Tiger Moth (6 page)

Mum drove further and further along a twisty road. Then the road became a lane and the lane became a track. We drove higher and higher until I heard my ears pop like they do when you go on an
aeroplane. Then she suddenly stopped, got out of the car and told me to follow. I scrambled up a steep bank off the side of the road towards the start of what looked like a path that was covered in
rocks and plants that I had never seen before.

‘Come on,’ she shouted and I had to move quickly to keep up with her.

The path got narrower and narrower. Then it got steeper and steeper, and on either side the funny-looking plants became large thorny bushes which were covered in pretty bright yellow flowers. It
got so steep I had to bend down and use my hands to climb up the rocks. I could feel the sweat begin to drip down my back and my breathing become heavier and heavier. My mum, on the other hand, was
scrambling up the steep rocky path like a mountain goat, and then she suddenly stopped, stretched out her arms and I watched her take a huge breath.

‘Ah, Zack, look at that! I forgot how beautiful Exmoor is. Centre of the universe, that’s what my dad used to say.’

And, when I finally climbed up to the spot where she was standing, when I finally reached the top of the hill where Mum stood like some kind of crazy person, I saw with my own eyes a sight I
will never forget. It felt as though we were standing right on top of a mountain on the very top of the world, and the valley that I’d seen earlier was below our feet, but this time I could
see all of it. The rolling patchwork of fields, the farmhouses, churches and forests, but most of all I could see the sea like it was rising up towards us.

I took a deep breath and smelt not salty sea air, but something different. Something completely unexpected. Coconut. And, as if Mum could read my mind, she put her arm round my shoulders and
whispered, ‘That’s the gorse flower. Some people say it smells like honey, but I don’t agree. I think it smells like . . .’

‘Coconut,’ I said, breathing in the lovely scent once more.

‘Yes, like coconut.’

When we got back in the car and set off again, I gazed out of the window at the magnificent view and I started to feel a bit OK. Just a bit. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d
seen Mum so happy and, for a short while, I forgot all the miserable thoughts and worries. I didn’t feel sad or angry or anything like that, but it didn’t last very long at all.

We followed the road through the middle of the valley past lots of funny-looking old houses that were all painted a sort of pale yellow colour. We drove through a village and Mum pointed out her
old primary school, but, when we turned right to the village of Porlock Weir and towards the sea, all my sort of happy feeling vanished as fast as you can say ‘surfboard’ because the
beaches weren’t at all what I had been expecting. They weren’t covered in white or yellow sand. They weren’t like any beaches I was used to because THERE WAS NO SAND AT ALL. Just
rock and stones and some really big boulders.

Mum had told me over and over how amazing the beaches were and I’d thought I could go bodyboarding like we’d done on holiday. It was the one thing I’d thought might just be OK,
but, as we drove down to the harbour, I saw with horror that all three beaches were full of stones. Massive stones. The sort of stones that break bones. And when I saw the sign ‘Danger! No
swimming’ I felt my blood boil and the little angry feeling became one enormous shouting rage.

‘You lied! You totally lied to me! You said there were beaches! Proper beaches. You can’t even swim here,’ I yelled, pointing at the sign.

Mum stopped the car outside a row of white cottages and sighed.

‘Zack, these are beaches. We can go rock pooling and . . .’

‘Rock pooling? Are you mental? I’m not five years old, you know!’

This was the moment that Mum lost her temper with me, and she took her seat belt off and banged her tiny fists on the steering wheel.

‘Zachery Drake! I know you’re not five years old, but right now I wish you bloody well were. Because then you were sweet and adorable and not a spoilt, grumpy brat.’

‘Well,’ I said, shouting back, ‘I’m so sorry, Mother, sorry for being born, sorry for being such a horrible
accident
after all!’

And with that I got out of the car, slammed the door and ran as fast as I could out of the harbour, along the stupid, stony beach, and I decided that today was probably the worst day of my
entire life.

Remembering every little detail I had overheard, I set off down the overgrown footpath. I walked carefully and close to the left, watching out for the edge and making sure I
held on to branches in places where I thought I might slip. I felt my heart beat a little faster with each step that I took, but it was a kind of exciting feeling too. The path was so overgrown
that the green branches made it feel a bit like I was walking through a tunnel.

I followed the path until I got to the stone seat; the words
Culver Cove
were carved into it. My legs were feeling tired so I sat down for a while and watched the sea below. The waters
were calm and blue, and I could just make out the large rocks where the smugglers used to bring their boats filled with treasure. When I climbed underneath a tree, I had to push the branches away
from my face with the back of my hand.

As I crawled through the darkness, I felt my heart beat quickly and for a moment I wondered if I should go back, but as the thought entered my head I caught sight of the waterfall. Its crystal
waters cascaded down the hill in a loud rushing sound and I made the mistake of following the water with my eyes. As I watched the water descending, I felt myself get dizzy and my foot almost
slipped off the edge. I grabbed hold of the rocks and tried to catch my breath again. I moved forward towards the ledge. Now I had to do the hard part and jump over the edge to the other side.

I looked once more at the rushing water and told myself not to look down. I held my head high and concentrated on the large rock face in front of me, counting one, two, three. But I didn’t
move. One. Two. Three. Again I stayed rooted to the spot. Could I reach it? I placed one foot forward and tried to measure the gap. Would I make it? Had I ever jumped that far? Should I just turn
round and run back home?
Home
, I thought, remembering my mum and dad in the garden and the stupid baby kicking. They didn’t need me any more. So I took a deep breath and, thinking
about the pretty beach which lay ahead of me, I jumped.

It happened like slow motion. My body tipped forward and my feet sprang into the air. I saw the other side getting closer, closer, a gentle breeze on my face as I descended, but, just as my toes
were almost touching the ledge, I felt the rucksack on my shoulder suddenly being tugged violently backwards and I had just enough time to pull my arm free of the strap. I landed hard, falling
forward on to my hands and knees, and I watched in horror as my bag tumbled down the rock face all the way to the shore.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead and listened to the sound of the waterfall above me. I could just about see the water through the thick branches and I knew I had to be close. Finally I spied
the little stone steps; I bent down to climb under the last branch and crawled out from the darkened footpath into the bright light of the sunshine.

At first I felt as though I’d walked right into a painting or on to one of those secret islands where ancient tribes still live. It couldn’t be real. It didn’t feel real. The
sand wasn’t yellow, it was pinkish white. The sea wasn’t grey or blue, it was turquoise, and the two rocks on each side of the cove stood proudly like pillars. Like the gateway to
another world. And it was hot. Stinking hot. I looked back up the steep hill and wondered why Dad had told me the path was covered with rocks. Why had he always said it was impossible to get down
to Culver Cove? Why had he lied?

I took off my shoes and walked barefoot on the warm sand. A seagull flew above my head and I watched it circle lower and lower; I watched it swoop and dive. Then I saw him. Sitting bare-chested
and cross-legged on our beach was a boy I’d never seen before. I quickly ducked behind a large rock. Who was he? What was he doing on our beach?

I peeped out to look again. He had my bag! I got really angry when he began to open it. My hands clenched into fists when he started looking through it. I saw him pull out the towel and watched
in horror as the lemon cake rolled on to the beach where it became covered in sand. I marched out from my hiding place and strode right up to him. I wanted to yell, but I still couldn’t make
a sound, and suddenly I found myself standing right over him. The boy jumped up quickly, dropped my bag and, as he looked down at me, I saw his face in the soft light of the sun.

His hair was thick and darkest brown, and now that I was closer I could see that it was soaking wet. His eyes blinked in the light and it was only when he held up a hand to shield his eyes that
I realised that he was like no one I had ever seen before. His eyes looked as though someone had used a big black felt tip to draw round the coloured bit. It made the blue look like wet paint and
the angry feeling sort of melted away. I just stared. Then I felt myself blushing from my chest right up to the hairs on the back of my neck. He looked at me with squinty eyes and then he smiled in
a way that made me feel as though he was really happy to see me. In a way that made me think he knew me, that he wasn’t really a stranger after all.

We stood like that silently for what seemed like forever and then he turned round and left. Just like that. I watched him as he climbed along the rocks and disappeared back round the headland to
the village.

Who was he?

I sat on the beach until my face was burning from the sun and, as there was nowhere shady to sit, I felt hot and uncomfortable. After a while, I pulled out the photograph of my other mother and
stared down at her face. Did she like beaches? Did she like to swim?

I was so hot and worried about getting back before it was dark on my way home, that strangely it wasn’t so bad the second time around. As I slid the rusty bolt back across the door to the
garden, I knew I wanted to go back to the beach again. As I climbed out from underneath the red rose bush, I turned and shook my head. You just wouldn’t know the door was there and, as I
kicked the red petals back into place, I realised that it looked exactly as I had found it.

I tried to sneak back into the house, but Mum and Dad were waiting for me and they were really angry. I stood in the kitchen and stared at the floor.

‘Alice, I am so disappointed in you,’ Mum said, shaking her head. ‘I love you so much, but you really can’t do that sort of thing.’

I nodded and waited to hear what my punishment would be. Going to the beach was forbidden. It was the golden rule, never to be broken, and I waited nervously.

‘Alice, what are we going to do?’ Mum sighed.

I held my breath.

‘Does your mum have to lock the door and hide the key?’ Dad said.

I thought about the rusty bolt on the door.

‘Alice, that cake was for the stall. I made that for the school fair so that they can raise money for the new school bus.’

The cake? I’d forgotten all about it. It had probably been carried off by a seagull. They were mad about the cake? They didn’t know where I’d been and I was so relieved that I
almost smiled and said something, but then I thought of the boy on the beach and the words got stuck. I tried to look as sorry as I could, but Mum and Dad just shook their heads.

‘I’m going to have to make another one now. I haven’t got time to make you dinner as well. You and your dad can go into the village and get something there.’

Mum gave my dad a funny look and then I spied the little pad next to the phone and, without thinking, I wrote:
I am sorry
.

Mum smiled, kissed my cheek and whispered in my ear, ‘I guess I do make the best cakes, eh?’

As I ran down the road and away from Mum, I felt like I wanted to shout in my loudest ever voice, ‘I just don’t want to be here!’ Why didn’t she get it?
Why couldn’t we have just stayed somewhere I knew or somewhere that at least had real beaches and not these stupid, stony, ‘Danger no swimming’ beaches? What’s the point of
that?

I heard her calling after me, but I kept on running down the footpath until I couldn’t hear her any more. When I got to the end of the lane, I saw Gary and the removal van parked outside
the row of cottages I sort of remembered from that photo Mum tried to show me. He waved at me to come over, but I turned away and jumped over the harbour wall on to the stupid, stony beach. I
kicked a few stones, but that kind of hurt, and in the end I went to the far side of the so-called beach, sat on a boulder and tried to throw pebbles into the water. The tide was pretty far out and
the greyish stones just clattered down to the beach without reaching the sea.

I looked back to the harbour and could just make out the side of the last white cottage. I could see Gary again and, when he started heading my way, I got up and left. The stones got bigger and
bigger until I was just clambering over bigger and bigger rocks and there wasn’t really any beach left, just a green headland which disappeared to the left. I turned my head and looked
upwards at the hill; it was almost vertical, but it was covered in purple flowers, and then I saw something which made my heart sink: ‘Private property. Keep out.’ I looked at the
rusting sign which was hanging off a chain and thought that, if I hadn’t turned my head, I wouldn’t have seen the sign so I pretended I hadn’t and carried on anyway.

It must have been after four o’clock, but it still felt really warm, and as I scrambled towards the last boulder I felt really hot and hungry. Mum says I’m always hungry these days
and I think she might be right, not that constantly eating has made me grow taller or anything because I used to be one of the shortest boys in my class.

I took off my hoody, wrapped it round my waist and climbed like a monkey on to the last grey boulder which was at least twice as tall as me. I had to slot my fingers into the grooves on the rock
face just like my dad had shown me when we were in France. ‘Always keep three points of contact,’ he’d said. Just before the top I saw that there were no more little ledges or
holes to put my hands into. I felt my heart beating quickly and, even though I could almost hear my dad’s voice in my head, it didn’t stop me from feeling afraid. I just wasn’t
like him at all. Dad would just get on and do stuff without being scared, but I’d never be as brave as him. I had to heave my entire body on to the top of the rock and it left me panting and
sweating so hard I had to lie down, close my eyes and rest for a bit. But when I opened them again and turned round I saw what lay hidden on the other side of the headland.