He must have fallen asleep in the grass as he was telling her this. Sports car, he thought dozily, chocolate mousse, midnight, stay up as late as I want, and Gwendoline … It was at this point that he realised he was staring not at the sky, but at his bedroom ceiling. He got out of bed and went to his window which overlooked the beach. He could see the Gang, way in the distance. The tide was out, the rock pools were waiting. He slipped on his shorts and a T-shirt and hurried downstairs. It was late, everyone had finished breakfast long ago. He gulped down a glass of orange juice, took a bread roll and ran out- side, across the tiny back garden and on to the beach. The sand was already hot under his feet, and his parents and their friends were already set up with their books and beach-chairs and parasols.
His mother waved at him. ‘That was a good sleep. You needed that.’
His friends had seen him and were calling, ‘Peter, Peter, come and look!’
Excited, he began to run towards them, and he must have been half-way when he stopped and turned to look at the grown-ups one more time. In the shade of the parasol they leaned in towards each other as they talked. He felt differently about them now. There were things they knew and liked which for him were only just appearing, like shapes in a mist. There were adventures ahead of him after all.
As usual, Gwendoline was sitting apart with her books and papers, studying for her exam. She saw him and raised her hand. Was she simply adjusting her sun-glasses, or was it a wave? He would never know.
He turned and faced the ocean. It was sparkling, right to the wide horizon. It stretched before him, vast and unknown. One after the other the endless waves came tumbling and tin-kling against the shore, and they seemed to Peter like all the ideas and fantasies he would have in his life.
He heard his name called again. His sister, Kate, was dancing and hopping on the wet sand. ‘We’ve found treasure, Peter!’ Behind her, Harriet was standing on one leg, hands on hips, drawing a circle in the sand with her big toe. Toby and Charlie and the little ones were jostling to take turns leaping off a rock into a saltwater puddle. And behind all this human movement the ocean bobbed and folded and slid, for nothing could keep still, not people, not water, not time.
‘Treasure!’ Kate called again.
‘I’m coming,’ Peter shouted, ‘I’m coming!’ and he began to sprint towards the water’s edge. He felt nimble and weightless as he skimmed across the sand. I’m about to take off, he thought. Was he daydreaming, or was he flying?
Ian Mcewan, The Daydreamer
(Series: # )
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