He watched the little waves coming into the beach from the darkening river. Little lines of whiteness coming out of the dark. This time last night they’d all been sitting down to supper, Mam, Dad, Dulcie …
He let himself cry then. Somehow he could afford to, with his belly full, and his new home against his back, and his new friend the dog snuffling at his raincoat, still looking for crumbs of batter. He cried quite a long time, but he cried very quietly, not wanting anyone to hear him, in case they came across to find out what was the matter. The dog licked his tears with a huge wet tongue, and he hugged it to him.
And yet, even as he was crying, he was thinking. Hard. So many things going round in his mind, like a squirrel in a cage.
He must keep himself clean and tidy somehow. A dirty face got you into trouble. He must comb his hair. He must keep his shoes polished and his raincoat clean. And he must get a leash for Don. And he must stay near fresh water to drink … And …
He reached for Don’s collar in the dark, twisted off the medal and threw it as far down the beach as he could. That medal was Don’s death-sentence. The police caught dogs who’d lost their owners in air raids, and had them put down on an electrified plate at the police station. They dampened the dog’s coat, then they electrocuted it. That was what Dad had said had happened to their old dog, when he got too old. He said they did it to some lovely dogs, it was a shame.
Don was his dog now.
As the last tinge of light faded, far out over the sea, he dug under the boat again, crawled in and called the dog in after him. It wouldn’t do to be on the beach after dark. People might ask questions.
He spread the blankets neatly, wishing he had a candle to see by. That was something else he’d have to lay his hands on.
He had the sand-hole neatly filled in again when his need to pee caught him in the groin like a knife. Swearing to himself, he dug the hole again, and got outside only just in time. He crawled back, thinking he had an awful lot to learn. He’d always had Mam until now, saying do this, do that, till you could scream. Now he had to say do this, do that, to himself.
Still, he was snug. He had enough blankets to make two into a pillow and give one to the dog. Except the dog snuggled up close to him, and he let it in.
He gave one deep sigh, and was asleep. All night his breathing lay hidden under the greater breathing of the sea. He wakened once, to hear rain patting on the boat. But it only made things cosier.
The dog wakened him by licking his face. He had no idea what time it was, but all along the gap between the boat and the sand, the sun was shining. The dog dug its way out with great enthusiasm, showering him with sand, bringing him fully awake. He scrambled out after it.
It was a glorious morning. The sky was blue from horizon to horizon. Little wavelets crept up the beach, gentle as a kiss. The air was still cool, the sun had just risen over the sea, and there wasn’t a soul in sight.
His first thought was that he must get clean. He stripped to his underpants, shivering, and walked out into the wavelets. He remembered learning at school that you could get yourself clean with sand, and picked up a handful of liquid sand and scrubbed his hands. He did it three times, and it worked. All the grime vanished, leaving his hands pale and wrinkled with the cold. He got another handful and scrubbed his face. The sand stung, but in a pleasant way. His mouth filled with a salty taste, but that was all right. He remembered also from school that you could clean your teeth with salt; and he cleaned them with a bit of sand and his finger, and spat out. Then he scrubbed himself with sand all over. He felt great, really alive. He wanted to swim, but he didn’t want to get his underpants soaking. Then he thought that the sun would dry them, as it had once dried his swimming-costume, and plunged in regardless. The sea was much warmer than the air. He swam and swam. He loved swimming. He imagined he was a fish, without a care in the world.
Then he looked up, and saw the dog’s face swimming in front of him. The dog also looked terribly happy, and was carrying a crooked black stick in his mouth. It dropped it in the water in front of him. It wanted it thrown. He tried to stand up in the water, found he was too far out when his head went under, and scrambled back to the shore in a flurry of arms and legs and foam. But he wasn’t really worried. This was the Haven, and his dad had always said that the Haven was safe, no undertow, no currents. Safest place in Northumberland.
When he found his footing, the dog brought him the stick again, and he spent ages throwing it out to sea. He thought the dog would never tire but, eventually, it ran up the beach, dived under the boat, and emerged with a newspaper packet in its mouth. Last night’s spare sausage and chips …
He yelled at it, suddenly furious. He was in charge; the dog was getting above itself. He tried to grab the packet from its mouth, but it wouldn’t let go, shaking its head to throw off his hand, and backing away all the time. Beside himself with rage, he hit it with the crooked black stick that he still held in his other hand. It closed its eyes, but it wouldn’t let go. He hit it harder, and it growled deep in its throat.
Perhaps it was lucky that the stick broke. He put both hands to the packet of newspaper and pulled with all his might. The newspaper tore on the dog’s teeth, and he had it. The dog made a snatch for it, but he held it high in the air.
The dog leapt and knocked him flat. But he kept hold of the packet, clutching it into his armpit as he fell, like a rugby ball at school. The dog kept nosing in, but he twisted and turned. Several times, he felt the dog’s naked teeth touch his skin; but the dog didn’t bite him.
At last they stopped, and glared at each other. He couldn’t read the look on the dog’s face, but he wasn’t scared of dogs. He would show it who was boss.
“Sit, boy, sit!”
It sat, at last, tail swishing vigorously. He began to unwrap the packet and it dived in again. He hit it on the nose, and it backed off.
The battle seemed to go on forever, but at last the dog learned to sit still, until he had unwrapped the whole packet and laid out its share. Then it dived in, without waiting for the word of command.
He sat back with a sigh, and ate his own. It was a victory of sorts. He ate his sausage, which tasted good. He thought the chips would be awful, but they tasted good as well. When he was finished he looked down at his bare stomach. It was bulging – but it felt good and solid and cheering. And his underpants, though sandy, were nearly dry. And now the sun touched warmly on his back, and he came out in goose-pimples.
He looked all round, cautiously. There was still nobody about, though there was smoke coming from the chimney of one of the coastguard cottages on the headland. He thought he had time for a quick explore, along the tide-line, where you always found the interesting things.
The dog thought that was great. It began pouncing on all the patches of seaweed, killing them with its feet, dive-bombing them, then throwing them high in the air. He tried calling it to heel, as he had seen men do when they were walking their dogs on the beach.
It ignored him. He made up his mind to work on it. Its disobedience could get them both into trouble. It was then that he found the lump of soaking rope. He tried it for strength, stamping on one end, and pulling the other end with both hands. It seemed pretty strong, and it was one yard long, with frayed ends.
