Best British Short Stories 2020 by Nicholas Royle (reading books for 5 year olds txt) 📗

I began circling. I stopped near them, looked into the middle distance. If you point your toes when you do the step, it’s easier, I heard Taylor saying. Do this – she started spinning – and keep it pointed. She danced out Cherri’s steps, her eyes trained on Cherri to make sure she was watching. When Taylor stopped, Cherri copied her, moving faster with confidence. She finished more quickly than she expected, looking surprised when she neatly rounded off the sequence. Taylor beat her stomach: You can do it! she said. Cherri stared, before beating back: Yes, I can!

I reread John’s text as Cherri and I left for the beach. I can’t believe you’re coming too! she kept saying, as we walked down the deserted road. I thought of Jackie the bird, flapping hopelessly at the window. The flat glaze of oil on the bed sheet. John was sitting outside the only cafe on the stretch that led to the pier, where all the daytrippers and carers gathered. His suit was rumpled and he was spooning ice cream from a bowl. He hadn’t noticed us coming. We had never seen each other in stark daylight.

He nodded at me, before turning to Cherri, who was now standing at the table looking at the dessert. He took a five pound note out of his wallet and handed it to her. Take this, he said. Get what you want. Apart from the ice-cream. He stuck his arms out, puffed his cheeks and moved from side to side like an inflatable mascot in a storm. If you want to eat something fatty you have to pay for it yourself, Cherri said in a robotic voice. Exactly, he said. She grabbed the five pounds and went into the cafe, stamping her feet on the concrete.

After the door closed behind Cherri, John turned to me, focused on the empty bowl. I’m sorry about the Jackie thing, he said. Why did you call me Jackie? I asked. Fiona found the restaurant receipts and the extra phone, she made me call her – you, he said. I couldn’t tell her it was Cherri’s teacher. Not a one-off. As for Jackie – I can’t remember where the name came from. He looked down, fiddled with the spoon. My feelings had been hurt, I told myself. And then she left, he said. She cut her hair a few weeks earlier. It was like this. He made a box-like shape around his head. Very neat, very sensible, he said sadly. She made me call you and she bloody left anyway. And took the car. I had to walk all the way down here. His shoulders fell, dried sweat flaked off his forehead.

Cherri came out of the cafe, carrying a can of Fanta. I’m going to the beach, she said. She dropped the change on the table. We watched her cross the empty road and disappear down the steps. No one came to that stretch of the beach: it was too far from the pier, and most people in Wakesea were old or had mobility problems. We could see Cherri walking near the groynes, stopping to look across at us, small as we were. She’ll be fine, he said. We used to come to this beach a lot when she was little, with her mum. He looked up at the sky, as if she were hovering above us.

I know you’re disgusted, he said, after a few seconds of respectful silence. You hate me, don’t you? I don’t hate you, I began. You should hate me, he said. Are you going to stay? He asked, after I didn’t reply. As in, are you going to stay after the school ends? I thought of Barbara, of all the coastal towns ahead, of an audience waiting in a darkened room. Without wanting to, I caught his eyes brightening, even though he didn’t know what I was undecided about.

Tinny, familiar music rose from the beach. It was the finale song: never stop being young/fun fun fun! In its pauses, we heard a phlegmy cough turning into laughter. We both looked towards the sea, the sand. There was no one there, no sign of Cherri. John got up, brushed down his ill-fitting suit. I followed him across the road, stopped with him at the ramp that led to the beach. Below, there was no sign of recent occupation, apart from a jagged red bucket that was half-buried in pebbles. Cherri, he shouted over the music. The ramp was covered in a lurid green slime. He turned to look for another way down. The laughter broke out again. We both leant over the iron railing. In a recess only visible when we craned forward was a balding man sitting on a crate. Lined neatly next to him was a portable radio, a thin blue carrier bag and a pair of old brown shoes. He was rocking back and forth with laughter. If his hands hadn’t been wrapped around his knees, he would have fallen headfirst into the sand. In front of him was a small pink cowboy hat I recognised from the school’s prop box. Cherri came out from the recess, wearing her finale costume, her other dress sticking out from underneath it, so she looked twice her normal size.

The man began to clap. She started dancing, hesitating between each step. John reached over the railings, yelled her name. The music was too loud. He stuck a foot onto the mossy ramp. He would have to go further down to the other set of steps in order to get Cherri, or risk sliding down the slope and injuring himself. He would have to leave her there with the man, just for a minute or two. He couldn’t decide. I shouted her name. She went on dancing, grimacing and mouthing numbers to herself. It was the first time I had seen her whole solo,