Canvey Island by James Runcie Page A

and Martin stopped to pick up a pebble and throw it into the sea. I thought at first he was nervous about leaving home and that he’d be all right once we were in the Monico. Dave’s band was playing, after all. But Martin said he wanted to talk. Then I could tell it was bad because he started to speak slowly and he couldn’t look at me.
    â€˜I have to leave,’ he said. ‘I have to do more than this.’
    â€˜I know.’
    â€˜And I’ll need to concentrate. I might not be able to see you as often as you want.’
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    â€˜I have to understand: the sea, floods, water …’
    â€˜Stopping it, I know. But it doesn’t mean you can’t come home, though, does it?’
    â€˜No. It doesn’t,’ he said. ‘But I have to work.’
    â€˜Yes, but you can’t work all the time. When you’re not so busy then we can be together.’
    The mist was rising. I wanted Martin to put his jacket over me like he always did when he knew I was cold, but now he was staring at the ground. ‘I don’t know. Sometimes I’m not sure that I’m right for you. Perhaps you deserve someone better.’
    â€˜What are you talking about? I don’t want anyone else. I love you.’
    â€˜And I love you. But it’s so hard to live with it all.’
    â€˜No, it’s not,’ I said. ‘It’s lovely. It’s the only thing that matters. You said that once. Don’t you remember?’
    â€˜But I’m afraid of it.’
    I tried to make him look at me but he couldn’t. ‘Stay,’ I said. ‘Please. Stay here with me.’
    â€˜Do you mean I shouldn’t go to university at all?’
    â€˜Sometimes I think that, yes.’
    â€˜But what would I do if I gave it up?’
    He stopped and began to kick at the broken shells under his feet, scraping them from right to left and back again, first with one foot, then with the other. Among them was a piece of sea glass. We were the last people left on the beach.
    â€˜I’ll come back. It’s only three years.’
    â€˜You’ll change,’ I said.
    â€˜I won’t.’
    â€˜You will. You’ll get bored with me. You already have.’ I could tell, even then, that I was making it worse.
    â€˜I won’t get bored, Linda. I’ll only get bored if you go on like this.’
    â€˜Well, what am I supposed to say?’ I asked.
    â€˜You’re the clever one.’
    â€˜You’re clever too.’
    â€˜Yeah. But perhaps I’m just not clever enough,’ I said.
    We walked across sands and shoals of rock; the memory of waves along the strandline. I had such an ache.

Martin
    Dad came with Vi to wave me off. They stood on the pavement stamping the October cold away. Vi put her blue leather glove to my cheek. ‘God bless, Martin. We’re so proud of you. You’d best get on the bus or I’ll start crying.’
    She leant forward and I kissed her.
    My father handed me fifty pounds. ‘I’d like to give you more, son, but it’s all I can spare.’
    â€˜You don’t have to give me anything.’
    â€˜I wanted to see you right. Have a drink on us. Remember your old dad.’
    â€˜And me,’ said Vi. ‘Don’t forget your auntie.’
    I climbed on to the coach, went past the driver and found a seat halfway down. Dad and Vi waved quickly, their hands close to their bodies, and I wondered what they would talk about when I had gone. The coach passed George’s nursing home, Ivy’s old shop, the school and the playing fields; all the brief certainties of my former life.
    As we drove down the high street, I saw Linda. She had stopped by the side of the road. She gave me a silent stare and I remembered how when she was angry her face reddened slightly, all except for the dent in her forehead where her brother had thrown the toy truck at her when they were small. The