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even though on three sides of the cobbled
square the walls soared up twenty feet. Behind him, the seafort rose
a good thirty feet in its butter-colored stone. The dozen or so
windows set high in the walls reflected the evening sunshine.

    Entrance
to the courtyard was through a set of huge double timber gates set in
the wall. They were so big you could drive a bus through them. The
hinges had corroded badly on one of the gates; it rested uselessly
against the wall. Just one more job among the thousands of others to
be completed before the seafort opened next spring.

    In
one corner of the courtyard, a narrow flight of stone steps ran up to
the walkway that ran around the top of the wall.

    "Your
lad's got a fair old imagination," chuckled the caravan man as
he walked across to Chris, wiping his oil-black hands on the seat of
his overalls. "Flying? He makes the flipping head spin. Right,
you've got the, er ... doings."

    It's
funny how some words in certain situations are taboo, thought Chris.
The man obviously considered it vulgar to say the word "check".

    He
tore the oblong piece of paper from the stub. "Thanks for all
the help. Now at least we've got a home."

    The
man looked around the courtyard. "Solid-looking place." He
shot Chris a look. "Don't you reckon you might find it a bit...
spooky?"

    "You
won't recognize the place in twelve months. New windows, swimming
pool, soft landscaping, a few climbing vines along that wall. And
we'll have plenty of company ... paying company, I hope. This time
next year, call in for a drink. It'll be on the house."

    The
caravan man leaned forward and shook Chris by the hand. "I'll
hold you to that, me old cocker. Thanks for the... doings." He
pocketed the check. "See ya, son," he said to David.
"Remember, go steady with the flying. No more of them black
eyes." He strode away to his truck parked on the causeway.
Already the tide was sliding in to lap at the boulders that raised
the roadway above the beach.

    "Okay,"
said Chris, ruffling David's thick hair. "Let's see what Mother
has to say about the new home."

    Ruth
had started to unpack. Boxes of food, cutlery, pans, detergents,
toilet rolls, shoes and David's toys covered the floor.

    On
the dining table stood the fishbowl that contained Clark Kent. The
fish swam listlessly, its mouth clamped to the undersurface of the
water like an upside-down Hoover. All this moving from house to hotel
to caravan hadn't done the poor beggar much good.

    Ruth
slung a cardboard box through the caravan door onto the courtyard.

    "What
do you two want?" Her face was pink with exertion. "There
won't be any tea for a long time. And it'll be sandwiches, cake and
pop. We haven't got any gas bottles yet."

    "Have
we got electricity?" asked David.

    "Sure
have, kidda." Chris switched on a light to emphasize the point.
"Just like home."

    David
smiled. "I like it. It'll be like being at home but being on
holiday at the same time."

    "That's
right. We'll be living at the seaside-forever and ever."

    "Amen,"
added Ruth, then smiled to disguise any cynicism.

    "Anything
we can do?"

    "Yes.
Go. Give me an hour to get this place in shape, then you can come
back and give me a hand to make tea."

    "You're
the boss, Ruth. Come on, David. Let's explore."

    Chris
and David walked toward the double timber doors that led into the
seafort.

    "Dad?"

    "Yes?"

    "I
might do some more flying tomorrow."

    Chris
groaned inwardly. David was in a happy, prattling mood.

    "You
know when I was on top of the elephant, Dad? I felt really light like
one of those soap bubbles. Then I was flying."

    "David
..." They had reached the doors to the building.

    "
... the clouds. I wanted to see if you can really stand on them."

    Chris
crouched down and took his son's head in his hands so he could look
at him face-to-face. He kissed him on the forehead, just above the
bruised eye. "David, enough of these flying stories now, eh,
son?"

    "But,
Dad, I really did fly."

    Chris
looked into those