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The Sandcastle
 “I
thought boys were supposed to be good at building things,” she
said, eyeing my carelessly made sandcastle tower with
ill-disguised disdain.
“I was just seeing how well the sand sticks together,” I
retorted, flattening the already crumbling tower with an
irritable sweep of the hand. “The sand is too dry. It needs
more water,” I added, in case a girl wouldn’t be able to
appreciate that complexity.
She looked at me as though expecting me to walk to the
water’s edge and collect some.
I looked back at her. A boy’s job was building, not
laboring.
She stood up, inadvertently spraying gritty particles of sand
over me. “It’ll be your turn next time,” she said.
I said nothing. Everything she did had some sort of
bargaining power about it, as though, being a girl, gave her a
right to have the last word about everything. She stood, looking
down on me as though still hoping that I would jump up and run
and get some water from the sea.
No way! That wasn’t on my agenda at all. As she stood
before me, I was forced to look at her. There wasn’t anywhere
else I could look. She looked rather nice, I supposed, in the
one-piece bathing costume her aunt had bought her (those were
the days before the bikini was invented), and I wondered, yet
again, what made girls so different from boys. There wasn’t
much, that I could see. Her chest was as flat as mine, even
though, being a girl, it had to be rigorously hidden from view,
whereas mine was fully exposed as I was only wearing brief
bathing trunks. There wasn’t any other difference, that I
could see - other than the fact that my bathing trunks had a
bump in the front of them whereas her bathing costume didn’t.
I felt sorry that she wasn’t finished off properly, but not
very sorry as, being a girl, she usually seemed to get her own
way about everything, whereas I didn’t. That seemed to be the
main difference between us.
She shrugged, clearly undisturbed by my considered gaze. A
boy, of course, would have kicked sand in my face long before
now, and would have accused me of staring. That was another
difference, I supposed. Girls liked being looked at. So
long as they were properly covered up.
She picked up the largest bucket, the one with
impossible-looking fish painted all over it, and walked slowly
across the gently sloping sand towards the water’s edge. I had
the feeling that she was hoping that I was continuing to watch
her so I made sure that when she got to the water and looked
back at me that I was carefully analyzing the structure of the
sand we were going to use for our sandcastle by running it
through my fingers, and deciding what would be the correct ratio
of sand to water. I knew all about that because a bricklayer had
told me all about those calculations in relation to cement.
She came back, making a big deal about how heavy the bucket
was, and how difficult it was to carry, and slopping the water
all over the place. “You can use it first,” she said,
clearly trained in the delicate art of the generous gesture.
Working together, we made the outer ring of the castle, then
realized we should have made the central bit first. She looked
at me as though it was all my fault, though I wasn’t having
that for one moment.
“You’ll have to go in the middle and work around
yourself,” I said. She, of course, hadn’t thought of doing
that
She shrugged, and stepped gingerly into the middle of the
circle and carefully knelt down. I started on the mass
production bit and quickly got into stride, filling my small
bucket with carefully moistened sand, tamping it down, and
handing it to her to turn out.
She was soon surrounded, and had to step out of the center.
“How can we complete it?” she asked, looking for all the
world as though the sky was going to fall in at any moment.
“You’ll have to sacrifice one of the inner circle
towers,” I replied as masterfully as I could, “and put your
hand on it whilst you kneel just outside the outer ring. If you
do it carefully,” I added threateningly, “then you won’t
do any further damage.” I hoped that wouldn’t be too
difficult for her to understand.
I was rewarded by a worried look. I liked that. It meant that
I was in charge.
Taking it very carefully, she knelt down exactly where I
indicated, then leant forward and placed her hand on one of the
inner towers, squashing it flat. She reached behind her for the
bucket containing the center tower. “Hurry up,” she
grumbled. “I can’t stay like this all night!”
I couldn’t see why not. I was enjoying seeing her in this
predicament, particularly as a couple of adults had stopped to
watch the fun.
I filled the small bucket. Very slowly. Made very sure that
the consistency was exactly right, that it would turn out
without breaking and . . . very slowly . . . handed
it to her. Deliberately the wrong way round so that she was
unable to grasp it.
“You did that deliberately,” she grumbled.
“You were holding your hand the wrong way round,” I
countered.
I could see that the one arm that was supporting her was
beginning to feel the strain. It was beginning to wobble rather
badly. I’d always heard that girls had absolutely no stamina.
Now, I knew it was true. I turned the bucket round and handed it
to her. She upended it, providing our castle with a perfect
central tower.
She lurched backwards and ended up sitting on her bottom in
the damp hole where I’d been mixing the sand.
Ignoring her
agonized look, I quickly repaired the tower she’d squashed.
The two adults clapped. “That’s jolly good!” the woman
exclaimed. The man said nothing. He just smiled as though he’d
accomplished the whole thing himself. “Are you brother and
sister?” the woman asked us, directing the question to the
girl, as women always did.
I said nothing - just like the man. Strong and masculine,
that’s me!
“No, husband and wife,” my co-builder returned with a
little giggle.
The couple were still laughing as they strolled away from us.
“I’ll get you for that,” I said. And, of course, I
jolly well meant it.
She giggled again. And picked up the largest bucket as though
intending to defend herself with it.
- Warren Roff-Marsh
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