I look around, but I can’t see anyone who looks like their father. ‘Where is he?’
‘In the pub.’
‘What’s the prize?’
‘A portion of chips instead of just another packet of ready salted crisps,’ the younger one says. He looks hungry in a way that only teenage boys can get hungry.
‘Crabbing’s lame …’ the older one says. He looks as if he wants to throw his line in the water and walk away.
I’m hit by a sudden surge of nostalgia for family holidays before my parents split up. Dad taught me how to crab on a trip to Cornwall when I was five, and I begged to do it every holiday we went on after that, whether we were by the sea or not. ‘Can I have a go?’
The boys look unsure.
‘I’m quite good,’ I tell them. ‘My record in one session was twenty-eight. I’ll get you those chips in no time.’
That does it. The older one hands me his crab line before his brother has a chance. The younger one scowls at him. ‘I’ll have a go with yours if you want, mate?’ Gil says. The boy grins and hands Gil his line.
I pull the weight and hook to the surface and check the bait – bacon rind. Nice. Crabs love that – and then I drop it back into the dark green water and wait. The brothers sit down on the opposite site of the pontoon and dangle their legs in the water.
Gil checks his line and nonchalantly says as he throws it back into the water, ‘In the summer, Simon and I used to do this for hours. On this very pontoon.’ He shoots a look across at me. ‘My top number was thirty-two.’
There’s a moment where we hold each other’s gazes and a flash of something familiar passes between us, like our old sense of one-upmanship, only lighter and more playful. ‘You’re on,’ I say, accepting his unspoken challenge. ‘First one to ten.’
We each catch a crab almost straight away, and I call out the number of crabs in my bucket each time I add more. Gil does the same.
‘Six!’ I yell as I pull my line up and discover two tiny greenish-brown crabs with beady black eyes clinging on for dear life. I shake them both into my bucket of river water to join the others.But then I catch nothing more for a good five minutes, while Gil hauls in another three, overtaking me.
I am not about to let him win, not when it was my idea to do crabbing in the first place, so I pull up my line and move it to a fresh spot. It works. I add crabs number seven, eight and nine to the bucket in quick succession, but Gil is hot on my heels. The boys end up turning round to watch us, and the older one cheers me on while the younger hypes Gil up.
Only one more to go and I’ve won! I keep glancing over my shoulder to see how Gil’s doing, scared I’ll lose my lead, but I’m not paying proper attention when I try to shake crab number ten off my line into the bucket. Instead of plopping into the water, it lands on the pontoon and scuttles towards me, angry claws snapping. I drop my line and run away screaming. The boys roar with laughter and so, much to my surprise, does Gil. The crab thinks better of getting its revenge, shoots sideways off the pontoon and back into the water.
I laugh too until I see Gil has snagged his final crab. I rush back to my line and pick it up. ‘That’s cheating!’
Gil laughs even harder. ‘Is not. It’s not my fault if you abandoned your line!’
He holds the crab above his bucket, a challenging glint in his eye.
I sigh as I pull my line up again and find it empty. ‘Go on, then,’ I say wearily. ‘Gloat all you want.’
But before he can rub his victory in my face, the older of the brother’s shouts, ‘There’s Dad!’ They both rush over and gesture for us to give us the lines. ‘He might not get us the chips if he thinks we didn’t do it ourselves,’ the younger one says with pleading eyes.
Gil reaches over to hold his line above my bucket. The valiant little crab loses its grip and splashes into the water below. I frown gently, sending him a silent question with my eyes. He looks pleased with himself. And something else … but I haven’t the slightest idea what he’s thinking.
We thank the boys quickly so we don’t give the game away and march back down the pontoon, then walk back to Heron’s Quay in comfortable silence.
When we get back inside, Gil notices my painting station and looks thoughtful.
‘I’m struggling to make the finer, smaller strokes,’ I tell him, feeling it would be petty to hold an explanation back. ‘My handwriting’s also a bit off at the moment. But it’s been improving slowly. I’m sure this will too.’
One of my discarded attempts is poking out of the closed bin lid. Gil walks over and presses the pedal with his foot. ‘May I?’ I nod and he picks up the ball of crumpled paper and opens it out. After studying it for a moment, he looks up at me. ‘My mum went to classes for a while. They encouraged her to be less … careful. Her teacher always said she ought not just to try to copy perfectly what she saw in front of her but to bring something of herself to the painting, even if it was wilder, less … I was going to say “accurate” but I suppose it’s a different kind of authenticity. Maybe acrylics might be better to start with?’
‘Maybe …’
‘You can paint up on the roof when it’s fine,’ he adds. ‘I promise I won’t sneak up on you and try to look.’
I see the earnestness in his eyes before he turns and walks away and something inside me shifts. ‘Gil …?’
He stops and turns. ‘Yes?’
