All the Rage

Run Catch Run

IT COULDN’T LAST. Not this. There was no way it ever would have.

Never mind.

That’s what you say when stuff buggers up — never mind. Simon’s adults said it all the time. First there would be talking that fell into pieces and then retreats, fussing in more distant rooms and, after that, silences until one told the other never mind. This gave them something to do, beyond being helpless. Adults couldn’t be helpless. They were, but they couldn’t. But they were.

Never mind.

Simon wasn’t minding.

He was sitting on the beach and not minding with the dog — his still-unnamed dog. They’d settled themselves on the cobbles as much as they could. It was that kind of beach. Uncomfortable. A seaside without sand. There weren’t even any patches of little stones, or maybe gravel — you got nothing but these big, grey cobbles: lumpy when you sat, clacking and unsteady when you tried to walk. They made everybody look crippled and end up being slow, getting nowhere much.

Simon was hunched down a touch, his back to the far-away path, partly because he was warmer like that and partly as if he were hiding — which he was, only no one was looking for him, so that probably meant he wasn’t. The looking produced the hiding, he knew that: without it you were only playing a game in your head.

And he knew about the opposite, too: hiding was the best way to get looked at. Simon had been hiding for two weeks. To be exact, he had kept on pretending to himself and playing a game in his head for sixteen days and now here was the truth, pressing at his ribs, searching. The feel of how things would turn out was already in his throat and sinking. Cold. By this evening, the inside of him would be uncovered and shown to be stupid. His mother would see. Everybody would see, including him.

Silly boy. Silly little boy. Could do better. Ought to. Must.

Never mind.

The dog wasn’t bothered, though. She was just breathing on his hand, which was nice for him and good. And she was much larger than on Monday. Yesterday, when she tried to bite the tennis ball, she couldn’t manage because of having a too-small mouth, but today on the beach she’d caught it, held it and had been so pleased, crazy with having defeated it when it had seemed really that clever and puzzling before. Simon had known — because he knew things about his dog — that she was imagining a great huge forever and ever of chasing and bringing back and had found the idea so beautiful she had to shudder and give one big bounce. Then she’d stopped imagining and had run and run and been desperate with having to run more: catch, run, catch. Eventually, finally, she’d raced herself out, panted into a flop and so was — at the moment — warm and heavy on him and given up to sleep.

His dad had suggested she could be called Pat, which was a joke: Pat the dog. Simon didn’t want to make his dog a joke.

He sneaked his finger along her muzzle — the silk and wiry tickle of her — and made her twitch with memories.

But he didn’t want to wake her.

To the left of Simon — not close — a man was wedging a towel’s corners under rocks and then balancing — one foot, the other — to undress. Woollen hat, parka, pullover, shirt, trousers, socks, he staggered them off and then paused in what was left: an onshore breeze and orange trunks. His skin was greyish and a sadness about the angles of him showed he was ashamed of himself and wasn’t as fit as he had been and couldn’t keep his stomach tucked flat. He stepped beyond the towel like someone intending to be athletic, but the cobbles foxed him and he slithered across the tricky slope before the sea, seemed to be hurt in his toes, visibly beaten. Eventually, he didn’t stand up straight, simply rushed and staggered for the water, flailed into the dark rise of a wave.

The sections of shoreline to either side of this had notices which said their bits of sea weren’t safe. Simon didn’t swim anywhere in case he got lost, or swept to the dangerous parts. The current was strong. He could see it fighting the man, stealing his direction and making the bald top of his head mark time, or drift, while his arms tried to be powerful in changeable directions.

Simon hoped the man wouldn’t start drowning. There were lifebelts back at the path, but the drawings that showed how to use them were confusing.

He looked down at his dog.

She did need a name.

Simon understood that when you’re born, you’re not called anything and then people study you and think of what would suit — how you are will tell them what to pick. There would have been a time when something about him said Simon and his parents noticed. That’s what must have happened, because he wasn’t named after somebody else — not a relative, or that — he was Simon, and Simon was him. Otherwise he couldn’t feel right when he answered to it.

He wanted his dog to feel right when she answered to her name. For now, she would run to him if he whistled or clapped. He was careful not to say any words when he wanted her, in case she got confused about them and thought they were hers.

Whatever was chosen would have to be like her and what she was like was needle teeth and smooth pads to her paws — pink — and new in the world. The first time they’d walked outside, she’d been shaking, she’d wound in tight beside him and made him stumble. But she’d got excited, too, and tugged her leash and dashed at spaces in the air, or sniffed and yipped, which was almost the largest noise that she could make so far, and on the trip back they’d met a Labrador which was enormous, but slow, and his dog had flattened all the way down so the stranger dog couldn’t touch her, or sniff her, or anything, but she’d been yipping up at it the whole while, so you were sure that she wasn’t allowing herself to be bullied. She was brave. Simon had frowned and kept quiet and eventually the Labrador’s owner had stopped smiling and talking and had gone, yanking the Labrador along behind.

Simon had picked up his dog when they were fine and alone again and had said happy things to her and smiled into the fur over her shoulders where it was loose and crumply.

Springer spaniel.

That’s what she was.

Better than a Labrador. Neater.

And braver.

Much braver.

At the moment she was just happy, folded up neat and dozing inside the well of his crossed legs.

If she was touching Simon then she was happy. Simon also. That was how they were.

And if they were together and both awake, he would bend forward and slap his knees and she would barrel in against him and lift her paws on to his shins, which was supposed to be not allowed. She shouldn’t jump up. That had been mentioned. He was choosing to allow it, though, because sometimes he wanted her to stretch her length against him, all there on tiptoe and with her tail wild about how excellent it was and her eyes finding his — looking, finding. She was very obedient normally and beginning to be trained. People should appreciate that.

The stones underneath him were draining his heat. His mother said if he was outside he ought to keep moving and warm and not in a dream. She worried when he was without her and warned him about not getting into cars, or talking to men or women he didn’t know, about everything he wouldn’t do anyway, because he wasn’t an idiot.

He wasn’t that kind of idiot.

Never mind.

Quite close by, a gull wandered and pecked into shadows, stepping as badly and stupidly as everything else. It limped on, swaying when the wind cuffed it, clinging the grubby pink webs of its feet round the stones. No one was lovely here, or fast and easy — no one but his dog.

With a dog he would be protected.

They both would.

That was obvious.

She needed a rest currently because she was a puppy and that was all right and they could keep being like they should and having a play about for another hour. Then his dad would have finished talking to his mother and would want to tell Simon goodbye and go home and be with Pauline. After last time, Sandra hadn’t come along. She’d only made not-good banana rolls for the trip and kissed his hair, which she hadn’t done before and so she was useless at it and banged his head with her chin. She’d waved them goodbye. Simon had been in the passenger seat, although he’d wanted to sit in the back beside the dog’s cage, because for his dog the cage meant a change was happening and that was mostly going to see the vet and so she’d be upset. Earlier in the morning, Simon had tried to explain that she wouldn’t be meeting the vet, she’d be meeting a different house with the sea near it. The words wouldn’t work, though — he hadn’t expected they would — and when he tried again in the car he’d been loud because of the distance and speaking above the engine, and loud wasn’t calm, it was shouting.

He’d been hoping that if he was calm and sounded it, then she would be the same. They were often the same. Except that she was too upset to hear him. She’d howled for the whole of the journey, which was her very loudest noise, her shouting, and fair enough when she believed that he ought to come and save her. Fair enough. She wasn’t being bad. It had seemed like her own voice was causing her harm, like she was tearing. You could laugh about her, because she was being a baby, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t awful when you had to hear how scared she was. His dad yelled so that she would stop, but after that the howl got worse and really horrible.

They’d all been a bit odd when they’d arrived.

His mother was odd back at them and then turned round fast and headed for the kitchen. There was a silence that trailed from where she’d been standing, very thick and obvious, leading into the hall. Simon carried the cage and felt the strangeness of how it shifted when his dog moved inside. When he was close, his dog had gone quiet and he’d spoken to her gently about her being welcome home.

Simon spent holidays and some weekends with his father, but lived mainly in his mother’s flat, which he told his dog was a house.

Really, both his parents lived in half-houses, which made sense, because when they didn’t hate each other because of sex, they had lived in one whole house. Simon didn’t like that everything was smaller since the separation — which was what came before a divorce — and his dad had no garden and at his mother’s they had to share with the lady upstairs who owned all the flowers, which wasn’t sharing — it was putting up with someone being greedy.

And his dad had Sandra in his halved house — up the stairs with the worn-out carpet and this is your room for when you come: wardrobe with a creaky door and sheets that smelled funny. Sandra made his dad scared. He would try and hide it, but that just meant that Simon would look and have to pretend he didn’t see when his dad’s face got frightened and sad. It was to do with kissing. After kissing. Or during. Not at first, but always it would happen. Like the fat man getting undressed and then being no use in the water, disappointing himself.

He was finished with trying to swim — the fat man — and creeping up to his towel, most of him red with the cold and his legs perhaps not exactly doing what he expected, due to being tired.

Simon watched.

The man didn’t like being watched.

Simon watched more.

His dog snuggled and pushed, then smoothed back to stillness.

She could be perfectly, amazingly still. The moment before he bent to lift her she would drop into this peace, would be only waiting for him and peace. It tingled his fingers.

The man was unpeaceful, doubled over and his towel flapping round his legs as he fussed inside it and his wet trunks appearing, clinging down his shins. He’d still be wet when he put on his trousers. He hadn’t been enjoying himself.

Adults didn’t know how to enjoy anything. They did stuff and then wondered why they’d bothered. They couldn’t decide what they wanted.

Simon’s dad would think that they ought to all squash on the sofa in the lounge at his place and watch DVDs, but it was awkward. There’d be proper adventures and good bits in the films, but then the top man and top woman would have sex, or at least kissing. And Simon would be caught between his dad — who’d miss breaths during the kisses — and Sandra — who was made of bigness and curves and trying not to laugh. The three of them would have to stay put until the sex stopped. Then his dad would ask if anyone wanted tea, or crisps, or a can of something and he’d go off and be sort of hiding, while Simon and Sandra pretended that he wasn’t, and then he’d come back and kiss both of them on the cheek, but still be not happy.

Simon’s dad was with Sandra because of sex.

His mum was not with anyone because of sex.

Simon knew sex made you scared: scared and sad. And angry as well.

Sex made you want to go and want to stay, which was impossible. It wasn’t a way of getting enjoyment.

Simon felt his dog shift again. He looked at her and she looked back, gave a broad yawn. Before she could close her mouth again he set his thumb between her teeth and so she gave him a tiny, hot, secret bite. They did that — it had a meaning for them.

She coiled, uncoiled and scrambled until she was set and organised and on her feet, ready for goings-on, braced. Simon stood — his legs cold where she wasn’t any more — and threw her ball, saw her leap into a half-spin and pursue it. They were heading away from the fat man and his troubles. Simon decided to hate him and gave him a farewell stare. The man stumbled. Simon wondered if being ignored would make someone stumble as much as being stared at, but didn’t check.

Next he wondered why people would be naked with each other and do what they did when they were so ugly. Or, after the first time, it wasn’t clear to him how they’d keep on. Simon knew that he’d never be able to, wouldn’t want to. He wouldn’t be that kind of idiot, either.

He rubbed his hands together. In movies and on telly, people did that to show they were cold.

He was.

Forgot his gloves.

Like his own kind of idiot.

It would take twenty minutes to get home, which wasn’t long. He could add another ten or fifteen minutes with dodging about, but there wouldn’t be much point.

Up ahead, birds were fretting in a mob not far offshore. Simon slipped and trudged closer until he could see they were mainly terns — the spiky, small ones, sharp wingtips — hovering and peering and then throwing themselves into the water like something angry. Like being furious. They would spring up to the surface again with thin silver trembles of fish in their beaks. So there must be a shoal trapped underneath and they were raiding it, killing. Bobbing by itself was a tall, round-headed bird, pale and noticeable. Simon wasn’t sure what it was until it started a long, clumsy flap across the wave tops and then eased into the air: mournful, winding upwards, huge and slow. A young gannet. Which shouldn’t be here. They were for cliffs and up-high places. Its problem was that it was young and didn’t know what it should do.

The dog rattled up and dropped the ball, which Simon threw without caring about where, so that it splashed into the shallows. He was concentrating on the gannet as it wheeled in a long, cream reach. He saw the wings hinge, swing and tuck themselves back until the bird was brought to a clean point before it sleeked into the sea and disappeared. It stayed under for ages, was better than the others and strong against the current and okay.

His dog was snapping at the waves, baffled, eyeing the ball as it wagged and teased, floating. She didn’t want to get her feet wet: she’d never had wet feet before.

Some of the terns grew anxious.

The gannet emerged to sway on the waves and eat. It belonged in the water and in the air. It was an expert. Simon and his dog were just land things, which seemed limiting, although Simon could think better than a bird’s thinking. He could think that he was fast in the brain and cleverer than any type of animal probably. He made plans. Which was why he knew he had to tell his parents about the gannet. It would rescue everything. Simon would stand here as he was against the salt wind and he would concentrate and teach himself how to get correctly excited about the bird and how to pass on wildlife information. Then he would go home and be what got their attention. His dad was interested in nature and his mum wanted him to have the benefit from lots of good experiences, and the gannet story would satisfy them both.

But his dog wanted the ball, worried at the shoreline, yipped and pounced, and either this or his coming to make her quiet lost him the gannet. It stretched and pounded back into flight and turned from them both, whiter and whiter as it shrank, left.

So there wouldn’t be enough to say.

This was his dog’s fault, but Simon’s, too.

His dog scampered to him, put her paws against his shins to greet him and he shut his eyes for a moment. Then he looked at her, found her, let her find him. She whined, because he wasn’t rubbing her ears, or fussing at her yet. He drew back a step and she let him go, before sitting — perhaps surprised — in front of him, liver-and-white and brave and wonderful.

He kicked her.

Never mind.

The worst thing he had ever done.

Never mind.

The one short cry she made hit into him and then she was quiet and crouching and batting against him and her head dropped and her tail uncertain and she touched him and touched him and touched him and he knelt and held her and whispered he was sorry and held her more and rubbed his face next to hers and let her lick it.

Never mind.

His one hand was cupped under her ribs, and the whole of who she was and would be was in there and was moving and was all for him. She would let him do anything and was his.

Never mind.

And he was hers.

And he would take her back home with nothing to defend them and nothing to break his mother’s attention and to stop her explaining that his father should never have bought a dog and that presents as big as that should be discussed and they couldn’t keep it, they couldn’t afford it — vet’s bills, food, mess, equipment — and his father couldn’t afford it, either. And his father would agree. His dad wasn’t steady and would fall when his mother pushed.

A dog wasn’t possible. It would be decided. His mother wouldn’t give them a chance, wouldn’t spend the evening with his dog and be patient and find how they could be.

Simon had known this.

Never mind.

He’d been right when he didn’t give his dog a name.