Summerwater Sarah Moss (microsoft ebook reader txt) 📖

the gaps in the windows, over the waterlogged earth, into all the ears in the woodland. The fox cubs feel it through the earth of their den, the bats in their rafters. In a nest of bracken up on the hillside, the doe pricks her ears towards a running beat too heavy for wolves. The anthill pulses. Damp trees absorb the higher frequencies, swallow the energy into the wetness and wood-flesh, so it is the bass that penetrates your head and drums on the drums inside.

noise in his body

MUM AND DAD don’t like it when he gets out of bed after they’ve turned off the light, but Jack’s been lying here awake for hours, all the time it was still light, watching darkness seep up the walls. They must know he can’t sleep through that noise and anyway he’s thirsty, he needs a drink of water. He can feel the drumming in his bed, coming through the mattress into his bones, and the singer, the shouter, coming over the air through the glass and into his ears, deep into his head. They’re playing on him, he thinks, they’re making a noise inside his body and he can’t stop them. He can’t get away, and he’s out of bed, out of the room. It’s dark in the hall, the lino cold on his feet and the whole floor shuddering to the music’s beat. Dad, he says, Dad. There’s a line of yellow light under the door to the main room. In here, says Dad, and his voice makes a little space in the noise. What’s up, says Dad, can’t sleep? He’s sitting in one of the big chairs, a green bottle of beer at his side, and he’s just paused something on the TV, two men talking over an open car door somewhere grey and rainy. Jack eyes him. Usually you need a reason to be out of bed, toilet’s best, no one can object. It’s so loud, he says. Yeah, says Dad, your mum’s been complaining too. Lola asleep? Jack shrugs. We’ve not been talking, he says. Even when they’re sharing a bedroom on holiday, they’re supposed to lie quietly and go to sleep when Dad turns out the light. They might not need the rest but Mum does.

The song ends and they both pause like the men on the television. The music starts again, a gathering of notes before the violence of the bass.

Dad grunts as he stands up. Go pee, he says, have a drink of water and then go back to your bed. I’ll deal with this, I’ll just check on Lola first.

Jack follows Dad down the hall and hears Lola’s voice as he goes into the bathroom, which is full of steam that smells like Grandad’s roses in summer, too much. Mum must have just had a bath. He manages a bit of pee, holding the seat up because it doesn’t stay, washes his hands with the weird-smelling soap they have here and then scoops a few mouthfuls of soapy-tasting water. The music pounds through the cabin. When he comes out, Mum’s standing there in her dressing gown and Lola’s out of bed too, talking to Dad by the door. Isn’t it horrible, says Mum, they’ve no consideration, all last night was bad enough but now again, we can’t stay here if we’re never to get any sleep, I can’t bear it and this was meant to be our holiday. All that money. Ian, I’m so tired. I’ll sort it, Dad says, go to bed love, you’ll get your rest. Mum’s always tired. Sometimes she’s so tired she cries. Please, Lola says, let me come too, maybe if they see you have a little girl they’ll be nicer. Dad looks at Lola. He looks out of the window. There are more of them, he says, another car just arrived. All right then. But the moment I tell you to come back here, you do it, understood? She nods. Lola always gets Dad to do what she wants. Lola always does what Dad tells her, at least while he’s watching. Ian, says Mum, are you sure? Dad’s fastening his coat. Keep things civil, he says, I’ll ask nicely first, I’m not going looking for trouble, and if not she’ll be back here in ten seconds. You can watch her all the way. We can’t have this, look at the state of you. Put your coat on, Lola.

Jack watches. Just little girls, then. Not that he wants to go, not if there’s going to be shouting. Lola’s got something in her coat pocket, something she’s touching. She’s biting on a small smile. Maybe one of the stones from the beach. He doesn’t like remembering that, the girl. Violetta. Anyway someone needs to stay with Mum, who’s looking as if she might cry again. You have to give her a hug and bring her tissues and if she can’t stop, make her a cup of tea. Sometimes it goes on for a long time. Some days she just stays in bed and cries until Dad comes home and Jack has to make eggs or beans on toast for tea. He’s good at frying eggs now, doesn’t break the yolks. But Dad and Lola aren’t going to be a long time. He looks out of the window and sees the dad from the cabin below looking out of his window, and over the way the little kids’ mum standing on her deck. Everyone’s watching, he says.

He can feel the beat in his feet, coming through the floor. Above the dance music, a bird calls. Not an owl, Jack thinks, a daytime bird. Its nest must be shaking like the cabins. I’m so tired, it’s saying, I can’t stay here if there’s no rest. What’s Dad going to say to them, to the Shit-chenkos? Bloody typical, Dad says, look out there, faces in half the windows and everyone watching and waiting for someone else to say something. The