The Year of the Ladybird Read Free Page B

kids’ Sandcastle competition on the beach I plumped for the latter. I preferred the idea of outdoor work. I had little desire for
the beer-and-smoke taverns in which I now knew a lot of the activities took place. One of the dancers, Nikki, felt the same and because her pirouetting colleagues preferred the indoor work, she was
the one who showed me the ropes.
    Which meant showing me the store-room where the gun-metal bins of pink candy-rock were kept under lock and key. I carried the bin to the beach. It felt ceremonial. Nikki meanwhile took with her
an official-looking clipboard and pen.
    Down on the beach about thirty tousle-haired kids had assembled. The sea in Skegness ebbs a long way out, exposing miles and miles of light golden sand backed by a dune system. The tide that
morning had pulled the sea out and the waves were only a distant murmur, visible through a rippling heat haze. Nikki kicked off her sandals and, barefoot, she marked out a big square on the hot
sand, telling the wide-eyed kids she was timing them and that they had exactly one hour, not a minute more, not a minute less. She told them they could start when she blew her whistle.
    From her pocket she pulled a whistle on a string, exactly like the one I’d been given to referee the football game. She looked at me pointedly. ‘Are we ready?’ I guessed we
were ready, so I nodded. Nikki produced a short blast on the whistle and the kids set to it.
    ‘What do we do now?’ I said, still cradling my tin of rock.
    ‘We sit down ont’ sand,’ she said. ‘Then after an hour you give everyone a big smile and a stick of rock.’
    She rewarded me with a smile of her own. Nikki had jet-black hair and flashing dark eyes. With her skin like dark honey I suspected Mediterranean blood but her accent was as Mediterranean as the
Ilkley Moor. She stripped off her candy-stripe blazer and sat back on the golden sand. I did the same. She hitched up her white skirt to let the sun to her lovely legs. I could see the white cotton
of her knickers.
    Nikki made a visor with the flat of her hand and looked at me. ‘Student then, are you?’ She made the word roll out on her tongue.
Stooooodunt
. Is it possible to fall in love
with someone because of their accent? I think so.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I’d love to be a student, me.’
    ‘Why don’t you then?’
    ‘Too thick.’
    ‘I’m sure that’s not true.’
    ‘What do you study?’
    ‘English literature.’
    ‘Lots of books.’
Boooooks.
    ‘I’ll say.’
    ‘That’s just it. I can’t read a book to save my life. Can’t settle to it. Too thick.’
    I tried to tell her that she wasn’t thick. I explained that only 50 per cent of any population anywhere read books, regardless of their occupation. It doesn’t matter if you’re
a doctor or a lawyer or a factory worker, I told her, only half of them will read books. But in my earnestness I’d lost her attention already. Her eyes fluttered half closed and she gazed out
to sea. She was away on some flight of imagination, or other life path, or dancing in a world with no books, only theatre lights. She lay back on the sand, folded her hands behind her head and
closed her eyes.
    After a while I got up: I had to do something to fight the temptation to look at Nikki’s white cotton underwear. I don’t like sand. I’ve never much liked the gritty feel of it
between my fingers and toes but I knew I should just get on with it. So I moved among the sandcastles, making encouraging noises. I praised the good efforts and where I saw the kids were
struggling, I got down on my hands and knees and helped them along a bit. With the very little ones I asked them their names and when they told me I pretended to mishear, saying, ‘Fish and
chips?’ and they would say their name louder and I would say, ‘Oh, I thought you said fish and chips: well, my name is David.’
    You do that and kids turn their heads back and forth, trying to puzzle you out. Is he funny? Is he