Gareth Thompson - Sunshine to the Sunless

At the sweet age of nine, I saw my coastline commit double murder.

One spring afternoon, Andrew Kindness witnesses a terrible tragedy on the shoreline near his home in Cumbria.

Six years later, the events of that day still haunt him. His only solace is crossbreeding daffodils, a hobby he keeps secret from the prying eyes of his small village.

A hauntingly beautiful and heart-warming story about first love and self-discovery, from the author of The Great Harlequin Grim.

Contents

From one AGT to another

AT THE SWEET age of nine I saw my coastline commit double murder. There was no other human witness to the final killing. Only the circling seabirds that cried like stray kittens.

I can look down on myself as the gulls would have seen me. A stodgy little boy wearing a woolly hat and cheap red tracksuit. A cloudy Sunday in mid-March. I was alone on the shores of Milloms estuary.

The small town lies on the south-west coast of Cumbria, in the forgotten zone of the Lake District. The bay is an outlet for the river Duddon, whose waters get broken up by old marshland, then trickle through. At high tide the bay fills from the Irish Sea, away to the west.

The estuary is only a mile wide at some points. Thats why people think they can walk safely over it. Across the bay from Millom lies the Barrow peninsula, where shady shipyards build nuclear submarines. You can see cranes and tall towers against a backdrop of mountains.

The bay is full of sandy channels like a ploughed field. As water runs into these furrows, it causes tiny whirlpools. But some of the channels are three metres wide. You cant leap from one side to another. Crabs and crayfish scuttle across them at low tide.

It was cold and dreary by four oclock. I had been bird-watching in the wooden observation hut that overlooks Milloms blue lagoons. This hut stands just beyond the beach near an old lighthouse, where the bay curves around. The lagoons lie inland as you walk towards town. Deep below them are Milloms old iron-mining works, now sunken like Atlantis.

After leaving the bird-watching hut I went eastwards around the big bulge of bay. The land there was all shingle or grassy scrub. At last I felt wet sand under my feet. The tide was drifting in. I watched a little tern stab its long yellow beak into the damp beach. Its pointed white wings were huge and feathery. They rose up from the terns back like an angels. And above me a peregrine falcon flew towards the lagoon, drawn by the swarms of birds there. It wore a hunter-killers dark brown cloak.

Staring over the bleak bay, I saw a dash of colour through the mist. Somebody was making the dangerous walk across the sands from Askam.

I tried to focus with watery eyes. Then the weather cleared and brightened for a minute. It was long enough for me to make out two people, and hear one voice. A mans voice, angry and frustrated. The sound carried eerily.

Can you not understand? the man shouted. Must I always do everything for you?

A boy, wearing a beaming T-shirt, pulled away from the man. Hands thrust in jeans pockets, he stumbled over sandy ridges.

The man yelled out again, I asked you to do something quite simple. Did I not?

The boy mooched away even further. He kicked out at the ground, creating a sudden splash. The man stopped, hands on hips, and tipped his head to the heavens. I gripped my bird-watching binoculars, wanting to zoom in on this private drama.

I looked through the glasses, twisting the focus dial until I had a clear picture ahead. By now the two figures were a hundred metres away. They knocked around towards me, the boy drifting further to the mans right. He walked all hunched up, as if sulking. He kicked the wet and rutted sand again. But this time his foot stayed stuck. He fell forward like some animal caught in a trap.

The man didnt glance across. Face towards me, he seemed to catch sight of this distant onlooker in a red tracksuit. I looked away, ashamed of spying, and peered back at that boy in his bright shirt.

It was like he had turned to stone. He stood with legs apart, as if to let a pet dog pass through. Seagulls hovered on the breeze above, like spirits caught between heaven and earth. I wanted them to swoop down and carry the boy far away.

I tried to shout a warning. Its very soft out there! Its not like solid ground that supports your weight! In the end I only whispered it, my throat already drying.

The man looked over at the struggling lad, who was trying to haul each leg out in turn. Then the boys first cry, Im stuck, rang out with a hint of panic.

Honest, Dad, Im stuck.

The sky was dour. Mist was creeping down dark hills on the far shore, ready to settle over Askam for the evening. For a moment I left the two humans and viewed the background mountains. Their colours were a quilt of green bracken, purple heather, yellow gorse and black rock. But they sat there like stony judges, unwilling to alter any human fate.

I switched back to that man and boy in the bay. And suddenly my grip grew even hotter on the field glasses.

THE BOYS FACE was visible now. It was a sickly white colour. He looked a right weakling, with stick-like limbs. His father was on his knees, a little bald man with brainy round specs. He was furiously trying to dig out his son with bare hands. But the more he dug, the more everything oozed back around him. It was a sandy slop, yet the boy was held in its vice-like grip.

The father looked up and caught sight again of my red shape.

Come here! he shouted. Quick! We need help!

I could hear my own harsh breathing, like the north wind at your door. Blood throbbed in my ears, so that all other noise was reduced. The gulls wheeling above, looking for fishy scraps, were cut to a dim screech.

Before the mist came down again, I saw the detail on that boys shirt. By now he was up to his knees in quicksand. His top was yellow, with an orange circle on the front. It was like watching a daffodil drowning in mud.

The man was fumbling with a mobile phone. In his haste he dropped it, and scrabbled around in soft silt. As he tried to stand he toppled back, but his own stuck feet held him fast. He was also caught now. Father and son began to go under in slow motion, as if the sands must savour every moment.

My throat was as dry as dark earth. Dont struggle, I tried to scream. They always tell you not to struggle. Just stay still and shout really loud.

Nobody had told these two. The father flapped with windmill arms. His feeble son sobbed and struggled. The more they wriggled, the quicker the sucking sand gained a hold. My hands were so glued to the binocs, so petrified into position, that no power could have released them. I watched the terrible show like some evil voyeur.

Thats when the man bawled at me with shocking violence. I wobbled on the spot as if hit by a gale. I finally ran to raise the alarm. But nobody was in sight along the windblown estuary, and the nearest houses were away in the small town.

Instead, I ran back around the bay. Going over rough grassland, I stumbled and fell by a gorse bush. Two fat bees were among its yellow flowers. They scratched about wildly for pollen, with black insect legs. Their fur was orange, like specks of sunshine.

I got up and panted into the wooden shed that overlooked the lagoon. A tall figure sat with elbows on the bench, field glasses to his eyes, looking through the window holes. He had long white hair, all wavy like it was freshly washed. He wore large specs, and had big sandals on his hairy feet. I thought of him as a strange wizard.