The Water Children. Anne Berry

dressing down. He shakes his head when Owen asks if he will look after Sarah.

      ‘Can’t be done,’ he says, setting Sarah down gently and planting a swift kiss on her head. ‘On an important mission, son. Off to fetch some rocks to secure the beach mat. Got my orders and have to jump to it. You know the drill, old chap. Your mother’s setting up camp,’ he adds with a grin, gesturing in the direction of his wife. His Welsh accent is very faint. But Owen wishes even the trace of it would vanish. To him it sounds silly, vaguely comic, as if his father is a buffoon off a television comedy. Now Owen follows the direction of his stiff military hand, and sees that his mother is indeed setting up camp, that she seems to be unpacking so much they might be going to stay here for a week. ‘Still, not much further to go now. Sarah, you be good for your big brother. Chin up, Owen. Forward ho, eh?’

      And then he is gone, head down, marching determinedly, his arms moving like pistons. Owen sighs. He and his sister are wearing leather sandals. Following his father’s gleaming shoes digging into the sand, the spray flying up behind him, Owen ponders that he would have taken a fair load on board by now, that each step must be uncomfortable. He grazes the corner of his mouth with his upper teeth, grasps Sarah’s pudgy hand once more, and sets off after his mother. By the time he reaches her he is feeling hot and cross again, and rather wishing they had not come on this outing at all. It is supposed to be a treat, but it is beginning to feel more like torture.

      He can see that his mother is itching to unpack, to unroll the beach mat and declare ownership of their plot. The breeze keeps freeing wisps from her pony tail, and he can tell by that slight nervous tick in her cheek that she, too, is irritated. She satisfies herself by unrolling the windbreak, and with her son’s assistance driving the wooden sticks into the sand. Sarah is sitting down on the bright beach towel their Mother has opened out for her, and babbling to herself in a musical baby talk that she alone understands. She fills her chubby fists with sand and drops it all very deliberately in the lap of her skirt, marvelling at how the material dips, at how heavy the slippery yellow stuff is.

      Ruth looks at her dimpled daughter, plump as a dumpling, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, and the sight of her lifts her heavy heart and fills it with light. She scolds her, but her tone is at odds with her words, and her lips twitch upwards. She takes off Sarah’s blouse and skirt and shakes the sand from them. Then she makes an arch of her hands over her brow, and scans the beach in search of her returning husband. But there is no sign of him. She clucks impatiently and starts to talk under her breath. Perhaps she thinks that Owen cannot hear her when she speaks like this, but he can. Sometimes he thinks that he is especially sensitive to these mutterings, as if he is tuned into their hissing sound waves, much like a wireless set.

      ‘That’d be right. Just like your father. He can’t pick up any old rocks. Oh no! He has to make a performance of choosing them, selecting them, hefting them over and over in his hands. How heavy are they? How smooth? How suitable for the task? As if anybody cares. As if anyone gives a damn. They’re just rocks for goodness’ sake, rocks to hold down the blessed mat, not the supporting columns of the Acropolis!’

      As she speaks she unrolls a small portion of the mat, sets Sarah upon it, lifts and shakes out the towel and tucks it away again. She pulls a white sailor’s hat from a bag, tugs it over her daughter’s breeze-rumpled curls and slips off her sandals. And then she instructs Owen to sit with his sister.

      ‘I’m going to find your father,’ she says, swatting back the flying wisps of her own hair with a few slaps of her hand. ‘You are to stay here with Sarah till I get back.’ Owen is only half-listening. He is eyeing up the new beach ball they have brought with them. It is the blow-up kind, red and white, and he can just see it peeping out of the largest holdall between the clutter of buckets and spades. ‘Do pay attention, Owen. You’re to look after Sarah while I’m gone.’ Owen gazes skywards. He envies the seagulls, he really does, screeching and flapping about any old how. At least they are free – not always being asked to mind pesky little sisters prone to getting into trouble. Sometimes he wishes that he has a brother in her place, a rough-and-tumble boy who adores him and trails obediently after him, like a puppy, doing everything Owen tells him to – and not a contrary, disobedient girl. Girls are trouble. They are so independent, such a handful. He will never manage to train Sarah.

      ‘Owen, are you listening to me?’ his mother says now.

      ‘Yes, I heard,’ he replies sulkily. He rolls his eyes. And when his mother gives him that look of hers, the one where she raises her eyebrows, tightens her mouth, and puts her head on one side, he speaks again. ‘I’ll watch her. I promise.’ They are always worrying about Sarah, he thinks dully. Never about him. Always Sarah, Sarah, Sarah! Oh, he doesn’t mind really, it’s only that sometimes he would like them to be interested in him, perhaps even a bit concerned if he grazes a knee or something. I mean, he isn’t a cry baby like Sarah is, but it would be nice if they told him he was brave. Yes, that would be really nice.

      His mother nods curtly, hesitates for a moment, then with another of those looks walks off in the direction that his father went. After a minute they can’t even see her, not with the wind-break in the way.

      ‘You’re a brave boy, Owen!’ He tries the words out for size and finds they fit very well. ‘You’re a brave boy, Owen!’ he repeats, and the sentence feels as catchy as an advertising slogan. Sarah, by his side, glances up.

      ‘Bwave boy,’ she says.

      She can’t pronounce her ‘Rs’ yet, but he supposes it’s quite cute really, and besides, she’ll probably grow out of it eventually. He clambers onto his knees and walks forward on them. Still on the mat, he can just reach the deflated ball. He stretches out a hand and retrieves it. Now for a bit of magic that will really impress his sister. ‘Watch this, Sarah,’ he says, bringing the clear plastic nozzle to his lips. He blows and blows and slowly at first, then more rapidly, the ball swells, its glossy plastic skin growing taut. Sarah is delighted with the trick and claps her hands. ‘See, see how clever your older brother is.’

      ‘Owen, it’s so lovely,’ she gasps.

      In one of those sudden impetuous moves of hers, Sarah throws her little arms around him. He took off his shirt while his mother was undressing his sister, and now he feels the ligature of her limbs tightening on his bare skin, her face rubbing against his chest. It is one of those mysterious moments when everything seems much larger. He can feel her hair, like water, and the un believable softness of her lips, and even her eyelashes moving. They are like a butterfly’s wings fluttering against him. The wind seems to be getting up a bit now, and although they can’t feel it because of the windbreak, they can see how it is battering the canvas and making the segments billow like sails.

      He closes his eyes and concentrates on the squeeze of Sarah, so light he can push her away with one shrug, and yet so strong it brings a blocked-up feeling to his throat. And this feeling, the way he imagines a corked, fizzy drink must feel, wanting to burst out but not being able to, well . . . it’s gigantic. It’s so gigantic, in fact, that there seems to be nothing more to him, just the squeeze of Sarah and the bursting feeling.

      The tide is coming in and the waves seem to be getting bigger, not folding on the shore any more but smashing against it. Owen decides he will be a surfer one day, that he will ride the rollers in like a cowboy on a water horse. The dark shapes balancing on their boards look like hitherto unknown sea creatures, sweeping towards the shore. And when at last they tumble off and clutch the dripping surfboards in their arms, it’s as if they are pushing giant sharks before them into the shallows, the upright boards, their fins. He bets it’s fun, more fun than driving a car even.

      ‘Do you want to watch me kick the ball?’ he asks, glancing down at the white-gold curls and disproportionally large hump of head. ‘Do you want me to show you how good I am at football?’

      He feels Sarah nod rather than hears her. ‘Right then,’ he says, pleased to be doing something. Disentangling himself from her, he springs up clutching the ball. ‘Watch this.’

      The mat lifts a bit when he gets off it, but he can see that Sarah’s weight is still sufficient to partially anchor it down. He starts kicking the ball, just small taps at first,