Submarine - By Joe Dunthorne Page 0,103

for first?’

‘I’d go for you,’ she says.

‘Cool.’

‘But I’d feel bad for your father.’

‘Yeah.’

We go single file – me first – as the path cuts through a patch of purple gorse. We see Dad in the distance, starting to make his way down to Rhossili village.

I proffer some more information: ‘She’s still with her new boyfriend, Dafydd.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Mum says, and she rubs my back as we walk along.

‘I hate him even though I haven’t met him,’ I say, over my shoulder.

‘That’s understandable,’ she says.

As the path opens out again, we see a group of people sat watching the paragliders. A bit further downhill, two men are tending to a purple parachute laid out on the grass – it billows like a jellyfish; its tentacles are attached to a man wearing a jumpsuit and a helmet.

I expect Mum to remind me that these relationships mean nothing when you are forty-three. Or to at least wheel out a cliché: there are plenty more fish in the sea. There are fish but also whales and crustaceans and shipwrecks and a dozen or so submersible military vehicles.

‘I did like Jordana,’ she says.

Dad is waiting for us in front of the Worm’s Head Hotel.

‘Shall we have a little explore towards the Worm?’ he says.

‘Worm me up,’ I say.

He starts off along the cliff path.

I wait for Mum while she puts on her terrible purple fleece.

The wind drones. I play at being italicized: opening my zip-up top into wings, leaning forward, propped up on a gust.

Mum is now wearing the world’s worst piece of clothing. She puts her arm through mine, as if we are man and wife. I try not to feel ashamed.

We walk on the gravel path. Sheep chew grass on the clifftops. They cannot suffer from vertigo because their brains are not sufficiently developed. A sheep cannot imagine a sudden slip of the hoof, the whoosh of adrenalin, seeing its own life in flick-book montage with barely enough time to be very disappointed.

We walk past a family in matching lemon-yellow sailors’ anoraks. They are of Asian origin. The children pose for a photo next to a ram.

Mum gets up on tiptoes to speak into my ear. I have just recently grown taller than her and she likes to make a point of it.

‘Every year, at least three people die along these cliffs. Blown clean off,’ she says.

‘I’ll be very careful,’ I say.

‘I was just telling you the statistics,’ she says.

I look at her face. The short curly hair at her temples is being blown into Medusa snakes.

‘Don’t lie to me. You’d hate it if I fell off here. You’d be gutted.’

‘I’d get over it,’ she says, grinning.

This is amazing.

The path spreads into a plain as we walk past the National Trust information lodge. Dad has already gained some distance on us. He reaches a ridge and is a clear silhouette, severed at the knee by the horizon, his corduroy trousers flapping. He disappears over the other side. From here, it looks as though he could be stepping out into nothingness, ending it all.

The sky has turned a cooler, lighter blue. The single strip of cloud has grown from dishcloth to duvet. The sun is dropping faster now. I pretend that time is speeding up.

We step up on to the ridge, experiencing the wind’s full potential. I would compare the feeling to being in a fight, but that comparison is beyond my experience.

Beneath us, there are shallow steps to the left that lead towards Worm’s Head. The Worm can only be reached during low tide. The tide is high. To the right, Dad’s following a steeper path cut into the rock; it zigzags down to the disused lifeboat hut, clinging to the cliff.

‘They say that shack is haunted,’ Mum says.

‘Who says?’

‘They say.’

We follow Dad round to the right. As we dip below the ridge the wind suddenly cuts out.

‘Do you have any primary evidence?’ I ask.

Mum’s hair settles back against her skull. We adjust our balance in the lack of bluster. It’s like stepping off a boat on to dry land. My mum still has me by the arm.

‘They say that the old lifeboat man wanted his son to become a lifeboat man too.’ Her voice is clear. ‘And one day, they were out on the boat. The father was teaching the son how to be a lifeboat man.’

‘You should practise this story in your head before you tell it.’

We take the steps together, careful to stay synchronized.

‘All of a sudden, a storm came