spray the castle-builder looked up from his work. For a second he stood still, the sand dropping from his hands, staring at the oncoming wave. Then he swung round and lifted up the toddler beside him and deposited her within the innermost walls of the castle.
Mosby took in the scene with regret. It wasn’t just that the big Englishman had been working like a beaver for upwards of an hour getting the castle just the way he wanted it, but also that the end-product was a work of art the like of which Mosby had never seen.
It wasn’t just a pile of sand, but a real castle, with inner and outer walls and regularly-spaced towers, each capped with a conical fairy-tale roof, rising to a massive central keep. There was a moat and a drawbridge complete with a barbican and a defensive outwork, all of which had been constructed to a carefully drawn ground plan which had been marked out in the smooth sand before construction had started.
In fact it wasn’t only a real castle, but obviously an actual one—he had watched the man count off the towers one by one as though checking them in his memory, finally nodding in agreement with himself that he’d got it right. It was a good bet that somewhere, maybe not far from here, on some hill above some sleepy English town, he’d find a great grey stone pile, dog-eared by centuries of neglect, matching those walls and towers. And maybe once upon a time some highly-paid craftsman had built just such a model to show the King of England what he was getting for his cash.
The child’s squeal of excitement broke his flash of historical inspiration. Defeat on the natural breakwaters of the rocky headlands on either side of the bay seemed to have concentrated the wave’s power: it swallowed the last retreating remnants of the sixth wave and surged forward up the beach towards the castle.
The outer walls and towers were instantly overwhelmed, dissolved and swept away irresistibly as the rushing water encircled the castle, meeting in its rear in a triumphant collision on the site of the drawbridge.
For two seconds the child stood surrounded by the towers of the inner keep. Then, as the wave began to retreat, these last defences cracked and toppled outwards to be swept away with the rest. The ruin of the castle was complete. It was a goddamn pity.
As far as the child was concerned, nevertheless, the breaking of father’s masterpiece was the making of the occasion, and presumably that was the nature of the deal between the two because he showed no sign of irritation as she danced in triumph on the wreckage.
“Ozzie, Daddy—say Ozzie,” squealed the child.
Shirley lifted her head from the towel on which she lay sunbathing beside Mosby. He saw the little two-way radio tucked under a folded edge and, in the same glance, couldn’t avoid also seeing the shapely breasts which had been freed from the bikini top.
“Harry says he’s fixed the car,” she murmured. “He’s getting out now.”
“Great.” Mosby’s eyes felt like chapel hat-pegs.
“And stop peeking, Mose honey. Watch the birdie, not the boobs.”
“ Say Ozzie, Daddy—Ozzie-mandy !”
Mosby smiled a warm, husbandly smile. “Shirley Sheldon is a shameless slut,” he hissed.
“Shirley Sheldon is trying to revive her long-lost tan.” She lowered herself back on to the towel. “You just mind the store like a good boy—just keep your mind on our business.”
Mosby shook his head in despair and turned back to observe the big Englishman.
“Ozzie-mandy, please, Daddy.”
“All right, all right.”
The Englishman looked around him, first to his left, then his right and finally behind him. Mosby lolled in his deck-chair as one half-asleep, his arms hanging loosely. There was no one else at all on the tiny beach; either it was not well-known or (which was more likely) Harry had devised some way of temporarily closing the track which led to it.
Secure behind his dark glasses Mosby watched himself being scrutinised. He
Mosby took in the scene with regret. It wasn’t just that the big Englishman had been working like a beaver for upwards of an hour getting the castle just the way he wanted it, but also that the end-product was a work of art the like of which Mosby had never seen.
It wasn’t just a pile of sand, but a real castle, with inner and outer walls and regularly-spaced towers, each capped with a conical fairy-tale roof, rising to a massive central keep. There was a moat and a drawbridge complete with a barbican and a defensive outwork, all of which had been constructed to a carefully drawn ground plan which had been marked out in the smooth sand before construction had started.
In fact it wasn’t only a real castle, but obviously an actual one—he had watched the man count off the towers one by one as though checking them in his memory, finally nodding in agreement with himself that he’d got it right. It was a good bet that somewhere, maybe not far from here, on some hill above some sleepy English town, he’d find a great grey stone pile, dog-eared by centuries of neglect, matching those walls and towers. And maybe once upon a time some highly-paid craftsman had built just such a model to show the King of England what he was getting for his cash.
The child’s squeal of excitement broke his flash of historical inspiration. Defeat on the natural breakwaters of the rocky headlands on either side of the bay seemed to have concentrated the wave’s power: it swallowed the last retreating remnants of the sixth wave and surged forward up the beach towards the castle.
The outer walls and towers were instantly overwhelmed, dissolved and swept away irresistibly as the rushing water encircled the castle, meeting in its rear in a triumphant collision on the site of the drawbridge.
For two seconds the child stood surrounded by the towers of the inner keep. Then, as the wave began to retreat, these last defences cracked and toppled outwards to be swept away with the rest. The ruin of the castle was complete. It was a goddamn pity.
As far as the child was concerned, nevertheless, the breaking of father’s masterpiece was the making of the occasion, and presumably that was the nature of the deal between the two because he showed no sign of irritation as she danced in triumph on the wreckage.
“Ozzie, Daddy—say Ozzie,” squealed the child.
Shirley lifted her head from the towel on which she lay sunbathing beside Mosby. He saw the little two-way radio tucked under a folded edge and, in the same glance, couldn’t avoid also seeing the shapely breasts which had been freed from the bikini top.
“Harry says he’s fixed the car,” she murmured. “He’s getting out now.”
“Great.” Mosby’s eyes felt like chapel hat-pegs.
“And stop peeking, Mose honey. Watch the birdie, not the boobs.”
“ Say Ozzie, Daddy—Ozzie-mandy !”
Mosby smiled a warm, husbandly smile. “Shirley Sheldon is a shameless slut,” he hissed.
“Shirley Sheldon is trying to revive her long-lost tan.” She lowered herself back on to the towel. “You just mind the store like a good boy—just keep your mind on our business.”
Mosby shook his head in despair and turned back to observe the big Englishman.
“Ozzie-mandy, please, Daddy.”
“All right, all right.”
The Englishman looked around him, first to his left, then his right and finally behind him. Mosby lolled in his deck-chair as one half-asleep, his arms hanging loosely. There was no one else at all on the tiny beach; either it was not well-known or (which was more likely) Harry had devised some way of temporarily closing the track which led to it.
Secure behind his dark glasses Mosby watched himself being scrutinised. He