Mullan pushed into the stall rear that Michael and the silent children occupied. (They were staring at him shyly, their best clothes already hayseeded and beshitted. Both girls, to be ignored.) The old man's Peterson was dangling unlit in his mouth. He braced himself against the lurch and swing of the farting lorry by pushing against Pluto's massive behind. He looked disgruntled.
'World and his bloody wife is climbing on to this thing. We'll not make Portrush with this load Mike, you mark my words.' But they did.
There was a collective sigh at the front and the sunlight slanting and shifting into the horse-smelling rear brought with it a distant rush and hiss, a smell of salt, a tang in the air that galvanized the dancing dust in the sunbeams. The two girls suddenly began bouncing up and down with their ringlets hopping on their shoulders. 'The sea! The sea!' they chorused. Michael glared at them with distaste and the horses shifted restlessly, snuffling at the unfamiliar odour.
'Have a look, Mike,' Mullan said, and a horny hand helped him off the cramped and perilous floor to peer out one of the side slats.
They were driving down the flank of a hill, the road cutting into it and opening out on Michael's side to a steep slope of marram grass and pale sand. Other, smaller sandhills tumbled and crept
to a white—as dazzling as sun on water—stripe of beach that was fringed with the breakers of the Atlantic, beyond which was the deep, vast blueness of the sea itself. Gulls called overhead and the salt tang filled Michael's lungs. Behind him, the horsebox was a clamour of voices. He stuck his nose farther out the narrow gap, drinking in the air, listening to the sound of the foam hitting the beach, and laughed aloud.
The lorry made hard going of the sand until they off-loaded the horses, Felix throwing his head up like a colt, and put their shoulders to its rear. Even then they would have had a time of it if Mullan, reeking of smugness, had not thrown a line round Felix and Pluto's shoulders and got the big animals to haul the machine out of the ruts its tyres had carved for itself. There was much laughter at that, though Sean seemed not to know whether to laugh or scowl. He settled for shaking his head ruefully, and the lorry chugged on without further event, though the driver was prudent enough to make everyone disembark before continuing along the beach, and they trudged in its wake with the two ringleted girls on Felix's broad back, looking a little like the retreat from Moscow.
There were others on the sands, car windscreens glinting like beetle wings in the bright sunshine, tartan rugs sprawled with red-faced, lotion-slimy people, Thermos flasks dotting their picnics like blunt-nosed artillery shells and their children digging happily, rearing up ephemeral castles. Kingdoms in the sand.
The Fays came to a straggling halt the lee of a slab-sided dune, and then began the battle to organize what was in effect a campsite. Agnes, Michael's grandmother, started to take charge, she and her sisters and their children unloading hampers and rugs and balls and buckets and spades and bathing costumes and windbreaks. Whilst Pat and the male members of the family (Michael included among them, not one of the children, he noted with immense pride) rubbed the horses down, for the ride had sweated them up. The mare in particular was white-eyed and prancing. There were too many people about, Mullan complained. She needed a bit of peace. He led her off the side of a dune. Pipes were lit, matches fighting the sea breeze. Pat took off his boots and rolled up his trousers. The giggling girls hid naked behind towels as their mother slid swimming costumes up their thin legs. Michael leant on Felix's rump and stared out to sea. It was a long way from the trees and the smell of leaf mould, the river and the looming bridge. It was clear out here, open and empty, a place to lose cobwebs. Rose had always loved the seaside.
Mullan brought the chestnut back and saddled her up, looking at Michael enquiringly. Michael nodded, bridled Felix and then hauled himself on the great back, kicking him forward. The pair of them sauntered through the sand, Felix's huge hooves throwing it aside in sweeps, Fancy stepping through it as though she were wearing a frock she refused to muddy. Mullan's Peterson lurched up and down in his mouth, scattering ash to the breeze. Children stared and pointed, parents peered from underneath shading hands. Michael and Mullan ignored them loftily.
Mullan had a struggle with the chestnut mare at first, for she was fresh and the sea wild seemed to intoxicate her. She pranced and danced and pirouetted whilst Mullan cursed atop her and Michael grinned from Felix's back. After a time, though, she settled and picked her away alongside the carthorse amiably enough.
'Speed and to spare in this little bugger,' Mullan grunted, the sweat inching down below his cap. 'Needs a firm hand.' He spat copiously and the breeze shunted it away. They rode in silence for a few moments, the horsebox already the better part of a mile behind them.