Nicola Barker - Darkmans

Each individual groyne had been moulded by the sea into its own highly idiosyncratic form. There were giant spoons, warning fingers (pointing, arthritically, into the lowering sky), and huge needles (their glimmering eyes sometimes threaded by discarded clumps of multi-coloured fishing twine, frayed scrags of synthetic turquoise rope, or long, coarse tangles of pungent, browning kelp).

Dory was way off in the distance, small as an ant, up to his knees in sludge and slime.

‘Papa!’ Fleet yelled.

Elen put out a hand to quieten him. ‘ Hush now,’ she murmured.

‘But why?’

‘Because the wind’s too strong. He won’t hear you.’

She paused, squinting intently into the weak afternoon light.

‘Can you tell which… uh …’ she cleared her throat ‘…which coat Papa’s wearing, Fleet?’

‘Coat?’ Fleet barely blinked. ‘The yellow coat, Mama.’

She winced, then nodded, then folded her arms across her chest. ‘I wonder what he’s searching for?’ she murmured, almost to herself. ‘Papa’s looking for the trees ,’ Fleet told her.

‘Trees?’

‘Yes. He’s remembering the great forest. He’s looking for the trees.’

‘He’s at the wrong end, then,’ a deep voice suddenly interrupted them.

Elen turned, surprised. A man stood behind them, a tall, lean man in late-middle-age; a slightly dishevelled but nevertheless distinguished-looking man, garbed — almost head to foot — in ancient oilskins and an improbably long pair of black, rubberised wading boots. He held a spade and an old bucket in his hand.

‘Pardon?’

‘The forest’s further along,’ he explained, pointing with the spade. ‘Down that way, over towards Pett Level.’

‘A forest,’ Elen frowned, ‘on the beach?’

He nodded. ‘The petrified forest. Dimsdale forest. It’s only ever visible at low tide.’

‘What’s in your bucket?’ Fleet asked, trying to peer inside, but Elen restrained him.

‘Worms, son.’

‘Yuk.’

Fleet grimaced. Then he threw back his shoulders and stuck out his chin. ‘I knows Gaynor,’ he swanked.

‘Who?’

The man looked confused.

‘Gaynor. She does fishing. And she gets lots of medals for it. I saw them.’

‘Gaynor Thomas?’ the man asked.

‘I got this,’ Fleet said, ignoring his question but removing the little daisy from inside his coat pocket, ‘from her funny hat. Look .’

He displayed the daisy on the palm of his hand.

‘I know Gaynor well, as it happens,’ the man said, bending down to inspect it. ‘She’s something of a local legend. We’ve fished together often. She’s a very talented young lady.’

‘My papa lived in her house,’ Fleet informed him, pointing over towards Dory who continued to stagger around — somewhat aimlessly — in the mud.

‘Did he indeed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well that’s very interesting. Does your…’ he hesitated before using the word, ‘your papa like fishing too?’

‘No. And her papa is very red and very fat .’

Fleet blew out his cheeks and paraded around, ‘fatly’.

The man’s stern face broke into a smile.

‘Don’t be so rude , Fleet,’ Elen murmured, grabbing his hand, eager to steer him away.

‘Can I look at your mathek , please?’ Fleet asked, refusing to be steered.

‘My what?’

The man frowned, confused.

‘Your mathek ,’ Fleet repeated.

‘My…?’

‘Maggots,’ Elen interrupted, ‘you mean maggots , don’t you?’ Fleet grimaced, irritably.

‘They aren’t maggots,’ the man patiently explained, ‘they’re worms.’ ‘Beita,’ Fleet gasped, peering, excitedly, into the bucket, then rapidly withdrawing, with a terrified squeak.

‘What’s that again?’

Fleet fiercely gnashed his teeth at him.

‘Ah…You mean bait .’

Fleet gnashed again.

‘Or bite , eh?’

Fleet nodded.

‘We’d better go and find Daddy,’ Elen said, half-turning towards the distant Dory.

The man turned too, and as he turned one of his rubber boots discharged a small, flatulent sound.

Fleet snorted, ribaldly. The man glanced over his shoulder, in surprise.

‘Guess what?’ Fleet said.

The man half-turned back. ‘What?’ he answered, gamely.

‘John was hiding in the queen’s chamber when the queen bent over and made air…’

Fleet bent over himself — to illustrate — and produced a loud, farting noise with his mouth.

‘ Fleet! ’ Elen chastised him, horrified.

‘And when she’d done it,’ Fleet continued, unrepentant, ‘she said…’ he adopted a high, fluting voice, ‘“The same is worth to me twenty pound!”’

The man’s brows rose.

‘So John bent over — in the corner, where he’d been hiding all the while and spying on her — and he made air, only much, much louder …’ Fleet promptly produced a second, even more resounding raspberry ‘…And then John says…’ he paused, judiciously, ‘“If yours is worth twenty then mine is worth forty !”’

He cackled, uproariously, at his own punch-line.

The man seemed uncertain how best to respond. Fleet stopped cackling. ‘It was very loud , see?’ he explained, ‘so it was worth more pounds.’

‘Yes,’ the man half-glanced towards Elen, his eyes twinkling, ‘I think I follow the logic of it.’

‘John was always making fun of the queen,’ Fleet continued, ‘because nobody else dared. They all hated her at court.’

‘Did they indeed?’ the man said.

Fleet nodded. ‘She grew up with soldiers…’ he winced, fastidiously, ‘she was vulgar .’

‘Vulgar?’ the man echoed, plainly surprised by the boy’s sophisticated vocabulary.

Fleet nodded. ‘Vulgus,’ he modified.

‘Do you actually understand what that word means?’ the man enquired, intrigued, ‘or are you simply repeating something you’ve heard?’

‘Something I heard,’ Fleet freely admitted. ‘ John told me.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve never even seen the queen…’

‘So what do you think John means when he says that the queen is vulgar?’ the man asked.

Fleet thought hard for a moment. ‘It means she’s stupid ,’ he declared, ‘and she doesn’t have any…’ he paused, frowning, ‘ finus… no …finesse ,’ he corrected himself.

The man glanced over towards Elen. ‘How old is this child?’ he demanded.

‘Five,’ Elen murmured. ‘He’ll be six in July.’

‘ Five? ’ he seemed startled. ‘But his language skills are nothing short of astonishing…’

‘Yes…well he’s…he’s not normally quite this talkative,’ Elen observed (plainly somewhat confused herself by this rare display of loquaciousness).

‘Look at Papa!’ Fleet suddenly yelled.

They both turned. Dory had fallen to his knees in the bank of mud (it was now slowly enveloping his thighs) and was patting at it, naively (almost like a baby), as though experimenting with its texture.

‘My youngest daughter,’ the man explained (obviously struggling not to be distracted by this curious spectacle), ‘was also a gifted child, so I know exactly what the pressures are — I mean as a parent — the particular kinds of challenges it generally gives rise to…’

‘ Gifted? ’ Elen echoed, dumbfounded.

‘Have they picked up on it at school yet?’ the man wondered.

‘At school?’ Elen slowly shook her head. ‘Uh…no. God , no. If anything they probably feel he’s a little under the average…’