Authors: Catherine Jinks
But Marcus didn’t believe her.
‘I don’t like the beach much,’ he said.
‘You’ll like this one,’ Holly assured him. ‘I told you before – there are fish and rockpools and barbecues and lagoons and heaps of great kids and a fantastic playground. It’s magical.’ Her eyes softened as she remembered her long-ago visit to Diamond Beach. ‘We don’t have many treats, so we deserve this,’ she insisted. ‘You’ll love it. You won’t want to come home.’
Marcus didn’t bother asking if his dad would be coming too, because his dad lived on the other side of the country and never took trips with Marcus. They hadn’t laid eyes on each other for nearly five years.
Instead Marcus asked an even more important question. ‘Can I bring my laptop?’
‘
No
.’ Holly was firm. ‘You spend too much time on that computer. I want you to get out and enjoy the real world while you’re still a kid.’
Marcus sighed.
‘But the real world isn’t any fun
,
’ he objected. ‘It’s not as good as a fake world.’
‘Yes, it is. At Diamond Beach, it really is.’ Holly put an arm around his shoulders. ‘You wait,’ she said. ‘I guarantee Diamond Beach will be more fun than any computer game. It’ll be our best holiday ever.’
W
HEN
M
ARCUS AND HIS MOTHER FINALLY REACHED THE
Diamond Beach Caravan Park, they couldn’t see the beach. Not from the entrance gates, anyway. All they could see were rows of caravans, stretching as far as the distant horizon under a blazing sun.
There wasn’t a tree or a rockpool in sight.
‘It’s changed,’ Holly murmured, as she hunted for lot WW6842. ‘It’s grown so much . . .’
Marcus stared out the car window as they bumped past caravans that were squished together like chocolates in a box. He saw crying babies, flapping laundry, potholes, power poles and lots of queues. There was a queue at the kiosk, where flies swarmed around the overflowing rubbish bins. There were queues in front of the nearby vending machines. There was a queue at the amenities block, which was a low grey building made of concrete. And there was a queue for every slide and swing in the grubby little playground near the barbecues.
‘I don’t get it,’ said Marcus, staring in amazement at all the fretful, sticky, sunburned toddlers. ‘Why isn’t everyone down at the beach?’
‘Because the beach is such a long way from here,’ his mother replied. ‘This is the cheap section of the park, remember?’ When at last they reached their designated campsite, she was crestfallen. ‘I owe you an apology, Marcus,’ she said with a sigh. ‘This isn’t what I expected.’
Marcus felt sorry for her. ‘But there
are
heaps of kids,’ he pointed out. ‘Just like you promised.’
‘Ye-e-es . . .’
They both gazed at a mob of yelling, squabbling children who rushed by in pursuit of a football. Marcus could just make out a tangle of arms and legs through all the dirt that was being kicked up. He couldn’t tell how many kids there were, or how old they might be.
They were soon out of sight, after bouncing down the road like tumbleweed in a whirlwind.
‘You’re bound to find
someone
who’s nice,’ Holly said, without conviction. When Marcus didn’t answer, she tried gamely to reassure them both. ‘Once we get to the beach, none of this will matter. We’ll be so busy swimming and building sandcastles, we won’t notice how crowded it is. You’ll see.’
Marcus shrugged. Then he helped to unpack the car and settle into the caravan, which still smelled bad despite his mother’s efforts. She had sprayed the greasy walls with detergent, aired the musty cushions, scrubbed the blackened stove, wiped down the rickety cupboards, mopped the peeling linoleum on the floor, thrown out the threadbare rug, and replaced the ragged curtains with new ones made of old sheets. She had even washed the light fittings.
So why did Marcus’s skin crawl whenever he stepped inside?
‘Did you leave the cupboard doors open on purpose?’ he asked his mother. Every cupboard gaped like a mouth, ready to engulf whatever he chose to feed it.
‘No.’ Holly was standing right behind him, carrying a box of food. ‘Those latches are really old. They obviously couldn’t cope with all the bumping and swerving.’
‘Maybe,’ said Marcus. ‘Or maybe we’ve got a poltergeist.’
It wasn’t meant to be a joke, but his mother laughed anyway.
‘There’s no room for a ghost in here,’ she rejoined, dumping her box on the table. ‘There’s barely enough room for
us
!’
She was right. After only ten minutes inside the caravan, Marcus could hardly breathe. The walls seemed to be closing in. The smell seemed to be getting worse. He kept bumping into Holly as they filled the cupboards with plates and pots and jars. ‘Oops!’ they said, over and over again. ‘Sorry!’ ‘Watch out!’ ‘My fault!’
Though he knew it was impossible, he could have sworn that the windows were shrinking.
So when at last he’d finished his share of the chores, Marcus didn’t curl up in a corner with his Nintendo. Instead he set off for the beach with his mother. He couldn’t stay put, not in a haunted caravan that smelled like sweaty gym clothes. At least there would be fresh air at the beach, even if it was fresh air full of sand and frisbees.
Luckily, there were signs pointing in the right direction – otherwise Holly might have got lost. She didn’t recognise anything. All the old landmarks had disappeared, swallowed up by row upon row of caravans. At first these caravans were small and dilapidated. Then Marcus noticed a change; as he and Holly drew closer to the sea, the caravans became bigger and flashier, with satellite dishes and screened porches and basketball hoops. Some had flowerboxes under their windows. People had set up picnic tables and picket fences.
But the most lavish caravans of all were at the very edge of the beach. The Bradshaws couldn’t believe their eyes when they reached the park’s dress circle, where the richest tourists had parked their luxury cars on massive lots. There were two-storeyed caravans with Juliet balconies and carports, waterslides and plastic hedges, portable plunge pools and astroturflawns that had been rolled out like rugs. There was a blow-up gazebo and a fold-out tennis court. There were people lolling on deckchairs under striped umbrellas, sipping icy drinks served to them by other people in uniform.
‘Wow,’ Marcus said reverently. ‘I wish we were staying
here
.’
Holly opened her mouth. Before she could speak, however, one of the deckchair people suddenly sat bolt upright and cried, ‘Holly? Holly Bradshaw? Is that
you
?’
The Bradshaws stopped in their tracks, staring in amazement at a plump little woman with piled-up hair, jewelled sunglasses and very long, polished fingernails.
‘It’s Coco!’ the woman continued. ‘Coco della Robbia! Don’t you remember me? You haven’t changed a
bit
!’
A
T FIRST
H
OLLY COULDN
’
T REMEMBER
C
OCO
,
WHO HAD TO
explain that they’d met years before, as children.
‘It was right here at Diamond Beach,’ Coco recalled. ‘You were older than me, and you had a sequinned bikini and bubblegum-flavoured lip gloss. I was
so
envious, because I was wearing my sister’s old swimming costume. It had a purple hippo on it.’
‘Oh, yes! The purple hippo!’ Holly exclaimed. ‘I remember now!’
‘What about the crabs? Do you remember feeding the crabs?’ asked Coco.
‘Of course!’ said Holly. ‘Do
you
remember when Jake sat on the jellyfish?’
Both women shrieked with laughter. The other deckchair people glared at them.
‘Who’s Jake?’ Marcus wanted to know.
‘Oh, Jake was one of our friends,’ Holly told him. ‘Jake was the loveliest boy. Wasn’t he, Coco?’
‘He sure was. He was
gorgeous.
’
‘I had such a crush on Jake,’ Holly admitted. ‘I wrote him a letter when I got home, but he never replied.’
‘He never came back to Diamond Beach, either,’ Coco said regretfully. ‘I’ve been here every summer since then, and he’s never shown up. I was always hoping that he would. I was always hoping that
you
would, Holly. And you did!’ Coco beamed up at the Bradshaws, patting the empty deckchair beside her. ‘Why don’t you both sit down and have a drink with me?’ she suggested. ‘We’ve got so much to talk about.’
Holly and Marcus exchanged glances. Then they looked at the golden strip of sand that was barely visible beneath all the towels and umbrellas and milling bodies. ‘Well,’ said Holly, in a hesitant tone, ‘I’d love to, but I promised to show Marcus the beach . . .’
‘Oh, no!’ Coco shuddered. ‘Not the beach! It’s so dirty and crowded! I never set foot on the
beach
anymore!’
Holly blinked. ‘But—’
‘You don’t
need
the beach,’ Coco went on. ‘Not with all the amazing computer programs, these days. You can go scuba-diving no matter where you are!’ She waved at the palatial caravan behind her, which had a pop-up second storey and three satellite dishes. ‘My stepchildren are in there right now, on their laptops, surfing or water-skiing or deep-sea fishing—’
‘I’d like to do that,’ Marcus interrupted. ‘I’d like to go inside your caravan.’
‘Well, of course you would!’ Coco jumped to her feet, wrapping herself in a filmy pink robe. ‘What was I thinking of? Come on in and I’ll give you a tour! My husband’s
very
proud of this caravan. He’s always tinkering with it.’
As she moved towards the caravan’s front door, taking tiny steps in her high-heeled sandals, Coco explained that her husband was a techno-wizard who liked inventing things. ‘You may have heard of him,’ she chirruped. ‘His name is Sterling Huckstepp.’
Holly’s eyes widened. ‘As in Huckstepp Electronics?’ she asked.
‘That’s the one,’ said Coco. ‘He’s very clever.’
She led the Bradshaws along a vinyl pathway, up a flight of fake-marble stairs and into a small, collapsible entrance hall. The walls were covered with mirrors that could be pulled down like roller blinds; from the ceiling hung a disposable chandelier made of crystallised mineral salt. (‘It’s completely soluble,’ Coco revealed. ‘When you’re packing up to go, you just wash it down the drain.’) Under this chandelier stood a little white robot with the smooth, triangular, almost featureless head of a praying mantis. It had stubby, hydraulic fingers and caterpillar treads on its feet.
Coco addressed it imperiously.
‘Prot,’ she instructed, ‘bring us some iced tea, the bowl of cashews, diced ham with cheese, lemonade and three glasses.’
‘Yes, Ma’am,’ the robot buzzed. Then it spun around and rammed straight into one of the walls before reversing, stopping, adjusting its coordinates, and trying again.
This time it managed to pass through a doorway without banging into anything.
‘I’m afraid he’s one of Sterling’s prototypes,’ Coco explained fretfully. ‘Sterling likes to test out his early models at home, but sometimes they don’t work very well.’
‘Goodness!’ Holly was amazed. ‘Would you look at that, Marcus? A talking robot!’
‘Cool,’ said Marcus.
‘He’s a pest, I’m afraid. More trouble than he’s worth.’ Coco suddenly brightened as a grey Persian cat slunk into the vestibule. ‘And here’s my little Choo-choo,’ she purred, pouncing on the cat. ‘
She’s
not clumsy. She’s Mummy’s little girl, aren’t you, angel? Yes, she is. She’s a good little girl . . .’
It was obvious that Coco loved cats. Her living room was full of cat statues, cat cushions, cat lamps, cat paintings, cat books and cat hair. Four real cats were lolling around on the overstuffed couch and matching ottomans. There were photographs of the same cats sitting on the mantelpiece – which was made of plastic, though it looked like stone.
Apart from the fireplace and the cats, everything in the room was pink, including the curtains, cushions and carpet.
‘Where’s the TV?’ Marcus inquired, when he saw that there wasn’t one. ‘Is it hidden somewhere?’
‘It’s out the back.’ Coco waggled her fingers at the rear wall. ‘In our rumpus room.’
‘There’s a
rumpus room?
’ Holly squeaked.
‘It’s just a little lean-to. You can dismantle it in about ten seconds flat,’ Coco assured her, before turning back to Marcus. ‘Why don’t you go and find the other kids, sweetie? They’ll show you how the equipment works. It’s no good asking me; I’m hopeless.’
‘Okay.’ Marcus was keen to explore the rest of the caravan. ‘So where
are
the other kids?’
‘God knows. Upstairs, probably.’ Coco waggled her fingers again – at the ceiling, this time. ‘Either that or they’re in the gym.’
‘There’s a
gym
?’ cried Holly.
‘It’s just an inflatable thing like a jumping castle. It comes in a box,’ Coco replied. To Marcus she said, ‘Keep looking – you’ll find them somewhere. It’s only a caravan, after all. It’s really not
that
big . . .’
M
ARCUS
’
S FIRST STOP WAS THE KITCHENETTE
. H
ERE HE
found Prot trying to open the fridge door, which kept hitting the robot’s caterpillar treads and springing shut, over and over and over again.
‘Hey, Prot,’ said Marcus, as he came to the rescue, ‘is there an Xbox in this place?’
‘You want eggs?’ Prot droned. ‘In a box?’
‘No, no. An
Xbox
. Or a Wii console. Something like that.’
‘You have a weakened sole? You require a shoe repair?’
Marcus rolled his eyes, just as a grufflittle voice behind him warned, ‘It’s no good talking to Prot
.
He never understands
anything
.’
Turning, Marcus was surprised to see a very small boy in a suit of armour. The armour had been constructed out of tinfoil, flowerpots, kitchen utensils and computer equipment. The boy underneath it had unruly hair and no front teeth.
‘I’m Edison Huckstepp,’ the boy announced. ‘Who are you?’