walking on the shoreline hand in hand, and Conall the wolfhound braving the surf with his long, loping strides.
My goodness, Jean, your imagination knows no bounds!
It was Friday evening and the weekend lay before her like a lover’s promise. Here again was the brief opportunity to empty her head, to allow the beauty of her surroundings to heal the week’s bruises. For, in truth, the likes of Jimmy McLeish and Peter Dalton were driving her to distraction. Jimmy would be a farmer after he left school, for heaven’s sake, and what did farmers want with Shakespeare and Owen? Jean sighed. She feared that her determination to teach the likes of Jimmy and Peter the finer points of English poetry construction was, like the action of water upon limestone, gradually being eroded. It was hard, so hard, to get through. Yes, there were exceptions. Rory, for example, was a natural. He had an affinity with the written word. It was obvious, and oh so welcome. For the most part, though, it was an uphill struggle, and by midweek she would find herself asking the same old question: why? Why did I come here at all?
But you know why; you know exactly why. Jean stopped walking and drank in the view. Yes , she said to herself. Yes. You came because of this.
She shaded her eyes as the setting sun dipped and the sky became a kaleidoscope of red and orange, turning the Atlantic into a painter’s palette of such beauty it almost made her weak at the knees.
‘Youse goin’ swimmin’?’
Jean whirled around. ‘Oh!’ She quickly composed herself. ‘You made me jump.’
A ginger-haired boy was sitting on a rock formation above and to her left. He had a commanding view and had obviously been following her progress from the cliff path down to the beach.
‘I’m always here.’
‘Are you now?’ Jean had recovered sufficiently from her surprise to make a rapid assessment. The boy was around ten or eleven years old, she reckoned. Old enough - just - to be on the beach by himself. But still…
‘Where are your ma and da?’
‘Long dead, missy.’
Jean frowned, a little taken aback. He spoke like an adult, not a minor. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’
’S’all right.’ The boy shrugged. ‘Most of ‘em died. Not just mine.’
Now she was a little closer she could see that he was dressed not in jeans and T-shirt, as she would have expected, but in a one-piece, colourless garment which he had gathered at the waist with a length of dirty string. His feet, she noted with disapproval, were bare and filthy.
‘Most of whom?’ Jean probed. It was an unusual statement for a kid to make, and in such a throwaway fashion, as though it should have been apparent to her that this was a natural, expected eventuality.
‘The families. All of us that worked around here, when there was work to be had.’
The sun had vanished into the sea and the breeze was beginning to chill Jean’s bare arms. She rubbed the cold flesh vigorously, glanced up and down the beach. She and the boy were the only souls in sight.
‘Where do you live?’
‘Everywhere,’ the child said.
Jean felt a cold perspiration on her forehead. My god. Maybe I’m sick. What’s wrong with me? She knew with a certainty which defied explanation that this boy was not real, and yet very real.
‘You’re right,’ the boy said. ‘I’m dead as well. Like all of ‘em.’
Jean looked into the boy’s eyes. They were deep blue, lived-in eyes which somehow negated any fear she might have felt.
‘What do you want?’
Her voice seemed far off, carried high by the wind so that she wondered if the boy might not hear her question, but he replied immediately.
‘I wanted to tell you about that night. The night Orla Benjamin was murdered.’
Jean rubbed her eyes. She was overtired, overworked. Stressed. Something …
But when she opened her eyes again the boy was still there, dangling his feet over the edge of the rock, watching her with a curious
My goodness, Jean, your imagination knows no bounds!
It was Friday evening and the weekend lay before her like a lover’s promise. Here again was the brief opportunity to empty her head, to allow the beauty of her surroundings to heal the week’s bruises. For, in truth, the likes of Jimmy McLeish and Peter Dalton were driving her to distraction. Jimmy would be a farmer after he left school, for heaven’s sake, and what did farmers want with Shakespeare and Owen? Jean sighed. She feared that her determination to teach the likes of Jimmy and Peter the finer points of English poetry construction was, like the action of water upon limestone, gradually being eroded. It was hard, so hard, to get through. Yes, there were exceptions. Rory, for example, was a natural. He had an affinity with the written word. It was obvious, and oh so welcome. For the most part, though, it was an uphill struggle, and by midweek she would find herself asking the same old question: why? Why did I come here at all?
But you know why; you know exactly why. Jean stopped walking and drank in the view. Yes , she said to herself. Yes. You came because of this.
She shaded her eyes as the setting sun dipped and the sky became a kaleidoscope of red and orange, turning the Atlantic into a painter’s palette of such beauty it almost made her weak at the knees.
‘Youse goin’ swimmin’?’
Jean whirled around. ‘Oh!’ She quickly composed herself. ‘You made me jump.’
A ginger-haired boy was sitting on a rock formation above and to her left. He had a commanding view and had obviously been following her progress from the cliff path down to the beach.
‘I’m always here.’
‘Are you now?’ Jean had recovered sufficiently from her surprise to make a rapid assessment. The boy was around ten or eleven years old, she reckoned. Old enough - just - to be on the beach by himself. But still…
‘Where are your ma and da?’
‘Long dead, missy.’
Jean frowned, a little taken aback. He spoke like an adult, not a minor. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’
’S’all right.’ The boy shrugged. ‘Most of ‘em died. Not just mine.’
Now she was a little closer she could see that he was dressed not in jeans and T-shirt, as she would have expected, but in a one-piece, colourless garment which he had gathered at the waist with a length of dirty string. His feet, she noted with disapproval, were bare and filthy.
‘Most of whom?’ Jean probed. It was an unusual statement for a kid to make, and in such a throwaway fashion, as though it should have been apparent to her that this was a natural, expected eventuality.
‘The families. All of us that worked around here, when there was work to be had.’
The sun had vanished into the sea and the breeze was beginning to chill Jean’s bare arms. She rubbed the cold flesh vigorously, glanced up and down the beach. She and the boy were the only souls in sight.
‘Where do you live?’
‘Everywhere,’ the child said.
Jean felt a cold perspiration on her forehead. My god. Maybe I’m sick. What’s wrong with me? She knew with a certainty which defied explanation that this boy was not real, and yet very real.
‘You’re right,’ the boy said. ‘I’m dead as well. Like all of ‘em.’
Jean looked into the boy’s eyes. They were deep blue, lived-in eyes which somehow negated any fear she might have felt.
‘What do you want?’
Her voice seemed far off, carried high by the wind so that she wondered if the boy might not hear her question, but he replied immediately.
‘I wanted to tell you about that night. The night Orla Benjamin was murdered.’
Jean rubbed her eyes. She was overtired, overworked. Stressed. Something …
But when she opened her eyes again the boy was still there, dangling his feet over the edge of the rock, watching her with a curious
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