Free The If Game by Catherine Storr Page B

the sea. Stephen had almost never seen him like this, doing nothing. He sat down beside him and also looked at the sea.
    â€˜Like it?’ Dad asked.
    Stephen couldn’t think of any way of expressing how much he liked it, especially to Dad, so he just said, ‘Mm.’
    â€˜There’s a boat going out,’ Dad said.
    It was a largish boat with a squat funnel and a great deal of white superstructure, pitted with small square panes of glass above the darker main hull.
    â€˜Wonder where to,’ Stephen said.
    â€˜Cross Channel ferry. Going to Dieppe.’
    â€˜I wouldn’t mind going.’
    â€˜If we had longer.’
    â€˜It’s great here too,’ Stephen said. He didn’t want to sound as if this holiday wasn’t the best he’d ever had.
    â€˜Time to get something to eat. I wouldn’t mind a pub with a garden.’
    In the afternoon they went back to the beach. Dad lay back on the stones and went to sleep. Stephen went exploring.
    He walked along the front to have a look at what his dad had said was the Martello Tower. It was like a child’s idea of a tower, round and stubby and built straight on to the sea wall. You could walk round three quarters of its circle on the road side, the last quarter hung over the shingle on the beach just below. It was made of small bricks cemented together and he could feel, even from outside, how thick and solid the walls must be, so that inside it would be small compared to its outer appearance. It had uneven spaces for windows and at ground level a barred wooden door. Stephen gave it a push, and it creaked, but did not yield. He tried to imagine what it would have been like to be a soldier in there, waiting for Napoleon to come over the sea with an army, to take over England. He would have a gun of some sort, he supposed. Perhaps a sword too. And probably a small cannon, so that he could fire at any ship that looked as if it was a part of the French invading fleet.
    It was then that he noticed the change in the weather. The white clouds in the sky were moving faster and sometimes cutting out the sun, there were more white horses out at sea. There was a wind, too, whereas before it had been absolutely calm and hot. He did not hurry back to where his dad was sleeping, but when he got there, Dad was sitting up and looking at the sky, now overcast.
    â€˜Hi!’ Stephen said, dropping on to the stones beside him.
    â€˜Been for a walk?’
    â€˜You were asleep.’
    â€˜I was awake in the night.’
    â€˜You should try sleeping out. It was great.’
    â€˜Not tonight, I won’t. Weather’s changing.’
    â€˜There’s more wind,’ Stephen said. At the same moment, a gust picked up his dad’s newspaper, shook it into separate sheets and blew them off over the shingle, up towards the road.
    â€˜Catch it!’ his dad shouted and he and Stephen raced as fast as they could through the shifting stones. They didn’t succeed in getting all the sheets before the last two were blown up to the road and out of sight. They came back to collect the rest of their belongings with what remained of the paper scrunched in their hands.
    â€˜It’s going to rain,’ Dad said.
    â€˜No, look. Sun’s trying to come out,’ Stephen said, as a shaft of sunlight passed swiftly over the shore. It disappeared almost at once, and there was a patter of raindrops on stones and concrete. Then the downpour. They ran for the car.
    â€˜You wet?’
    â€˜Mm. Dripping.’
    â€˜We’ll have to dry out somehow back there.’
    It is difficult to dry out in a tent when everything outside it is wetter than you are. Stephen was very soon shivering and in a filthy temper. At last his dad said, ‘Why don’t you go and ask the lady if you can sit in her kitchen for a bit?’
    â€˜What for?’
    â€˜To get warm. She’s got an Aga. I saw it.’
    â€˜What’s an