Cecelia Ahern - The Gift & Thanks for the Memories

In front of him, a greasy-haired adolescent telling a story to his friends through the use of serious explosion sounds and occasional epileptic-fit movements caught Lou’s eye. The boy, getting to the climax of the story, leapt back and landed against the buggy.

‘Sorry,’ the boy said, turning around and rubbing his arm, which he’d bumped. ‘Sorry, mister, is he okay?’

Lou nodded. Swallowed. He wanted to reach out and throttle the child, wanted to find the boy’s parents so that he could tell them about teaching their son the art of storytelling without grand gestures and spittle-flying explosions. He peeped in at Pud. The monster had been woken. Pud’s eyes, glassy, sleepy and tired, and not yet ready to come out of hibernation, opened slowly. They looked left, they looked right, and all around, while Lou held his breath. He and Pud looked at one another for a while in a tense silence, and then, deciding he didn’t like the horrified expression on his father’s face, Pud spat out his soother and began screaming. Scream. Ing.

‘Eh, shhhh,’ Lou said awkwardly, looking down at his son.

Pud screamed louder, thick tears forming in his tired eyes.

‘Em, come on, Pud.’ Lou smiled at him, giving him his best porcelain-toothed smile that usually worked on everyone in business.

Pud cried louder.

Lou looked around in embarrassment, apologising to anybody whose eye he caught, particularly the smug father who had a young baby in a pouch on his front and two other children holding each of his hands. He grumbled at the smug man and turned his back on him, trying to end the screech of terror by pushing the buggy back and forth quickly, deliberately clipping the heels of the greasy teen who’d put him in this predicament. He tried pushing the soother in Pud’s mouth, ten times over. He tried covering Pud’s eyes with his hand, hoping that the sight of darkness would make him want to sleep. That didn’t work. Pud’s body was contorting, bending backwards as he tried to break out of his straps like the Incredible Hulk from his clothes. He continued to wail, sounding like a cat who was being hung by the tail and then dunked head first in water, followed by a strangling. He fumbled with the baby bag and offered him toys, which were flung rather violently out of the buggy and around the ground.

Smug Family Man with the front pouch bent over to assist Lou in his gathering of dispersed toys. Lou grabbed them while failing to make eye contact, grunting his thanks. After most things from the baby bag lay scattered on the ground, Lou decided to release the dough monster. He struggled with the trickiness of the catch for quite some time while Pud’s screams intensified and they gathered more stares, and, just as someone was close to calling social services, he finally broke his son free. Pud didn’t stop crying and continued to yell with snot bubbling from his nostrils, his face as purple as a Ribena berry.

Ten minutes of pointing at trees, dogs, children, planes, birds, Christmas trees, presents, elves, things that moved, things that didn’t move, anything that Lou could lay his eye on, and Pud was still crying.

Ruth came running over with Lucy.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Woke up as soon as you left, he won’t stop crying.’ Lou was sweating.

Pud took one look at Ruth and reached his arms out towards her, almost jumping out of Lou’s arms. His cries stopped instantly, he clapped his hands, his face returned to a normal colour, he babbled. He looked at his mother, played with her necklace and acted as though nothing had happened to him at all. Lou was sure that when nobody else was looking, Pud smiled cheekily at him.

Feeling in his element, Lou’s stomach churned with anticipation as he watched the coastline move further away, as they made their way to the starting area, north of Ireland’s Eye. Bundled-up family members and friends waved their support from the lighthouse on the end of the pier, with binoculars in hands.

There was a magic about the sea. People were drawn to it. People wanted to live by it, swim in it, play in it, look at it. It was a living thing that was as unpredictable as a great stage actor: it could be calm and welcoming, opening its arms to embrace its audience one moment, but then could explode with its stormy tempers, flinging people around, wanting them out, attacking coastlines, breaking down islands. It had its playful side too, as it enjoyed the crowd, tossed children about, knocked lilos over, tipped over windsurfers, occasionally gave sailors helping hands; all done with a secret chuckle. For Lou there was nothing like the feel of the wind in his hair, gliding through the water with the rain in his face or the sun beating down. It had been a long time since he’d sailed – he and Ruth, of course, had had many holidays on friends’ yachts over the years, but it was a long time since Lou had been a team player in any aspect of his life. He was looking forward to the challenge; he was looking forward to not only being in competition with thirty other boats, but trying to beat the sea, the wind and all the elements.

In the starting area they sailed near the committee boat Free Enterprise for identification purposes. The starting line was between a red and white pole on the committee boat and a cylindrical orange buoy which was left to port. Lou got into position at the bow of the boat as they circled the starting area, trying to get into the right position to time it perfectly so that they’d cross the starting line at just the right time. The wind was north-east force four and the tide flooding, which added to the sea’s bad humour. This would have to be watched to keep the boat moving fast through the choppy, lumpy sea. Just like old times, Lou and Quentin had talked this out so both knew what was required. Any premature passing of the starting line would mean an elimination, and it was up to Lou to count them down, position them correctly, and communicate with the helmsman, who was Quentin. They used to have it down to a fine art when they were in their teens, back then they’d won numerous races and could have competed with their eyes closed, merely feeling the direction of the wind; but it had been so long ago and the communication between them had broken down rather dramatically over the past few years.

Lou blessed himself as the warning signal appeared at 11.25. They moved the boat around, trying to get into position so that they’d be one of the first to cross the starting line. At 11.26 the preparatory flag went up. At 11.29 the one-minute signal flag went down. Lou waved his arms around wildly, trying to signal to Quentin where to place the boat.

‘Right starboard, starboard right, Quentin!’ he yelled, waving his right arm. ‘Thirty seconds!’ he yelled.

They came dangerously close to another yacht. Lou’s fault.

‘Eh, left port! LEFT!’ Lou yelled. ‘Twenty seconds!’

Each boat fought hard to find a good position, but with thirty boats in the race there could only be a small number that would make it across the starting line in the favoured position close to the committee boat. The rest would have to do their best with stolen wind on the way up the beat.

Eleven thirty heralded the start signal, and at least ten boats crossed the start line before them. Not the best start, but Lou wasn’t going to let it get to him. He was rusty, he needed some practice, but he didn’t have time for that, this was the real thing.

They raced along, with Ireland’s Eye on their right, the headland to their left, but there was no time to take in the view now. Lou didn’t move, thinking fast, looking around him at all the yachts racing by, with the wind blowing in his hair, his blood pumping through his veins, feeling more alive than he’d ever felt. It was all coming back to him, what it felt like to be on the boat. Perhaps his speed was down, but he hadn’t lost his instincts. They raced along, the boat crashing over the waves as they headed towards the weather mark, one mile up in the wind from the starting line.