Terra Firma (opening scene). “Can we look for one?” I ask him. He shrugs. “I don’t think there’s any left.” “None at all?” “Maybe in other places. I don’t know if there were ever many here.” I run off beyond the last legs of the pier, out from its shadow and onto the endless flat sand stretching beyond where I can see. I can remember walking out this far with Dad when I was a lot younger; back then, the ground would squelch and suck around your ankles. The sand underneath is dry; the wind is forever moving the top layer on in long hissing snakes. The vast openness grabs me and I break into a sprint in an effort to fill the space before me, but then I stop. Behind me, he looks smaller than I thought he would. Too far away. I run back until our voices are audible again. “It won’t all come rushing back again, will it?” I ask him. “No,” he says. “Has all the water gone now?” “No, not yet. Remember the pictures on TV? The river?” “And all the people in tents?” “Yes.” “And they’ve gone now?” “That’s right.” “Why did they make them go?” “Because they wanted to make sure that it was all shared equally.” “Grandad says it’s not being shared properly, I heard him say to Mum.” “People say a lot of things. Your Grandad especially.” “But you can walk to France now?” “You could, the channel has gone, but they still wouldn’t let you go all the way over.” “Would it be dangerous?” “Yes.” Dad has this way of talking where he hardly says anything, but you can tell he knows everything about it. Sometimes when Mum and Grandad talk about things, Dad will just say one thing and they stop talking, just like that. The thing he says the most is, “It won’t make any difference,” and then they immediately go silent and just sit staring at the floor.
Posted on: Fri, 06 Sep 2013 14:48:29 +0000
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