Chloe Rayban - Footprints in the Sand

The place Mum had chosen was miles away. Right on the other side of the island. My heart sank as each kilometre went by. Every one of them taking me further away from Ben. Why on earth had she wanted to go so far? There was no way we’d meet up if we were on opposite sides of the island.

The bus was full of local people – old ladies mostly with bundles and crates who got dropped off at remote bus stops in wind-torn villages in the interior. They were dismal-looking places. There was one in particular where an old granny in a tattered black dress was standing on a corner, screaming something at the passers-by. I wondered what it could be like living in a place like that, year in, year out, until you got really old with absolutely nothing happening – ever. No wonder she was in such a state.

I was really fed up by the time we reached the place Mum had found. The bus dropped us off right beside it. It was a modern brick building, set back from the road standing on its own, in a dusty olive grove. It didn’t even have a view of the sea or anything.

Our room was on the first floor. It led off a communal corridor that was open on one side to the wind. The bedroom seemed small and dark. As Mum drew up the roller blind a white box of a place came into focus. It had a horrid tasteless lino floor.

‘You see, it’s all lovely and new and clean.’

‘But there’s nowhere to sit. No terrace or balcony or anything.’

‘There are some garden chairs in the olive grove.’

I looked out of the window. There were a few broken plastic recliners standing in the dust.

‘So how much is this room?’

‘Well, it’s a bit more than it was at the other place.’

Mum was already unpacking and trying to hang things in the wardrobe, battling with those beastly hanger things that come off in your hand.

‘So if we went back now, it’d come to the same thing in the long run, wouldn’t it?’

‘Lucy, I’ve paid for two nights, so we’re staying here now. Don’t be difficult.’

‘But it’s daft to spend our holiday staying somewhere we don’t like.’

‘I like it here.’

‘No you don’t. I can tell you don’t.’

‘I’m not going to waste fifty pounds. You haven’t even looked around yet. You’ll love the beach. White sand.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh for goodness sake, don’t look like that. Come on, let’s have some breakfast – you’re probably hungry.’

We had breakfast sitting on the broken recliners in the olive grove. Unfortunately, it was a much better breakfast than we’d had at the taverna. Mum kept going on about how much better it was. I made a point of not eating much.

‘I hope you’re not sickening for something.’

‘The butter tastes funny.’

‘No, it doesn’t.’

‘It’s got a kind of rancid goat taste.’

‘Oh honestly Lucy, don’t exaggerate.’

‘But if we really don’t like it here, we could go back after the two nights you’ve paid for, couldn’t we?’

‘I don’t want to spend my whole holiday moving from place to place like a bag lady.’

‘Now you’re exaggerating.’

‘Well, it’s a bore all this packing up and moving around. I came here to relax.’

She slid the back of her chair down and stretched out with a sigh as if to demonstrate her commitment to the place.

A wasp settled on the bowl of jam.

I made more fuss than absolutely necessary about the wasp, and went back to our room to change for the beach.

The beach was about ten minutes’ walk away. We had to cross a stretch of green swampy marshland to get there. There was a wobbly bridge made of planks which crossed a stagnant-looking stream clogged with reeds.

Below us, standing waist deep in the dyke, was an old man cutting reeds. Up on the bank was another fellow who had a sackful of wet reeds and an old chair frame. Oh, local colour! Mum was going to love this. Sure enough, she’d spotted them.

‘What do you think they’re doing?’ she asked.

‘How should I know?’

‘Let’s go and see.’

The chap on the bank was doing something tediously rustic with the reeds. He’d twisted them into long strands. You could see where he’d already woven some of them back and forth to make a new rush seat for the chair.

Mum went into ‘reverie mode’ at that point.

‘It’s just so timeless, isn’t it? You know – I reckon they’ve been making chairs like that since… since…’ She paused. ‘Since chairs were invented,’ she finished.

‘How long ago is that?’ I asked with a yawn.

‘Oh I don’t know – couple of thousand years – more probably.’

‘That must explain why they’re so uncomfortable.’

‘Oh honestly Lucy,’ said Mum, forging on ahead again.

I followed, scuffing up the sand. ‘Well, it must.’

‘See?’ she said when we reached the beach. ‘Isn’t it lovely?’

It was white sand. Acres of it – deserted – not a soul to be seen.

‘Why isn’t there anyone here?’

‘I don’t know. Aren’t we lucky, we’ve got it all to ourselves.’

‘Mmmm.’

I smothered suntan lotion on and lay down on my stomach before Mum could get a good look at my red skin. I wasn’t going to let on, but the skin on my front was still pretty sore from the day before.

Mum stretched out on her towel and took out her book.

‘The sun’s pretty high, so just half an hour and then we can have a lovely cooling swim before lunch,’ she said.

I put a tape in my Walkman and turned it on. Anything to try and put myself in a better mood.

Mum made her usual fuss about the volume. (‘Sounds like people clashing saucepans around – can’t understand why you like that stuff, Lucy.’) So I turned it down a bit. Some holiday this had turned out to be.

It was barely half an hour before Mum started fussing about sunburn, so I agreed to a swim. Or should I say a paddle? We had to walk out about a kilometre before the water got up to our waists. No wonder no-one came to this beach.

‘But there’s no weed,’ said Mum, still trying desperately hard to stress the finer points of the place.

‘And we’re not likely to drown, that’s for sure,’ I commented sarkily.

We had a very half-hearted swim, constantly encountering sandbanks and running aground. And then we went back for lunch and a siesta.

Once back in the room Mum fell asleep almost immediately, but I lay awake staring at the ceiling and silently plotting ways to talk her round. Outside, I could hear the steady rhythmic chanting of the crickets. It really wasn’t fair. There were all those crickets outside, thousands of them by the sound of it, packed tight as bodies on a beach on a hot Bank Holiday, sounding as if they were having the time of their lives. While I was here in positive solitary confinement – except that I had Mum for company. I was starting to feel like those hostages you read about. Locked up with just one other person till they drive you barmy. If this went on much longer, I reckoned I’d start having delusions.

I wondered what Ben was doing. Ben – short for Benjamin, I supposed. I could imagine him now, serving people drinks maybe, at the taverna. A vision of him came into my mind, so vivid it was almost real, of him standing there last night in the gloom…

The low sun had turned him a kind of over-the-top all-over golden colour. I’d had to look away. He’d stood there waiting to take my glass, and when I looked up he was already walking off – but then he turned back slowly and smiled at me. I’d gone hot and cold and tingly all over. It was how he’d smiled. I mean, I’ve got to notice these things. There’s a certain way guys look at you when they fancy you. Kind of eyes halfway between open and closed, trying to look as if they’re not looking, if you know what I mean. We had to go back. I’d get around Mum somehow.