possibly be kumquats or maybe ugly fruits … God, she doesn’t even know the names of the more exotic varieties. Is it any wonder she can’t persuade her own children to acquaint themselves with pineapple? Here on Shorling beach, in the glorious April sunshine, no one is whingeing or picking out bits they don’t like. There appears to be not one Cheesy Wotsit on the whole beach.
As for acceptable picnic attire, Kerry realises this is Petit Bateau territory, with a liberal sprinkling of Boden and Gap. It’s also clear that Mia, who at seven years old favours scruffy denim shorts and has already splattered ice cream down her T-shirt, doesn’t quite belong. And it’s a miracle that Freddie, who’s wearing the hideous black and orange tracksuit that’s permanently welded to his lithe five-year-old body these days, hasn’t been politely asked to leave the beach. Kerry might be feeling paranoid, but she’s sure that kumquat-slicing mum over there is giving her children a look of distaste, as if fearful that they might pitch up beside them and start slugging Fanta and ripping open packets of Jammy Dodgers.
She chuckles to herself, focusing now on her husband Rob as he turns and motions for her to catch up. Their children are running along at the water’s edge while Rob is marching ahead, laden with bags, having decided that the far end of the beach will be more suitable for kite flying. However, Kerry has lagged behind deliberately, swivelling her eyes from left to right in order to amass as much information as possible about the picnicking etiquette at Shorling-on-Sea. After all, they might live here one day. It’s just a hazy idea, but still, research must be conducted in these matters.
At least Rob looks the part, she decides. Tall, dark-eyed, handsome Rob, who’s been scouring the shops these past weeks for a top-notch kite, especially to bring today.
‘Think this is a good place?’ he asks as Kerry catches up with him. They have left the picnicking groups behind now, and she experiences a wave of pleasure as she surveys the sweep of flat, empty sand.
‘Looks perfect,’ she says. ‘D’you think there’s enough wind?’
‘Yeah, ’course there is,’ Freddie declares, unselfconsciously pulling off his sodden tracksuit bottoms. He points at a father and son over by the rocks who are expertly manoeuvring a box kite.
‘That’s impressive.’ Rob grins at his son. ‘Reckon we can do that, little man?’
‘Yeah. Let me go first.’ Freddie tries, unsuccessfully, to snatch the kite from Rob’s grasp.
‘You said I could, Daddy!’ Mia declares, scampering towards them.
‘Of course you can both have a go,’ Rob says. ‘It’s for you guys, not me. Just let me see if I can get us started, okay?’ Amidst the children’s protests, Rob strides away while Kerry unpacks her own picnic offerings: ham baguettes, a little squashed, bananas having mysteriously blackened during the two hour drive from London to the south coast. But at least her blueberry muffins have endured the journey well. She almost wishes the anchovy tart mum would venture over and see them: they’re home-made, you know, and there’s fruit nestling inside …
Actually, no she doesn’t, because all’s not going well on the kite front. Having decided he does need assistance after all, Rob is urging Mia to launch the kite as he simultaneously charges away, gripping the spool as if trying to control an exuberant puppy. Kerry traps a bubble of laughter as, no matter how fast he runs or tugs ineffectually at the line, the bright yellow kite still smacks straight back down onto the sand.
‘I really don’t think there’s enough wind,’ she suggests, sitting cross-legged on a spread out towel.
Rob blows out air and glances at the father and son with the box kite. ‘They don’t seem to be having any problems,’ he huffs.
‘Yeah,’ Freddie grumbles, ‘why haven’t we got one like that?’
Mia fixes her father with a thoughtful stare. ‘Is it our kite’s fault, Daddy, or is it you?’
Slinging the kite on the sand beside the picnic basket, Rob plonks himself down beside Kerry. ‘Guess it must be me, sweetheart. Guy in the shop said even a dumbwit can fly this. It’s guaranteed to fly like a bird, he said.’
‘He lied then,’ Freddie says.
‘Can you get your money back?’ Mia wants to know.
‘Oh, I don’t think I’ll bother. Maybe I should leave kite flying to those alpha-dad types.’ Rob grins, putting an arm around Kerry’s shoulders.
‘Well,’ she says, ‘that box kite probably took six weeks to build, and I bet he’s president of some horribly competitive kite-flying club …’
‘And the kid hates it,’ Rob cuts in. ‘He’d much rather be at home, plugged into his Xbox …’
‘Have you noticed how he hasn’t let the boy have a go?’ Kerry has barely spoken when the man hands the kite’s controls to his small, eager son who continues to manoeuvre it in majestic swoops.
‘There must be some different kind of air pocket system going on there,’ Rob says, taking a bite of a muffin. ‘These are delicious by the way.’
‘Thanks. New recipe.’
‘Excellent work, Mrs Tambini.’
She laughs, kissing him lightly on the lips, relieved that she managed to persuade him to come down here today. The children are clearly enjoying it too, having wandered off back to the water’s edge.
‘D’you think it’s okay,’ Rob ventures, ‘Freddie wandering about in his pants like that?’
‘It’s a beach,’ she laughs. ‘Of course it is, as long as no one realises they’re from Primark. We’ll probably be arrested if they do.’
Rob smiles. ‘You really like it here, don’t you?’
‘I love it, even though it’s gone posh. I always have, ever since I was a kid.’ She glances at him, deciding not to ask him again whether they should take up her Aunt Maisie’s offer of buying her home on the Shorling seafront at a ridiculously low price. Admittedly, the cottage needs work, but it’s the perfect size, with a great primary school within walking distance. Maisie is keen to move to Spain where her oldest schoolfriend, Barbara, has an apartment. She’s out there now, ready to embrace a new life, and Kerry feels she, Rob and the children are too. Rob has cautiously agreed that London is commutable – seventy minutes by train – and as a freelance songwriter, she could easily live and work here. And the children, who have now joined forces to build a sandcastle, would love it …
Rob strolls over to help them dig a moat, and Freddie squeals with delight every time a wave rushes in to fill it. As she watches the three of them digging frantically, Kerry is overcome by a surge of love for her husband. Rob seems to have been struggling at work lately, no doubt due to a clear out of virtually all of the old, faithful team. His new editor sounds utterly obnoxious, so is it any wonder he’s seemed a bit distant and distracted?
Kerry gets up to join her family, helping to reinforce the moat’s walls after each wave.
‘We’re winning against the sea!’ Freddie yells until their castle finally melts away.
‘Let’s try the kite again,’ Rob suggests, ‘now that over-achiever with the box kite has gone.’
Perhaps
