The boy in the passenger seat of the tatty old Land Rover clung like grim death to the door handle. He'd grown taller in the last year and, when they hit the larger potholes, he would be thrown upward and his head slapped by the grimy, fly-specked headlining that was partly detached from the roof of the vehicle.

He braced his feet as best he could but it was hard to find space amongst the baling twine offcuts, oily rags, empty drink bottles, fishing line, bits of shell, jump leads, used air filters and old newspapers that covered the floor. He thought that perhaps last summer, his feet hadn't even reached the floor. On reflection, he was almost as tall as his aunt now so he was probably correct in that assumption.

It was the summer holidays and the patchwork of recently-baled hay paddocks stretched out before them as far as the eye could see. The hedges had lost the lush brightness of spring and were dense and dark green. The scattered clumps of trees grew sideways and the sea sparkled, dark blue and foam-capped, with waves whipped about, all by the relentless Cornish coastal breeze.

He fidgeted in his seat, his long, bare legs sticking to the worn vinyl. Looking out over the water with his soft blue-grey eyes wrinkled up into their almost-permanent serious scowl, he hoped that the trip to town would afford him a chance to wander the rock pools of Roscarrock Cove. It would depend on the tide he supposed, and whether Auntie Joan needed him to help her, or if he were able to roam unsupervised. He was allowed more freedom this summer as he was ten and a half years old, sensible and intelligent, and trusted by his aunt and uncle, who adored him.

The driver, his aunt, was singing as loudly as she could but her version of 'Piano Man' was barely audible above the screaming engine and whining differential of the clapped out old Land Rover she was driving. Her suntanned hands gripped the huge steering wheel as she slowed down on the approach to a sharpish bend. For a brief moment, the engine noise was less overwhelming, so she turned to face to her passenger, and with broad smile yelled:

"Now Paul is a real estate novelist,

That never had time for a wiiiiiife,

And he's talking with Davy,

Who's still in the navy,

and probably will be for liiiiiiiife"

The boy grinned back at her, his face transformed. When he wasn't worried about the torment by his school fellows, Marty liked to sing. He had a pleasant voice and his Auntie Joan always had the radio playing in the kitchen of her farmhouse, and she encouraged him to join her as she warbled along to her favourite popular tunes. When she didn't know all the lyrics, she'd often just make them up or change them around, amusingly, so they were about him. But, mostly, he'd just join in, quite oblivious to the meaning of the words, just to enjoy the fun of singing duets, at the top of their lungs, with his Aunt.

But, there'd been the incident yesterday when his voice cracked several times during their version of 'Band on The Run'. His aunt had looked over at him with a strange, sad look in her eyes but she'd smiled at him too; her sweet, shy, awkward nephew.

Scientifically, Marty understood what it was all about. He'd read everything he could find about puberty after the mysterious lecture his form had had from the school nurse, so he wasn't surprised. Holidays on the farm had prepared him somewhat for the mysteries of reproduction. Slightly horrified, but resigned to the inevitable, it was just another thing to deal with in his already unhappy and confounding world.

Marty turned his attention back to Paul who was something called a Real Estate Novelist, whatever that was. (It sounded dreary.) He didn't quite understand why Paul never had time for a wife though. He must be very important and successful, or do a lot of charity work. Marty could understand easily how those virtues meant you would never have time for your child. Especially if he were a naughty, disappointing sort of a son who was always making his parents angry. But, did it mean that you didn't have to have a wife if you didn't want to? He would have to ask Uncle Phil later. All the adult males he knew seemed to have wives. It didn't make sense.

They turned off the main road and past the Welcome To Port Wenn sign, bouncing down the steep, hedgerow-lined road, until the town enfolded in front of them. A practiced hand, Auntie John negotiated the narrow streets with ease and, as they pulled up on the sand by the Platt, Marty was pleased to see that the tide was almost out. He felt for the empty jam jar in his pocket, appropriated earlier in the day in case he found any interesting specimens, and was relieved to discover that it was still in tact.

His aunt looked at him with that funny upside-down smile she had. Her eyes were piercing and blue and she spoke firmly but kindly to him. He knew, however, that when she asked to him to do something, she expected it done.

"It's a quarter past two, Marty, I have some errands to run and some people to catch up with. I will meet you back here in exactly an hour. Stay away from the fishing boats and don't go into the water."

"I umm, I wanted to go to the rockpools. The tide is out. It should be fine. Please may I?"

"Right then, have fun but be careful of your shoes. I don't want to explain to your father why your footwear is ruined. Neither of us need that."

Joan saw the flicker of fear pass across her nephew's face and she felt a stab of remorse, regretting instantly the mention of her appalling brother. She reached across and ruffled Marty's short hair affectionately.

"Off you go then. See that you find some interesting things to show Uncle Phil tonight."

Joan stood there for a moment and watched him turn quickly and half walk, half run along the path. Each time he visited, she noticed he was more insular. This visit it had really struck her; whatever private internal world he had created for himself, the walls were becoming taller and harder to breach. His face was often impassive and he seemed to have lost all joy. And she didn't know what else they could do to help.

ooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

I actually prefer to be by myself most of the time but, at school, unless I hide, there's little opportunity. Torment is always hiding around a corner and they never leave me alone. When I do come to the farm for my holidays, mostly, my Auntie Joan lets me do what I want. She does like me to show her when I've collected something or fixed something or solved a puzzle. I find it a bit hard to tell her though. I'm used to just doing things for myself.

There are lots of interesting things at the farm, machinery and suchlike, and I really like to know how things work. Uncle Phil doesn't get annoyed at me when I ask questions. He likes to show me things like how clocks work, and electrical currents, and carburettors, and cameras. I want to learn everything I jolly well can because no one can take that away from me. I'm collating a lot of information in my head and the I love the way everything fits together so logically in science.

When I was just a little boy, Uncle Phil showed me how to look things up in the heavy encyclopaedias that fill the bottom shelves in his office. I'd just taken apart his radio and I couldn't quite get it to work properly when I put it back together. I was really frightened but he wasn't angry at me. He just told me it was good that I had a Thirst For Knowledge but that I should ask permission before dismantling other people's things. Then we sat down in the kitchen, we took it apart again,and he showed me where I'd gone wrong. I know if I find anything interesting today, Uncle Phil will want me to tell him all about it. Then, when it's dark and if it's a clear night, we will all sit outside on the terrace and he will point out the constellations that he knows the name of. I'm not sure how I feel about outer space but it can't hurt to know a bit about it.

I'm exhilarated to be down by the sea, without anyone to bother me. Before I leave the path to head on to the sand, I sit on the grass and remove my socks and shoes, and then set them neatly in the shade of a scrubby Centranthus ruber plant. I notice how the foliage appears burnt and brown, and there is an unpleasant odour detectable, which leads me to conclude that this is a popular spot for boy dogs to 'mark' their territory. Disgusted, I pick up my shoes and socks and move them to the top of a large rocky outcrop a bit further down the path. At school, my things are always getting hidden, or destroyed, or held to ransom so I usually have to be very careful not to leave my self open to that sort of thing. I even hesitate about leaving my shoes here but eventually I reassure myself and head off briskly towards the rocky outcrop of pools to my left.

I'd like to find a specimen of Clibanarius erythropus but after several unsuccessful searches, I now believe that Port Wenn is too far north. I'm always hopeful though, after a southerly gale such as the one we had over the weekend, that I might find something of interest. Sometimes I observe small fish in the pools but they are hard to see today with the glare of the midday sun. Drying my hands on my handkerchief, I unclip the heavy leather protective cover from my watch and observe that I really need to start making my way back to town. Time has flown by, and the wind is cool and is now becoming quite blustery. The tide is has turned and the sky is more overcast. Big, dark cumulus clouds are looming on the horizon, and I only have a light jacket to protect me should it rain.

When I get back to the rock, I am overwhelmed by a wave of nausea because I notice my shoes are no longer where I left them. I look around anxiously to see if I can see any jeering faces or triumphant smirks but there is no one to be seen. It appears I am alone.

In my head, I see my father, removing his belt and I anticipate the agonising sting as he flays my legs and the leather bites into my flesh. I am the very naughty, ungrateful, irresponsible boy who had lost his new shoes. The bile rises to my throat and I can't help myself. I begin to cry.

Sometimes, when I begin to cry about a little thing, the Unfairness of Everything just takes over and I just blub uncontrollably. I feel a big jumble of angry and frustrated and sad, and it's just awful. Everyone tells me I'm a crybaby and that just makes everything worse. And the vile boys at school just want to provoke me. It doesn't seem to matter how hard I try to do the right thing, I always mess it up. Tears roll down my face and I fumble in the pocket of my shorts for my wet, sandy handkerchief.

I sit on the grass now, taking deep, gasping breaths and trying desperately to calm myself down. Through the blurry tears, I think I can see a sock on the path. No, actually, both my socks are there which is a huge relief. Maybe a dog has taken my shoes and they will have dropped them somewhere close. I stand up to retrieve my socks and I notice there's a sort of empty drain or large hole next to the path as it forks away to the cliffs.

Then, I think I can hear someone in there. Muttering or laughing, I can't quite make it out. I wipe my face again, draw myself up to my my full height and step to the edge of the ditch. Glowering furiously, and hoping my voice doesn't crack, I shout as loudly and threateningly as I can:

"Give me back my shoes you ARSE!"

Sitting in the bottom of the hole is a small, surprised child. I'm not very good at the ages of children because I avoid them as much as I can but I'd hazard a guess at three or four years old. She is wearing one of my shoes on the wrong foot and the other one is in her hand, half filled with sand.

She looks alarmed, and then as if she were about to cry but then she thinks better of it, and stares back at me with large, green eyes.

"Woss your name?" She asks, still staring.

"Where's your mother?" I demand in return, struggling to control the annoyance in my voice.

The little girl looked around vaguely and then, to my horror, looked she was going to cry again. I haven't had much to do with girls and I really don't like it when they cry. Suddenly she smiles at me. I'm confused at how quickly her expressions change and I realise I'm holding my breath. She seems a very emotional sort of baby and I'm not sure how I can retrieve my shoes without making a scene. Her smile is replaced by a frown.

"Woss your name?" She asks again, in a more demanding tone.

I sit down on the edge of the ditch and realise that I have no idea how to talk to babies.

"Ummm, Martin. My name is Martin. Can I have my shoes back please?"

I was dismayed to see that she clutched the sand-filled shoe even more tightly to her chest.

"Marr-tin." Now she is frowning again.

I wracked my brain for something to say to her. I just want my blasted shoes back.

"What's your name?" I say, trying to sound interested.

She gave me a shy smile. "Wheezer" she said proudly.

"Very nice to meet you, Wheezer." I said, with my best manners. "Do you live around here?"

She gestured back towards the town with my sand filled shoe, flicking a large portion of its contents over my head and shoulders, and smiling at me with an even broader grin.

"Do you want to go home?" I asked, desperately hoping that my tone sounded kind and encouraging. "Shall we try and find your, ahh, mum?"

Wheezer bit on her lip and looked up at me from under her erratically trimmed fringe. Now her face was bare of emotion. She looked as if she were weighing up her options. I started to feel annoyed.

Then it came to me in a flash of brilliance.

"Wheezer, would you like an Ice Cream?" I said softly. "We can go and find my Auntie Joan and she will buy us one."

" Joan!" She said with a squeal, and I was very relieved when she stood up, dropped my shoe, and held both arms up for me to lift her out of the ditch.

I was very tempted to just grab my shoes and run away but thought better of it. I was honour-bound now to get the baby an ice cream. I retrieved my shoes, shook them out as best I could and put them back on.

"Right then, uhhh, Wheezer. Let's, ummm, let's go and find an ice cream, and get you back to your mum."

She reached up to hold my hand and I honestly felt a bit disgusted but I took it. I don't really like people touching me but she was just a kid and clearly not one with anybody to take care of her properly. Her face looked to have the remains of her lunch still smeared around her mouth. She was in a grubby, greyish, crocheted dress; her feet and legs were bare and very dirty, and her thick dark hair was tied up in two uneven pigtails which were, by this time, fairly encrusted in sand and dead leaves from the ditch.

I felt a flash of anger at feeble parents who bring children into the world and then just don't look after them. Just a little kid, surrounded by danger everywhere; only yards from the roaring sea, steep cliffs and jagged rocks. Trustingly taking the hand of a complete stranger. My Auntie Joan had warned me about that when I first came to stay. My anger at Wheezer's neglectful family grew with every step.

It took a lot longer to walk back to Port Wenn than I'd hoped. We were being buffeted by a strong cross wind and the sun had now disappeared behind angry clouds. After a few minutes, Wheezer declared that she was cold. I had only my thin jacket over my shirt but I'd been brought up in such a way that it was expected that I give her my jacket. I winced at the thought of those filthy, sticky fingers all over it but I helped her put it on, and she smiled and took my hand again.

We hadn't walked more than 100 yards when she stopped abruptly again, this time declaring herself to be what I thought she said was tired. I looked around me in despair. There was no sight of a search party, only a few sheltering gulls nearby, and wandering dog in the distance.

"Pibby Bag?" Wheezer asked me imploringly. She held both arms up to me and started doing little jumps off the ground "Pibby Baaaaaaaaaag" she said as her words turned into a strangled whine.

My spirit flagged. I'd once sat on a train where a small child in the seat opposite me had whined for four hours without pause and I wasn't keen on that sort of carry on. Feeling resigned to my fate, we went over to a large rock where I crouched down, she clambered onto my shoulders, and I used the rock to pull my self up. Wheezer grabbed me so tightly around the collar, I feared I might choke but, when I tried to discourage her, she grabbed my ear in her little fist and I winced.

"Not the ears, Wheezer!" I shouted and she immediately let go. Finally she settled on leaning against the back of my head and holding my chin in one hand and my shirt collar in the other. To balance her, I held on to ankles, her filthy, disgusting feet just inches from my face.

Fortunately, we were almost back in Port Wenn so I didn't have far to carry her. I made my way past the beach, threading my way through both locals and tourists, and I was surprised that no one said anything to me until I was almost back at the Land Rover. Even then it was just a local fisherman telling me that my Aunt was waiting for me.

I could see her leaning against the dusty vehicle, her hands shielding her eyes from the sun as she peered towards me. By now, I was starting to stagger and Wheezer was started to wriggle and writhe and fuss.

"Martin?" Auntie Joan said incredulously as I got up close to her. "What on earth are you doing?"

I stopped, glared at her, and spun around.

"Could you get her down off me now please, Auntie Joan? She's heavy and she wants to fall off." I replied tersely. I was feeling really fed up now.

"Goodness Marty, it's Eleanor's little girl I think. What are you doing with her?"

Suddenly, I felt a lot of anger swell up in me. It happens sometimes. I love Auntie Joan but sometimes she makes me as unhappy and frustrated as every other person I know.

"I don't want the stupid kid!" I yelled "She was down at the rockpools, lost and I didn't know what else to do. It's NOT. MY. FAULT!"

I felt the tears welling again but this time I was furious, and determined not to cry. A lone tear escaped and ran down by cheek. I used the side of the Land Rover to slide down into a crouching position, leaned back and let go of Wheezer's ankles.

"Please get off now." I managed to say. "Please Wheezer."

Reluctantly, she did as she was asked and I turned to face her so that I could retrieve my jacket.

She put a filthy hand up to face and touched my cheek.

"Don't cry Marr-tin" she said very gently.

I stood up and leaned against the Land Rover, my arms crossed in front of me, staring at the ground and swallowing hard. Auntie Joan looked at me but didn't say anything. She picked up Wheezer and swung her onto her hip.

"Yes, well, I know where she lives, it will be quicker to drive her home from here. I'll just let Bert Large know what we're doing in case anyone is looking for her. Buck up Marty, you've done well. Don't spoil it."

We drove up and out of harbour to Wheezers house. She sat in between us on the front seat and we placated her with some old, boiled sweets we found in the glovebox. Auntie Joan stopped the vehicle outside a tiny, grimy cottage at the back of the hill. There appeared to be a lot of salvaged and second hand material piled down the side of the building. The tarpaulins covering it all were perished, and flapped wildly in the cottage had a small yard in front with long unkempt grass, and the gate was rusted and hanging off it's hinges. To the right was a steep, narrow goat track and Auntie Joan told me that it ran down to Roscarrock Cove.

There was very loud music playing inside the house, and I could hear raised voices and the raucous laughter. There was also a strong odour of weirdly scented, aromatic smoke. I wrinkled my nose and frowned in disgust.

Wheezer seemed to know she was home though she didn't appear to be very excited to be there. She clung tightly on to my hand, leaned away from me, and spun around on one leg, singing to herself. I felt the same way I did when Auntie Joan made me responsible for feeding the orphan lambs. When you are responsible for something, you have to take that very seriously. But, Wheezer's hand was soft and sticky and I wasn't enjoying holding on to it at all. Where was her blasted mother?

Auntie Joan went to the front door and called out firmly. After a moment or so, a scruffy man with a long beard and bare feet came to the door. I recognised him to be one of the sort of people that Uncle Phil had told me are called hippies and that live in this part of Port Wenn. Moments later, a woman seemed to float out, looking like she was wrapped in colourful sheets. She had flaming red hair, a bottle in one hand and a smirking face. I immediately didn't like her.

Auntie Joan said something to her quietly and she responded by laughing. She looked over at us and said:

"Lou-Lou, where have you been, you little bugger?"

Then she laughed again, took a big inelegant swig from her bottle and let out a very loud burp. The horrid man guffawed as if it were the funniest thing he'd ever seen. I watched in absolute horror. What awful manners.

Meanwhile, I was still standing by the road and I still had hold of Wheezer's hand because her mother didn't seem interested in coming to retrieve her. Auntie Joan started to look sternly at the woman whom I had now realised was drunk. They exchanged words but I couldn't quite make out the conversation until the woman said pointedly and very loudly:

"Oh, sod off Joan. You've got a nerve, coming round here to lecture me on behaviour."

I saw the expression change on Auntie Joan's face. She coloured, and then looked over at me with a horrified expression on her face. The woman and her friend started to cackle. Suddenly, inside, someone turned the music up. The windows hummed like they were vibrating and I looked down at the filthy dirty kid, now drawing patterns in the dirt by feet, and back at my Aunt who was beetroot red and looked mortified.

Suddenly it felt like a red mist had passed over my eyes and I felt an overwhelming rage well up inside me. I felt overwhelmed with resentment and anger and frustration.

"You horrible woman!" I shouted at Eleanor. "She must have been missing for hours and you couldn't care less! You are disgusting! People like you don't deserve children. You...you...you..are a terrible mother!"

With that, the tears welled again. But this time I fought them desperately, and I stood on the side of the road glowering at her as fiercely as I could manage. I couldn't believe I had just spoken like that to an adult and I realised that I was going to be in a lot of trouble.

"Goodness!" Eleanor said, lifting her head and looking at me down her nose. "You're a feisty one. You should learn to go with the flow.

"Lou Lou, get in here now " She said crossly, turning her gaze to the little girl, before looking back at me

"Lord Muck." She spat at me before spinning around in a flurry of colour, and staggering back inside the house.

"You'd better go with your mum, Wheezer." I said and looked helplessly at my Aunt.

Joan came towards me, reached out and I passed Wheezer over the fence to her. Auntie Joan carried her over to the house, pushed her gently through the door and pulled it closed.

"I'm going to have to keep and eye on that poor little thing, Marty" she said and she sounded worried.

We clambered back into the Land Rover, and it was a long and silent drive home to Haven House Farm.