SUNK (5 page)

On the TV news, they say wind.

There’s a blurry video of the deckchairs near the toddlers with shouting and juddering camera angles. The newscaster is talking over the top of the pictures: ‘…
shocking holidaymakers and surprising Albert Fogg, longshoreman
…’ There’s a shot of Albert Fogg looking hot and bothered. ‘…
and how did it end? This is from eyewitness reports. It seems that the deckchairs blew into a handily placed beach barbecue because they,
and I quote, “appeared to vanish in a cloud of sparks
”.’

Grandma raises her eyebrow and continues to knit. She’s making what appears to be a church cosy for the model village – made of recycled plastic string from the beach. ‘Anything to do with you, Tom?’

I shake my head. I could tell her, but then I’d have to say I shrank the deckchairs in full view of hundreds of holidaymakers and that wouldn’t go down at all well.

Next, after a brief history of the town, the camera settles on the mayor. He’s also looking hot and bothered. The interviewer sticks a microphone under his nose. ‘What do you make of today’s events?’

The mayor beams into the camera lens. ‘It’s just a storm in a teacup so to speak.’ He smiles again. ‘Nothing to alarm anyone, no harm
done, nothing more than a freak wind at the wrong time of year and, for those who do decide to holiday in Bywater-by-Sea, there’s free ice cream – yum yum.’

‘So the free ice cream doesn’t have anything to do with your forthcoming mayoral election?’

‘No,’ says the mayor. ‘Not at all.’

‘It does,’ says a familiar voice off camera. ‘It has everything to do with it. Admit it – you’re buying them.’

Oh no. Mum.

The camera swings to Mum’s face. She’s holding Tilly’s hand very tightly as it happens.

‘And you are …?’ asks the interviewer.

Mum kicks Tilly and a snarling Tilly holds up one of Mum’s posters, showing it for a nanosecond before the camera judders off to one side. ‘Yes – I’m Sarah Perks, running on a ticket of transparency …’

The interviewer makes embarrassed throat-scraping sounds. So does the mayor and the camera swings round to the beach again, which looks peaceful and empty.

‘Gosh,’ says Grandma, switching over to the wrestling.

‘Tom,’ says Dad, appearing beside me. ‘Bored?’

‘Not really,’ I say. ‘I’ve got one or two things – pieces of homework – in my bedroom,’ I lie.

‘Oh, they won’t take you long. I thought you might like to make a potato clock with me,’ says Dad.

‘Seriously?’ I ask.

But Dad trundles off into the kitchen anyway. ‘Can we try a potato and a grapefruit?’ he shouts to no one in particular. ‘I just want to see if it works before I show it to the littlies.’

On Sunday, nothing happens.

Nothing on the beach or at home.

Nothing, unless you count Tilly going into high-velocity sulk mode.

She doesn’t eat.

Doesn’t sing.

Doesn’t laugh.

Doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t cry.

It’s great. Lovely. The best Sunday EVER!

Monday tries to make up for it.

‘Parents’ night tonight,’ says Dad, picking up a purple-spotted backpack and slinging it over his shoulder.

‘You’re not wearing that, are you?’ I ask.

‘I thought I’d get down with the kids – like hip with the groove, YO?’ says Dad, doing something only people under fifteen should do with their hands.

Tilly flatly refuses to catch the bus.

‘But you have to go to school,’ says Mum.

Tilly crosses her arms and purses her mouth into a fine pout.

‘You’ll have to walk,’ says Grandma.

In the end, Mum drives her, while I sit on the bus with Dad thinking dark thoughts, especially about parents’ evening.

‘I could
not
come,’ I say to Eric. ‘I could let them come in on their own. Wander about, embarrass Tilly, and I could be at home.’

‘My dad’ll come,’ says Eric. ‘I can’t imagine your parents will be worse than that.’

But they are. Much worse.

First, we arrive early. Mum and Dad sit on the row of tiny chairs that have been placed in the middle of the hall and wait like expectant cartoon rabbits, smiling and keen and awful. Dad’s so tall his knees are up by his chin.

I sit at the other end of the row, pretending to be unrelated. Tilly has hidden in the toilets. I suspect she might have to spend the whole evening there.

‘Hello, Mr and Mrs Perks. Hello, Tom,’ says Mrs Mawes, sitting at her table on the side. ‘Well done for winning Sculpture on the Beach. Top work.’

I blush.

‘He’s so clever,’ says Mum. ‘They said it made a
profound commentary
.’

Mrs Mawes gives me a patronising smile.

‘Oh, and can I give you one of these?’ says Mum, brandishing a dayglo flyer with S
ARAH
P
ERKS FOR
M
AYOR
printed on it.

‘Oh.’ Mrs Mawes looks surprised. ‘Thank you.’

As she stuffs it under her desk, Eric and his dad stroll in.

‘Er, um, Mrs Mawes?’ says Eric’s dad. ‘Can I give you one of these?’ He hands her a badly photocopied sheet with S
MALL IS GENERALLY NICER
scrawled on it in different coloured felt-tips.

Mrs Mawes reddens and puts it under her desk with mum’s flyer.

I hope there aren’t any other parents running for mayor.

Other teachers arrive and the hall begins to hum with activity. Parents flow in and out, including Jacob’s, who manage to look more embarrassed than most of the kids.

Dad makes tea for people and rattles around the hall with a trolley and an apron. I stare at the floor and try to imagine myself somewhere else – like on the beach, in the sunshine, without any deckchairs.

‘Mind out, Tom. Stop daydreaming – you
could help me with these.’ Mum springs up and hands out more of her flyers. Eric’s dad also hands out flyers but he’s more polite and less aggressive. Eric doesn’t seem to mind, but I just want to sink through a hole in the ground.

‘So the thing is,’ says Mum loudly to Emily Smee’s mum. ‘I’m thinking honesty, transparency, no more corruption, and this whole beach thing – it’s definitely a cover-up.’

Eric’s head snaps up, so does mine.

‘Oh?’ says Emily Smee’s mum. ‘Covering up what?’

‘I don’t exactly know,’ says Mum. ‘I’d love to get to the bottom of it – I mean, free ice cream? And wind? Could wind really cause all that rumpus?’

‘Agreed,’ says Sanjeev’s dad from behind us. ‘It makes no sense.’

‘It’s the veil,’ says Eric’s dad. ‘Too thin here. Things happen.’

‘Funny things do happen,’ says Dad, parking his trolley next to us and sitting down. ‘Remember that hole in our roof? I’ve always thought that was very odd, and that thing that happened to Tilly’s birthday cake.’

‘Oh yes,’ says Mum. ‘And all the ghostly things that happened before they built the theme park.’

‘And the mining in the castle with all the strange lights –’

‘Dad,’ I interrupt. ‘I think it’s our turn.’

I practically shove my parents towards Mr Bell’s desk, which is far too small for him. There’s some jostling while we all cram around it, feeling uncomfortable and generally being too big.

‘Tom,’ says Mr Bell, holding his fingers together in a considered and intelligent way. ‘Tom, Tom, Tom. Lovely Tom.’

I can see by the cardigan and cravat that Mr Bell is still in his ‘sensitive’ phase.

‘Tom.’ He breathes in slowly and exhales noisily. I wonder if for some awful moment he’s forgotten who I am.

There’s a long hideous silence in which we hear all the other parents and teachers chatting away.

‘Marvellous,’ he says in the end. ‘Marvellous.’

‘So glad, Graham,’ says Dad.

Graham?!?

No one calls a teacher by their first name. That is simply forbidden. Isn’t it?

Mr Bell smiles back at Dad. I’m not sure he smiles with his eyes though.

‘So.’ Mr Bell shuffles through the notes on the table. ‘This term we’ve been doing empathy …’ Mum makes approving noises. ‘I think it’s very important,’ says Mr Bell, doing
the hands thing again. ‘It’s part of making a strong community.’

‘Absolutely, Graham, couldn’t agree more,’ says Dad, puppy-like.

‘Yes,’ says Mr Bell, looking confused.

I notice Tilly fiddling with the overhead projector nearby.

‘So what should we be doing to encourage empathy in Tom?’ asks Mum.

A picture of Mum and Dad’s
Alice in Wonderland
-themed wedding comes on the screen. Dad dressed as the white rabbit, Mum as the dormouse. One person giggles.

‘Well,’ says Mr Bell, ‘I don’t know. Empathy is of course important, but so is art – and, er – physics.’

Next, a baby picture of Dad dribbling, followed by a shot of Mum aged two, sitting naked on a bucket.

Another giggle.

‘I’m concerned that Tom may be wasting what is obviously a very important talent.’

A silent film of Mum dancing in an overly tight golden-sequinned body stocking cuts quickly to a video. There’s sound too.

This time everyone stares at the screen. It’s been filmed in the bathroom really recently. I can tell because most of Dad’s hair has gone. The camera seems to be in the mirror. He’s facing it and first he blows himself a kiss.

Everyone in the hall laughs. Except Mum and Dad.

Next, he practises the ‘yo’ hands. Doing things with fingers splayed in a V, and shuffling his shoulders. He does jazz hands at the mirror, and sings loudly. Then he tries to rap.

I bury my face in my hands, and a huge roar goes up. I have to know what’s going on
so I peer between my fingers to see the screen cut to another video, this one downloaded from the Internet. It’s Mum, microphone in hand, singing: ‘I’m walking on sunshine – ooh – oooooooh …’ It’s flat. It’s awful. It’s the Christmas karaoke that they did in the privacy of the sitting room. Tilly must have filmed it.

It goes on.

Two seconds of Mum practising Spanish verbs.

Three seconds of Dad swearing at a flat tyre.

A shot of Dad’s favourite tracks on his iPod. They’re all terrible.

I stare at Tilly. She’s got the biggest smile on her face.

A photo of Mum’s giant purple running pants.

A picture of Dad wearing the chef’s trousers in the playground at school.

And finally a photo of Dad aged about seven, standing on stage dressed as a donkey.

I die.

‘I don’t know how you could do such a thing,’ barks Mum, marching Tilly back to the car.

Tilly doesn’t speak. She can’t wipe the smile off her face and I’m wondering whether when I kill her, I’ll bother to hide the evidence.

She scratches her head and turns to stare out of the window, but I can still see the reflection of her smile.

We drive home in silence and, suitably, it begins to rain, driving a fine sea mist over the
windscreen and merging low cloud with the oncoming night.

I lie awake for hours that night thinking dark thoughts about Tilly, deckchairs, parasols, Mr Fogg and then even darker thoughts about Tilly.

I sleep badly, waiting for the awfulness of morning. On balance I’d rather deal with violent deckchairs than public humiliation.

‘So – Mumsy-wumsy’s a singer, is she, Tom?’ says Jacob before I’ve even taken my place on the bus.

I stare rigidly through the window.

‘And Daddy too,’ he says, and then he breaks into song: ‘I’m walking oooooooon sunshshshshshineeeee – ooooooh – ooohhhh …’

Belt up, Jacob
, I think. But I don’t say anything.

Dad’s quiet this morning too.

Tilly’s talking in a loud voice to her friend, Milly. ‘Well, I thought why should I have to suffer? It’s their fault, they can suffer.’

‘But it’s not really Tom’s fault,’ says Milly. ‘And it must be horrible for him.’

For the first time ever I feel something vaguely warm towards Tilly’s best friend.

Eric glances over the top of
Extra Physics for Lively Youngsters.
‘Sorry, Tom,’ he says. ‘It was funny though.’

I don’t reply. I feel completely betrayed.

It gets worse.

‘Had a good time in the bathroom, Mr Perks?’ says someone.

‘Are we going to have a singing mayor?’ asks another.

Mr Bell doesn’t mention it all the way
through ICT, until we get to the very end.

‘So, as Tom’s parents’ illustrated so well last night, we do all need to be very careful what we put on the Internet. It can come back to haunt us.’ He beams at me and I try really hard not to run out of the room screaming.

I walk home, which takes ages, and Eric walks with me because he’s essentially empathetic.

Jacob comes too. He’s not empathetic. He’s curious and he can’t resist bringing up last night’s humiliation at every turn.

‘
Walking on sunshine … oo-ooooh!
How does it go, Tom?’ says Jacob. ‘What’s the next bit?’

The rain is slightly less than torrential and slightly more than drizzle.

‘Yo – Tom,’ Jacob says. ‘Yo! LOL – yo! Or is it both bits at once? Like … YOLO! Isn’t that what your dad says?’

We splat through puddles and around the ancient overflowing gutters and drains of the town.

‘So, Model Village, how does it feel to have such idiots as parents?’

‘Don’t,’ says Eric quietly behind me.

‘Why not?’ says Jacob.

‘Because it’s unkind,’ says Eric.

‘Oh!’ says Jacob. As if he’s surprised by the news.

I’m so obsessed by the whole Tilly public-humiliation thing that I’ve forgotten all about the beach.

Skirting the front of the castle we get a view over the sea. A tiny group of people are huddling under an umbrella. ‘Who’s that?’ says Jacob. ‘What are they doing?’

We cut down across the castle green. It’s soggy – boggy actually – and my school shoes
are not built for it – so now I’m wet from the top down and the bottom up.

We stop by the pier and look at the beach. No one’s lolling around on deckchairs, but Mr Fogg’s there in his full yellow sea-going gear. Also, the mayor in a skimpy cagoule, and a couple of reporters. Next to them a white pedalo lies on the sand with two quivering girls shivering next to it.

The mayor’s children. They don’t go to our school, but I recognise them. They’re about our age.

The rain beating on my hood means that I can’t hear anything, so I drop down the steps to the sheltered patch of beach under the pier, and take off my hood.

Over the scrunching sound of Jacob’s feet on the sand I can just about hear the conversation.

‘… so I have absolute faith in the beach, proven by my willingness to put my own children, my very own flesh and blood, in one of our 100% safe Bywater-by-Sea pedalos. They’ll be out on the sea every day of the summer season …’

Mr Fogg nods in agreement, although he looks slightly less happy than the mayor.

‘He’s not sending them out in this – is he?’ says Eric, indicating the rain that has now moved on to torrential. ‘They’ll drown.’

‘That would be interesting,’ says Jacob.

We watch the two girls clamber into the pedalo and Albert Fogg push them towards the sea. The journalists are frantically snapping away and I’m wondering if we shouldn’t run to the rescue when a wave breaks over the front of the pedalo. The first girl leaps out of the boat and rushes back to the sand, shortly followed by the other.

The mayor argues with them, but they shake their heads in fury and stomp up the beach.

‘Phew,’ says Eric.

‘Pity,’ says Jacob.

The next day is sunny, actually warm, and most people run around outside.

‘Art Club?’ says Mrs Mawes.

‘Um,’ I say.

It turns out that Art Club is exactly what I feared. An hour of free time wrecked by cutting and sticking. Tilly’s there, with Milly and a bunch of friends.

I am the only boy over the age of seven.

‘Now, Tom – winner of the Sculpture on the Beach contest – I’m sure you don’t need any help from me. Here are some materials, let’s see what you can do.’

I stare dumbly at the pots of glue, paint and glitter, and wonder if life can actually get worse.