Prologue to the Form Photo: 1968 – The Fisherman’s Boat
It was the perfect place to poo.
Robbie knew this stretch of ground behind the fishermen’s cottages like he knew the buttons on his cardigan. The sea was close by but muffled—gulls wheeling, a breeze carrying salt and something fishy. He was four. Full of ideas. And full of something else.
The old fishermen’s boat sat upside down, blue and white paint flaking like pastry, sunken into the wiry grass as if it had dozed off and been forgotten. A hole had split open in the hull, just big enough for a little boy to wriggle through.
Inside: quiet. Green shafts of light. Nettles in the corners. Dock leaves nearby—nature’s toilet roll. Robbie pulled down his shorts, squatted, and began his business.
Then came the voice.
“Jesus Christ. Could you not?”
Robbie froze. Halfway done. His head shot round. Eyes wide.
In the shadowed back of the boat sat a girl. Legs pulled to her chest. Hair everywhere. Face pale and filthy and furious. She looked like she’d grown there, like a feral plant that hissed instead of wilted.
“Get out!” she spat.
Startled, Robbie toppled backwards, landing bottom-first in the nettles. He yelped.
“Don’t scream,” she said, crawling forward. “He’ll hear you.”
“Who?”
She paused. Listened. Then whispered:
“My da. He’s lookin’ for me. I did something wrong.”
“What did you do?”
She shrugged. “Spoke.”
Robbie stared. She had a splint on one leg. Dirty bandage. One eye was bruised. She looked like a pirate and a ghost and a secret.
“I’m Robbie,” he said, pulling up his pants.
She said nothing.
“I won’t tell,” he added quickly. “Promise.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You swear?”
He nodded.
“On your best toy?”
He nodded again, not knowing which of his toys got the nod. His Action Man, probably.
The girl reached forward and poked him hard in the chest with her finger. “Then you’re my husband now.”
“What?”
“That’s what you do when you swear.”
“I thought that was pinky promises.”
She wiped her nose with her sleeve. “You’ll learn.”
A rustling noise outside made them both freeze.
“Come on,” she said, already crawling into the hole. “Move your arse.”
They climbed out—quiet, low, running through the grass as the shouts of a man echoed across the dunes. Robbie didn’t even know where they were going. He just ran after her. Because something about her felt older than the sky.
At the edge of the dunes, breathless and hiding again—this time beneath a tangle of sea buckthorn—Robbie finally dared to speak.
“What’s your name?”
She looked at him like he was daft. “Kizzy.”
“Is that short for something?”
“Short for Kizzy. You got a problem with that, husband?”
He didn’t. Not one.
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