The Beach

“Best get going, then!”

Tom eased his rucsac more comfortably on his shoulder and straightened up. The tail lights on the train flickered as it disappeared round a curve and headed towards Southport. His three companions nodded and followed suit Words were unnecessary, as well as being a waste of effort on that sweltering summer afternoon. Helen could feel the heat of the flagstones seep through the soles of her trainers: standing still in any spot for longer than absolutely necessary was not a good idea. The four friends jogged off on the final stretch of roadway separating them from the natural, unmapped tracks and trails under the cool leafshade of Formby Woods.

“Jeez, even the tar’s meltin’!” Pete muttered. It was true: they all felt the sticky resistance of semi-liquid tsrmac recently slathered over a pothole in the road.

“Walk on the grass: it’s softer on yer feet, anyway!” Tom advised. The B-road didn’t ‘qualify’ for a footpath: there was a narrow strip of tired, yellowing grass om both sides of the road. As soon as they reached a break in the fencing where a trodden path led invitingly into the cool shadows of the woods, Tom waved a hand vaguely towards it and turned off. The temperature difference in the shade of the trees was amazing, an instant boost to their spirits though they’d been walking less than a quarter of an hour from the railway station.

The camping trip had been Tom’s idea, at least for starters. He had some experience: he’d been a Scout and knew how to ‘handle it’ – at least, in his own opinion. He also had the gift o’ the Gab and found it easy enough to sweet talk two mums to allow Pete and Eddie to join in. Helen was his sister, he didn’t really need to ask his mum, but did so as a matter of respect and courtesy, safe in the knowledge that in the unlikely event of any protest Helen would simply have thrown a tantrum until she was allowed to go .,..

Four city kids out in the woods. For the first few minutes their ears, accustomed to the ‘white noise’ of traffic, shouts, even the low-level background hum of casual conversation multiplied by the hundreds of people in the street heard nothing – or at least, nothing of the broad spectrum of sounds they were accustomed to hearing. As they trekked deeper into the woods, however, they all became aware of the noises of this new, different environment: the calls of as-yet unknown birds, far different to the repetitive coos and calls of pigeons and doves, or the raucous, aggressive squawks of permanently ravenous seagulls dive-bombing to steal your chips before you got home…

They reached a clearing, big enough to set up their four tents. Without a word Tom raised a hand, suggesting they wait. For a moment they all held their breath, not entirely sure why.

“Hear that?”

Suddenly they all realised what Tom had asked them to listen for, why he’d stopped here.

Helen was first to react.

“It’s a stream – running water!”

“Right!” said Tom, approvingly “ … an’ that’s why I wanted to make camp here. We’ll need fresh water that’s fit t’drink. All the lemo an’ juice we brought won’ las’ f’revva ,,,” As with most Liverpudlians Tom had at best a ‘nodding acquaintance’ with the beginnings and ends of many words.

Tents were quickly and easily put up, and with no particular plan or timetable they opted to stroll through the woods. Prompted by the seductive sound of surf they headed for the beach which stretched away slightly damp from the ebbing tide and completely unclaimed: their own private property (until someone came to claim a share). The water’s edge was just a shade too far away to be worth the effort of running out to have a swift paddle, but that could wait until another day.

Tom looked along the high-tide line and spotted a large rock not far from the end of the track they’d used.

“Tomorrow I’ll put out a fishing line and anchor it under that rock/ We can try an’ catch a meal! Oh, yeah: on the way back we should all grab some branches an’ stuff. We’ll need it t’ build a fire …”

By late evening the oppressive heat of the day had eased. Twilight was filtering through the treetops as the small sparks from the campfire floated up but there was no chance of any accidental blaze: Tom had enough sense and experience to keep the fire small, compact in the centre of the clearing. He’d deliberately stopped feeding the fire, and laid some foil-wrapped potatoes in the embers, but the heat of the day and their unaccustomed activities had tired them all and nobody was in the mood for hot food anyway,

Tom was first up and about on Monday morning but the others weren’t far behind.

“We’ve no fridge, we might as well use the milk on cereal before it goes off” he suggested. Helen spotted a bramble bush full of heavy, ripe berries which they used to bury their cornflakes instead of using sugar. The foil-wrapped potatoes Tom had placed in the embers of the fire on /Sunday night were still warm, making a tasty if unusual breakfast treat. Before long they were threading their way through the woods, heading for the beach.

Long shadows, low sun meant it was still ‘early o’clock’ and once again they had the entire beach to themselves. The only significant difference: a very narrow damp patch of sand suggested that the tide had reached its fullest and recently begun to recede. Apart from a few sleepy chirrups the woods behind them were silent. Tom gazed carefully up and down the river, then raised his eyes to study the equally empty sky: an unbroken expanse of blue without even a trace or wisp of cloud.

“I know it’s still early, but why’s everywhere so quiet? It feels … wrong.”

Three pairs of eyes stared, puzzled, Nobody spoke. Tom continued:

“Liverpool’s a fair-size city, yeah? Like in the song, “If y’want a Cathedral we got one to spare!” We’ve also got an airport, an’ there’s another one just up the road in M – m – m - manc-land”

Like most Scousers Tom avoided uttering the name of the nearest conurbation: it was generally held to be an offensive cussword.

“We got ferries, an’ boats an’ liners, an’ Cammell Laird docks ‘cross the river. Even this early there oughtta be movement, traffic, something (or someone) movin’ round …but I can’t see nothin’, nothin’ at all! Can any of youse?”

They all gazed around, absorbing Tom’s comments. The silence seemed to grow heavier, thickening: even the sound of the birds became muted.

“Tom’s right: we could be castaways onna desert island!” Eddie muttered, and flushed red. He’d not long moved to Liverpool and joined the school. He never had a lot to say: Tom had made an effort to include him because he didn’t seem to make friends easily.

“Eddie’s right!” Pete agreed, “and so’s Tom. Big city like this, it shouldn’t be this quiet even early in the morning!”

Eddie was still staring downstream out past Formby point. Suddenly his eyes narrowed: he raised his right arm and pointed. Everybody looked: for a moment, nobody could see anything, Then:

Low on the horizon there was a black dot which rapidly grew to become two, equal in size and growing with every passing second. Two air force jets passed in the blink of an eye. As they disappeared into the glare of the rising sun a thunderclap followed in their wake. None of them needed a calculator to work out the planes were travelling well in excess of the speed of sound. The sonic wave even had a physical effect on the river, forcing a temporary reverse flow.

“JFC in a rowboat, what was that all about?” Pete stood stunned, mouth wide open.

“Forget the fishin line: back t’camp!” Tom ordered, not really liking the sound of his own voice but someone had to at least look as if they knew what to do,

“Pete, you said you’d bring a trannie so we c’n lissen t’ late night music, maybe we can use it to listen t’ th; News …!”

None of the radio channels were broadcasting music. Every wavelength was devoted to news and discussions, and it didn’t take the group long to discover that there was only one topic of conversation. The local channel, BBC Merseyside had the strongest and clearest signal and they settled on it.

“There has been an extremely dangerous and infectious outbreak of an unknown flu-like disease. As yet we have few details but it has reached Britain, almost certainly through people returning from holiday.”

“All travel is banned, with immediate effect. This applies nationally and locally. You must remain where you are as of Sunday night. You must not go out for any reason other than to seek urgent medical attention. Do not attend a GP surgery or visit a hospital A & E. Hospitals will only treat emergencies and will only be able to respond to 999 calls.”

“Follow basic hygiene rules. Wash frequently, especially hands and face. Wear some sort of face covering. Your local authority will organise a supply of masks as soon as possible.”

“Police and the Armed Forces will patrol all major roads frequently. Private vehicles not being used for a medical emergency will be stopped and risk being impounded.”

“Stay Home. Stay Safe.”

After a pause of about thirty seconds (which felt like a lifetime) the recorded message began again. They let it run a second time, and turned off the radio when it began a third repeat.

Tom took a deep breath.

“I got yiz all into this, so if yiz want someone t’ blame I guess I’m it! But we said we’d try to manage on our own so it’s reee-ly jus’ a question of “toughing it out” a bit longer than just a few days …”

“Got any ideas?” Pete wanted to know.

“Well, your trannie did us all a favour, Pete: without it, we wooden know ’bout this disease!”

“I say, we should sit here and show everything we brought with us. I don’t mean, food (we already sorted that) or any private stash o’ sweets, chocs and yer own private scran!”

“I’m thinkin’ more like tools, equipment – Pete’s trannie, for example. He didn’t have t’ bring it, but we’re all glad he did – right?”

Silent nods,

“Okay! I orreddy said, I brought some basic fishin’ stuff we can try to catch some food. I also “borried” this from my Dad … from his ‘Army days’ …”

He dug in his rucsac and croaked an atrocious parody of Crocodile Dundee as he added:

”This is a Knife. I reckon I can skin an’ butcher any fish or rabbit we catch.”.

He pulled the blade half out of its sheath: it had to measure at least twelve inches. Feeling self-conscious he glanced at Helen to take over. She obliged and reached into her bag.

“I brought this from mam’s cookbooks. It lists all the edible fruits and plants found all over the UK.

“Good thinking, Batman – or Batgirl!” Tom grinned “Pete, you got anything more to add?”

Pete shook his head regretfully. That left Eddie.

“I know we all brought torches” he mumbled slowly, “but I thought we might, y’know, need something a bit – bigger?”

He hadn’t brought a rucsac like everyone else; His kit was stashed in what looked like a well-stuffed navy shoulder valise. From it he pulled a large, old-fashioned but immaculate bull lantern which sat on a powerful 9V battery.

Tom leapt to his feet.

“We got the tools, we got the knowledge: we can DO this!” he crowed.

1980 words