Another Life Altogether: A Novel - By Elaine Beale Page 0,59
office, a bank, a butcher’s, a greengrocer’s, and a couple of poky little shops that sold seaside souvenirs. Next to the Co-op was a dingy-looking amusement arcade, with a row of flashing bulbs above its shabby marquee.
I bought my two packets of Mr. Kipling cakes without incident, pocketed my treasured Co-op stamps (despite being banned from the Midham Co-op, I was still collecting them, taking care to make sure that my father handed them over to me after each of his shopping trips), and headed back along the high street on my bike. I had planned to go back home immediately to deliver my mother’s cakes, but as I reached the junction with the main road I found myself irresistibly drawn toward the cliffs and the place where the land met the sea.
By the Reatton cliffs, the asphalt of the road became a sandy path down to the beach, and right beside it stood the Holiday Haven Caravan Park, identified as such by a big painted sign. Below, there was a wide swath of sandy beach, dotted with holidaymakers who lay sunbathing on bright blankets and striped deck chairs; at the shoreline, the little figures of children bounced in the frothy white of the unfurling waves. I pulled to a halt next to the Holiday Haven entrance, climbed off my bike, and leaned it against the sign. The caravan park must have suffered some serious erosion, because the cliff there looked as if a huge voracious monster had taken bites out of it, with big clumps of dark clay spilling like crumbs down those jaw-shaped indentations to the beach. All the caravans were a good hundred yards away from the cliff edge, except for one, a particularly old and weathered-looking specimen, its sides patterned with rust. It was sited on its own narrow peninsula, within less than thirty feet or so of the tumbling cliff edge. I imagined myself within its thin metal walls on a stormy night, a cold east wind bawling outside, the waves roaring hungrily below. What would it be like, I wondered, to be inside that caravan if it was pulled down into the swirling cold water of the North Sea?
Just as I was pondering this, the door of the caravan was pushed open and a stringy boy wearing flip-flops, shorts, and an oversized bright blue T-shirt emerged. He slammed the door behind him, making the windows shiver noticeably in their flimsy aluminum frames, then began to make his way to the park’s entrance. He moved with a loose-jointed gait. The breeze, which was so much more vigorous here at the coast, tugged at his clothes, pulling them around his body so that, under the thin fabric of his T-shirt, I could make out the bony shape of his rib cage and the scrawny outline of his shoulders. His hair, dark and wild, was sent flying back from his head like a spiky mane. He didn’t notice me watching him, because as he walked his face was bent over the book he was holding in both hands to prevent its pages from flapping in the wind.
“Excuse me,” I said as the boy reached the gate of the caravan park.
“Argh!” He gave a start, jumping back and fumbling, then dropping his book. “Bloody hell, do you always go creeping up on people? You could scare a person to death like that.”
“Sorry,” I said, regretting that I hadn’t thought to cough or clear my throat to warn him of my presence. “I didn’t creep up, I was just here.”
“I’ve lost my place now,” he said, giving me an irritated look before bending down to retrieve the book. I noticed the title, Animal Farm, and a cartoony picture of some pigs on the cover. The boy retrieved the book, then stuffed the slender volume into the waistband of his shorts. He looked to be at least my age and must be embarrassed, I thought, to be reading what looked like a fairy story.
“Sorry,” I said again. “Really, I didn’t mean to make you jump.”
“Well, I suppose there’s no harm done.” He had a neat little nose, broad cheeks, and watery blue eyes.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I saw you come out of that caravan. And I was just wondering … well, what’s it like to stay there? You know, right on the edge of the cliff like that. Is it scary?”
“Not really.” He bunched up his eyebrows, which were slender and tidy, and looked at me as if