Page 50 of Everything That Kills Me
He’d have been happy not to talk, but Bettina was chatty and either excited about what they found or appalled. Zeph felt the same.
“There are waste bins to use. Why do people think it’s okay to leave stuff like babies’ nappies?” She shuddered.
“Or throw rubbish overboard.”
“Absolutely. And then there are the sad things. I remember thousands of starfish being washed up on a beach I used to walk on. That was depressing.”
“Do you do this every week?”
“Once a month.” She pointed to a yellow hut. “That’s my beach hut.”
“Are you a millionairess?” Zeph grinned.
She laughed. “If only they could be lived in. But no bathroom. No running water. Though lovely to sit in and look at the sea.”
“They’re pretty. Especially in the sunshine. Do they have to be painted particular colours?”
“As long as it’s pastel and different to its neighbour, it’s fine. I paint mine every year. I was going to start this afternoon. I’ve bought the paint. Yellow again.”
“I could help, if you like.”
She straightened up and smiled at him. “That’s really kind.”
“I wouldn’t want paying or anything.”
“You’re a good boy.”
His dad didn’t think so. He was tempted to tell Bettina what he had to put up with but he didn’t. He didn’t want to spend his life moaning.
Two hours later, he felt good about what he’d done and bad about what people thought it was okay to recklessly discard. More than half of what he collected were single-use plastic items. He also found a Star Wars mask, a yellow whistle from a life jacket and a perfectly round flat pebble, which he pocketed. He had a collection of special stones in his bedroom. When Bettina had seen the one he’d marvelled over, she gave him a piece of bright green sea glass.
“Not a stone, but pretty.” She smiled at him.
Bettina shared her lunch with him and fell asleep in a deckchair as Zeph painted the hut. He’d finished before she woke.
“Oh my goodness! You’ve done it all? I didn’t mean to fall asleep. Oh Zeph, what a good job you’ve made of it.”
“And my fingers.”
“We’ve enough water for you to wash. I’ll take the brush home and clean it.”
Zeph stayed sitting next to Bettina for much of the afternoon. She had a shelf of books and they spent a couple of hours reading, Zeph on his Kindle, with Bettina making him a cup of coffee using a primus stove.
“Biscuits too.” She handed him the packet.
“Thank you.”
“So why don’t you want to go home, young man?”
He took a biscuit and handed back the packet. “Is it obvious?”
“I can’t work out why a sixteen-year-old boy would rather collect rubbish, paint a pensioner’s beach hut without wanting money, then spend the afternoon keeping her company.”
“It’s peaceful here. It’s not peaceful at home. My mum died when I was twelve. She was such a…” He choked up. “My father married again a year later and his new wife moved in with her two teenage daughters. Both older than me.”
She gave him a sad look. “You don’t get on with them?”
“No.”
