Taking the cinder path down to the sea by Sarah Hilary

I hear the throb and drone of bees in the hollyhocks; if heat had a sound, it would be this. I smell the grass parching, soil baking. If I open an eye, I will see white rings on the lawn where the dog has been: bitch-spots.

I am face-down on the lounger under a blanket of sun.

Later, in a while, I will take the cinder path down to the sea. The cinder path runs the length of the street between the backs of the houses, a place where they once emptied coals from the grates. The path grinds under my sandaled feet, dusting my ankles with grey. I follow the dip and curve of its spine, gathering grit between my toes.

I abandon the path to pass under the railway line, through a tunnel that's cool and green and drips like the inside of a mermaid's cave. Then I'm back in the sunshine. A seafront kiosk waves flags for me, jaunty with buckets and spades, plastic windmills that tick and switch in the breeze.

I climb down iron steps until I find the round roll of pebbles under my feet. The pier staggers out to sea, legs akimbo. I search for a dry spot on the sand. The sea's a sheet of steel, bouncing back the heat in bullets. I sit and then lie, my cheek making an impression in the beach which will last until the tide washes in.

I am a slave to the sun, despite burning. I am fourteen, fearless, filling my palms with foam from a canister of my mother's sun-cream. It smells lavishly of skin and sex.

Later, battered by heat, I retrace my steps through the tunnel, pausing under the arch to let cool drips kiss my fiery shoulders. There is a wishing-well in the tunnel wall. I throw in five-pence then change my mind and scoop it back out of the sludgy water. I buy a bag of flying saucers, starching the roof of my mouth, sherbet popping on my tongue.

I take the cinder path back to the garden, avoiding the bitch-spots on the grass. The heat has gone out of the day and I shiver as I cross the stone threshold of the house and climb the stairs to the room I share with my sister, who is eight. She sits on the bed cross-legged, playing with her dolls. I turn my back in disgust, brushing handfuls of sand from my long hair.

Tomorrow I will play tennis in the park. A boy with pale-yellow hair will send over his friend with a message: 'My mate says you've got great legs.'

On receipt of this news, I will fall in love with the yellow-haired boy. The summer is over and I am going home. I will not see him again. None of this will matter in the long run, but that night – the night after the day when my legs looked great – I will dream of eagles harnessed to the moon and me, bathing in its milky light.

About the author:
Sarah Hilary is an award-winning writer whose fiction appears in Smokelong Quarterly, The Fish Anthology 2008, Prick of the Spindle, The Best of Every Day Fiction, and in the Crime Writers' Association anthology, MO: Crimes of Practice. A column about the wartime experiences of her mother, who was a child internee of the Japanese, was published in the Spring 09 edition of Foto8 Magazine. www.sarah-crawl-space.blogspot.com/