white, very smooth and neat and pleasing. Set upright and mounted in a block of polished wood, it could have passed for sculpture. Garfield’s was black and thin, more like a length of pipe or a weapon. Antony’s stone was bronze-coloured and broad.
‘So we can all ride on him,’ Petroc said.
Her own, she saw, was smaller than any of the others. It was black, like Garfield’s, but shot through with other colours, dashes of white and pink and a kind of rust.
‘It looks better when it’s wet,’ he said but she found herself returning, shocked, to the fact that he represented her with a stone so small and vulnerable beside those of her children.
‘Look,’ he said, slightly mischievously. ‘I can put you in my pocket.’
‘But where are you?’
‘I can’t decide.’
So she tucked the drawings safely in the bag where she found them the Kit Kats she had brought them, then they hunted for the stone that best caught the essence of Petroc.
It was one of the wonders of the beach, which nobody she knew had sufficient grounding in geology to explain for her, that the boulders and pebbles that lay beneath the sand and emerged, today, at the beach’s highest point, all appeared to come from entirely different sources. Some intense heat, was it, or violent tumult within the earththere had brought forth stone of every shade? Garfield had once tried to catalogue them. Like some lost soul in the Greek underworld, he felt compelled to sort them into black, white, pink, white and black, grey and pink, grey with white streaks and bronzy yellow. The variety had defeated him as much as the lack of time between tides. He had been furious too, she remembered, that the pocket geology guide she had bought him seemed to offer no definite examples among its illustrations of any stone there.
The tide was mounting. All but one of the caves was below water. She found a stone that perfectly matched his hair but he dismissed that, perhaps as too literal. She found a lovely piece of deep blue sea glass, the colour of a Milk of Magnesia bottle, but he said it had to be stone or it wouldn’t work.
‘I hate to break up the party,’ she said, ‘but I need to get dressed again before the sea takes our things and you need to get home to birthday cake and sausages, which Antony will have had ready for an hour at least.’
He didn’t protest or complain but merely kept looking and comparing and sorting as she slipped back into the cave and took a quick pee in the sand. She exchanged her robe and costume for sandy underwear, her poppy-print sun dress and smelly espadrilles.
‘Found it!’ he shouted.
‘Well that’s a relief. Let’s see.’
It was the most ordinary stone imaginable, a sort of brown, earth shade with no shine and no variation in colour.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Why’s this you?’
‘Feel,’ he said and handed it to her.
It was far heavier than expected, like lead, and it fitted so exactly beneath one’s clasped fingers it might have been moulded from wet clay. As the local men said when something fitted a purpose exactly, Could’ve been made . She smiled.
‘See?’ he asked.
‘Of course.’
She had thought he would simply want to arrange the stones in the cave mouth or high on a boulder in the stream. Taught by the tedium of having to carry things home on walks, both she and Antony had long stressed the importance of leaving natural things where the children had found them for others to enjoy .
Petroc was insistent about bringing all six stones home however.
‘They’re too heavy,’ she said, when the nature argument failed. ‘That’s a very long cliff we’ve got to climb and then there are all those fields to cross at the top. Why don’t we put them here like this? We can build a lovely circle with them. Or … Or make a cairn, so people know to leave them alone for when you come back.’
But he was adamant. In fact he started to cry, which was alarming because he cried so rarely and had never
‘So we can all ride on him,’ Petroc said.
Her own, she saw, was smaller than any of the others. It was black, like Garfield’s, but shot through with other colours, dashes of white and pink and a kind of rust.
‘It looks better when it’s wet,’ he said but she found herself returning, shocked, to the fact that he represented her with a stone so small and vulnerable beside those of her children.
‘Look,’ he said, slightly mischievously. ‘I can put you in my pocket.’
‘But where are you?’
‘I can’t decide.’
So she tucked the drawings safely in the bag where she found them the Kit Kats she had brought them, then they hunted for the stone that best caught the essence of Petroc.
It was one of the wonders of the beach, which nobody she knew had sufficient grounding in geology to explain for her, that the boulders and pebbles that lay beneath the sand and emerged, today, at the beach’s highest point, all appeared to come from entirely different sources. Some intense heat, was it, or violent tumult within the earththere had brought forth stone of every shade? Garfield had once tried to catalogue them. Like some lost soul in the Greek underworld, he felt compelled to sort them into black, white, pink, white and black, grey and pink, grey with white streaks and bronzy yellow. The variety had defeated him as much as the lack of time between tides. He had been furious too, she remembered, that the pocket geology guide she had bought him seemed to offer no definite examples among its illustrations of any stone there.
The tide was mounting. All but one of the caves was below water. She found a stone that perfectly matched his hair but he dismissed that, perhaps as too literal. She found a lovely piece of deep blue sea glass, the colour of a Milk of Magnesia bottle, but he said it had to be stone or it wouldn’t work.
‘I hate to break up the party,’ she said, ‘but I need to get dressed again before the sea takes our things and you need to get home to birthday cake and sausages, which Antony will have had ready for an hour at least.’
He didn’t protest or complain but merely kept looking and comparing and sorting as she slipped back into the cave and took a quick pee in the sand. She exchanged her robe and costume for sandy underwear, her poppy-print sun dress and smelly espadrilles.
‘Found it!’ he shouted.
‘Well that’s a relief. Let’s see.’
It was the most ordinary stone imaginable, a sort of brown, earth shade with no shine and no variation in colour.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Why’s this you?’
‘Feel,’ he said and handed it to her.
It was far heavier than expected, like lead, and it fitted so exactly beneath one’s clasped fingers it might have been moulded from wet clay. As the local men said when something fitted a purpose exactly, Could’ve been made . She smiled.
‘See?’ he asked.
‘Of course.’
She had thought he would simply want to arrange the stones in the cave mouth or high on a boulder in the stream. Taught by the tedium of having to carry things home on walks, both she and Antony had long stressed the importance of leaving natural things where the children had found them for others to enjoy .
Petroc was insistent about bringing all six stones home however.
‘They’re too heavy,’ she said, when the nature argument failed. ‘That’s a very long cliff we’ve got to climb and then there are all those fields to cross at the top. Why don’t we put them here like this? We can build a lovely circle with them. Or … Or make a cairn, so people know to leave them alone for when you come back.’
But he was adamant. In fact he started to cry, which was alarming because he cried so rarely and had never
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