large pile, stacking it into a curving wall to mark a new field boundary. A solitary rook perched on a gatepost, surveying their progress with lazy curiosity. As I walked farther along the track it became rougher, too narrow for cart or car. The roar of the sea grew louder and I started to run.
In ten minutes, the village lay behind me and I reached the edge of the curving bay. Just above the tide line lay a tumbledown hut, half concealed by bramble and blue sea grass, like a fisherman’s cottage in a story. It almost appeared to be growing out of the rock. An old man, his hair as white as dandelion feathers, sat on a lobster pot mending a piece of netting with a rusted knife. He looked strangely familiar, but I couldn’t think where I had seen him before. I smiled and he gave me a curt nod before returning to his net. I scrambled over the rocks leading down to the beach, holding my books under one arm and trying not to drop them in the dirt. It was growing warm, and sweat made my top lip itch. Several fishing boats lay propped upon the rocks beside a cobbled causeway out of the reach of the high tide. The painted bottoms were speckled with barnacles and stinking scraps of seaweed. Even from several yards away, I could smell the stench of fish.
Before me, the sea foamed and crashed upon the pebbles. The water cracked against the stones, and there followed a creak as the tide surged and the pebbles rattled and ground together. I glanced back at the cottage. The old man was busy with his lobster pots and no one else was to be seen. I squatted down and drew off my shoes and stockings, and, with one last glance behind me, stripped off my skirt as well, weighting my clothes with the books. The breeze was cool, despite the early summer sunshine, and my skin prickled with goose bumps. Barefoot, I picked my way across the pebbles down toward the sea. The wet stones sparkled in the sunlight, while the wind whipped my short hair into my mouth, and I held it back with one hand, muttering crossly. When my hair had been long, I pinned it tightly and it did not flap into my eyes. As my toes touched the cold water, I let out a gasp. A chill tingled up and down my legs and I shrieked.
No one could hear me. I could shout and stamp and cry out and it did not matter. I waded out into the surf and banged my fists against my thighs, until they were stinging red. I shouted at the sea and my voice was lost.
“I hate it here! I hate it! Hate it! Anna. Julian. Margot. Hildegard. Anna Julian Margot. Annajulianmargotannajulmaanna . . .”
I chanted their names over and over, until they became a pulp of sound and lost their meanings. Salt spray battered my face and I licked it away. I was tired of behaving and being silent. I wanted more words. Bad words. I tried swearing in German, remembering all the profanities I had heard Julian use, especially those that made Anna wince and mutter, “Oh, darling.” Yet, it was oddly unsatisfying. I wanted English words. The more terrible, the more they would please me. I glanced back at the dictionary lying on the beach. Out of curiosity I had looked up some forbidden words. What was it? Testes. Yes, that must be a very dirty word. But I needed more. I must try and remember. I screwed up my eyes and recalled a word I’d seen daubed in paint on a wall in London. Yes. I could almost see it. It was like the word belonging to those stinking shellfish in vinegar that Henry the footman had offered me. I filled my lungs with air and hurled my words at the sea.
“Testes! Testes and cockles!”
My cries were absorbed in the pounding of the surf. I looked up at the racing clouds and shouted again, so loudly that my voice cracked and rasped in my throat.
“Shit. Hell. Hate. Testes and cockles! Cockles.”
“Titties. Titties and fishcakes!”
I whirled around and saw a tanned young man, trousers rolled up to his knees, hopping across the rocks toward me. I stared at him, openmouthed. He raised a hand in
In ten minutes, the village lay behind me and I reached the edge of the curving bay. Just above the tide line lay a tumbledown hut, half concealed by bramble and blue sea grass, like a fisherman’s cottage in a story. It almost appeared to be growing out of the rock. An old man, his hair as white as dandelion feathers, sat on a lobster pot mending a piece of netting with a rusted knife. He looked strangely familiar, but I couldn’t think where I had seen him before. I smiled and he gave me a curt nod before returning to his net. I scrambled over the rocks leading down to the beach, holding my books under one arm and trying not to drop them in the dirt. It was growing warm, and sweat made my top lip itch. Several fishing boats lay propped upon the rocks beside a cobbled causeway out of the reach of the high tide. The painted bottoms were speckled with barnacles and stinking scraps of seaweed. Even from several yards away, I could smell the stench of fish.
Before me, the sea foamed and crashed upon the pebbles. The water cracked against the stones, and there followed a creak as the tide surged and the pebbles rattled and ground together. I glanced back at the cottage. The old man was busy with his lobster pots and no one else was to be seen. I squatted down and drew off my shoes and stockings, and, with one last glance behind me, stripped off my skirt as well, weighting my clothes with the books. The breeze was cool, despite the early summer sunshine, and my skin prickled with goose bumps. Barefoot, I picked my way across the pebbles down toward the sea. The wet stones sparkled in the sunlight, while the wind whipped my short hair into my mouth, and I held it back with one hand, muttering crossly. When my hair had been long, I pinned it tightly and it did not flap into my eyes. As my toes touched the cold water, I let out a gasp. A chill tingled up and down my legs and I shrieked.
No one could hear me. I could shout and stamp and cry out and it did not matter. I waded out into the surf and banged my fists against my thighs, until they were stinging red. I shouted at the sea and my voice was lost.
“I hate it here! I hate it! Hate it! Anna. Julian. Margot. Hildegard. Anna Julian Margot. Annajulianmargotannajulmaanna . . .”
I chanted their names over and over, until they became a pulp of sound and lost their meanings. Salt spray battered my face and I licked it away. I was tired of behaving and being silent. I wanted more words. Bad words. I tried swearing in German, remembering all the profanities I had heard Julian use, especially those that made Anna wince and mutter, “Oh, darling.” Yet, it was oddly unsatisfying. I wanted English words. The more terrible, the more they would please me. I glanced back at the dictionary lying on the beach. Out of curiosity I had looked up some forbidden words. What was it? Testes. Yes, that must be a very dirty word. But I needed more. I must try and remember. I screwed up my eyes and recalled a word I’d seen daubed in paint on a wall in London. Yes. I could almost see it. It was like the word belonging to those stinking shellfish in vinegar that Henry the footman had offered me. I filled my lungs with air and hurled my words at the sea.
“Testes! Testes and cockles!”
My cries were absorbed in the pounding of the surf. I looked up at the racing clouds and shouted again, so loudly that my voice cracked and rasped in my throat.
“Shit. Hell. Hate. Testes and cockles! Cockles.”
“Titties. Titties and fishcakes!”
I whirled around and saw a tanned young man, trousers rolled up to his knees, hopping across the rocks toward me. I stared at him, openmouthed. He raised a hand in