Leatherback by Mi Wae

Leatherback by Mi Wae is also available for Kindle on Amazon

US (where it’s $1.60) http://www.amazon.com/Leatherback-
ebook/dp/B007N3QH1I/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1338448199&sr=8-1

UK: (where it’s £1.01) http://www.amazon.co.uk/Leatherback-
ebook/dp/B007LM0EI8/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1338448280&sr=8-1

Germany (where it’s EUR 1,26) http://www.amazon.de/Leatherback-

France: (where it’s EUR 1,26) http://www.amazon.fr/Leatherback-

Spain (where it’s EUR 1.26) http://www.amazon.es/Leatherback-

Leatherback
Copyright 2012

Thank you for downloading this eBook.
Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or
places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the
author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other
electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher,
except in the case of brief quotations in critical reviews and other noncommercial uses.

Many thanks to my husband Karl for everything.

I wrote this story back in 2008, when things were better, for a time when my
faculties wouldn't be... that time is now. Thanks so much for being here.

I hope you enjoy the story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Contents
LEATHERBACK ........................................................................................................................... 1
Authors note .................................................................................................................................... 6
Prologue........................................................................................................................................... 7
I ...................................................................................................................................................... 10
II ..................................................................................................................................................... 18
III ................................................................................................................................................... 29
IV ................................................................................................................................................... 42
V..................................................................................................................................................... 49
VI ................................................................................................................................................... 61
VII .................................................................................................................................................. 75
VIII ................................................................................................................................................ 88
IX ................................................................................................................................................... 99
X................................................................................................................................................... 115
XI ................................................................................................................................................. 124
Epilogue....................................................................................................................................... 130
About the author ......................................................................................................................... 132

Authors note

Leatherback turtles are a critically endangered species (IUCN List). Males spend
their entire lives entirely at sea while females come to land only to nest. There are only
25,000 adult nesting females remaining worldwide – in 1980, there were 115,000. They can
live up to 150 years-old and the species has existed for over 65 million years, second only
to crocodiles.

It is the largest of the sea turtles and can survive in the cold waters of the Atlantic
Ocean and dive deep for jellyfish, thought to be its main source of food. It has the ability to
raise its body temperature so it can traverse the cold, deep ocean – the deepest it has been
recorded is 1.2km deep in the Arctic Ocean. It can measure up to 1.8 metres long and weigh
about 500kg, on average. In fact, the heaviest ever recorded was found drowned in a fishing
net off the coast of Wales in 1988 – it weighed 900kg.

The habits of the leatherback young are quite mysterious to the watchful eye of
conservationists but they are thought to survive only in warm, tropical waters and be prey to
a number of fish and birds, like seagulls. Typical nesting sites are in the Caribbean and
West Africa.

Adult leatherback turtles have been recorded migrating as far north as Alaska and as
far south as Cape Town in South Africa. However, it is habituating the world’s oceans that
leave them susceptible to being caught in long line fisheries.

Unlike other turtles, the Leatherback is different. It does not have a thick shell like
the others but has a thick black leathery covering, hence its name – Leatherback.

Adult leatherbacks have few natural predators except for humans: many
leatherbacks die each year in fishing nets or on fishing lines and many nesting beaches are
lost every year to tourist or residential development. The poaching of eggs and pollution is
also a danger to adult and hatchling turtles. Scientists estimate that only 1 in 1000
leatherback hatchlings survive to adulthood.

References: www.leatherback.org, WWF and BBC.

Prologue

On a white moonlit beach littered with stones and seaweed, I walked. I didn’t care
about the relaxing sounds of the shore, the tinsel of stars streaked above me, the full moon
saluting the Earth with its cool resplendence. I would love to believe I was not relegated
here.

The western coast had smells of ember, of fruit and herbs and the air felt wet. It
struck me how odd the night felt, very much unlike what I expected from Wales. Crests of
white water were breaking far offshore and the rest of the sea seemed still. A flap of wings
startled me as I heard seagulls and other winged things distancing themselves from the
coast. I looked at my silver-plated watch like I would ordinarily in London and removed it
from my wrist to my pocket. I was on holiday now, maybe to get my ‘head together,’
maybe to ‘think about what I’d done.’

‘Relax,’ I told myself. For whatever purpose I was there, the last thing I owed
anybody was to admit error. I scanned my holiday destination. Nothing there except the
ocean: still, soundless and darkly violet in the night. I would never think I was there for a
sound reason though. And if my life had ever taken an unexpected turn, it was when she
came. Well, I wasn’t sure if it was female until she did what she did. She fixated my gaze
the moment she arrived.

Actually, my gaze was caught by a certain piece of seaweed floating in the shallows
of the water. It was nothing that would have interested me normally but I liked how it
floated in place as the tiny waves cupped the shore jingling like a lady rattling her gold
bracelets.

Soon all the sound of my surroundings shut out. All the rustling in the dunes, the
whistling of the wind and the lapping of the waves on the shore were quiet like they were
told to hush. I was left standing in hallows of silence.

The piece of seaweed disappeared and was replaced by the pinhole nostrils of a
hideous creature that grunted as it lugged itself out of the water, beads of water falling off
its body like luxurious jewels.

Resembling a noisy mechanical bull running out of batteries, its sluggish plight up
the shore was pitiful but instead of rushing to help the spotted creature, its leathery skin
dotted with white flecks, I only stood further back not knowing whether to run away or
watch what it was doing.

As I stood back in a muck of panicky indecisiveness, I could see that it was quite a
simple beast; the moonlight seemed to be illuminating the journey before it, dancing off its
back and made the sand appear serenely spread with a butter knife. It was clockwork, it was
elementary. It grunted every time it muscled its bony front flippers forward. At length, it
grunted and lugged its body up the sand and it became visible under pale moonlight. Sliding
up the shore, its head and shell were in sight.

I could see its brown eyes crushed under its fibrous lids. Its shell that I’m sure
would serve as protection and give it the agility to be swift in the vast glittering ocean

behind it, looked vulnerable in front of me, like it was made only of tougher skin raised
above its body, offering weather protection at best when out in the open like it was.

But it continued grunting as its broad shoulders and thick forehead turned away
from me and back to sea. It stopped – a peaceful repose from its struggle. Then I saw its
back flippers, its shell cut into a sharp point and a sad tail sticking out under it. Those back
flippers heaved the sand to each side and its body twisted so it sank into the hole it was
creating underneath itself– I saw the turtle was making a nest, of sorts.

No wonder the moon and the stars were silently lighting the sky above it and
everything else around me dimmed. Life was being dropped into the hole. Little slimy life
egg capsules fell into the hole she prepared.

And it was calm! So calm. And probably from the obvious age of the great creature,
she seemed nonchalant in her endeavour. She looked as though the process was an
awkwardness that didn’t seem to bother her. She began to fill the hole with the sand either
side of her. It muddled in the cavern and pushed sand back in.

After her nest became well hidden and the only sign of her visit was the ripples of
sand that she carved with her body moving up shore, its oceanic home captured her
attention and she pulled and lugged and grunted again, as it was now evident it was her
way; the turtle moved on.

It thrilled me for an instant that the turtle was still there by the edge of the sea and
had left a puzzling chasm of eggs under the sand near my feet. I asked myself, did that
turtle leave a nest here in front of me? It took me how ignored I was even if the mother was
aware I was there.

Soon the sounds from the waves returned, the impact of the wind’s bursts could be
heard whistling through crevices, the rustling in the dunes resumed and the turtle had
disappeared.

I let out the breath I had been holding in. What had I seen?

The glow of the sun began to lighten the sky behind me, across the vast green field,
behind the mountains. This was not a holiday anymore; I was not in a vacant abandon from
my day-to-day stress. Surely what I had witnessed was important. The beast’s appearance
was certainly a surprise. I had not expected a reptilian visitor to these shores.

Now at the end of a long emotional journey myself, I was pleased to be at the
beginning of life. I did not have to put any effort into forgetting now. I had something to
remember.

I began, at first, without feeling tired and like it wasn’t past my bedtime, to put one
foot in front of the other, which sunk like lead pellets into dry custard powder, and pull
myself across the beach to the sandy road upon which my holiday let sat. I was staying at a
beachfront terrace cottage. I stood on the street that linked the chain of such lets together
along the beach. And I suddenly saw myself in my dark window – a weary old dragon
dismissed as far away as they could get me.

I walked up the steps to my flat with the cool breeze at the back of my neck bringing
smells of wet grass and rabbit poop. The gentle lapping of the shore did not sooth as I

thumped the wooden door with my shoulder until it opened with a loud cry. I pulled the
cord under the only light bulb that illuminated the shackled room. The gaps in the
floorboards must have been a thoroughfare for the beach sand that carpeted the floor. The
dampness I smelt in the room was salty and was probably the reason why the fridge had
rusted so solidly at its edges. I collapsed on the naked mattress which made its springs to
creek like a seesaw as I bounced.

I

A waddle of women in shorts, bum bags and caps walked down the loose stone road
under the Welsh summer sun and stopped before the beach started.

Having spent most of the night like I had spent most of my life – uncomfortable,
wired, worried – and then being as far from London as possible, and meeting a turtle that
had to be the size of a small whale, I was in a daze. I was at first amazed, then felt
privileged, that I had witnessed a wonder of nature, and did not drink a drop of fermented
nasty rum at breakfast from the bottles that filled my travel bag but sipped tea in
appreciation of the surprising beauty of planet Earth. I imagined talking to the village folk
and taking a bus ride to a library to learn about what I saw last night – a maternal nesting of
an ancient sea dweller that almost came to my door. But as I stood outside my Welsh
hideaway in my trusty black canvas culottes and decades old flowery blue shirt and flip-
flops, I realised I was in the middle of nowhere with only two or three terraced homes
attached to mine. And apart from that, there was nothing. Nothing but nature.

I saw the waddle of women talking to a much younger, fresh girl in a big straw hat
and summery High Street wear. She was effusing with the enthusiasm only seen in youth –
she was pointing this way and that, all around the estuary. Why don’t I ask her? I stepped
out to join the group.

‘Lloergan Traeth shares its sky with many species of bird such as the once-
considered endangered Red Kite, whose population has skyrocketed here of late,’ said the
girl. ‘The return in numbers of a bird species is evidence of global warming in Britain. They
are returning home because it is warmer. As you can see up there, the Red Kite is often seen
here because of the bird reserve fifty miles past the dunes going north. He must be here for
some foraging; the farmers nearby leave out some meat for it. This bird of prey is well
looked after, not a threat to the animals here at all, are you little buddy?’

I could see the majestic red bird pecking at my neighbour’s roof. Call it a buddy
though? I wanted the Snow White to give it a rest. I moved to speak to her. ‘Ah and I see
another walker here. I am Teresa. I have introduced myself on the bus, but I will quickly
tell you now. I am an Environmental Science student. I’m working here for the summer.
And your name?’

‘Margarethe.’

‘Okay great welcome. Now we can start our walk down the coast line here south to
the shell path that will take us up through the dunes where we can see a few varieties of
orchids in flower such as the marsh helliborine. Here Margarethe,’ Teresa pulled a brochure
from her clipboard with a quick snap of the metal clasp. I took it from her and followed the
lot down to the beach southward.

The ripples of sand the turtle left had completely disappeared, as did any sign of the
nest; the old girl just struggled along the land and left last night. No one would ever know a
turtle visited the beach the night before, much like no one would know I was visiting the
beach now.

I didn’t know but it could be a week or a month before those eggs hatched; maybe
the mother would come back? How else would those babies be able to find their way up out
of the airless hole, be in the new oceanic home and learn the ways of living in the sea – the
dangers – the best places for food – how to avoid sharks?

‘The shell path,’ Teresa smiled enthusiastically still. I wished I had my sunglasses;
perhaps I would be as cheery.

‘Crushed shells make this entire route as long as you can see up the hill. When we
walk up this path we are walking through what is known as the cloudy dunes because the
rocks bordering the path are for the most part grey. Lichen, you see?’ Teresa knelt to touch
the leafy moss. ‘But let’s walk up here until we get to the dune slack. And look out for
Common Blue butterflies too. If we’re lucky one will flutter by.’

‘I was lucky last night.’ I slid up next to the student trying to be surprising, and
somewhat cheery, although I must have appeared awkward.

‘Sorry?’ The girl asked mustering friendliness, but not the sort reserved for birds
and butterflies.

I started with a laugh, trying to be friendlier than I normally am with strangers. ‘I
mean, I saw a turtle last night.’

‘A turtle! Lucky you, they don’t normally come out to the shore here.’

‘Really?’ I was amazed but mostly vindicated that I should feel as lucky as I felt
when I woke up. ‘I was on the beach last night and this giant thing – a turtle – just crawled
up to the top of the sand there.’

‘Well, you are lucky,’ said the student, ‘Turtles only come to land really to nest or
to die perhaps.’

‘It did nest!’ I spoke in a higher tone now. ‘It dug a hole and plopped out little eggs
the size of ping pong balls.’

‘But turtles don’t nest in Wales. It mustn’t have.’ Teresa sounded sorry. I wanted to
protest but she turned away. I was dejected that asking the bubbly animal lover turned to
nothing.

‘Okay folks. Can I just direct your attention to the host of pretty orchids here that
are flowering only for the summer months? Here,’ Teresa knelt and swayed an exotic,
purple flower between her first two fingers: its tiny branches adorned with miniature cups.
‘This is the northern marsh orchid which only flowers in June and July since its
introduction in 1918. And the brownish splotchy flower there is the western marsh orchid.’

Oh. I was ignored. I would explain that I wasn’t a liar if the tour guide wasn’t so
engrossed with the flowers.

This made me feel like when I was first in the home, ignored despite my standing up
for life as I knew it. I remembered the first day at the Shellingborne Home for Children in

Southampton. My baby sister was crying and the staff just so calmly bounced Penny on
their shoulder. ‘Colic, colic,’ was all they could say, whereupon I appeared in the front door
hall demanding a doctor for my sick sister. As the eldest sister of five siblings I had no
choice but to protect the youngest. With all my muster I tried to push the staff member
away and take the screaming lump, its face stretched in fury, but upon failing that
manoeuvre I took a sheet of paper out of my cloth bag that had a rainbow and a unicorn
patch pinned to the side, and started to compose a letter to the Southampton MP, requesting
him to be so kind as to find some other family member to look after Penny, Eddie, Ellie,
Andyroo and myself so we wouldn’t have to venture any further into the dauntingly tall and
cold hall. Its floor was laid with black and white tiles and it had stained oak all around its
walls, which smelt like cigarettes and was altogether strange.

This letter I would deliver myself and discuss with the man because I was almost
ten and had learned enough to know that an MP would know what to do for us.

I doubted Penny would be in absolute peril but would probably keep crying until I
could find a safer home for us to live, so I tucked the letter in my bag that contained just
enough clothes for a summer week and my pyjamas and toothbrush, and crossed the
sandstone path to the road. With the beach on my right and the green grass of the home to
my left, I walked with steely determination towards the main street I saw before when two
Salvation Army officers took me and the clan to the home; they were the two uniformed
giants who drove us through the main street and down the curly roads to the place.

A minute later I was journeying through a sticky drizzle under smoky clouds. My
rainbow bag was only made of cotton; it could not shelter me from weather. Every step I
then made and with every passing second, I thought of the children I was leaving in the
clutches of the wrinkly women strangers who hadn’t even said hello. Shellingborne Home
for Children, the Salvation Army lady said, was a good place, very happy children lived
there, and some were lucky enough to be adopted into loving families. But a loving family
would take little Penny away. Eddie and Ellie were two-year old twins and it would not be
right if they were taken away and even worse if they were not together, and my brother
Andyroo was my best friend. He was only a school year younger. He couldn’t go.

I turned around reasoning that I couldn’t leave. From day to night, to months to
years, I was going to look after my family. Now that my parents had gone, it was up to me
as the eldest to take charge. In the front garden, dampening from the drizzle, stood little
Eddie and Ellie clutching their bags and looking with wide eyes at me marching back up the
path to the doorway. Andyroo looked just as frightened cuddling his tedi ba ba almost
smiling in relief that I was back and looked like I was going to do something.

I stood up to a different woman who had taken Penny to stop crying and I held both
arms out to take her and stood straight like a brave soldier. The woman placed the
screaming baby in my arms and I said: ‘Sh, sh, we’re okay, we’re okay.’ And little Penny
hushed. I knew at that moment that I had to stay with my siblings, as long as we were
together, nothing would change.

‘Well, Margarethe. Looks like you should always look after the crying babies,’ the
woman said; the crinkles beside her eyes met together momentarily before the lines around
her mouth came back. ‘If Penny is ever uncontrollable again, we’ll send for you, okay.
Good girl.’ The lady patted my head.

A breeze crossed the path of the walking group; crickets tatted and a butterfly
wafted through the breeze and over my shoulder. The sun overhead was resting towards the
west enticing a twinkle off the water, bringing an extra brightness to the sand dunes and
casting a shadow over the grassland. Several rabbit-dropping mounds sat here and there
across the green-carpeted plain and pink patches sat on the tops of the dunes, the pink
flowers were what Teresa named restharrow, ‘which binds to the sand fixing like clover on
the dunes,’ she said.

Smells of wild aromatic thyme brushed past my nostrils, so fresh and awakening.
Hundreds of birds flew in formation overhead. Seagulls? Sparrows? No, skylarks, said
Teresa. ‘Those abandoned rabbit burrows by the marram grass and scrub land at the skirting
of the field often make the best places for some bird species to nest, as you’ll notice there
aren’t many trees to see unless you travelled all the way to the north horizon where the
RSPB sanctuary is.’

The skylarks flew to the heavens together before curling to fly northwards then
circling and landing in a swift drop en masse. Across the clearing was a brown rabbit whose
fur did not seem so soft to cuddle. It paused to nibble at grass and darted into obscurity on
spotting the pointing women who huddled together to ensure all saw the rabbit. ‘Hundreds
of rabbits take residence here,’ Teresa explained. ‘Thanks to them we are walking on shorn
grass today and have many droppings to dodge. But see those grey mounds all over the
place? They are designated poo spots for the rabbits. They don’t relieve themselves where
they live you see.’

We then made our way across the grassland to a boardwalk-viewing platform for all
to take in the wide flowery vista – coloured by summertime foliage prospering under the
sun. It was warm. I flapped my blue shirt with my fingertips and entertained the idea of
going back to my pad for shade and a cool glass of rum and coke – if the rum was in the
fridge and I had coke. The 360-degree view was breathtaking even I couldn’t deny that, but
my avoidance of alcohol in the name of nature could not last long.

From the vantage point I could see the entire coastline and far out over the various
shades of blue ocean as well as the grass field and sand dunes, which clipped the edges of
the coast and linked it to the field.

‘Further up the beach down there, we’ll see a rather notable wave shape in the rock
formed after millions of years of erosion. In fact, at that part of the estuary are many natural
wonders, we will make our way there,’ Teresa pointed out the next plan of action, down the
stairs and journey to the north side of the shore.

As we descended, a man dressed in khakis, pull up socks and a wide brimmed straw
hat stood up. He seemed to be taking notes, looking around and foraging in the plant life
below: digging around the marram grass and finding a lone orchid, shaking it, inspecting its
sides and then smelling it. ‘Smelling the bee orchid, John?’ asked Teresa.

‘Yes,’ he spoke like he was happy for the attention from the little group of clucking
ladies. ‘I am taking note of the flora that has popped up over the summer. Hi,’ he wiped a
single wave in the air, ‘I am Dr John Robinson from the University of Exeter. I am a
professor of marine biology.’

‘John is here to make observations of the estuary both on land and in the sea. Good
luck with it all.” Teresa nodded and took her group past John on the stairs and they
disappeared below. I stayed. This doctor was one more person to hear about the wonders of
last night.

‘I am hoping to catch you so I can tell you of the turtle I saw, last night.’ I started.

‘Oh you saw a turtle,’ said John, ‘Marvellous, they have been known to drop by
here. What kind of turtle did you see?’

‘I don’t know. I want to tell you. It was large, probably eight feet, dirty scaly
skin…. And it didn’t really have a shell of sorts, just a thicker kind of shield …’

John interrupted. ‘Well that’s probably a leatherback turtle. They have been noticed
in the deep water around these parts…’

‘A leatherback…’ I lost myself in the name, the name to the face.

‘Yes,’ John said and returned to his flower, he marked a tick next to several ticks by
the word ‘bee orchid’ and marked again next to two ticks by ‘sea spurge.’

‘Yes,’ I repeated him, ‘and then it dug a hole.’ I caught the marine biologist’s
attention now. ‘And it laid eggs.’

John held his clipboard closer to himself and shook his head disbelievingly at me.
He was going to be firm. ‘First of all, dear, leatherback turtles may swim by here but
common guests on our shore line? They are not. And to make a nest? Sorry we are not in
West Africa or the Caribbean.’

And with that, the straight backed marine biologist took his study away from me
and I stood down to a platform built so the stairs could twist down the dune bank, in spite of
the bee orchids, helliborine and the northern marsh orchids I could name and identify now.
But the estuary had lost its charm. The estuary was nothing but a grass field, common
marram grass, scrub, flowers and rabbit dung. A turtle was one of the highlights of my
existence, and the snobbery of Mr Robinson was not going to lessen all I had seen and
learned. ‘Well,’ I started. ‘If a turtle chooses this beach to lay eggs, then who am I to tell
her it’s not the Caribbean?’

‘Listen,’ came back John. ‘If you saw a turtle then that’s fine. But I’ll tell you this.
This is not the season for turtles to nest, they’ll do that in six months time on the equatorial
coasts, and turtles always return to the same nesting sites year after year, so if that turtle
knew that a Welsh beach was for nesting then it probably has been doing it for decades, and
why hasn’t anyone seen it before? And besides, if the eggs hatched, the turtles would only
run into a cold ocean and be swept up by the current to Iceland. I beg to differ, madam.’
And Mr Robinson tipped his hat and engrossed himself with the notes on the clipboard.

I loathed John Robinson. I stepped down from the stairway back to the beach and I
took slow steps kicking up sand as I stormed. I walked home; I did not want to see the sand
dune wave formation or any more delights on the far away part of the beach. I stayed by my
doorway however and presumed that the gaggle of nature watchers was having a good time.

When I was little and in my blue velveteen playsuit with the large appliquéd flower
on the shoulder and I had returned home from a few hours playing dress ups with the girl
over the road, I was barred from entering my home by a woman in a navy and red skirt suit
and hat. So I sat on the rectangle of grass outside the front door with my younger siblings
while another lady in the same costume held a sleeping Penny and walked up and down the
front hall. Where the hall met the front door, the lady could see us sitting in a circle chatting
and she would smile a compassionate smile and walk down the hall out of sight again.

A breeze tapped our heads, the sound of distant cars on the motorway rumbled and
the sun peered through a hole in the clouds and illuminated the suburban street, on which,
we the Rainer family, lived. Homes were identical, rendered in a flocked white clad and the
symmetrical bricked doorways were a sign that everyone was equal to everyone who lived
in an identical house. If it wasn’t for the distinguishable yellow wallpaper adorned with
white hibiscus print in the kitchen, I wouldn’t know what home was or what it felt like. It
was a warm place where we were looked after. But the continuous sight of the lady in
uniform smiling at the door and disappearing again made me nervous.

Soon one of the suited ladies appeared with a bag for each child. ‘Hold on to them
dear. Here are clothes for you.’

I took my bag filled with the clothes I wore in the summertime and looked mystified
at the older lady. Compelled to speak, the lady said, ‘We are going to go to a wonderful
place. A place that is so lovely, you’ll be thankful your parents thought to send you there.’

I was mystified further. Our parents, I questioned silently, are they sending us
somewhere? The twins had no fear of this statement; they rolled on the grass covering their
backs with the bits of dried leaves and stems that had once been hidden beneath the
scratchy green grass. Their mother would tell them not to do that, I thought and told them to
stop, which they did but then everyone grew bored. Andyroo looked as scared as me but
wouldn’t hold my hand when I offered it. I felt alone.

It was my own fault. I must have been away for a very long time to miss these
strange women coming into my house. But mummy had sent me, I remembered. I was
certain I must have been bad – naughty – misbehaved. I should have been better behaved
and cheered my mummy up when she was sad in the morning. Without a word my mother
led me and Andyroo across the road to a place where we stayed for lunch. Now the
uniformed ladies had taken over the house. I could almost hear them talking in muted tones
to each other. I moved to the front door to better hear what they were saying.

‘We will take them to Shellingborne now.’

‘We’ll tell them first. Do you know what to say?’

‘I do…’

I could hear the clacky heels coming towards the door and I rushed back to take a
place where I sat with my siblings before. The ladies approached us. ‘I have some news,’
said the lady who introduced herself as Marion from the Salvation Army. ‘Remember we
are here to look after you,’ she added.

Marion continued as the breeze pushed some of her hair out of its curls and across
her eye. ‘I am sorry children, but your mother has been in an accident. She was driving on
the motorway and I am afraid she is not coming back.’

Andyroo looked horrified at the lady through tear stained eyes. The twins looked at
Andyroo and the face of terror and confusion on me and were quiet. ‘What about daddy?’ I
sniffed.

‘I am sorry darling, but your daddy was so sad, his heart just broke,’ said Marion. ‘I
am afraid he is with your mummy now, they are with Jesus in Heaven.’

The woman reached out to the shoulders of the children who were just out of reach
and staring into their laps at the news. ‘We are going to take you to Shellingborne now.
Only very good children go there, so all of you, and Penny, will have someone to take care
of them.’

‘But mummy?’ I cried.

‘I know dear,’ Marion stood, ‘Now everyone take your bags. That’s good children.
And get into the car. We are going to go to the home now.’

I sat in the back of the large brown car, with four doors and a boot as large as our
front garden, I thought. I sat by the window with one twin by my side and another one on
my lap as we all were driven dumbfounded out through the curling streets of our home
suburb. My friends from school seemed to disappear from my mind with every minute in
the car. Rows and rows of houses blurred by and stayed behind with our memories of our
childhood home.

As the car stopped at a corner, a rush of cars streamed down the motorway and me
and Andyroo gasped, looked at each other and then held hands behind Eddie’s back. When
the car rolled into the busy thoroughfare, tears turned into sobs and then became painful for
me as I could only think how our mother was lost to a busy road like this one. It was hard to
imagine what happened. She was on a motorway and never came back? She could still be
driving? But daddy died of a broken heart, so I guessed, mummy was never coming back.

I looked out the windows at the passing homes which became more sporadic as we
continued along the motorway until nothing but farms and telegraph wires remained. I
shifted in my seat and Andyroo closed his eyes. ‘Not much further,’ said Sonia, the other
lady from the Salvation Army. ‘Shellingborne is a lovely, lovely home. You are very lucky
to be accepted there. They must think you are very special children.

‘You know, I lived in a home like Shellingborne when I was growing up. I have so
many happy memories and all the games to play and food to eat. But I knew it wasn’t as
nice a place to live as Shellingborne. You are very special children.’

I was mixed with emotion and confusion by the time the car had turned into
Southampton with a written billboard welcoming us there. ‘Nearly there now,’ sang Marion
and turned the car into a wide road reminiscent of the roads we had left behind: the houses

still had rendered fronts but had more red brick exposed on the second-storey. Their front
yards looked bigger too. The power lines still ran above the pathways but there were less
children playing.

Then the car continued on past the homes, through a high street, past a tall building
that looked like a place for men in suits to go and do their business work, like daddy used
to. I imagined my father and his broken heart: standing one minute and upon hearing that
his wife would not be returning, his heart just broke. He must have cried so much, I
thought. If you cry too much you can die, I reasoned.

We could see the ocean now. ‘We are just getting there,’ said Sonia and the car
turned down parallel to the beachfront and put its two tyres on the curb in front of a grand
manor house which had more ladies in smart clothes waiting to greet us. Penny started to
cry as the car doors slammed behind the Salvation Army staff. And I became terrified of the
women who bent to hug each child on our arrival at the front door. Their big teeth were
hedged by dark brown lips as they smiled at us, like they could suck us all through the
grimy gaps in between.

II

I was known as Margie once, and my grip on the memories of my past are patchy,
as my feelings for them are too.

When I was Margie I was key protector of the Rainer family: key protector of the
baby, twins and Andyroo. Behind the tall home were the ‘sleeping cottages’, halls named
after poets: Keats, Wordsworth, Shelley, Byron and Tennyson. I was with Ellie in Keats;
Andyroo and Eddie were in Wordsworth. The five-windowed dormitories were made up of
the one room full of bunk beds and a communal shower room, and they were always under
the eye of Matron Clegg.

In the green lawn square that sat in the middle of all the cottages, the gang members
were named: I was the Hen. Andyroo was Rooster and Eddie and Ellie were the chicks. But
Penny was missing, so our first mission was to find and save her.

It was after breakfast, the home’s time, so I rounded my troops and led them down
the back path through the green square to the main house. As soon as we were out of the
warm summer air, the coldness of the Great Hall hit us. Barefoot, our exposed ankles
attracted small biting insects; I felt a nip and rubbed it away. Nevertheless, the team inched
up the stairs listening out for a crying baby or any staff member that could catch us from
their lounge chairs on the first floor.

Andyroo Rooster was in charge of listening at all the doors to hear if Penny was in
there, while the chicks kept an ear out for danger – any footsteps, whistling, shouting – any
staff sounds – as me the Hen went ahead to lead the way if the coast was clear.

Cautiously, I sidestepped through the hall, Andyroo pressed his ears against doors
and the twins stood guard at the top of the stairs. Downstairs the great door creaked open.
Eddie and Ellie sucked in a breath and ran to me, who with Andyroo, ran along the hall
runner to the second flight of stairs and oh so quietly tip toed our way up those. Positions
were restored again on the top floor and I slid forwards again, back to the old oak panelled
walls, the back of my head occasionally grazing the floral pink and purple wallpaper.

I reached the end of the hall undisturbed, not even by a sound of a baby. I turned to
Andyroo, who was partly opening a door and scanning the room. He waved me over to
show me a room full of cots: side by side like showing pairs in a game of Go Fish.

The team in the nursery whispered, ‘Penny? Penny?’ to each sleeping baby lying in
a cot. Not one had turned up Penny. But I knew her. I picked up a sleeping Penny who was
given a start. When the baby started, its face swelled up and it began to wail, and we knew
we had a distance to cover to get back to the square. We picked up pace like rats scurrying
to a hole in the wall.

Penny wailed as I carried her down the flights of stairs. The staff awoke from their
Sunday morning papers and saw the dash of children running out towards the sunshine. The
Matron used both arms to swing open the back doors of the hall and saw the scurry of
children disappear behind the cottages. She followed the children and saw me with big eyes

shooshing Penny back to sleep in my arms. The Matron took the baby from me and said,
‘Penny will meet her adoptive parents tomorrow, you can say goodbye after breakfast then.’
And with that the Matron, with Penny, left.

The very next day, Penny’s adoptive parents were given a tour of Shellingborne
Home for Children. Wasn’t it beautiful? Safe. Kind. Loving, they said. I followed their
every step. I was interested in every facet and angle of the plans for Penny’s new home.
‘When she grows up, will she like that?’ I asked often. It annoyed the adults after the fifth
time.

‘Margarethe,’ Matron Clegg snapped. ‘Of course she will. Don’t ask silly
questions…’ She then laughed at the parents, wasn’t the child darling?

First they went to an empty classroom where five children were pasting cut outs
from wrapping paper to blank paper trying to express a story, yet as the old wrapping paper
was of the Christmas kind, it limited the stories the children could tell. The prospective
parents nodded and smiled politely. Stories were told of Santa Claus climbing down the
Christmas tree and Jesus sleeping under the chimney breast and other creations of that kind.
Girls were also taught to sew by watching a staff teacher thread a needle to duck it in and
out of cloth. Now it was time to see Penny.

We went to the nursery full of sleeping babies in cots – Penny’s pen, us children
called it. We had to be very quiet before we went in the room and could not make a sound
lest we wake the platoon. A staff lady dressed in a clean suit dress led us through the forest
of cots to Penny’s crib. The prospective mother sighed and held her hands to her breast.
This time as Penny was lifted she did not wake, but when the guests and the staff lady were
downstairs, Penny wailed.

‘The colic seems to be behind her,’ said the boss lady, ‘but she doesn’t like to be
woken as you can imagine.’

‘Oh yes,’ the prospective mother was still touched. She smiled and held out her
arms, ‘Can I?’

‘Sure,’ and Penny was shifted from breast to breast.

Penny will cry, I was certain; she hates strangers and always will. She still looked
like a turnip and she wasn’t old: she was still a pink lump with streaks of hair and eyes that
rarely opened, but still, she was a Rainer and she will protest to this whole thing.

But, she didn’t cry. ‘Aw!’ the new mother was happy, she giggled quietly to not to
wake the baby.

‘She must know you are for her,’ the staff lady said, ‘would you like to come to the
office now and we’ll sort out the final papers?’ And with that the staff lady, father and
mother and Penny went downstairs to the matron’s office.

‘Your sister is going to a better place now Margie,’ Matron Clegg placed her warm
hand on my shoulder as they watched the new parents put Penny in their car. ‘A family to
love her and look after her. Hopefully the same will happen for the rest of you. I am sure it
will.’

*

The twins never asked questions; instead they kept a docile open view to everything.
They haven’t grown opinions, I thought. Every now and then, however, one of the twins
would ask me if mummy would like the picture they have made or if Pen Pen would come
to church with everyone on a Sunday. I would only answer ‘no’ and after a time they did
not ask about their mother or Penny again.

They were lucky, I thought, they could play all day and have afternoon naps. I
would have liked afternoon naps but at almost 10, I had to learn instead. Me and Andyroo
went to the local primary school for learning. Mr Trundleson was my teacher and he was
nice to me, I was a good pupil – quietly to myself, though, I called him Mr Trumpet.
Andyroo did not have a nice time at school. His teacher Miss Brown would always send
him to the back of the class or send for the headmaster to wrap his knuckles.

The staff lady, Miss Gurston, told me not to worry. “He is probably a bit slow; he’ll
grow up to be very clever.” And that was that.

Some of the games we played before dinner did not require much smarts, just
listening skills. Because a lot of the time I was speaking and the rest were listening. The
Rainers would sit in a corner and discuss their day; that is, I would talk about my day.
Andyroo would not want to talk about his, and Eddie and Ellie would have just woken up
and would be a bit irritable. I would cuddle them.

Games were games without toys and it was often the only thing to do; there was
only one television and the staff watched that. No television was allowed during teatime
either. After teatime all the children had to go to their sleeping cottage. Matron or another
staff member would make sure we washed and brushed our teeth before sending everyone
to bed. Sometimes a staff member would read a story, like those by Enid Blyton or the
Hungry, Hungry Caterpillar on the big red round mat in the centre of the room with all the
bunk beds around it.

Story time was lulling and magical and some girls would fall asleep on the circle
mat. A staff member would pick the girl up and take her to her bunk after the story.

I never talked to the other girls, instead I would be with my brothers and sister when
they didn’t have to sleep, eat or go to school. Together we could be in our own world:
pretend to sip cups of my yummy tea – all warm, milky and proper – all guests at the tea
party had to sit up straight. I would even prepare invisible scones with jam and cream for
everyone - they were delicious.

The best game had to be when it involved running around to catch the little twins;
they were so easy to catch. Eddie, dressed in his brown corduroy flare trousers and a little

yellow cardigan over his blue t-shirt, was clearly the faster of the two when Andyroo or I
chased him. He would dart behind trees or hide in a sleeping cottage, once he closed his
eyes so tight that the elder children played a trick, “I can’t see him,” I said. “Neither can I,”
Andyroo chorused, until Eddie opened his eyes, darted looks at both me and Andyroo and
burst out, “Here I am!”

“Margie?” Ellie asked one day, “Are we going to be adopled too?”

“I don’t know,” I said back, it was a fine autumnal day; I was relaxing back on the
grass. “Why do you say that?”

“Miss Gurston said that one day we’ll get adopled.”

“Well, we’d have runaway by then,” I had a plan – a dream to fulfil very soon. “I
am thinking that we can go back home and Andyroo and me will look after you and Eddie.”
It was all planned; it just had to happen sooner now is all.

We had been training: I knew we’d be okay. Andyroo would be the dad, me the
mum and Eddie and Ellie would be themselves. I had a kitchen by the tree and everything
was in the fridge, I’d open it constantly to find things to eat. Andyroo would return from
work, “I am home,” he would announce and sit on the grass. “What is for dinner?”

“Oh, I don’t know yet,” I said, wiping the table tops around me, “I have been so
busy taking Eddie and Ellie to the toy store, they are happy now, and the car broke down
again. You’ll have to pay £100 to get that back again.”

Andyroo growled “Rraarr!” and chased me about the lawn; I would hide behind the
giant oak tree – which marked the space designated as my kitchen - but Andyroo always
caught me and dug his knuckles into my arm. Andyroo was fast.

It looked like rain again, so we would go inside the Great Hall and wait for dinner.
The dining room was a big room; in it would be five or six round tables and each sleeping
cottage group would have to sit around the same table.

The dining hall wasn’t as grand as the rest of the hall, and the children were quite
cramped in the muddy coloured room with green and yellow swirly carpet. On the walls,
pictures of sea birds, the beach, waves and fish hung on an angle, but above the fire place
was a picture of the Queen in her white ball gown and medals, I would stare and stare at
that picture; it was so close.

The children would take their dishes to the kitchen as long as all our dinner was
eaten. I stood on a stool and prepared to wash the dishes when it was my turn, so I let lots
of hot water pour out the long tap into the large drum-like sink. Andyroo would talk to me:
“I want to watch Doctor Who. I can’t believe I haven’t seen it at all here. I don’t know what
is happening now.’

‘You should ask to watch it.’

‘Yeah but I don’t know. What if they don’t let me?’

‘They could, you just have to ask nice enough.’

A big adult arm reached across me and the hand twisted the tap shut. No more
water, no more suds. I looked at Matron Clegg. ‘We still have a water shortage Margie. Do
not waste water. That is quite enough.’

When the plump lady left I said to Andyroo, ‘Don’t ask her.’

Andyroo never asked about Dr Who, I remembered.

*

One morning after the words of doubt had left my mind, when I came to terms with
the fact that the giant leatherback turtle was a truth only to my mind, I understood that I saw
the mother perform the most important act of all – and that was to bring life to these shores.

It was now that I felt I was of a reasonable ability to protect the nest laid by a
mother who could be anywhere in the dark endless ocean, anywhere in the depths and
anywhere as far as the sea is long. But I would not have baby turtles hatch to a heartless
world. I would not have them awaken to a beach displaying the typical disregard humans
bring to any location they visit. I was too agitated by the disbelievers who did not think it
was possible and thought it was impossible that a turtle would make her nest here. I saw it
and a liar I was not.

So under the noonday sun, I had ventured to the location where I remembered the
eggs were laid. I surveyed the area. Litter had been blown in from the main street, probably
from the General Store at the top of the street by the strong westerly wind. A branch on a
little shrub on the dunes caught a page of newspaper. The same could be said for at least
four plastic bags on other dune shrubs. I had also passed aluminium cans between my
holiday home and the edge of the sand – faded by the sun and wasting away from the
erosive elements that everything on Lloergan Traeth endured.

I only had one skill I could draw upon for the incubating eggs – I could rid this
ecosystem of rubbish. And if I was going to embark on that endeavour there was a lot of
work to do.

My shadow left a long dirty streak across the beach and to the road. I followed its
trail and walked by the white holiday lets to the General Store – a chalk board welcomed
the passers-by by stating in big cartoonish letters that it’s ‘OPEN.’ I pushed the door that
rang a small bell to which the store woman raised her head from behind a counter. ‘Hello,’
she said, her accent obviously of the area: Welsh, friendly and dotted with colour. ‘Can I
help you, love?’

‘No,’ I said and looked past the cereal boxes, sweetie tubs and dishwashing liquid. I
found three shelves filled with tools, superglue and all sorts of handy things that I thought
men would find of interest. It must be a hardware section. And I started a search for my
litter removal project there.

‘Are you building something, love?’ asked the shopkeeper. ‘We have nearly
everything there.’

‘No,’ I replied and kept looking.

Gloves were the first things I saw and I saw bin liners. I reckoned they were all I
needed to help tidy the beach.

‘Oh,’ said the shopkeeper as I approached the counter. ‘You off for a clean up, I
suppose.’ The woman still remained friendly despite my tight glare in response to the
prying. ‘That is good, that is,’ continued the woman. ‘Things do need to keep tidy, if the
road isn’t covered with litter, the homes are untidy.’

Irritated still, I thought it better to prove the biddy - blonde, jeans and sensible
yellow polo shirt – wrong. I didn’t know her. ‘I am “cleaning up”, as you say, the entire
beach.’

‘Oh that’s good, some people have no respect. Want tidier sunbathing? That is good.
I would like a tidy sunbathe.’

‘No,’ I said, taking some pleasure in disproving the lady’s assumptions. ‘I am
tidying the beach for a turtle’s nest; I think it must be tidy for the hatchlings.’

‘Oh!’ the shopkeeper exclaimed. ‘That is good. I don’t know anything about turtles.
I know they come close to the shores and you could see one if you went scuba diving. But a
nest you say? Well I have never heard of that.’

‘Yes, well, no one seems to believe me.’ I grabbed my shopping bag and my
change.

‘Oh well, I believe it. I just don’t know anything about turtles is all.’

The lady thought for a moment; her hands tapping her chin with straight fingers.
‘But I’ll tell you what. I have to pick up my eldest girl from school at four and then we are
going to the library. I can pick up a book on turtles that come here and I will learn. But
cleaning up is a good start I am sure.’ She nodded.

‘Thank you,’ I said. My expression softened to a tight lipped purse.

‘Come by later. I’ll have a book,’ said the shopkeeper.

‘Yes,’ I said and left with my gloves and bags and walked down the sunny loose
stone road to the beach.

The shoreline seemed much messier than when I first saw it. There was nearly a full
newspaper that had blown onto the dunes and there were many more cans if I looked hard
enough. It was a big job. I slid on my loose gardener’s gloves with stitched red and blue
stripes down the back of each hand, unrolled a bin liner and waded into the dunes to snatch
each page of the newspaper away. This beach was not to be a tip any longer. The bee
orchids could breathe and the skylarks could nest here, when I was finished with it.

Cans reflected sunlight into my eyes as I scanned the dunes for each shining piece
of metal that could be hiding under any shrub or rock, or even the plastic bottles distorted
by the sun’s rays could be hiding there. As I walked down the entire length of the beach I
picked up more litter. Once I turned around after a couple of hours, I could see the impact I

had made on the beauty of the beach by picking up the litter. Down towards the wave shape
imposed onto the rock face I could see Professor Robinson knee deep in the water filling
test tubes and placing them in his shoulder bag.

Walking on a seashore at low tide made suction pop noises, making a surprise visit
to John Robinson impossible. I navigated my way through the wet rippled sea bed that was
much flatter and longer than I perceived it from the shore. I did not feel like the useless
wheel on an ecology project that John Robinson made me feel like the last time I
interrupted his work – which the biologist made me feel like again as I was stopped by his
flexed palm and the many sticks pointing out of the water by his knees.

‘Do not come any further,’ he kept his balance in the knee deep water whilst
keeping a hand out to stop me. ‘We can’t mess with the water gauges. These are
temperature gauges. Very expensive temperature gauges.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I only wanted to say that despite any objections. I am cleaning the
beach for the baby turtles to have a clean environment when they hatch.’

‘Excellent. Excellent,’ John Robinson did not take his eyes off a temperature gauge
by his feet. ‘Although the turtles won’t come, it is always good for people to take an
interest in keeping Lloergan tip top.’

I sighed. Of course that man would not change his opinion about what I saw. But
gone was the respectful layman who first approached him with the story. In her place stood
a woman who had more faith in herself than any anorak or authority figure would have if
they did not believe what she had to say. ‘Well, I know what I saw and I am still doing what
I can. I am offering you a chance to make sticking poles into the water a bit more
interesting.’

John laughed to his chest; shook his head and picked up a thermometer, shook it
around and wrote a small note on the notebook tied to his belt loop. ‘Well,’ he laughed, ‘All
I can tell you now is that turtle sightings are not conducive to the sea temperatures that I am
picking up. Never mind that it isn’t breeding season for leatherbacks.’

Infuriating, I thought. I shrugged my shoulders at the man in khaki overalls and
wellies, his hat still more functional than attractive, and I turned to navigate my way
through the smoothed waves of wet grainy mud. My feet making gloop noises as I left.

Like a holidaymaker, I sat by the spot where I knew the nest was and stroked the top
with a flat palm for a while. And although I saw the marine biologist wasn’t looking at me,
I stood up and in a visible huff charged home.

I threw pots and pans out of the cupboard, broke glass and emptied my bag contents
all over the dirty bed. I needed a drink and picked up one of the many bottles of rum I had
packed. I had not been in this frame of mind since I first arrived at the holiday home. My
bottle of mixer was empty so I had nothing with which to enjoy my rum and I wasn’t keen
on having the drink neat. I fetched my purse and flew out the front door. The sun was
receding late in the day as I landed at the General Store. ‘Hiya,’ said the shopkeeper as the
bell tingled and the door closed behind me.

Without saying a word, I walked straight to the shelves of evening beverages and
grabbed a bottle of ginger beer. ‘Need some tonic for a bevvie, love? Here’s something
cheaper,’ said the shopkeeper who opened another fridge door and took a plastic bottle out
for me. ‘We went to the library too,’ she added. ‘I didn’t forget.’ And she took a large, flat
book from under the counter and put it in front of me. ‘It isn’t about Lloergan say, but it
talks about all the turtles that swim in these waters.’

‘Oh,’ I looked at it. It had an illustration of a turtle swimming to the surface of an
ocean with green seaweed swaying on the floor. ‘Does this have information about
leatherback turtles?’

‘I think so if they come here,’ said the peering shopkeeper reading the pages before
I flicked over.

‘Can I read this?’ I took the book by my chest and paid the lady for the drink.

‘Of course, if you bring it back. You’re at the first flat aren’t you?’

‘I am,’ I took the bag of shopping. ‘I will give it back soon, it isn’t big.’

I left the woman, but not without asking her name, Delores, I repeated the name to
myself. Delores, Delores.

At my flat, I twisted the cap from the fizzy drink and poured myself a large glass
over a dash of rum. I sipped the drink. Sitting at the table, which served for everything -
kitchen, dining, card, drinks - as it was the only table in the room, I opened out the book
and read the first opening paragraph.

Turtles have a unique biology among the cold-blooded reptiles.

I skipped a few pages to a story about leatherbacks.

Leatherback turtles are critically endangered, in fact, at last count the global
population came in at 34,000 nesting females. Leatherback turtles could be extinct in 20
years. They have almost completely disappeared from the Atlantic Ocean, often nesting in
Florida, Mexico or the Caribbean. Therefore, coastal reserves and captive breeding
programmes have been established to make sure the species do not disappear completely.

Gulping a drink down, I felt relief that the day was at an end. I was learning about
the giant marine creatures now and no matter what that biologist said, I’d have some words
to say next time I saw him. Just here, I exclaimed to myself, leatherbacks like the cold
water. Leatherbacks have the distinction among the other sea turtles in that they have the
circulatory system and internal shell structure to endure the cooler temperatures of the
Northern Atlantic and dive deeper than other marine creatures. This is why they are often a
regular sight in UK waters.

I mixed myself a straight drink of rum. I had drunk little of the thick chemically
brew, like poison to the lips and fire to the throat, and I would mix the tonic with the next
one. My red-rimmed eyes scanned the room and I moved my heavy legs one by one to the
fridge. My hair was burdened with weeks of unwashed grease but I had no mind for
aesthetics. I opened the salted shut window with a heave and looked out at the north and
south of the seashore; I could jump out of that window and straight onto the shore in an

emergency. Suddenly the wind blew into the room and lost my page in the book. I shuffled
back to my seat and poured some ginger drink for my rum.

I opened the book to where I had left it and read that turtles can live to up to 60
years and the newborns do not rely on the light of a full moon for direction to the ocean.
This was a myth. But when sea turtles hatch they have the instinct to move towards the
brightest direction, usually on a natural beach, it is the horizon out at sea. Therefore,
beachfront lights must be turned off as it could confuse hatchlings when they try to find
their direction.

I turned my lights off but opened the curtains. The sun wouldn’t set at this time of
year until ten – it was British summertime - no light to be turned on after that. This was
very important.

I read how a mother turtle would lay up to 120 eggs in a sitting – I thought I saw
hundreds. I read more about what was becoming a sad life for the sea turtle, especially the
leatherback, endangered, threatened, nearly extinct. The poor things confused plastic bags
with jelly fish – their one abundant food source. A clean up was a good idea.

Interestingly, the eggs incubate for about two months on average. I had no idea
when the eggs were laid – a week ago? A month? I had no idea but the grand hatching
wasn’t too distant; I could still do my best for those underground: leg forming, body
making brood ready for their journey to a tidy Welsh sea.

The big turtle I saw all that time ago would have weighed about 1,300 pounds too, I
read, it was a giant. I vowed to look after those babies I said to myself, wiping my stringy
hair from my glassy eyes. I took a sip of rum. Everything was going to be taken care of. I
repeated to myself: lights out, bags out, beach clean. Lights out, bags out, beach clean.
Lights out, bags out, beach clean.

I came to the chapter entitled Hatchlings.

Only about one in 1,000 survive to adulthood. They may not reach the ocean quick
enough decreasing their chance of survival either by dehydration and drying out; or they
could become prey to birds, crabs or other predators.

However, there was some hope: once the turtles hatched from a particular beach,
and once grown, they will then return to that spot to lay their own eggs each year.

I almost wept now I had learned the turtle’s plight. Life had not even begun to
disappoint them, in fact, life does not even rate for most of those turtles at all; they could all
die. Maths brought out a dyslexia gene in me only seen at times of counting. If only 100
eggs were laid and there’s only one in 1,000 chance of survival then if any turtle makes it to
the shore it would be a miracle.

I’ll save them. I stood up, swayed and stumbled out the door to the beach where the
nest was. ‘Shh, shh,’ I said to the sand. The nest was about somewhere, ‘Don’t worry little
eggs, I will save you, not your mummy, but I will do it. Don’t worry.’

My whispers were not as quiet as I wanted. I plonked my bottom on the sand and
looked out to the moonlight dancing on the ripples of black sea covering all sorts of life
underneath its glittering facade. With a little help from me, I was certain, I was going to

make sure they had the best chance of getting out to sea no matter if a supposed expert
laughed at my attempts.

I sat there on the sand for at least half an hour until I stood and toppled backwards
and then slept where I fell. A bass guitar sound streamed through the air and kept a pulse,
rocking like a lullaby at an uneven count. Drums started the same beat but added a top
cymbal flutter. Almost a minute later an electric guitar kept the same pulse as the bass. It
was reggae music. I woke dozily. Had I slept? Voices sang along to what must have been
music on a stereo turned up loud. There was a party. I could hear shrieks and laughter and
male voices challenging, fighting and generally being boisterous. Young people, I was
intrigued, excited and interested. I hadn’t been a teenager for such a long time. If they were
anything like my neighbour in London then I had to prepare for a long night of this loud
music.

The turtles! I realised they may be threatened by the pulsating bass, it might be
heard underground. I walked to the street outside my holiday home and counted that the
music was coming from two doors down. I would have to appear cool but firm with those
guests, I thought. But I would have to be clear above all. If there were girls there, then they
would care about the turtle babies, I was sure.

The music did not subdue. Fortunately there were not any other holidaymakers at
the terrace cottages now, but there was me, the shopkeeper’s family AND the turtles. I
knocked on the door, the same strong oak but less weather beaten than mine.

I pounded on the door, each rap incrementally louder than before, until I found
myself pounding with both fists to be heard. ‘Hello?’ the door swung open abruptly. ‘Can I
help you?’

The man looked like he had stepped out of a mini minor in the 70s, all the kids did
so nowadays, I thought. ‘The music is a bit loud,’ I said. ‘There are people around here, not
to mention there is wildlife. You are disturbing the wildlife.’

‘Wildlife?’ the man said, ‘I thought there are only sheep here.’

I shook her head. ‘No, not just sheep, there are birds and rabbits and turtles.’

‘Turtles?’ he pulled a face that said it was news to him. ‘Didn’t know that.’

He sounded well schooled and much more refined than me. I glared at him. ‘Oh,
hold on,’ he said and disappeared behind the door. The sound was turned down. ‘Is that
better?’ he sounded impatient, almost patronising.

‘Yes, thank you,’ I said, and disappeared myself down the street. That rude kid. But
I was not finished and had to return another time. I had not even mentioned the light that
was left on after the sun had gone down.

It was an hour later and the music pulsated loudly again in a Tropicana style. I did
truly hope that it would stop. I was lying down in bed with my bottle and tonic pouring
glasses and was only half awake. I groaned; the turtles! Rude kids, but I lay defeated. I was
tired and paying the cost created by drinking too much the evening previous.

Glasses rattled to the off-beat. A melody cascaded down and then up making a
singsong see saw that was only relieved by a voice of Kingston Town. In Keeengston
Town… it warbled.

It was apt to say, I couldn’t sleep. Three o’clock in the morning and sadly it was not
just because of the reggae tones, but what it came to represent: people disrespecting my
newly found authority on the reptiles that were calling Lloergan their home. Not to mention
Delores’s young family who lived here.

III

I knew early that Eddie and Ellie were to be taken that day - taken by lovely people,
according to Miss Gurston. They couldn’t be lovely, I thought. If they were lovely they
would send me, Eddie and Ellie and Andyroo back home. They would get Penny and then
they would buy dinner and maybe teach me how to use the washing machine.

I sat with the twins and Andyroo behind Keats with our backs against the wall. The
autumn breeze was cool so Eddie wore his smart brown corduroy trousers and orange
knitted cardigan. Ellie had her hair braided and her best flowery pink dress on. The staff
had told them that morning to look smart, sharp. Eddie was handsome, don’t you think?
And Ellie was the prettiest thing around - from Southampton to Portsmouth. I couldn’t
smile about this. They were waiting to be found by the Shellingborne staff to be taken away
like a bag of apples at the greengrocers.

We could hear the staff calling out for them from the square. Holding our mouths
with both hands Andyroo and I giggled with a snort. The twins did the same. Time, though,
was now obviously short. ‘Make sure I see you again,’ I said, ‘Don’t forget us. Always
remember Andyroo and me.’ My voice was breathy, quiet, with an added hint of
desperation.

Ellie put her arm over my shoulder. I wouldn’t cry but I hated the business of being
separated. One by one, the youngest children were being picked like plums in a bucket.
Andyroo and me were all that was left.

‘Don’t end up like them and change and not be a Rainer anymore.’ I didn’t look at
them. It was no use saying this. The twins didn’t understand.

‘Here they are!’ a triumphant voice bellowed with a lilt of relief. ‘Hiding behind
here,’ Miss Gurston stood above us and waved the others over. She looked smart too. Her
hair was tied up, her skirt suit was pressed and she wore bright plastic jewellery.

The matron and the new parents came around the corner and saw the wide eyes of
the twins and the wet eyes of mine. The jig was up. ‘Naughty children,’ growled the round
woman. But we’ve never got into serious trouble. Just called naughty. I didn’t know why. I
was making no trouble at Shellingborne Home for Children that the staff was privy to.

The staff took Eddie and Ellie by the wrists and walked with the new parents back
to the Great Hall. The twins followed but looked back at me. I did not rise and did not
follow them. I had given up. ‘Margie!’ cried Ellie not understanding what was happening.

I sighed and struggled up from the grass and followed them to the main hall. I knew
the process; they will talk to the twins and then go to the office to sign papers. I waited by
the office with my arms crossed.

‘Uncross your arms and cheer up,’ Matron sternly instructed after the twins had left
in the car. The staff waved them off. ‘No games anymore. You and Andrew must do your
best here and perhaps we’ll be rid of you too.’

She left and I, with straight arms, my head up, had grown a smile. I constructed it
just to make the matron leave. Only me and Andyroo were left now. With the little ones
gone, we would have to wait until someone would like Big Kids. Who would want big
kids? I wasn’t so cute anymore but my mother used to tell me I was beautiful as she
brushed my hair before bedtime. No one brushed my hair now. The staff would tell me to
do it myself, but I didn’t unless I was going to school and I only brushed my hair for school
every so often but not that often. Often enough, but it was my mother’s job. She used to do
it really very well.

One day potential parents came to see me but they wanted someone younger. I was
of the age now where I would have to do a lot of work around the home for prospective
parents to like me. ‘They would need someone to sweep the floors and clean the windows.
So you better practice,’ the staff would tell me. A cleanly house was next to Godliness.
Miss Gurston would say, 'All girls have house chores.'

Now that the babies had gone away, Andyroo and I were left to talk to the other
children. I made a friendship with a younger girl called Renèe who was six. She followed
me everywhere. Sat next to me at dinner and joined in the games I organised for me and
Andyroo. She even tried to talk about her day after school. It should only be me who talked
about my day. But Renèe made me think of what Penny would be like if she grew up to be
six. But she wasn’t Penny.

‘I can spell nearly,’ said Renèe.

‘No you can’t,’ I retorted.

‘I can.’

‘What can you spell?’ I knew that six year olds only learned the alphabet.

‘A, B, ssseee, kkkk,’ Renèe made letter sounds.

‘That’s not words.’

‘C A T! Cat!’ Renèe was defiant, proud.

‘Well, you can spell one word, whoop de do.’

I felt a cloud grow over me then. I knew that seeing my brothers and sister was
nearly impossible – they would probably grow up not remembering me. My parents dying
ruined everything. I felt that everything was ruined.

The day was clear. Renèe’s hair was brushed. Long and straight. Not messy like the
Rainers, and it was yellow. ‘I hate yellow hair.’ I was grumbley.

‘Why?’ Renèe asked. Why indeed.

‘I just do.’

I sat cross-legged on the grass; it was dewy, still damp from the drizzle that fell an
hour before. My elbows fitted between my shins. My chin sat in my hands. I sat up only to
pick at the grass; there was no point in playing. Andyroo was in the house, the rest were
nowhere but anywhere. That yellow hair flew in a gust of wind that gave me a chill. I stood
and grabbed at that hair.

‘Ow!’ Renèe screamed and pushed me away.

‘Oh boo hoo,’ I taunted and pushed her to the ground.

‘Ow!’ Renèe said louder. She could catch the attention of the staff with those ‘ows.’

I pushed Renèe again when she stood up. ‘Ow!’

‘Get up again. Get up again!’ I instructed. Renèe got up so I pushed her down. ‘Ow!
Stop it!’ and Renèe started crying. Annoyed, I crouched down and pushed her again and
again until my pushes turned into hits. Pound pound pound, went my fists until Miss
Gurston’s attention darted towards the girl laying flat and my hammering fists, ‘Stop that,’
Miss Gurston screamed. ‘Stop that right now!’

The stern looking lady dressed in a shirt and knee-length skirt horse-stepped across
the grass in her high-heeled shoes and pinched and pulled me to my feet by the ear. I didn’t
utter a sound but mouthed the words I hate you to the shakened girl on the lawn.

‘I will have your guts for garters, Margarethe,’ said the lady pulling me to the Great
Hall. ‘You were always a good girl but the Devil is making work for idle thumbs. So I think
the appropriate punishment for hurting poor Renèe is to wash all the floors, varnish the
balustrades and wash all the windows top to bottom.’

Life at the home was never the same but some things were the same – Andyroo and
me were inseparable. Under the giant oak tree we would congregate to talk about each
other’s day. Andyroo had something to say this evening. The sun was a couple of hours
away from setting; the sky was almost silver from the slowly evaporating light.

‘It is strange how everyone is going,’ he started, ‘but they are happy I spose.’

‘They are not happy.’ I said, neatening the fold of my skivvy neck. ‘I think we
should find where they are.’

‘Why?’

‘Because…’

I didn’t add further to the because because there was no reason, no need to explain.
It was Obvious. I was tired; I had been so busy doing chores. So busy caring. So busy
planning, mulling, scheming, working. Ever since I had started bullying too, the staff had
given me a lot of chores to do. Every time they saw a chore to do they would call for me, it
seemed. I could see now why my father would spend time at the pub after his work. He was
tired too. Going to the pub must have been a way to relax.

‘I bet in the office there are facts. There is where addresses and stuff are.’

‘What addresses?’ Andyroo asked.

‘Where they are.’ I was tired. My words were hardly a call to action.

‘No,’ replied Andyroo, ‘But they are happy now. In a happy home. It is sad here.
The staff don’t cuddle. They only give you work to do. I think getting adopted is good.
Hope I get adopted.’

I scratched at the grass with a dry leaf. If I looked up my true feelings about
Andyroo’s comment would be known. I was hurt by what he said. We were best friends.
But I was not surprised. ‘You probably will get adopted,’ I said.

‘You will get adopted too.’

Andyroo would get adopted because he was such a good boy. I was told that good
little children get adopted. I wasn’t good.

‘You will be adopted cos everyone wants an Andyroo,’ I said; the sun was
disappearing behind the perimeter fence. I sighed. ‘I am too naughty.’

Andyroo didn’t say anything in response to that - the statement of truth floated by
like a breeze washing silence across our mouths. No one looked at each other. I noticed the
geese flying in a loose diamond to their nests far away. Andyroo was picking the grass
around his feet. He stuck his nail through the middle of a blade of it. He brought it to his
lips and blew. ‘Urgh,’ he sounded. It didn’t work; it was supposed to whistle. He brought
another sliced grass to his lips and tried again. ‘Ffft,’ he made a sound. ‘Urgh,’ he grunted;
he tried again. It took five goes before it worked. The whistle was surprising.

‘You’re not really going to get Penny and Ellie and Eddie?’ Andyroo asked, spitting
bits of grass from his lips.

‘Probably not.’ I could feel an insurmountable weight of the thought of disrupting
the little ones in a happy home. I wouldn’t dare. The staff members were big. They would
win.

‘They are probably happy now,’ said Andyroo. He still looked to the ground,
picking grass miserably.

‘We probably won’t see them again,’ I said.

‘We might, but they would have their adoptive parents with them. Having new
parents is weird.’

‘It is weird. I don’t like it.’

‘I don’t like it either.’

I went to the kitchen to help with food preparation. Whoever was cooking would
always appreciate a hand, the staff had told me. I was sent to set the table and with an
armful of brown flowered tablecloths and fistfuls of cutlery, I entered the dining room.

Flapping the cloths over the tables first I then placed knives and forks and spoons in lines in
front of each chair. Seven places for seven chairs on ten tables. That’s everyone. Tonight
we were eating stew. Stringy beef bits with carrots and potatoes and greens in gravy. My
little siblings probably ate the same AND had desert every night. That’s what a happy home
would have, I thought. Ice cream, apple crumble and custard and cake. No rhubarb.
Children at the Shellingborne Home always had rhubarb and custard one night a week – on
Sundays.

‘Oh never mind us,’ said Delores when I came to see her the next day. ‘We live at
the main town a couple of miles away from here. But I’m sorry to hear some kids playing
loud music. I will talk to them.’ She smiled.

‘That’s good,’ I said. I paid a visit to the shopkeeper as soon as I awoke mid
afternoon the next day. ‘I was more concerned with the turtles than me. I don’t know if they
can hear it?’

The shopkeeper looked bright with her makeup that seemed like a daily regime of
blue eye shadow, mascara, foundation and pink lipstick. She wore a lilac polo shirt today
with the jeans she always wore. ‘Oh they could,’ Delores agreed. ‘They say babies can hear
in the womb.’

‘I didn’t even begin talking about their lights on after dark…’ I started but trailed
off.

‘Oh, I can’t tell them to turn their lights off,’ said Delores, ‘They might think that’s
a bit much.’

I straightened my neck. I would have to tell the strangers the whole story about the
turtles myself and why their house lights must be off to save the younglings’ life. ‘It would
be enough to tell them to keep the music down.’ I started a smile and left the General Store
with a readymade sandwich, bread for toast and another bottle of ginger beer. ‘I still have
the book…’

‘You’ve got another week with that love.’

I walked unsteadily outside to the main street wearing the clothes I wore yesterday;
I dragged my feet through the sand at the side of the road. I was wobbly, worried and
perturbed by the sounds of a Caribbean songbook giving me a wakeful night last night.
Before that, I put a bottle of rum away down my throat. The memories of the event
compelled my eyes to shut.

I stood at the beach and realised I had not presented myself well enough to speak
like the commander to the merry makers last night; I was a common sea harpy de la mer.

I felt the warm salty breeze on my face and breathed it in. The sun was shining
above the sea making the waves dance with light. It was good weather Wales was enjoying
this summer. I returned to my holiday home but I stopped in my tracks. A long tailed
unshorn shaggy sheep bleated at my plastic bag. The beast had a dark blue triangular shape
spray painted on its coat and another shape spray painted on its head. Its ears were
deformed into twists. At a second glance it was clear that the ears were damaged and cut

into two. Quickly I disappeared through my front creaking door and closed it quickly.
Meeee, I could hear the sheep outside. I rummaged through the cupboards and fridge. I did
have some bread. I saw it sitting brightly in my plastic bag. I grabbed a handful of slices
and quickly threw it on the road for the sheep. I peered out of the cloudy window by the
front door and watched the beast chew on the discards left on the ground. When it finished,
it bleeted again. Why was a sheep wandering wild at Lloergan Traeth? The farm was not
separated by boundaries where the field finished and the reserve started. I wondered if there
were more sheep where that came from. Maybe they wandered the mountain range far in
the distance: its blue shadow protected the bay with a hug radiated by its sheer dominating
presence.

The sheep was shaggy; its wool had been left to grow until its coat nearly touched
the ground. It was hard to imagine that the soiled mane would be shorn and one day spun
into a usable yarn. Its locks were almost knotted into dreadlocks; it needed a good comb.
Meee, it said. It became as docile and still at my door like it was in a standing trance for
almost two hours. Then the reggae music started again and the sheep departed my front
door to follow its source.

I stayed indoors all afternoon and listened to the bass sound again. It knocked the
glasses and vibrated the floor of the home. I prayed Dolores would be annoyed enough to
do something about the reggae music. This wasn’t an island party, I thought, although I
relished in the idea of sitting poolside with some rum punch in my hand, the music dotting
stars in the sky. The music stopped. Delores, who I could hear faintly down the road said,
‘okay, love, tar rah…’

I was just getting used to the music now but didn’t even miss it a little when it was
gone. I meandered out through the wasting doorframe with paint peeling away from it,
down the steps and to the sandy road which was disappearing further under a cover of the
white stuff with each passing day. The estuary was nothing but a rabbit infested grassland
to me today; nothing but green grass and rabbit droppings across to the musty dark
mountains far into the distance. The dune banks consisted of a splattering of dry grass and
some red fish netting covering a corner of the plant life – that was rubbish, I would discard
of that immediately.

I loathed Lloergan’s disposition to attract muck from the sea. I slowly bent over to
pick the red net off the marram grass; I almost stood on a bee orchid as I pulled. I stayed on
the spot and surveyed the land that played host to all sorts of oddities: from rare and
beautiful flowers that find true perfection as they grow to the wild barnyard animals free
from the confines of organised agriculture.

The sun left its place in the sky slowly and clouds moved in overhead. I shifted
indoors and pushed the netting under the sink. I could not bring myself to finish another
bottle of rum but twisted open the cap and poured myself a glass. The music grew louder
again. Could reggae music be relaxing, I considered. Its lulling beats and easy going
melody enticed my head to sway and I repeatedly said no, no, no.

A strong smell of deep chlorophyll filled my nostrils and intoxicated my drifting
mind. It was a highly distinguishable odour of dry plant and fresh natural smoke: like fresh
chopped grass mixed with a drop of booze. Someone was smoking marijuana outside.
Although it had been sometime since I had smelt anything remotely like it, the experience
of what it meant to me was of social togetherness, relaxation, a gathering. I could remember

that odour like I could remember the flats high in London and the purple walls in my
neighbour’s home. Those kids must have made their way to my side of the beach. I whisked
myself outside.

I could see the impression of a lone man on the seashore looking out to a small
fishing boat anchored to the floor about 20 metres out to sea and he was smoking. ‘How are
you girl?!’ he exclaimed, he seemed almost in admiration of me.

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘I thought you were the kids.’ I turned around.

‘No, no, no,’ he said, smiling. ‘I am no keed but you stay, we’ll check out this
lovely ocean.’

The black man had his trousers rolled up to his knees. He was bare foot and wore a
white tank top and his long dreaded hair was tied back. His voice rolled off his lips like the
smoke he blew to the sand. I wanted to leave and could not remove the look of polite fright
from my face.

‘Don’t be scared. Look!’ He pointed out to his boat where fish flip flopped about it.
‘Have you ever seen it? The fish just want to go in the boat. They want to be feeshed man.’
He laughed at his joke and blew smoke through his teeth. ‘I don’t want to go back through
da water, you know? The fish might go!’

I stared. A most peculiar smell hung about the fisherman like dead fish poisoned by
nettles, and green flies flew around his face and crawled up to his lips which he blew away
with his stale vegetable breath. But as he pointed to his boat, he was amazed with the
absurdity of the fish, not quite flying but throwing their bodies out from the water to his
boat. Although he wasn’t there to catch those ones with his net, they fell back to the water
only to try again. ‘It tis amazing,’ he said. He sounded Caribbean.

He lit another joint and held it in his lips. I was quite taken by the tall, endlessly
casual man. He jotted his eyebrows up in a double salute and he waded back into the clear
water, the fish dispersing as he approached. He waved goodbye and climbed into his small
boat under the mellow sunshine. After a moment the fish returned to their sky bound play
and the Islander brought out a small hand net and scooped some of them up, tipped them
into his boat and started the single motor. He turned the dinghy around and jetted away to
the deep of the dark blue ocean. He was gone.

How strange? I told myself and the music grew louder as I walked back. The flies
had left with that man and so had the pot. I only had my rum to drink, but I felt the pull for
something stronger. The moment I turned to walk back to my shelter I noticed the party had
collected many bits of wood, including chair legs into a pile and were attempting to light it.
A bonfire. A bonfire! Common sense told me that a fire would be worse than house lights
to confuse turtles. There was no time like the present, like the matron used to say, to get the
job done. Instead of walking to my holiday home, I made a path for the firebugs who were
struggling to light the thing.

A boy crouched at the pile of wood, he snapped at a sparking lighter over and over,
until another boy jumped to it with a box of matches. Covering the lit tip with a cupped
hand, he managed to light the scrunches of paper underneath the logs and blew and covered

with his hands and blew and covered. ‘It is a matter of controlling its air at this stage, no
wind but wind, you know?’ the boy said.

As I walked along the Lloergan shoreline, I felt like their mother, if their mother
was a harpy from the sea. The group of four boys and two girls looked up, their heads held
high like startled seagulls. I arrived to address the group who immediately returned to their
frivolous chattering and upon my arrival. ‘Ahem,’ I coughed. Some looked at me, smiled
and continued giggling. A taller man of the group stood up and walked to me. He seemed
mature, I thought.

‘Can I help you?’ he said.

‘Ah,’ I started. I was a bit dry, a bit taught, and I felt a bit too righteous. ‘I am here
to see your fire. Bit much, don’t you think?’

‘Oh is it a bit much?’ returned the youngling.

‘No, not for me,’ I said, ‘but I want to make sure it isn’t too distracting for the
turtles when they hatch, you see?’

‘Oh, it’s not distracting,’ said the boy who took my old arm and motioned for me to
join them. ‘You’ll see, come have a drink.’

‘A drink’ were the magic words and I rather weakly sat on the damp sand in the
circle with the others. ‘Hi,’ said a girl. ‘I am Emily.’ There was also a Mike, Travis,
Dunlop, a Mary and the more charismatic male who brought me to the circle was David.
They were all young and it was July, they must be students, I thought, on their summer
holidays. All English and their accent sounded educated.

‘I’m Margarethe. I’m here to see your fire.’ The group giggled.

‘Yes,’ said David. He put a drink in my hand. ‘Have that. Relax.’ He jumped down
into an empty space in the circle and sat crossed legged.

I took a sip of the sugary brew. Rum was in it, I could guess. Sweet, strong and
warming. I could garner a lot of information from a drink. Cheap, I concluded. These were
definitely students.

I studied the fire while the kids resumed chatting. Could it damage the turtlings’
journey back to sea? There was not much I could ascertain when the sun was still a couple
of hours from setting. I knew the moon was waning and it was still a bright source of light
above the ocean, but if this fire was brighter than the horizon, the turtles would soon miss
their miss their target – to return to the sea and be with their mother.

‘What do you do?’ asked Mary, her hair in pigtails, the rest of her garb all loose and
flowing. Hippy ideals, I could assume.

‘Oh nothing. A PA sometimes,’ I said. ‘I am in between jobs, I suppose, I am here
on holiday until I would like to return to London.’

The group gasped sounds of envy and desire. Wouldn’t they like that, they agreed,
only if they didn’t have to go back to university. ‘Why’d you like to do that?’ I asked, I
sounded rather schoolmarmish.

‘If we could!’ Emily made animated faces. ‘My mum would have a fit!’

Mine too, mine too, echoed the young holiday makers.

I had almost finished my drink. It left a sweet coconut taste on my lips. I shrugged
and stared out to the long flat sea, the little waves played gently under the setting sun.

‘My father,’ said Travis, ‘Would cut me off completely if I left. I have had a gap
year. Now I must knuckle down,’ he impersonated a strict man, ‘I should be in finance.
‘Make the big money,’ he grumbled his words again.

‘Good for you,’ I said. ‘Your father sounds very wise.’

‘Yeah,’ Travis whined his words, ‘it would be cooler if he just relaxed. I am doing
okay at school.’

The party had transformed into a therapy circle, the sort that someone would be paid
to attend. I soon grew bored. I took another sip of my brew. I wondered if the General Store
was still open. The sun started its descent down the back of the sky and the fire started to
rage. It also sounded as though those kids have had this conversation many times before.
‘You’d be lucky to be earning that sort of money those fellows in the City can earn,’ I
looked into my cup.

‘Oh yeah,’ said Travis, ‘I would work in the City while I was young and then retire
off the money.’

‘Once, you’re in there it might be hard to quit,’ was all I wanted to say to the boy,
who just shrugged. These kids did not want to be serious.

New music filled what space uncomfortably sat between me and the group. David
said, ‘I love Lee Perry,’ as he returned from the house and jumped into his position again.

‘You people love your reggae,’ I said.

‘Reggae? Yes,’ said the young man, ‘But this is dub.’ He started nodding to the
quick syncopated and broken beats.

I started to feel uncomfortable. Reggae, dub, whatever it is, I scrunched up my nose.
My bottom started to feel damp, the sun was setting, my drink was finished and the fire was
too bright.

I stood up. ‘First of all,’ I started, ‘That fire is too bright for the turtle hatchlings and
your lights should go off after dark – that will only kill the turtles.’

‘Kill?’ said Mary.

‘Yes, kill. Kill, kill, kill! A bonfire on the beach is disruptive at the best of times for
all the life around you. So it should go out or you should go home,’ I was commanding

now. ‘Turn your lights off in the house and do not have a bonfire lit after dark. The turtles,
you see. The turtles will get lost and die. And my drink has finished and you’re all spoilt.’ I
turned quickly and marched back to my let to the mocking sounds of the turtles, the turtles
behind me. The group laughed too. I closed my door behind me and I could hear the party
atmosphere and the music. Reggae, dub, whatever it was.

*

It was a special day. Matron Clegg had entered Keats and told the girls to put their
best dress on – everyone had pretty dresses from their life of old. I had a white dress with
pink flowers and a blue clover print all over the bottom half. It made me feel pretty even
though the top cut under my arms and the spaghetti straps dug into my shoulders. I hadn’t
worn the dress for a year and I had outgrown it.

Out in the square the children assembled. All were in their good suits or best dresses
and some of the lucky ones had a hat, even though some looked too small. The group had to
look good because the Queen would see them; the staff said they would tell if we weren’t
neat and tidy. I didn’t believe them; I had been at the children’s home for a year with
Andyroo. I didn’t believe the tales they told to make us behave: don’t make that face
because the wind might change; the road to hell is paved with good intentions, cleanliness
is close to Godliness; the devil can quote Scripture for his own ends.

But today was a special day. It was the Queen’s Jubilee and we all had special flags
to wave at the roadside.

The walk we embarked on to Portsmouth was made longer for me as my stiff, white
plastic shiny shoes refused to bend with my steps. Andyroo walked by my side, our heads
down, not talking, just walking step by step to the next town, the sun radiating burns onto
our heads. We could see the border of Portsmouth coming closer as we approached. The
tops of factory chimneys stuck out like lit cigars and small roadside homes sat very close to
the footpath. The sparse sproutings of rose trees neglected in gardens were littered with
newspapers and plastic bags blown in by the gusts of air whirled up by cars speeding down
the nearby M275.

Entering the modest rows of red brick terrace houses the children walked single file
in front of the homes on the narrow embankment of dried lawn. I held the hand of the boy
behind as well as the girl in front. ‘Nearly there, children,’ alerted Matron Clegg, ‘one more
mile and then we can see the Queen.’

When the main road in the middle of town was in our sights, we walked in the cover
provided by food stall covers hiked high on caravans. The smells of sausages and ham
effused the hot air. I was tempted to beg for an ice cream and a cool drink from under the
giant umbrella keeping a fridge on wheels in the shade. ‘Here we are,’ said Matron Clegg,
removing a tiny fold out chair from her large carrier bag onto which to place her large
bottom. She propped open a parasol to balance on her shoulder and pushed her sunglasses
up onto her nose so light didn’t shine in her eyes, although they faced the sun. She noticed a
boy sitting on the bitumen. He bounced pebbles and pretended to catch them as they stuck

Leatherback by Mi Wae

Recomendados

Recomendados

Mais conteúdo relacionado

Semelhante a Leatherback by Mi Wae

Semelhante a Leatherback by Mi Wae (11)

Último

Último (20)

Leatherback by Mi Wae