The If Game (9 page)

He wished now he'd held his tongue. ‘I don't know. Any sort.'

‘Old keys? How many have you got?'

‘Not many. Some of them are old.'

‘And how do you find them? Do you buy them?'

‘I haven't yet. The ones I've got, I just found in the garden.'

‘And have you tried them on doors? Have you found any that fit?'

‘Not that many,' Stephen said, embarrassed. He certainly wasn't going to tell her about the keys that did fit.

‘I think that's very interesting. I've never known anyone who collected keys. I tell you what . . .'

She got up suddenly and went to the door. ‘Stay there a minute. I might have something to add to your collection.'

Stephen stayed. He wished he hadn't blurted out that about his keys. But he had a feeling that this lady wasn't the sort to go on asking questions which she saw could be awkward. Just as she hadn't asked anything about his mother. In another minute she was back in the kitchen with something in her hand. She laid it on the table in front of him.

‘Will you have this?' she said.

It was not a very big key, but it was immensely solid. Stephen picked it up and felt its weight. As he held it in his hand, he had the ridiculous idea that it had character,
as if it had been a person. Comparing it with his other keys, he thought that Yale keys were business-like, no-nonsense keys, practical. You could be sure that each one would do its proper job and nothing else. There were boys he knew at school like that, who were sensible, didn't forget to take notes from their parents to school or from the school to their parents, didn't lose their possessions, did their homework, knew the right answers in class. The big key with the squiggly top was a romantic key that could have belonged to a long-ago castle, shouldn't really have opened the door of that sham house that had no inside. This key was different from any of the others. It was short and stubby and rounded and friendly. If it had been a person it would have been someone Stephen would have liked. He saw at once that it should belong to a friendly building.

He was ashamed of himself. How could he be so childish?

All this thinking had taken no time at all. He said, ‘Are you sure? You don't want to keep it?'

‘I don't want to keep it. It doesn't open any lock that I've got. I'd be proud to donate it to your collection.'

He said, Thanks a lot. It's great.' He had run out of words.

‘If your collection ever becomes famous, you could label that one, “From Martelsea”.'

‘I'll put your name. Only it won't ever. Be famous, I mean.'

‘You never know.'

He said, ‘I ought to be going.'

‘Are you warm right through? You sure?'

‘Sure.'

She got up to see him to the door. ‘Nothing you want for the evening?'

‘I don't think so. Thanks.'

‘Look, it's stopped raining.' It had. The sun was shining between huge white clouds. Raindrops glittered on the leaves of the garden plants.

‘You'll be able to sit out for your supper,' she said.

Stephen said, ‘Bye! And thanks a lot. The key's great.'

‘It was a pleasure,' she said.

Sitting on the ground sheets and eating delicious half burned sausages and baked beans heated up over the little stove, Stephen said, ‘Good day, Dad.'

‘Glad you enjoyed it.'

‘I wish we weren't going back so soon.'

‘There's another day.'

‘I know. But I'd like to stay for a long time. A week.'

‘I can't take that much time off. Anyway, I miss my bed.'

Finding the ground hard that night, Stephen was inclined to agree.

The next morning the rain had stopped. Torn clouds raced across the sky, and there was a wind that blew the nearby trees into feather duster shapes. It was much colder.

‘What'll we do today?' Stephen asked.

‘We could go into Brighton. You should see the Pavilion.'

‘Could we go this afternoon?'

‘What about this morning?'

‘I'd like to go back to the beach.'

‘Too cold to sit about. Or swim.'

‘I just want to see it again. We don't have to sit.'

They walked to the beach. Each step that got them nearer to the sea was made more difficult by the wind. When they actually reached the front, it was quite difficult to stand still. The wind hurled itself at them, buffeted them, snatched at their jackets, tore at their hair. The sea was huge. Great waves tumbled over the shingle, threw spray and small pebbles up over the road. The stones crashed. Stephen could feel the sea wall shake with the power of the ocean.

‘Bedlam,' his dad said.

‘It's exciting,' Stephen said.

‘May be exciting, but it's bloody cold. Better go back.'

‘You go. I want to stay for a bit.'

‘What for?'

‘I like looking at the waves.'

‘You'll get soaked. It's going to rain again.'

‘If it does, I'll shelter.'

‘You'll stay on the wall?'

Stephen shouted ‘YES.' Then felt bad at shouting. But you had to shout to make yourself heard above the wind.

His dad said, ‘All right. Don't stay too long. Got your watch?'

‘Mm. It's half ten.'

‘Be back there by half eleven, then.'

Stephen nodded and saw his dad walk down the slope away from the screaming wind, relieved, no doubt, to leave it behind. Now that he was alone, Stephen knew what he was going to do. He struggled along the wall to the Martello tower. Lucky that there was no one near enough to see what he was doing. As he went, he looked at the tremendous grey waves with white crests that came hurtling towards the shore. He almost enjoyed the shiver with which the land greeted these waves. He supposed that it was used to it. The same sort of waves must have been chasing each other in to pound the solid ground, to threaten it like this, for years. What he was seeing was like seeing history, because it couldn't have been much different a hundred, a thousand, a million years ago. When the squat stone tower had been built and the people here were afraid that Napoleon was going to land, the sea would have looked and behaved just the same. Had they ever mistaken the crash and the shaking of the waves for gunfire? Had they ever looked fearfully out of their houses to see if the tumult was the beginning of war, and been relieved to find that it was only the sea in a rage? Something they'd experienced before and would again?

He had reached the tower. When he was on the land side, sheltered from the wind, it was quiet compared to the racket he'd come out of. He walked round—and into the wind again—until he reached the door. Then he pulled Miss Oddie's key out of his pocket and put it into the
ragged keyhole. He had been sure it would fit, and it did. It took a little strength to turn it, and it grated. No one had turned a key in that door for a long time. The door creaked on its hinges, too, as he pushed it open and walked in.

He had expected the interior of the tower to be darker than it was. There was a little, a very little light coming in from somewhere above his head. There was just enough light for him to be able to see that he was not alone.

Someone else was there, standing still and observing him. His heart gave a loud thump. He couldn't see what the moving thing was. He wondered, horribly, if it could be a wild animal which had been shut up here for ages. But it didn't move like a hungry animal. It now came quite close to him and he saw, with immense relief, that it was a boy. Quite a small boy, a lot smaller and younger than he himself was.

The boy said, ‘I got here first.'

‘All right,' Stephen said, not quite knowing what the boy meant.

‘Did any of the others see you come in here?' the boy asked.

‘What others?' Stephen asked.

‘The others who're hiding like us.'

‘I'm not hiding,' Stephen said.

‘If you're not hiding, why did you come in here?'

Stephen did not understand this. He did not want to try to explain why he had come into the tower, so he said, ‘How did you get in? Have you got a key too?'

‘You don't need a key to get in here. It's never locked,' the boy said.

‘You mean it's just left open all the time?'

‘Of course. Why would anyone want to lock up an old cellar?' the boy said.

‘It isn't a cellar. It's a Martello tower,' Stephen said.

The boy said, ‘A
what?'

‘A Martello tower.'

‘Why do you call it that? You know it's really Mrs Robinson's cellar.'

‘Who's Mrs Robinson?' Stephen asked.

‘You know. Marjorie and Stella's mum. It's her house.'

Stephen was completely confused. The tower couldn't be anyone's house. Could it? He said, ‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

‘You know Marjorie and Stella. They're at your school in . . .' He said some name Stephen had never heard before.

‘Here, where do you think we are?' Stephen asked. He began to wonder if this boy was crazy.

‘We're in Mrs Robinson's house, of course. You're teasing, Deedie, aren't you?' the boy said.

Stephen experienced again that whirling feeling in his head that he'd had before in the garden, when the woman in the garden had said this name. She had claimed that she had known him since he was a baby, and now here was this boy making the same mistake. And now he saw who the boy was. He was Chris, the child who had been cutting his birthday cake. He said, ‘I'm not Deedie and I don't know you. And we're not in anyone's cellar, we're in the Martello tower in Martelsea.'

He was so positive that the boy seemed shaken. He said, ‘I wish you wouldn't tease. How could it be a tower in Mrs Robinson's house? Anyway, I know it's her cellar, because I came down the steps to it when I wanted to hide.'

‘Where's Mrs Robinson's house?' Stephen asked.

‘Hunnicut Road, Sydney. Round the corner from us,' the boy said.

Stephen said, ‘Sydney!' He said, ‘You mean, Sydney, Australia?' and the boy said, ‘Yes. Australia. Where did you think it was?'

‘You're crazy,' Stephen said, not quite certain whether it was the boy or he himself who was crazy. He said, ‘Here, I'll show you. If I open the door you can see where we are. We're not in anyone's house, we're right on the edge of the sea wall.'

The key was still in his hand. He approached the door and opened it. To his relief, he saw the sea wall stretching away from him, with the grey water beyond. He turned to say to the boy, ‘There! You see?' But behind him the tower was dark and empty. His voice echoed back from the bare walls. He felt he could not bear to go inside again. He banged the heavy door behind him and walked back to Miss Oddie's garden.

Stephen was pleased to spend the afternoon with Dad in Brighton in a perfectly ordinary sort of way. He loved the outside of the Pavilion. It was an Arabian Nights sort of building, and didn't seem to have much to do with the rest of the town. He wasn't particularly interested in the interior of the building, though his dad seemed to enjoy looking at exhibitions of costumes and china and at the vast dinner table set for about a hundred guests. They bought ice lollies and ate them as they walked out on the long pier. Stephen looked sideways at Dad and thought he looked funny as he licked his lolly. Almost human, Stephen said to himself, and then felt guilty. Dad had been all right these three days, not as critical as usual. But he was still difficult to get close to. No, not difficult. Impossible.

They sat at the end of the pier. The sea had quieted down since the day before. There were still some little white crested waves coming in, but when they reached the beach they were harmless.

The next morning, they took down the tent, packed the car, and said goodbye to Miss Oddie. ‘It's been fine. Kind of you to let us park in your field,' Dad said, with his usual difficulty in putting what he felt into words.

‘My pleasure. You were no trouble. And I was glad to have the opportunity to meet you,' she said.

Stephen was really sorry to be leaving. He liked Miss Oddie. He wouldn't mind seeing her again some time. He
said, ‘Thanks for everything. For having us here, I mean. And for the water. And the key.'

‘You were very welcome. Perhaps you'll come back some time?'

‘I will if I can,' Stephen said. Then they went out to the car and Dad drove away.

‘What was that about a key?' he asked.

‘Just she gave me a key.'

‘Key for what?'

‘A sort of collection I've got.'

‘Does this key of hers open something?'

He said, ‘I'm not sure.' He couldn't possibly tell Dad that it had opened the door of the Martello tower.

‘Not much use then, is it?'

Stephen did not answer this. He was grateful that his dad did not ask any more questions about the key.

He was sorry when they arrived back home. After the stony beach and the tall chalk cliffs and especially after the sea, their street looked dull. He wondered how he was going to employ himself for the rest of the holidays. He wished he could have stayed on in Miss Oddie's field. Perhaps he could have found work in the town. She might even have employed him herself, though he didn't know what for. He wished he had thought of asking her.

Mike was still away. But Dan had not yet gone. Stephen went round to see him and was cheered by a plan to go off for the day on their bikes to a river some miles off where there might be fish.

A day or two after they'd been to the river (and failed to find any fish but had met a great many mosquitoes), he was standing outside the shop that sold videos and computer games, when someone behind him said, ‘Hi!' It was Alex, eating an ice lolly. He hadn't seen her approaching and was not pleased. He felt the same embarrassment he'd felt before. But she seemed perfectly
friendly. She said, ‘Haven't seen you for ages. You been away?'