Holes for Faces Read Online Free PDF Page A

wakened by the twins quarrelling outside my room over who should waken me for breakfast. “You both did,” I call and hurry to the bathroom to speed through my ablutions. Once the twins have begun to toy with the extravagant remains of their food I risk giving them an excuse to finish. “What shall we do today?” I ask, and meet their expectant gazes by adding “You used to like the beach.”
    That’s phrased to let them claim to have outgrown it, but Gerald says “I’ve got no spade or bucket.”
    “I haven’t,” Geraldine competes.
    “I’m sure replacements can be obtained if you’re both going to make me proud to be seen out with you,” I say and tell their parents “I’ll be in charge if you’ve better things to do.”
    Bertie purses his thin prim lips and raises his pale eyebrows. “Nothing’s better than bringing up your children.”
    I’m not sure how many rebukes this incorporates. Too often the way he and Paula are raising the twins seems designed to reprove how she was brought up. “I know my dad wouldn’t have meant it like that,” she says. “We could go and look at some properties, Bertie.”
    “You’re thinking of moving closer,” I urge.
    Her husband seems surprised to have to donate even a word of explanation. “Investments.”
    “Just say if you don’t see enough of us,” says Paula.
    Since I suspect she isn’t speaking for all of them, I revert to silence. Once the twins have been prevailed upon to take turns loading the dishwasher so that nothing is broken, I usher them out of the house. “Be good for grandpa,” Paula says, which earns her a husbandly frown. “Text if you need to,” he tells them.
    I should have thought mobile phones were too expensive for young children to take to the beach. I don’t want to begin the outing with an argument, and so I lead them downhill by their impatient hands. I see the scrawny windmills twirling on the bay until we turn down the road that slopes to the beach. If I don’t revive my question now I may never have the opportunity or the nerve. “You were going to tell me who taught you that game.”
    Gerald’s small hot sticky hand wriggles in my fist. “What game?”
    “You know.” I’m not about to release their hands while we’re passing a supermarket car park. I raise one shoulder and then the other to peer above them at the twins. “Peep,” I remind them.
    Once they’ve had enough of giggling Geraldine splutters “Mummy said we mustn’t say.”
    “I don’t think she quite meant that, do you? I’m sure she won’t mind if you just say it to me when I’ve asked.”
    “I’ll tell if you tell,” Gerald informs his sister.
    “That’s a good idea, then you’ll each just have done half. Do it in chorus if you like.”
    He gives me a derisive look of the kind I’ve too often seen his father turn on Paula. “I’ll tell mummy if you say,” he warns Geraldine.
    I mustn’t cause any more strife. I’m only reviving an issue that will surely go away if it’s ignored. I escort the twins into a newsagent’s shop hung with buckets and spades and associated paraphernalia, the sole establishment to preserve any sense of the seaside among the pubs and wine bars and charity shops. Once we’ve agreed on items the twins can bear to own I lead them to the beach.
    The expanse of sand at the foot of the slipway from the promenade borders the mouth of the river. Except for us it’s deserted, but not for long. The twins are seeing who can dump the most castles on the sand when it starts to grow populated. Bald youths tapestried with tattoos let their bullish dogs roam while children not much older than the twins drink cans of lager or roll some kind of cigarette to share, and boys who are barely teenage if even that race motorcycles along the muddy edge of the water. As the twins begin to argue over who’s winning the sandcastle competition I reflect that at least they’re behaving better than anybody else in sight. I feel as