiti artiste-slash-poet has sprayed three words in red paint: I EAT MEAT. My dad laughs as well. They are sharing a moment.
I feel sorry for my parents, in a way.
We step off the concrete and back on to the uneven grass. I stomp on a molehill that gets in my way.
Dad walks faster than both of us. He tends to go on ahead and then, every ten minutes or so, he’ll let us catch up. He starts to accelerate away.
‘Have you heard from Jordana recently?’ Mum asks.
It is fine. I am enjoying this walk. I am calm.
‘Yes, I bumped into her in the park the other day.’
The wind makes our voices sound ethereal.
‘Oh right. Is she okay?’
‘She seems okay,’ I tell her. ‘Things are still pretty raw between us.’
Mum nods. We lean into the wind as we walk.
‘Her skin seemed worse,’ I say.
‘Maybe it’s exam stress.’
‘Or maybe it’s the dog. She’s got a new dog.’
‘What breed?’
‘Greyhound,’ I say.
‘Lovely dogs,’ she says.
‘It’s not a replacement for her mother though,’ I say. ‘Her mother’s still alive.’
I feel grown-up. Like I could talk about anything. I could ask anything.
‘Right. I’ve got a question,’ I say.
‘Okay.’
‘Me and Dad are in a house fire.’
‘Yes.’
‘Now, given the hypothetical situation that we are both equally saveable, then who would you go