* * *
Contrary to what the receptionist had implied on the phone, their room isn’t facing the sea at all. Much to Daniel’s annoyance, the view from their window is of nothing but roofs and treetops. No Thurlestone Rock, no majestic cliffs, not so much as a sniff of water. Over breakfast, he nobbles the waiter for information. Just how far are they from the coast? Which way should they go to find… what was it called… Lee’s Foot? The man looks uneasily at Alex, describes the route with some reluctance, and suggests it’s too far and too steep to push a wheelchair, especially coming back, but if they’re mobile they can park up a few yards from the beach.
It was what the man in the pub had said too.
Alex’s deterioration is becoming a worry. He’d been dead to the world when Daniel had slipped back to their room last night. The night had been uneventful, but from the moment they’d awoken he’d been distant and fidgety. Now he’s being thoroughly tiresome. Even scrambled eggs and finely chopped bacon are causing him trouble. Feeding him is once again painfully slow. Daniel’s own breakfast is a struggle too, in the aftermath of all that whisky. He orders a refill of coffee and downs a second slice of toast, determined they’ll get what value they can from their all-inclusive breakfast, but the bacon, egg and sausage stay untouched. It isn’t long before he’s chivvying Alex to finish up, so they can check out and be off.
Clearly, the day ahead is going to need some careful handling. They’ll start with a stroll along the beach. If Alex is fine with that then they’ll tackle the cliff walk. If that doesn’t upset him then they’ll start searching for the clearing. It’s time to get going. All the signs bode well: no threat of rain, patches of blue opening up. As the car reaches the main street the whole village becomes doused in sunlight. Like a portent. But there’s a job to do before heading down to the sea. Rather than taking a left, Daniel pulls out into the far lane and turns immediately into Parkside. “There’s something I want to show you first,” he declares.
He’d been expecting a deluge of fresh memories, but in all truth even Daniel hardly recognises the road, or at least the properties on it. With their new roofs, double-glazed windows and extensions, they look nothing at all like council houses. And all having the kind of immaculate gardens that only a true homeowner would ever create. The further they go, the greater the struggle to strip things back to basics, to scythe through the neatly shaped hedges and cultivated beds, and see instead scrubland cluttered with weeds, half-dismantled cars and children’s broken toys. Because of its location, there is no mistaking their own house on the corner; but in every other respect it’s just like the rest. Seeing it in this state – with a dignity and glamour that the George family could never have dreamt of – Daniel finds himself strangely torn. The house has been improved a hundredfold, no question, but the makeover has come at a hard price – the price of obliterating his very place in its history. No wonder the darkness repelled him last night and the door refused him entry; his family were no longer even recognised, never mind welcomed here.
He swings the car into a parking space just opposite and tells Alex to wait. After sizing up the property for a moment, he saunters over and takes the side road, a vantage point from which he’s able to peer over the back fence. Just one peak, for old time’s sake. A passing cloud throws the garden into shadow. It looks so tiny now. To think of all those adventures it once hosted: putting Corgi toys through their paces on punishing rallies over rough ground, emerging from their Tardis-shed to brave a thousand alien worlds, doing the long jump over the shrubs, chasing each other in and out of trees. A kitchen extension now encroaches rudely onto the patio. There’s a central path of crazy paving and a reshaped lawn with fancy, curving beds. But something else has been changed. To tamper with the house is one thing, even to landscape the garden. But for the bastards to do this. He turns in disgust. Too late to tell himself he should have let sleeping dogs lie. From the other side of the road, where a front wall is undergoing repairs, he takes a weighty chunk of stone, dusts it off and steadies his legs. The abomination glints at him as the sun re-emerges, egging him on. For the sake of the lost child, for all those miserable, lonely times when the whole world had stacked up against him, in homage to his crow’s nest, his makeshift raft, this one safe haven where solace could always be found, he takes careful aim and hurls the stone into the air. Even as the sound of glass shatters the silence he’s across the road, and the car is gone from the scene well before anyone has had a chance to run to their window.
Powered by pure adrenaline, the Golf thunders downhill, past the hotel, the village green and the memorial, and out onto the coast road. “Chopped it down,” Daniel screams, in answer to the unspoken question. “Believe that?” He punches the wheel with both fists. “Felled the fucking thing.” Then, as Alex’s nervous eyes settle on him, he adds with a cry of euphoria, “Well, it was only fair, wasn’t it? Their ‘Green House’ for ours!”