The Sand Dog. Sarah Lean

or maybe remembering someone else’s hand that made him feel nice.

      ‘Even if we aren’t in the place we think of as our home, we still all know where we belong,’ I told him.

      

      IN THE EARLY DAYS of being on the fishing boat with Grandfather he’d taught me to read the sea – if there was a flock of seabirds, a warm current and a kind of bubbling in the water, it meant a huge shoal of fish was feeding near the surface. Then Grandfather could throw out his nets and haul in a good catch. The lie of the rock, the deep shadows underneath and the way the fish emptied the space before gradually coming back (they have short memories and would forget quickly why they weren’t feeding there), meant something else – it meant that in the dark, a moray eel with poisonous teeth would be waiting. From a distance you could poke under the rock with a long stick until the eel showed itself. Then you would know exactly what area to avoid to protect yourself.

      I watched the sea to find the story I needed to hear. I wanted there to be a third sign that would tell me more about Grandfather coming home. But deep inside me I also had a feeling there was something else lurking – something lying, waiting in the dark, just like the moray eel under a rock. I needed to know what it was.

      It was hot and sticky that night, the sky moody and heavy. I went to the restaurant kitchen while Uncle was very busy to ask him again if he knew anything about Grandfather’s return.

      ‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’ Uncle yelled, but this time I stood my ground and didn’t leave.

      Maria stepped in again. ‘Hold that,’ she said, handing me the ladle from the mussel soup she’d been dishing into bowls. She pulled at Uncle’s arm to get him to turn round. ‘Azi needs an answer.’

      The fired oven roared; plates ricocheted on tiled surfaces; glasses jangled on trays. Uncle told Maria that the people at table number five were waiting for their order, although we all knew he couldn’t see from there. Hot plates whizzed past my ears, waiters and waitresses twirled around me and each other to get the orders out quickly, and to bring back dirty plates, as Uncle yelled at them to get a move on. I waited for an answer.

      ‘Uncle, you know and I know that Grandfather is coming back,’ I said. In the dizzy tempest of the sizzling kitchen Uncle’s arm touched a boiling-hot pan and he jumped away but I carried on. ‘I only want to know when.’

      ‘He’s a drunk old fool and he’s not coming back!’ Uncle yelled. ‘Not ever.’

      Stunned, I dropped the metal ladle and it hit the floor, clang-clanging as it bounced. All of the movement and noise of the kitchen stopped, except for the fiery breath of the oven.

      ‘Now get back to work,’ Uncle said uncomfortably, and the bustle erupted again.

      Maria swooped over, picked up the ladle and led me out to the stairs to the flat. ‘Take no notice of Uncle. It’s one of the busiest days ever and we’re a bit pushed, that’s all,’ she said. ‘He thinks the world of you, Azi.’

      I wasn’t going to ask Uncle about Grandfather again. Now that Uncle had exploded and told me what he thought, it reminded me that I’d also been hiding my deepest secret in the dark. It was my fault that Grandfather had left.

      The next day, when I went to the quay, I saw that the dog was following a little way behind me, head down, trotting slowly with stiff old legs. He lay in the shadow under a bench with his head on his paws but didn’t close his eyes while all the passengers got off the ferries.

      When everyone had gone to find B&Bs, shops, beaches and restaurants, all that was left was me, the dog and a small dark-red booklet that had been dropped on the quayside. I went over and picked it up. It was a British passport, and inside was a photograph of a girl called Beth Saunders who had been born in London.

      Could this be the third sign from the sea? The girl that the passport belonged to was from exactly the same place that Uncle had said that Grandfather had gone – London. What could it mean? And then I knew what I had to do. I had to go and get him. I had to go to where he was staying and bring him back.

      

      ‘THAT’S TWICE THIS WEEK you’ve been in here, Azi,’ Mrs Halimeda said, irritated again on Thursday, looking at me like she always did, as if I smelled of rotting fish. ‘Yes, I’ve seen Uncle’s menu, and, no, I’ve still nothing for you.’ She looked over my shoulder to see who was next.

      ‘Can I have a passport?’ I said.

      She squinted and took ages to reply. ‘What do you need a passport for?’

      I knew not to tell Mrs Halimeda anything she could gossip about, so I mumbled something about a possible school trip in the future.

      She frowned. ‘You need a form.’ She swivelled her chair to look in the shallow shelves behind her, selected a piece of paper, swivelled back and stared at me hard, narrowing her eyes. ‘You’ll have to give it to Uncle to fill out and sign.’

      I assured her I would do that. ‘Also, I found a passport.’ I held up the one I’d found at the quay and she told me to take it to the lost-property office instead.

      ‘Let that boy bother someone else for a change,’ I heard her mutter to the next customer. It stung but I just kept thinking of Grandfather, of belonging with him again.

      The dog was sitting outside the post office and watched with interest as I tucked the passport form inside my shorts and under my T-shirt.

      ‘I’ve got to be with Grandfather, nobody else knows me like he does,’ I said to him.

      I didn’t go to the lost-property office, though. I thought I might hang on to the passport in case it helped me to answer any questions on the form.

      As I was going along the road I heard someone shout, ‘Oi! Aqua boy!’

      I turned to see Chris coming up the street with Dimi.

      They came and stood by me. Chris was carrying his basketball. I was expecting them to ask me to play again, but they didn’t this time.

      ‘What are you doing?’ Chris asked, bouncing his ball.

      Dimi rolled his eyes, obviously knowing what my answer would be.

      Grandfather and I had both liked it when nobody was there at the cove with us, and there was nothing but the sand and the sea. It had been a long time since anybody had been there with me.

      ‘Do you want to see a turtle nest?’ I said.

      Chris said no first of all, but Dimi nudged him and said, ‘Yeah, we might.’

      ‘Show us,’ Chris said.

      We roamed along the shoreline where tourists speckled the sand with sunhats and towels, sunbeds and umbrellas, some paddling in the sea, their voices babbling in the distance. I told Chris and Dimi they wouldn’t be able to see any turtles yet but I could show them the nest and we could keep watch over the summer. But all they wanted to do was push and shove, kicking at the sand, slamming the ball at each other’s back. I saw the dog nearby, walking along stiffly, his head down.

      ‘The nest is in the cove over the other side of the rocks,’ I said, pointing in the direction of where the turtle had been. ‘I’ve put a fence round it so nobody touches it. By the end of August the eggs will hatch.’

      Chris and Dimi looked over to where I pointed but they were not interested any more and just ran