Free Simon's Choice by Charlotte Castle Page B

that’s left here. Think of it more as an overcoat. Just a big old overcoat he’s taken off. It’s just a shell.”
    “He’s not going in the ground.”
    Terry let out an exasperated sigh. “Simon, be reasonable now. You can’t keep him. He’s stinks to high heaven. Now I know you're upset, lad, but it can’t be helped. I’m sorry you lost your pet, he was a nice little terrapin and you looked after him ever so well, but sometimes our pets die and when they do it is just as important that we behave responsibly about their burial as we did when we were caring for them.”
    “I want him to be buried at sea.” Simon said simply. “He’ll like that, will George. Much better. It has to be a burial at sea.”
    “Simon!” Barbara exclaimed, both relieved and perturbed. “We live seventy miles away from the sea.”
    “He has to be buried at sea,” Simon said evenly, and taking the Stork tub in which his reeking terrapin lay, walked back up to his room to do his homework.
    It was nearing midday the next day when Simon, Terry, Barbara and George The Putrid Terrapin, arrived at Cleethorpes. Terry, purple with rage, having followed a caravan at thirty miles an hour for the entire four-hour journey, parked their Austin Allegro on the sea front. Negotiations the previous evening had gone in the seven-year old Simon’s favor and eventually, exhausted, Terry had agreed to make the one hundred and forty mile round trip to the seaside, to bury his son’s pet terrapin at sea.
    Cleethorpes, whilst commonly referred to as a seaside resort, was actually situated on the mouth of the Humber River, the vast and filthy expanse of water that served the industrial port town of Hull. Had Simon been aware of this geographical quirk, he would almost certainly have insisted they travel on to the sea proper, but as it were, he was blissfully unaware of the geography of his country. Water was water.
    “Right then, lad,” said Terry, looking out over the horizon, “let’s say goodbye to George.”
    The tide was out. The initial sandy beach giving out after a hundred yards, there then sprawled black polluted sludge for the next four hundred yards. Terry sighed and looked down at his suede loafers. Then, taking his son’s hand, he started the long walk out to the water.

    * * *

    “My daughter,” Simon repeated to himself, “is not ill.” And ignoring, the bellboy and his wheelchair, headed into the lobby of the hotel.

Chapter 11

    Simon pushed three postcards into the Disney post box and turned in the direction of the restaurant where he had agreed to meet Melissa and Sarah.

    29th March 2009

    Dear Mum & Dad,

Well, tomorrow is the last day and we’ve actually had a great time.

I’m writing this in a café with a beer (7 Euros!!!!). Mel and Sarah have gone for a well-earned nap and I’m meeting them for tea later. Sarah’s had an amazing time and even I have to say it’s been fun.

    See you on Saturday, Sime.

    The Mexican restaurant was packed with early diners, the sombrero-wearing waiters irritable. Simon settled in a corner table, ordered a beer, winced at the price, and took out his holiday paperback.
    Tomorrow afternoon they would return to Yorkshire. Despite his discomfort with all things Disney, Simon had genuinely enjoyed his week away. The weather had stayed good for them and Sarah’s quiet but unabashed joy was infectious. He opened a paper-wrapped breadstick, leaving his spy novel unopened on the table. He supposed it was time to start thinking of going back to work. There was a pane of glass in the greenhouse that needed re-glazing. Porridge was due for a check-up at the vets. He mulled over a number of domestic duties that awaited him in England, enjoying the cold beer and the ambience of the crowded eatery.
    His mobile buzzed in his pocket and retrieving it, he pressed it to his ear. “Hi, Mel. It’s packed already, but I’ve got us a nice table. There’s a lot of very grumpy Parisians in Mexican hats