The Wasp Factory Page 0,31

off to school properly when the time came, and had already started him learning the alphabet.

‘That’s right. Well, this old bell must have fallen off a ship, or perhaps it got washed out here in a flood. I know what we’ll do; I’ll go up on the dunes and you hit the bell with your bit of wood and we’ll see if I can hear it. Will we do that? Would you like that? It’ll be very loud and you might get frightened.’

I stooped down to put my face level with his. He shook his head violently and stuck his nose against mine. ‘No! Won’t get frigh’ end!’ he shouted. ‘I’ll—’

He was about to skip past me and hit the bomb with the piece of wood - he had already raised it above his head and made the lunge - when I reached out and caught him round the waist.

‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘Wait until I’m farther away. It’s an old bell and it might only have one good noise left in it. You don’t want to waste it, do you?’

Paul wriggled, and the look on his face seemed to indicate that he wouldn’t actually mind wasting anything, just so long as he got to hit the bell with his plank of wood. ‘Aw-right,’ he said, and stopped struggling. I put him down. ‘But can I hit it really really hard?’

‘As hard as you possibly can, when I wave from the top of the dune over there. All right?’

‘Can I prakiss?’

‘Practise by hitting the sand.’

‘Can I hit the puddles?’

‘Yes, practise hitting the pools of water. That’s a good idea.’

‘Can I hit this puddle?’ He pointed with the wood at the circular sand-pool around the bomb. I shook my head.

‘No, that might make the bell angry.’

He frowned. ‘Do bells get an’ry?’

‘Yes, they do. I’m going now. You hit the bell really hard and I’ll listen really hard, right?’

‘Yes, Frank.’

‘You won’t hit the bell until I wave, will you?’

He shook his head. ‘Pomiss.’

‘Good. Won’t be long.’ I turned and started to head for the dunes at a slow run. My back felt funny. I looked round as I went, checking there was nobody about. There were only a few gulls, though, wheeling in a sky shot with ragged clouds. Over my shoulder when I looked back, I saw Paul. He was still by the bomb, whacking the sand with his plank, using both hands to hold it and bringing it down with all his strength, jumping up in the air at the same time and yelling. I ran faster, over the rocks on to the firm sand, over the driftline and on up to the golden sand, slower and dry, then up to the grass on the nearest dune. I scrambled to the top and looked out over the sand and rocks to where Paul stood, a tiny figure against the reflected brightness of the pools and wet sands, overshadowed by the tilted cone of metal beside him. I stood up, waited until he noticed me, took one last look round, then waved my hands high over my head and threw myself flat.

While I was lying there, waiting, I realised that I hadn’t told Paul where to hit the bomb. Nothing happened. I lay there feeling my stomach sinking slowly into the sand on the top of the dune. I sighed to myself and looked up.

Paul was a distant puppet, jerking and leaping and throwing back his arms and whacking the bomb repeatedly on the side. I could just hear his lusty yells over the whisper of the grass in the wind. ‘Shit,’ I said to myself, and put my hand under my chin just as Paul, after a quick glance in my direction, started to attack the nose of the bomb. He had hit it once and I had taken my hand out from under my chin preparatory to ducking when Paul, the bomb and its little halo-pool and everything else for about ten metres around suddenly vanished inside a climbing column of sand and steam and flying rock, lit just the once from inside, in that blindingly brief first moment, by the high explosive detonating.

The rising tower of debris blossomed and drifted, starting to fall as the shockwave pulsed at me from the dune. I was vaguely aware of a lot of small sandslips along the drying faces of the nearby dunes. The noise rolled over then, a twisting crack and belly-rumble of thunder. I watched a gradually widening circle