Ghostwritten. Isabel Wolff

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      A few yards away the waves are breaking over the rocks; the two children can feel the spray on the backs of their legs.

      Ted shivers. ‘Is it high time yet, Evie?’

      Evie remembers Clive’s hands on their mother’s flanks. She thinks of his hairy chest and his thick arms, with their tattoos, and of the grunts that she hears through the bedroom wall.

      ‘It isn’t high tide,’ she answers. ‘Not yet …’

      Ted picks up the net again. ‘The bell’s ringing.’

      Evie shrugs. ‘I can’t hear it.’

      ‘I can, and ’member what Mum said, she said—’

      ‘Let’s find a crab!’ Evie yells. ‘Come on!’

      Thrilled by the idea, Ted follows his sister, relieved that she’s going more slowly now, even if it’s only to avoid spilling their precious catch. Here the rocks are not sharp with mussels, but treacherous with seaweed, which slips like satin beneath Ted’s feet. He longs for Evie to hold his hand, but doesn’t like to ask in case it makes him seem babyish.

      ‘We should have brought some ham,’ he hears her say. ‘Crabs like ham. We’ll bring some tomorrow, okay?’

      Ted nods happily.

      On the beach, the man flying the kite is reeling it in. The mother of the girls in the pink swimsuits is calling them out of the sea. They run towards her, teeth chattering, and she wraps a towel around each one while the encroaching waves lick at their footprints. The family that were playing French cricket are packing up: the father hurls the ball and the dog tears after it.

      People are folding their chairs, or collapsing sunshades and packing up baskets and bags as the sea advances, then retreats, then pushes forward again.

      ‘Five more minutes, Clive,’ Barbara says.

      He winds a lock of her hair around his finger. ‘So what’s happening tonight?’

      ‘Well, I thought we’d walk to Trennick and get some fish and chips; we could buy a nice bottle of wine, and then … I’ll get the kids into bed early.’

      ‘You do that,’ Clive whispers. He kisses her. ‘You do that, Babs.’ Barbara smiles to think that she’s only known Clive for eight weeks. She remembers the rush of desire when she saw him – the first time she’d felt anything for a man in years. She thinks of how she’d loathed the job – sitting at her desk all day with nothing to see through the window but lorries and trucks with JJ Haulage on them; the only thing on her wall a road map of the UK. Just as she was wondering how much more of it she could stand, Clive had walked in. Tall and dark, with the shoulders of an ox, he’d reminded Barbara of a drawing of the Minotaur in one of Evie’s books. He’d come about his payslip – five overnights to Harwich that were missing. Flustered, Barbara had promised to correct it; then he’d suggested, cheekily, that she could ‘make it up to him’. She’d laughed and said maybe she would …

      She’d told him that she had two kids – though no ex, God rest Finn’s soul; but Clive said that she could have had ten kids in tow and it wouldn’t have mattered. The fact that – at thirty-eight – he’s ten years older than she is makes Barbara feel light-headed.

      The tricky thing had been introducing him to Evie and Ted. Ted had taken little notice of him, turning back to his Lego, but Evie had been hostile, and when Barbara told them that Clive would be coming on the holiday, she’d run to her room, slamming the door. But, as Barbara had said to her, Evie had friends – why shouldn’t Mummy have a friend? Why shouldn’t Mummy have a bit of happiness? Didn’t Mummy deserve it after all she’d been through? But Evie had simply stared at her, as though trying to drill a hole in her soul. Well she’ll just have to get used to him, Barbara decides, as Clive kisses her fingertips …

      Suddenly Barbara realises that the bell has stopped ringing. She sits up.

      On the rocks, Ted is getting tired. But now Evie has found another pool, a few feet from the water’s edge.

      ‘There’ll be crabs in here,’ she says authoritatively. ‘Okay, Ted, you hold the bucket. Be careful,’ she warns as she passes it to him. She takes the net. ‘What’s the matter?’

      ‘I want to hold the net.’

      ‘You’re too young.’ Confident that this has settled the matter, she returns her gaze to the pool.

      Ted thumps the bucket down on a ledge. ‘I’m five!’

      ‘Well I’m nine, so it’s better if I do it. It’s not easy catching crabs.’

      ‘It’s my turn. You caught the fish – and the shrimp. So it’s my turn with the net now and—’

      ‘Shhhh!’ Evie is holding up her left hand, her eyes fixed on the water. ‘I saw one,’ she hisses. ‘A big one.’

      ‘Let me get it.’

      Evie leans forward, very slowly, then jabs the net at a clump of weed. As she lifts it out, a khaki-coloured crab, the size of her hand, is dangling from the mesh with one claw.

      Ted lunges for the net. To his amazement he manages to wrest it from her; as he does so, the crab falls back into the water then pedals under a rock.

      Evie’s mouth chasms with outrage. ‘You idiot!’

      Ted’s chin dimples. ‘I’m not.’

      ‘You are.’ She glares at him. ‘You’re an idiot – and a baby: a stupid little baby! No wonder Mum calls you “Teddy Bear”.’

      His face crumples. ‘Sorry, Evie …’ He offers her the net. ‘Catch it again. Please …’

      Evie’s tempted, but then she notices how close the waves now are. ‘No. We’ve got to get back.’ She tips the bucket into the pool and the fish and shrimp dart away. Then she sets off for the beach, which looks improbably distant, as if viewed through the wrong end of a telescope. She can just see Tom and his sister, flinging sand out of that hole as though their lives depended on it. She turns back to Ted. He’s still standing by the pool, his fringe blown by the breeze. ‘What are you doing?’

      ‘I want to get the crab!’ Ted’s eyes glisten with tears. ‘I want to show it to Mum.’

      ‘You can’t.’

      ‘I can!’ A sob convulses his thin ribcage. ‘I can get it, Evie!’ He squats down and thrusts the net into the pool, frantically.

      ‘It’s too late! You ruined it – now come on!’ Ted doesn’t move. ‘I’m wait-ing.’ Her hands drop to her hips. ‘Right! Ten, nine, eight …’

      Ted glances at her.

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