Granny and Peter

Granny and Peter

Granny reached out and gently pulled the child onto her lap. She folded
both her arms around him. He lay his head back against her shoulder.
Together, that sat like that for a long time.

The child, Peter, was five years old and Granny was a bit older. He
loved to sit on Granny's lap. Her skin always felt soft and warm and
she smelled of rose-scented talcum powder and icing sugar. He liked her
quiet ways and her soft way of talking. Granny just loved that Peter
loved her. Suddenly, Peter broke the silence. 'Tell me something,' he
said, his five- year old eyes looking up at her. Granny also loved that
Peter loved her stories.

Granny smiled, and Peter settled back against her shoulder. As Granny
drew in her first story telling breath, her eyes began to gleam and
dance. Her voice, when it came, seemed far off and dreamy. She hugged
Peter a little more tightly, as she carried him off.

"The boy lay very still in bed until he saw the first signs of morning.
After that, he could no longer be still. In an instant, he was out of
bed and out of the house. No one else was around and that was how he
liked it. Everything felt cool and wide. A breeze flipped past him,
ruffling his hair, giving him a little goose-bumpy shiver. He liked
that, too. It was a little signal that this was a new day.

He stepped deep into the sand, still damp after last night's high tide,
and stood there wiggling his toes just to feel the sand scratching
against his skin. He screwed up his eyes against the silver glare of
the sun bouncing off the water, and looked one way then the other. The
whole beach stretched ahead of him, washed and clean, and the hard sand
was a long way up. He knew that meant there'd be lots of wonderful
beach treasure littered along the shore.

The sand squeaked and squashed under his feet as he began to walk. As
he walked, he wondered at the little shells, all shapes and colours,
and at the tiny smooth stones, and at the strips and clumps of seaweed
that had been thrown up by the sea. Every so often he would poke a big
pile of seaweed. He loved the feeling of surprise and delicious fear
when his poking would turn up a jellyfish, or a starfish or a blue
bottle or a fish head with dull staring eyes.
Sometimes, he would turn to look back at the long line his footprints
had made along the beach.

Once he reached the rock pools, he'd sit on a rocky shelf, dangling his
feet into the crystal still water, starring out to sea, watching the
waves. They'd begin far out as little bumps, and swell up and up and
up. He'd wait for them to curl, spill over, crash and send foam and
spray into the air, then come rushing up the beach.

But he always left the best bit till last. Suddenly, he bolted, running
into the waves, skipping over the wave wash until he tripped and
splashed down belly first into the water. He dived under waves. He
jumped up to meet them. He flopped backwards over them. He thrashed
about. He leapt. He floated up and down with the swell. All the while,
pretending to be a dolphin.

Sending a final squirt of water into the air, he ran out of the water
up the beach to where the sugar sand was, and flopped down. He lay
there, still, his head resting on his arm. He loved the feel of
creeping warmth as the sun dried him, leaving tiny salt crystals all
over his skin. He picked up handful after handful of sand and let it
run loosely through his fingers and as he did, dreams ran through his
mind."

After a long time, Granny sighed and let her eyes rest. Peter rested
too, his head against Granny's shoulder. Their breathing seemed joined
together. And as Peter wiggled his toes, the gritty granules of sand
rubbed against his skin. And Granny smiled.