Kook

“You some kind of geek?” said Big G.

“No,” I said, lying. “What’s this ghost storm?”

“I’ll tell you what it is,” said Big G, pointing at me, sounding just as narky as he had on the shore. “It’s a bullshit myth they put in books for tourists, a load of shit about a storm that raises ghosts from shipwrecks. What is true is that storms come out of the blue. Or a bad storm gets ten times worse for no reason. They’re called ghost storms. They’re violent. They kick up big waves that catch people off guard…”

“Like the one that creamed you today?” said Rag, taking off his ridiculous hat and letting his long blond hair fall out. They laughed. I joined in, but the look Big G gave me shut me up quickly.

“What about you? What do you do for kicks?” said Big G.

“Bit of footy. Xbox.”

This got them shaking their heads. “Don’t get it, man,” said Big G, stroking his wispy beard.

“You think I should be out surfing, waiting for the ghost storm?” I didn’t mean to sound like I was taking the piss, but that’s how it came out of my stupid mouth.

Big G picked up a stick and poked the fire. “Last year two miles off the Scillies,” he said, “there was this tiny island with this old dude living on it. Nothing there but one fisherman’s cottage, a small harbour and a smokery. Ghost storm came out of nowhere. A massive wave swept through, north of the island, ripped open a cargo ship like a sardine can, trashed two fishing boats. Then it hit this little island where this guy lived. All gone. The house, boat, everything. No body found neither…”

“How can water do that?” I said. I was curious. Again, I didn’t mean it to come out like it did. I really wanted to know about it. I had reasons to want to know. Good ones. I knew what water could do. But it sounded like I was having a go.

“You know anything about the power of water?” said Big G.

“No, not really,” I said, lying again.

“I’ll show you,” said Big G. He stood, picked up the near- empty plastic container, and poured the last of the beer into his mug …

Then threw the empty demijohn straight at me.

I caught it, but only just. Drops of beer splashed over my jeans.

“What you do that for?” I said. I looked to Jade, seeing what she’d do, but she smiled, like it was no biggy.

“Easy, right? Nice and light,” said Big G, then he picked up the other full one, with both hands and threw it over the flames. I caught that one too, but I fell backwards, with the weight of it. The others froze. No one spoke for a bit. Jade stared at the ground, embarrassed.

“Steady,” said Rag, “the kid only asked.”

Big G sat back down. “Yeah, sorry, mate,” he said. “Just making a point.”

He’d done that all right. That was four gallons. It was nothing. Even a small wave was hundreds of times heavier than what I’d just felt. But I didn’t like how he’d made his point.

“Maybe we’ll get a storm big enough for the Devil’s Horns,” said Jade, changing the subject. They all got stuck into a long conversation then, about surfing these legendary offshore islands when the big winter storms came. I drank more beer. It seemed every time I was halfway through my mug, Rag would fill it up.

I listened, not really able to join in. But I was fascinated. Not so much by what they said, but by them. They were different from London kids. I’d imagined the Cornish would be right hicks, kind of innocent. But this lot seemed… what? I couldn’t say streetwise. But like they’d seen a few things. Done a few things. As they were Jade’s mates, I guessed they were her age. My age. But they seemed older.

“Do a lot of surfers go to these islands?” I said, trying to join in. Rag disappeared into the mine entrance and came back with a surf mag, which he put in front of me, tapping the picture on the cover.

On the cover was an old black and white photo showing a small island, with a lighthouse on it. And in the corner of the picture, in scrawled writing: ‘Devil’s Horns, 1927’. Behind the lighthouse, rising out of the sea, was a giant wave. A dark tower of water curling and breaking, topped by a white froth. It was about to hit the island. Maybe even swallow it. In white letters, against the dark black of the wave’s face, it read:

“No one’s surfed it,” Skip explained. “That’s the point. It’s like the Holy Grail. There’s this old myth about this big wave spot and all the ships that have gone down there. It’s calm most of the time, but in the right conditions it goes off. But there are a dozen islands it could be. More. And who wants to go looking when a storm kicks in? It’s an old fishermen’s legend, you see. No one knows where it is. So no one’s surfed it…”

“No one’s surfed it and lived,” said Big G. “There were two surfers from Porthtowan went missing two years back. Their car was found in Marazion. Some reckoned they’d headed out to the Horns.”

“And you’re going to surf this place?” I asked.

“Why not?” said Jade. “If we could find it. We’ll film it with GoPro cameras, stick it on YouTube. We’ll be fucking legends. Every surf mag in the country will want a piece of us!” She was all attitude and bravado, laughing like it was a joke, but kind of believing herself too.

“But you don’t even know where it is,” I said.

“Detail, Sam! You kook killjoy,” she said, grinning.

My skin was tingling from the sun and fresh air, and the beer and smoke were giving me this lazy, glowing feeling. It was cool, but when another spliff did the rounds it all piled up on me quick and I began to get dizzy.

“I’m going,” I said, standing, staggering a bit.

“Was it something we said?” said Rag.

“No, just got to get home. I’m in enough shit as it is.”

“Might as well make it worth the bollocking, mate,” said Rag. But I had to go, and Jade didn’t argue.

I cycled in front, watching the ground race towards us in the cycle light, with Jade following behind. The moon was up, bathing the moors and sea in silver-blue light. There were no cars or streetlights, just this place, with me and Jade whooshing along on our bikes. I can’t remember what we said exactly – I think she was more wrecked than I was – but I know we held this messed up conversation, her bragging about how she was going to surf the Devil’s Horns, and become this famous surfer. Me taking the piss. Then she sang this old Moby song. A slow, haunting tune. Something about being lost in the water, about fighting a tide.

It was like the theme tune of that night. It filled up my head as I raced along, with Jade behind me, the dog following, watching the bike lights eating up the road.

It was pretty perfect, that bike ride to my new home.

Bye, London, I thought. See you later. Or not.

*

When I got back, Mum was on her knees in the lounge, pulling out Victorian cups and framed pictures from a box with ‘ornaments’ written on the side. The place was a mess of boxes and newspaper. And stuff. Lots and lots of stuff. I couldn’t see where it was all going to go.

It felt weird. Seeing all the things from our London flat, but in a totally different place.

A different place. A better place? I didn’t know. But I was beginning to think it could be.

“Good walk, was it?” Mum said, not looking up, slamming a vase down on the floor, then crunching up the newspaper it had been wrapped in and throwing it over her shoulder. Her bundled up hair came loose. She blew it out of her face.

“Sorry,” I said.

“Where did you go?” She sounded sharp.

“The sea.”

She stood up, grinding her jaw. “Do you know what time it is?”

“No.”

My head felt like a balloon that needed to take off. Being stoned and drunk had felt good out there, cycling over the moors in the moonlight. But now I was closed in by this maze of boxes, with no escape from Mum’s laser stare.

“Did it occur to you I needed help?” she said, with her hands on her hips.

“Yes.”

“But you stayed out anyway.”

“Yes.”

“And why did you do that, Sam? With a whole lorry-load of boxes to unpack… We’ve got to go and see your grandmother tomorrow, and you’re starting at a new school on Monday. Do you even know where all your stuff is? Where your new uniform is?”

“Not really.”

“Not really? You either do or you don’t. Well perhaps you might… SAM!”

“What?”

“Look at me.” She stormed up to me. “What’s wrong with your eyes? They’re bloodshot.” Suddenly I was freaked, like I was totally scared but about to burst out laughing at the same time. The maze of boxes was closing in. I felt really out of it. I was thinking, I probably look wrecked too.

“Have you been drinking?” she said, sniffing the air.

“Yes, I had a beer,” I said. There was no chance of the silent treatment – this was going to run into a full rant. I got ready to take it on, already planning my escape route and excuses. But then she turned away and sighed, looking over the sea of boxes and newspaper-wrapped ornaments with this odd, empty look. Like she didn’t even know what those things were. She looked well and truly knackered.

“Just go to your room, and sort out your stuff. And get Tegan to bed too,” she mumbled. “There’s cold fish and chips if you want them.”

I didn’t. I wanted to get away, quick as I could.

Teg’s a good kid for a six-year-old. I love her, but she’s always been a nightmare at going to bed. And especially, it turned out, when she was in a new house. She eventually got into her pyjamas and stood in front of the chipped bathroom mirror practising jerky dance moves instead of washing, or brushing her teeth.

“Mum’s angry with you,” she said.

“I know,” I said, leaning against the wall.

“Jade’s nice. I like her dog. Is she your friend?”

“I dunno. I hope so.”

“Is she your girlfriend? Did you kiss her?”

I laughed. “No, Teg. Now brush your teeth.”

After a lot of begging, I put her to bed and read her a story. A story? The story. The Tiger Who Came to Tea. The one story she’d loved since she was three; the one story that was sure to get her wrapped up in her quilt, and listening. Sometimes she was asleep before I even got to the end. Not this time.

“Can we look at stars?” she said, as I walked out the door of her room.

“Sure, but not tonight. I haven’t unpacked the telescope. Goodnight, Teg.”

“But Sam, there’s millions of them. I can see—”

“Goodnight, Teg.”

*

My room was in the attic. Mum or the removal guy had put the boxes marked ‘Sam’ in there. And there was my telescope in the corner, all bubble-wrapped and Sellotaped, waiting to look at the stars. I didn’t start unpacking. I fell on the bed and listened to the distant white noise of the sea. Through the skylight I could see the stars. Even with the moon up, there were more of them in that sky than I’d ever seen.

When I closed my eyes, I could still see the waves, and hear Jade singing.

I DIDN’T REMEMBER anything about Grandma. And I only knew what Mum had told me. That she was old and dying of cancer. That she had months left.

Maybe.

She lived in a massive house near a rocky point called Cape Kernow. A house that would be ours one day.

We’d come back, Mum said, so Grandma could get to know her one grandchild and only heir. That was me, Tegan being the result of a fling that had lasted the time it took Mum to get pregnant.

Things were pretty broken between Mum and Grandma, I knew that. They didn’t get on. There’d been some fallout after Dad died. Maybe because Mum took us to London. Mum never told me. Now we’d come back to Cornwall to help ‘mend’ things, though I didn’t have a clue as to what it was that needed mending.

I had an idea of some old manor, all dank and dark and smelling of cabbage and cat’s piss. I pictured my grandma in a huge bed, with grey hair and greyer skin, fading away, with us at her side, listening to her final, totally wise words.

I was wrong.

The house was big, square and white, with large windows and a front door painted ocean blue. The house’s name was painted on the wall in thin black letters. ‘Where Two Worlds Meet.’

A short, skinny, tanned woman answered the door. She was dressed in jeans, a smock and headscarf. At first I thought maybe she was the cleaner.

Wrong again.

Grandma had these bright blue eyes that seemed a whole lot younger than she was.

“Oh, Sam,” she said, then flung herself at me and held me tighter than anyone ever had.

“Grandma?” I said, hugging her back. Kind of. I felt embarrassed. She was a stranger. She stopped hugging, but got a good hold on my shoulders, like she wasn’t going to let me go. Not after all this time.

“My God, if he could see you now.”

“Hello, Grandma,” I said. It was odd. She was a total stranger, but she had the same eyes and square jaw as my dad. And yeah, I could see how I looked like her too.

“And you must be Tegan,” she said. Teg got ready for a big hug, but all she got was her hair ruffled.

Grandma left Mum till last. “Hello, Jean,” she said. They air kissed. Mum had a frozen smile on her.

But Grandma was really smiling. She was so happy, she was working hard to stop the tears.

“Are you… okay, Grandma?” I said.

“Never better, Sam. Come in, the kettle is on. There’s scones too.” She wiped the tears away and led us through a hall to a large lounge on the other side of the house. There were huge leather sofas and chairs, and dark red rugs covering the wooden floor. The walls were white, with bookshelves, a mirror and paintings of the sea.

But what I noticed most was the view. The house was so near the cliff, when you looked out the window you didn’t even see rock, or land, just this great big blanket of blue and green.

We sat down, while she went out to get the tea. We didn’t talk, we just sat there, taking it all in.

Grandma came back with a tray loaded up with scones and cream, jam and tea. Before she organised it all, she set Tegan up in the biggest chair, by the fireplace, with a set of crayons and a pad pulled out of a WHSmith’s bag.

She glanced at Tegan, to make sure she was distracted, then said to me, “I hope you like the house,” and gave me this weird loaded look. Then I twigged. She meant, the house I’m giving you; the house you’ll live in when I’m dead. She was going to die. We were getting the house. Some people dodge around the awkward stuff, the big stuff. Others just get to it. She was one of those. I didn’t know what to say to that.

“We’ll sort all that out,” she said, seeing the look of confusion on my face. “There is so much to plan. But first, tell me all about the move, your new cottage. What you have been up to…”

She talked on and I answered as best as I could. It was nice, but I thought it was weird how everything she said was to me, not Mum. All the time she was staring at me, real keen, and I couldn’t help but stare back. Apart from the headscarf, which I guessed was to cover her bald head from the chemo, she didn’t look ill. Not even that old.

“So, Sam. You’ll make friends here. At your new school. It’s hard to go from one place to another, where you’re a stranger. But you’ve done it before; I’m sure you’ll cope.”

She didn’t look at Mum when she said that, but the way she said it… it sounded like a dig.

“He’s met a girl,” said Tegan, scribbling away with the crayons.

“Excellent,” said Grandma. “Is she a looker?”

“Um, yeah, I guess so,” I said, “but we’re just mates. Not even that. I only just met her.”

“Are you going to ask her on a date?”

“I don’t think she goes on… dates. She’s a surfer.”

“Wonderful. A girl and a healthy activity.”

I thought maybe if Grandma had seen us round the campfire, she might not think it was such a great choice of ‘healthy activity’.

“Er, yeah,” I said, feeling awkward.

We changed the subject. All the time we talked, Grandma stared at me. A lot.

“You’re the spit of him at your age; it’s uncanny. It’s like the ghost of his teenage self came round for tea and scones.”

“Thanks,” I said, and spluttered some cream out of my mouth. I couldn’t help laughing. Grandma laughed too. Mum didn’t.

“Do you remember him much? Do you remember this house?” Grandma asked. I dug into my mind, tried to remember stuff, looking for something. Anything. I felt bad not giving her what she wanted.

“I helped him paint a boat once, like a sailing or maybe a row boat. I remember this dark blue paint and getting it all over my T-shirt. And he used to take me in the sea, paddling. He’d lift me up when a wave came, and say, ‘It’s only water, Sam,’ and…” But there was no “and…”. That was pretty much the total of my memories of my drowned, dead father. It didn’t upset me going through those memories. It didn’t make me happy either. I was kind of removed from them, like they were someone else’s memories.

It was different for Mum though. She didn’t say anything, but her eyes were wide and worried, darting from me to Grandma, and back again.

Then …

“That smell…” I said it before I even thought it. What was it? Leather, baking, the sea, the coal fire? All of those things together. And I remembered it. The smell of the house, and the heavy tick and tock of the clock in the hallway, with the sounds of sea and wind muffled through the walls. I wasn’t just imagining it – I did remember being there.

“I only just recognised it,” I said. “How weird is that?” I was spooked. In a good way. I was going to go on, but I clocked Mum, her eyes filling up, her hand gripping the side of the chair.

I was trying to find my memories. Maybe Mum didn’t want to find hers.

“Your mother and I need to talk,” said Grandma. “Have a look around the house. You’ll find your dad’s room up there.” She pointed at the ceiling. “There’s a few of his bits and bobs; a few things that didn’t get thrown away when you upped and left for London.”

Mum clunked her cup on the saucer and glared at a painting on the wall. She was grinding her teeth, stopping herself from saying something.

It was a good time to leave them to it. Me and Teg went upstairs. Teg was chewing her hair. I held her hand.

“This must be weird for you, Tegs. He wasn’t even your dad.”

“No, but she is my grandma,” she said, like she was totally sure it was true. I didn’t want to tell her different. We were a tight little team, me, Tegan and Mum, but there were only the three of us, and if the family got to grow, by one, that was cool. Even if it wasn’t going to be for long.

“Are we going to live here one day?” she asked. She’d clearly overheard some of what we’d talked about.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“But we live in the cottage now.”

“Look, it’s complicated. I dunno what’s going to happen.”

“Will we go back to London?”

I couldn’t blame her for asking. The situation had to be pretty freaky for her. I just didn’t know how to answer. “Reckon she’ll see how it goes down here. Mum might not decide till… later. Would you like to live here?” I said. Tegan looked around the hallway, with its big wooden doors and huge window looking over the moor. She nodded.

“Which one would be my room?” she said.

“Any one you want, but you got to bags it.” This was a game we played for slices of cake or the best place on the sofa. Now it was for something important. Her eyes lit up like it was Christmas morning. She let go of my hand and ran off to explore.

Either by fluke or some old memory, I went straight to my dad’s room. I thought it would be tidy, because the rest of the house was so neat. But it wasn’t. It was a mess. The curtains were closed, but thin, letting in a strong light. There were a load of boxes with books in. In the corner was an old record player, and a chunky grey computer from the Stone Age. On the shelves were more books, all of them about the sea. And some old metal instruments, covered with dials and numbers and cogs. I guessed they were navigation instruments.

He had clearly been a total geek. Now I knew where I got it from. He’d been an oceanographer; a scientist who looked at how currents and gulf streams and storms worked.

I was a geek too. With me it was the stars. With him it had been the sea. There was a whole new world to explore. A world of water.

I wanted to sit down and start going through all the gear, all the books. But the voices downstairs started rising. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it didn’t sound friendly.

“Sam!” It was Mum’s voice, shouting up the stairs.

“Just a minute.”

Mum was waiting downstairs, with Tegan, already with their coats on. Grandma was by the door, ready to open it.

“We’re going. Now,” said Mum. There didn’t seem much point asking why.

“You can come back though, Sam. Soon,” said Grandma. “Did you find anything of interest?”

“Yes. Thanks. Loads,” I said.

I hugged her.

IF YOU’D CALLED them a gang, they would have laughed. But that’s what they were and everyone at Penwith High knew it. The Penford Crew, the Penford surfers. That’s what the other kids called them.

They didn’t really mix with anyone else, only the older lot in the sixth form over the road. The ones that surfed, that is.

If you’d said they had a leader, they’d have laughed at that too, especially Big G. But if you saw more than two of them together, Big G was there, in the middle, towering over them, looking a good two years older than he was, talking about what the waves were doing.

I didn’t know them, but from the little I’d seen, I could tell he was the most sensible. Little Skip was a bag of energy, not knowing where to spin off to next. Rag was a stoner and a joker. Big G was quiet and strong, with a rep for fighting. And Jade? I didn’t really know yet. But she seemed like trouble.

I think Big G kind of levelled them out. They looked to him to organise them. So he’d stand, arms folded, eyes staring through his mop of long, dark hair. If he didn’t reckon the surf was ‘on’, one might go, but most didn’t. If he said it was good, they all found a way. Before school, after school, weekends. Homework, family meals, out-of-school jobs delivering papers or working in cafes – none of it mattered when the waves kicked up. Once they were all off school sick, and turned up the next day suddenly better. Everyone knew where they’d been, but no one could prove it. And even if they could, no bollocking from a teacher or parent could wipe the glow away. For that gang, it was always worth it. Surfing came first. It gave them an edge, something different. They even seemed older than the others in my year. It was like everyone else was going through school, waiting to start life proper. They’d already started. In some ways, at least.

I would have liked to have been a part of it, after that first day at Tin-mines (all the spots had names – it was part of the surf thing), but if you didn’t surf, you weren’t in. And even though Skip and Rag were friendly on the first days of term, they pretty much ignored me after that.

I hadn’t conned myself into thinking I’d be their mate, but I’d hoped for something different with Jade. Largely because she was the hottest girl I’d ever seen. We got the school bus together; we lived next door. But at the bus stop was the only time she seemed to remember I existed. Apart from when we got difficult homework. Then she became my friend all of a sudden, and didn’t even try to hide why. Jade wasn’t thick, but to get what you needed to do at home you had to listen in class. And unless it was English or Art, Jade didn’t listen. At all. School bored her. The teachers bored her. The other kids bored her. She was friendly with the other girls, but none of them were like best mates. She only really talked to the other surfers. I took my notes in class, half focusing on the class, half watching her dream the day away, with her mind in the sea, knowing that later we’d be on the bus and then she’d wake up to the fact that she’d been at school for the last six hours, and she’d shove a textbook under my nose and say, “What does this mean?” Especially if it was science. My speciality. Which was half good, half bad, as I hated looking like the geek I truly was. But I also liked helping her out.