Castles made of sand

The sea is calm tonight. It murmurs softly as I tread my way across the damp sand, leaving faint indentations to show where I have been. Cool autumn air tugs at my jacket, my curls, as if urging me to go and play, but I’m too old now for sandcastles and fairytale endings that crumble away. This evening stroll is a way of saying goodbye to my past: to the summer I spent here as a sixteen-year-old girl: the summer I stopped being a child.

August 2003 was unbearably hot. Usually, we all went away together – Mum, Dad, my two younger brothers, Toby and Edward, and me. We’d rent a villa in Spain or find an upmarket campsite in the Dordogne, and Mum and Dad would invariably get to know other English families with children and we’d all spend the evening together, the adults drinking wine and the younger children running races or playing frisbee long past their bedtime. I can still smell the citronella candles that Mum used to burn to ward off insects; and every time I pass an Italian restaurant, I’m reminded of the tiny trattoria where we celebrated her birthday one year.

This year, though, Dad wasn’t with us. Towards the end of June, Mum had been tense and tearful. When we came home from school on the last day of term, she told us that we wouldn’t be going abroad like we usually did. Dad had been called away to sort out another branch of the company in Sheffield, and we would be going to Devon without him. My heart sank at the idea of rainy weather and polluted beaches. I knew in the pit of my stomach that this home-grown holiday would be a disaster.

Arriving at the Sun Haven holiday park, my worst fears were confirmed: the site seemed boring and basic, lacking most of the facilities we’d enjoyed abroad in previous years, and our caravan was a cramped little box on wheels with two tiny bedrooms – both of them with bunk beds: one for the boys and the other one for me – and a cupboard that masqueraded as a shower room. Mum would have to sleep in the living area; apparently the sofa turned into a double bed, but it didn’t look very comfortable or very safe.

‘Just as well your dad’s not here,” Mum said, trying to make light of the situation. “That thing would probably collapse under the weight of both of us.’

At least in its sofa form the bed was a little sturdier, but I found myself wondering why we were making do with such inadequate amenities when we usually went for something more upmarket.

We’d been there a day and a half when Jen’s family arrived. I was sitting on the caravan steps painting my nails when a battered Range Rover pulled up outside the caravan next to ours and a family tumbled out into the sunshine, chattering and laughing the way we used to when we arrived at a new campsite in Italy. Even now I remember the red face of the father and the patches of sweat under his arms; the way the mother was nagging the children to leave their own bags and get the boxes of food inside quickly; and the supercilious expression of the dark-haired girl who looked like she might be my age. All these impressions pale into insignificance when I think about Jen’s brother. I was sixteen and I’d never had a boyfriend, but when I caught sight of Martin, tall and impossibly good-looking with chiselled cheekbones and hair that flopped over his eyes, my heart made a sudden backflip and I found myself wondering what it would feel like if he kissed me. Looking back, I realise now that I was far too young for him; but at the time, he was everything I had longed for without knowing it.

Catching sight of me, the girl grinned. ‘I’m Jen, and this reprobate is Martin, my brother. How long are you here for?’

‘Four weeks.’

Four weeks had felt like a life sentence before Jen and her brother arrived, but now things seemed to be looking up.

‘Do you want to go to the beach?’

The weather was still behaving itself: we’d had three sunny days in a row.

‘Sure,’ I replied, adding as casually as I could, ‘Is Martin going too?’

Jen shrugged. ‘I think he’s gone to play pool. He pretty much always does his own thing these days. I’m surprised he’s come on this family holiday – unless it’s a way of putting off revising for his resits.’

She’d told me the day before that Martin was twenty and had just finished his second year of university. He was doing Accountancy, but he’d failed three of the end-of-year exams. If he didn’t pass them in September, he’d be kicked off the course.

It had been on the tip of my tongue to ask if he had a girlfriend, but caution held me back. If I didn’t know, I could still dream.

I was stuffing a beach towel and sun cream into a bag when Mum intervened. ‘If you’re going to the beach,’ she said, ‘take Toby and Ed. I’ve got a headache I can’t get rid of, so I’m going to lie down for a while.’

Babysitting my little brothers wasn’t part of the plan, but I didn’t feel I could refuse.

Half an hour later, the four of us were on the sand, busily building a super-sandcastle with moat, towers and a drawbridge (non-working, obviously). It was surprising how seriously Jen was taking the challenge.

Not too serious to chat, though. The two of us swapped details about our respective schools and exams – we were both waiting for our GCSE results – and talked about our plans for sixth form and A levels, all the while keeping an eye on the excited little boys working with us. Tobes ran back and forth to the sea to collect water for the moat, and Ed shrieked when he discovered that one of the shells he’d picked up to decorate the castle walls had a hermit crab tucked snugly inside it. The crab made me think of Mum, hiding away in the caravan until her headache was gone.

We were having so much fun that I didn’t realise it was past one. No wonder the boys were complaining about being hungry! We left the mostly finished castle and ran back to the caravan. Mum invited Jen to join us for lunch: plastic plates piled high with ham sandwiches, crisps and Mini Rolls. Tobes and Ed chattered excitedly, telling Mum about the crab and the castle, and were disappointed when she said she wasn’t up to coming back to the beach with us to view the masterpiece herself.

‘Why don’t we take a photo?’ I suggested. We’d bought a disposable camera at the site shop the day we arrived.

They were so excited at the prospect of this that they wolfed their lunch down in minutes, desperate to go back to the beach and capture their castle in all its glory.

But by the time we returned, the sea had started to come in, reducing the once proud edifice to a crumbling ruin. Tobes shook his fist at the sea and shouted, whilst Ed burst into tears.

‘We can build an even better one,’ Jen promised, but they stared at her as if she’d suggested replacing a recently deceased pet, and it took two 99s with raspberry sauce to bring their smiles back.

We soon settled into a routine where Jen would tap on our caravan door at 9.30 every morning and the two of us would take the boys down to the beach. Each day, Toby would build a sandcastle that was more impressive than the day before, and I would make sure I took a photo before we went back to the holiday park for lunch. I kept hoping that Martin would join us one day, but he never did. Perhaps he thought we were too young for him to hang out with.

And then something happened that made me wonder whether Martin really thought I was too young for him. Jen and I had taken the boys to the site swimming pool instead of the beach – it was a windy day and I hadn’t wanted any of us to get sand in our eyes – and so we were a little earlier than usual when we returned for lunch. Just as we reached our caravans, the door of mine opened and I saw Martin stepping outside.

‘There you are,’ he said awkwardly to Jen. ‘I was looking for you.’

He might have been telling the truth, but a part of me wondered whether it was me he’d been looking for and if he’d been too embarrassed to admit to it in front of his sister.

Two days later, I found a piece of paper that had been slipped under the caravan door. “I need to see you. Meet me on the beach at 10pm.”

Was it Martin’s handwriting? I couldn’t think of anyone else who’d write me a note. I was sure Mum wouldn’t be happy if I went out on my own that late at night though. I spent the rest of the day agonising over what I should do.

But as it turned out, it was ridiculously easy to slip out unnoticed. Mum had fallen asleep on the sofa watching TV, and I knew that if she woke up, she’d assume I was asleep in my tiny room. I quickly pulled a brush through my hair and put on some mascara before quietly sneaking out and wandering down to the beach. As I hurried along, I was aware of a strange feeling fizzing inside me. I was finally going to spend time with Martin – just me and him on a beach. I wondered if he would kiss me, and whether he would be able to tell I was inexperienced.

The beach was more crowded that I’d thought it would be at that time of night. Some boys who looked like they might be late-teens or early-twenties were having some sort of party, swigging cans of cider and dropping cigarette butts on the sand. My eyes darted around, looking for Martin, but I couldn’t see him anywhere. Had I got the time wrong?

The night air was becoming cooler. I shivered slightly, wondering if I should have worn my jeans instead of the denim mini-skirt I’d chosen. And then some of the party boys started making comments that made me wish I was somewhere else. I turned to go, but one of them called after me. ‘Hey! Goldilocks! Do you want to try out my bed?’

I started to run, but he caught me easily, grabbing my arm. A wave of fear swept over me, replaced by one of nausea as I caught his stale scent of beer and cigarettes. He loomed over me: a nightmare I couldn’t escape.

‘Get your hands off my girlfriend.’ Martin’s voice managed to be quiet and menacing at the same time. I hadn’t even seen him arrive.

My girlfriend… I hadn’t realised two words would make me feel so deliriously happy.

‘You’re shivering,’ he said next, taking off his leather jacket and slipping it around my shoulders. ‘C’mon. Let’s get you home.’

He grabbed my hand and started to walk me away from the beach.

Once we were out of sight, he let go of my hand. ‘I’m sorry I said you were my girlfriend.’ He sounded apologetic. ‘I thought it would get that guy to leave you alone.’

An awkward silence slithered between us.

After what seemed like an hour but was probably only a minute, he added, ‘What were you doing out on the beach on your own at this time of night? There’s no way my parents would let my sister out this late.’

I was too embarrassed to tell him the truth; wondering now if one of the drunken teenagers I’d seen on the beach had slipped the note under my door instead.

Martin walked me back home, but it wasn’t the romantic scenario I’d hoped for. Far from declaring his love for me, he seemed more concerned with making sure I hadn’t been drinking or doing drugs. I wondered whether he was thinking I might be a bad influence on Jen.

I’d naively assumed that Mum would still be asleep and that I’d be able to creep into my room without her realising I’d been out, but she was standing outside the caravan as Martin and I arrived, a worried expression on her face.

Martin followed me inside. I slowly took off his jacket, resisting the urge to bury my face in it and inhale the smell of him before handing it back.

‘What were you doing, taking her to the beach at this time of the night?’ Mum sounded angry.

‘I didn’t take her. I found her there and brought her home. She hasn’t told me why she was out on her own.’

Their voices floated above my head. I tried to think of a plausible excuse.

In the end, I settled for ‘I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk.’ I’m pretty sure neither of them believed me.

Lying awake in my bunk after Mum sending me straight to bed (in front of Martin: an embarrassment I would never live down), I could hear the faint murmur of voices as they carried on talking. I presumed that Mum was thanking Martin for rescuing me, but their voices were too low for me to hear what they were saying.

The next morning, Mum had a talk with me about not putting myself in danger and made me promise not to go out at night again.

‘You don’t know what might have happened if Jen’s brother hadn’t found you,’ she said.

I refrained from telling her that I’d been trying to find him.

The rest of the day was wet and rainy. Tobes and Ed sulked because they couldn’t go to the beach, so Mum suggested a trip to the cinema. We squeezed into the car, and while the boys bickered over whether to see ‘Piglet’s Big Movie’, ‘Spy Kids 4’ or ‘Sinbad’, I sat in the front and brooded over the previous night’s events. Although Martin hadn’t sent me that note, I was sure there had been signs of affection in the other things he’d done: rescuing me from that horrible boy, putting his jacket around me, walking me home… He’d held my hand too to begin with. Perhaps I should pluck up the courage to ask Jen if her brother had a girlfriend.

I was still thinking about my unrequited love for Martin the next day at the beach. Once again, I was helping Toby build a mega sandcastle, and Jen was paddling with Edward. I’m not sure how it happened, but I managed to cut my hand on the sharp edge of a razor shell; and by the time I noticed it, I’d already dripped blood down my favourite tee shirt. I’d have to ask Jen to keep an eye on the little ones while I ran home to change it. I didn’t like the idea of bumping into Martin with bloodstains all over my chest.

Reaching the caravan, I opened the door quietly in case Mum was asleep. She’d been complaining of another headache when I’d taken the boys out earlier. She wasn’t there. Perhaps she was in the site launderette.

And then my gaze fell on something on the sofa. Martin’s jacket: the one he’d lent me several nights ago. I thought he’d taken it with him when I gave it back. I picked it up and stroked the soft, worn leather that had been next to his skin.

That was when I heard the sounds coming from my bedroom: creaking springs and moans and groans. I froze, my mind desperately trying to think of an explanation – any explanation – that would hurt less than the truth. A sick feeling churned in my stomach as my childhood innocence crumbled like a sandcastle and I realised that my mum and Jen’s brother were in my room – in my bed – together.

In years to come, I would realise that my parents’ marriage was over long before that fateful holiday; that my father was not on a business trip but moving his things into the flat he’d started renting when he and my mother had decided to separate. At sixteen, I knew none of this; knew only that my heart was breaking over a love that was lost before it had time to bloom, and that my mother was the cause of my heartache.

Still wearing my bloodstained top, I stumbled back to the beach, my mind full of angst-ridden ideas of walking into the sea until the ocean submerged me and washed all the pain away.

Jen and the little ones were still rock pooling. The blobs of colour that were their sunhats and t-shirts clustered together as they hunted for crabs and shells, and I envied them their carefree innocence.

I knew then that I couldn’t tell Jen what had happened – what I’d heard. Things like that didn’t belong on the beach; they were best left to the sordid confines of a cramped caravan in a place we would never visit again.

The tide was coming in. I watched as it lapped around Toby’s castle, gently at first, then sweeping forward in a sudden surge of anger. All that effort, everything we’d worked so hard to build – destroyed in minutes.

The tide rolled out again, carrying my childhood with it.