Winman, Sarah - When God Was a Rabbit

‘Morning, Nancy, morning, Elly,’ said Mr Copsey. ‘What can I do for you today?’

Mr Copsey owned the small kiosk at the back of the beach. He stayed open throughout the year, no matter how bad the weather was, and once Nancy asked him why he did it and he told her that without the sea he’d be nothing.

We sat in our usual place overlooking the rocky beach. The tide was out and rounds of slate and seaweed and pebbles stretched chaotically from the road to the water’s edge. I looked up at the houses on the cliff and found it strange that three nights ago there had been a violent storm and waves had crashed over the gardens, depositing weed and, in one case, a dead seagull upon the lawns. Salt scum had to be scraped from windows to reinstate priceless sea views.

We’d met that particular onslaught as we’d met most unexpected things of that year, with doors bolted and shutters firmly drawn. And as the wind funnelled up the valley it brought with it the skimmed-off detritus of every life it touched: a briny stench of dead fish and damp nets, of shrimp heads and fishermen’s piss, and trails of petrolstink and fear; an overwhelming scent that clogged our nostrils as efficiently as frost.

‘That’s an ill wind if ever there was one,’ said my mother, and my father agreed; carefully adding to the smell with a voluptuous fart.

‘Wait for me, Nancy!’ I shouted as I raced after her, stumbling down the craggy beach. She was carrying an old canvas tool bag that clunked heavy against the rocks. I didn’t know why she had it and could have asked, but actually I preferred to wait because Nancy was full of surprises and this was turning out to be a day of surprises. She stopped in the shadow of the furthermost cliff and dropped her bag. She took out a mallet and a chisel and scoured the surrounding area for thick plate-sized pieces of dark slate. I helped her and soon we had a pile next to us, stacked like pancakes. She sat down and took the top slate, positioning it sideways between her feet.

‘Right,’ she said as she carefully lined up the chisel against the edge of the slate. Two sharp taps and it separated cleanly in two, unfolding like two halves of a book.

‘Nothing,’ she said.

‘But what are we looking for?’ I asked excitedly.

‘You’ll know when you find it,’ she said, and picked up another slate ready to place it into position.

Three hours later, the tide, together with Nancy’s mood, started to turn; a sense of failure lapped at the edge of her frayed enthusiasm and even a freshly baked scone with jam couldn’t lift her spirits. She was surrounded by mounds of splintered slate and unrewarded effort, but not unfortunately by the thing she was looking for. She stood up to call it a day.

‘Just one more, Nancy,’ I said, picking up the last and smallest of the pieces. ‘Come on. Just one more.’

There was no clue that this might be the one. The mallet fell with the same heavy force and the chisel landed with the same perfect precision. Nothing was different, apart from Nancy’s face as we prised the pieces apart and she saw that her search was over. For there, snuggled in the middle, was the coiled impression of a creature from another time, almost as old as the world. I gasped; ran my finger round and round its grooved spiral, and then held it close to my chest.

‘Nothing stays forgotten for long, Elly. Sometimes we simply have to remind the world that we’re special and that we’re still here.’

2 May 1979

Dear Jenny ,

I’m glad you’re happy. Gordon sounds nice and I’m glad you have someone to play with. I miss you more than ever and I don’t like school. I still haven’t got any friends yet, but I never thought I’d make any as nice as you. I found this fossil on the beach and thought of you. Nancy says it’s rare and precious. Nancy says good things. I hope you like it. Keep it safe for me.

Love,

Your best friend, Elly xx

PS. Sorry you’ve got diabeetis.

Not once had our parents told us of their plans for a bed and breakfast, and not once had they ever revealed this unnatural desire to house people who wouldn’t normally be encouraged to share our lives. And yet here we were, looking down at the colourful magazine advertisement, placed just in time for the summer season.

‘Well, what do you think?’ they said.

Words like idyllic, unique, peaceful stood out next to the half-page photograph of our beloved home; a home that had exhausted our energies for almost a year whilst we transformed it into the idyllic, unique and peaceful space that it had stubbornly become.

‘Do we need the money?’ my brother asked quietly.

‘No, of course not,’ said my father. ‘We’re not doing this for money. We’re doing this because we can and because it’ll be fun. An adven-ture.’

Only nursery school teachers broke up words like that, I thought.

‘Think of all the lovely people we’ll meet,’ said my mother, holding on tightly to the slab of pink quartz that hung around her neck, the one she’d uncovered at the clay pits in St Austell.

My brother and I looked at each other as we imagined Mr and Mrs Strange holding up the advertisement and saying, ‘Look at this, dear, this looks nice. Let’s visit and never leave.’

I reached for my brother’s hand but it was already firmly in his mouth.

Our first two guests arrived just as the sealant had been placed around their bath. Mr and Mrs Catt pulled up in their sand-coloured Marina saloon and were greeted by my mother, who was wielding a bottle of champagne as violently as if it had been my father’s axe.

They recoiled as she screamed, ‘Welcome! You’re our first!’ and she led them into the living room where she introduced Joe and me. I only grunted and raised my hand because we had decided earlier that I should pretend to be deaf.

‘Alfie!’ my mother suddenly shouted into the hallway, and my father jogged in wearing a pair of flimsy red running shorts. He may as well have come in naked, since the discomfort of our guests would have been exactly the same. He leant towards them with his outstretched hand and said, ‘Hi,’ with an elongated i .

‘Champagne, darling?’ my mother asked my father, handing him an oversized flute.

‘You betcha,’ he said.

My brother and I looked at each other, quizzically mouthing the words ‘betcha’ and ‘hi’.

‘What about this effing travesty, eh?’ said my father holding up the Guardian , showing a photograph of Margaret Thatcher. ‘Two months on and still bloody with us.’

‘We both think she’s marvellous, actually,’ said Mrs Catt in a crisp estuary accent, forcefully adjusting her bra strap. ‘Doing a wonderful job.’

‘And I’m sure she is,’ said my mother sternly, looking towards my father.

‘If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask,’ said my father, about to swallow a large mouthful of discount-for-bulk Moët.

‘Actually, all we really want is a bath,’ said Mr Catt, placing his full glass of champagne onto the small table and rubbing his hands, as if the soap was in his palms already. My parents froze.

‘A bath?’ repeated my father, in a tone that suggested he was uncertain what a bath actually was.

‘Yes, a bath ,’ said Mr Catt clearly.

‘Right,’ said my father, playing for time, but even he couldn’t stretch that word for the necessary thirty-five minutes.

‘Actually, do you know what’s better than a bath?’ my mother said with seamless reassurance.