The Daydreamer by Ian McEwan

always one more thing needed, and promises were made to get it tomorrow – another folding chair, shampoo, garlic, sun- glasses, clothes pegs – as if the holiday could not be enjoyed, could not even begin, until all these useless items had been gathered up. Gwendoline, on the other hand, was different. She simply sat in a chair all day, reading a book.
    Meanwhile Peter and his friends never knew the day of the week or the hour of the day. They surged up and down the beach, chasing, hiding, battling, invading, in games of pirates or aliens from space. In the sand they built dams, canals, fortresses and a water zoo which they stocked with crabs and shrimps. Peter and the other older children made up stories they said were true to terrify the little ones. Sea monsters with tentacles that crawled out of the surf and seized children by the ankles and dragged them into the deep. Or the madman with seaweed hair who lived in the cave and turned children into lobsters. Peter worked so hard on these stories that he found himself unwilling to go into the cave alone, and when he was swimming he shuddered when a strand of seaweed brushed against his foot.
    Sometimes The Beach Gang wandered inland, to the orchard where they were building a camp. Or they ran along the old track to the forbidden tunnel. There was a gap in the boards and they dared each other to squeeze through into total darkness. Water dripped with a hollow, creepy, plopping echo. There were scurrying sounds which they thought might be rats, and there was always a dank sooty breeze which one of the big girls said was the breath of a witch. No one believed her, but no one dared walk more than a few paces in.
    These summer days started early and ended late. Sometimes, as he was getting into bed, Peter would try to remember how the day had begun. The events of the morning seemed to have happened weeks before. There were times when he was still struggling to remember the beginning of the day when he fell asleep.
    One evening after supper Peter got into an argument with one of the other boys whose name was Henry. The trouble started over a chocolate bar, but the row soon developed into a bout of name calling. For some reason all the other children, except of course Kate, sided with Henry. Peter threw the bar of chocolate down into the sand and walked off by himself. Kate went indoors to get a plaster for a cut on her foot. The rest of the group wandered off along the shore. Peter turned and watched them go. He heard laughter. Perhaps they were talking about him. As the group moved further away in the dusk, its individual members were lost to view and all that could be seen was a blob that moved and stretched this way and that. More likely they had forgotten all about him and were playing a new game.
    Peter continued to stand with his back to the sea. A sudden cool wind made him shiver. He looked towards the cottages. He could just make out the low murmur of adult conversation, the sound of a wine-cork being pulled, the musical sound of a woman’s laughter, perhaps his mother’s. Standing there that August evening between the two groups, the sea lapping round his bare feet, Peter suddenly grasped something very obvious and terrible: one day he would leave the group that ran wild up and down the beach, and he would join the group that sat and talked. It was hard to believe, but he knew it was true. He would care about different things, about work, money and tax, cheque-books, keys and coffee, and talking and sitting, endless sitting.
    These thoughts were on his mind as he got into bed that night. And they were not exactly happy thoughts. How could he be happy at the prospect of a life spent sitting down and talking? Or doing errands and going to work. And never playing, never really having fun. One day he would be an entirely different person. It would happen so slowly he would not even notice, and when it had, his brilliant, playful eleven-year-old self would be as far away,