Free Hit the Beach! by Harriet Castor Page A

it’s certainly easier said than done.
    As Frankie and I walked side by side past all those lolling trendy types, I could feel their eyesswivelling to follow us. Frankie was pretending we were having a conversation. “I fancy a Coke,” she said loudly – even though I knew that already. “What do you want, Kenny?”
    “Er… uh…” I was concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. I didn’t have much spare brain left for speaking.
    But in fact, once we got inside the café, things were loads better. There weren’t so many people, for a start – the customers were all catching the rays outside – and the woman behind the counter looked a bit like Rosie’s mum, which made me relax straight away.
    “A can of Coke to go please,” said Frankie.
    Two minutes later we’d rejoined the others on the far side of the square and I felt like I’d just climbed Mount Everest.
    “Lead on, keeper of the questionnaire!” Frankie said to Rosie, taking a slurp from her can. “Where first?”
    We looked at the war memorial and spent a while in the town museum – which had someexcellent photographs of old Rawnston football teams in funny shorts. Then we headed for the church to count the gargoyles.
    “I make it thirteen,” said Lyndz, after she’d stumbled right round the building.
    “Fourteen! Definitely fourteen!” said Fliss, who’d been round the other way.
    Inside the church it was shadowy and cool, which was a relief after the heat outside. We spent a while reading the wall plaques and the tombs and looking at the stained glass windows.
    “Excellent – they’ve got a Visitors’ Book!” said Lyndz. “We should all sign. And then we can come back in twenty years when we’re really crumbly and look at our signatures.”
    “Brilliant idea!” said Frankie. “Let’s do it!”
    We each signed our name in our best handwriting and wrote Cuddington Primary in the Address column. Rosie was the last to sign. “ Rosie… Maria… Cartwright,” she muttered as she bent over the book.
    “There we are – it’s down on record,” she said a minute later, clicking the top back on to the pen.
    “What’ve you put?” Lyndz asked, craning to see over her shoulder. Then she squealed, “Rosie! You’re outrageous!”
    That brought the rest of us hurrying as fast as we thought you were allowed to in a church. “What? What?” said Fliss breathlessly.
    “Look!” Lyndz held up the Visitors’ Book. Under Occupation – a column the rest of us had left blank – Rosie had written:
    Wave Warrior
    “I wonder what we’ll write there when we come back in twenty years,” said Fliss. But before she could start telling us about her plans to become a model – again – Frankie said, “Hey – you know what I really fancy doing?”
    “What’s that?” I said.
    “I fancy checking out that end of the beachwhere the real surfers go. See if Bethany and Aidan are there.”
    “And Jude,” said Rosie.
    “But we’re not allowed on the beach,” began Fliss. “Remember what Mrs Weaver said…”
    “I know, I know,” Frankie cut in. “But next to the sand, isn’t there a grassy area with a pathway?”
    “There was by our bit,” I nodded, thinking about the place where we had our surfing lessons. “The path runs behind the beach huts.”
    “And it probably carries on right along the whole length of the beach,” said Frankie.
    “We could go and see if it does, anyway,” said Rosie eagerly. “And it’s not part of the beach, so we wouldn’t be breaking any rules.”
    “Exactly,” said Frankie. She laughed. “Don’t look so worried, Fliss! Weaver’ll never find out in any case. Come on, let’s go.”
    Frankie’s hunch was right. The path did stretch right along the edge of the beach, trackingthrough the grassy area that was the last bit before the sand started. As we followed the path past where we’d had our lessons, it began to climb a little – the grassy bank rose higher than the sand, and