Page 89 of One Summer

Anne and Gilbert must have had sex. A bunch of times, given all the children. Probably really good sex.

This is a weird thought that disturbs me more than it should. Obviously, I have no interest in Caleb in that sense. Even if I did find him attractive, it would be way too awkward, given the proximity of our living quarters.

And what was that thing Henny used to talk about? The propinquity effect. That if you see someone repeatedly, you’re more likely to develop feelings of some sort for them. It’s practically an inevitability. It doesn’t have to mean anything profound, or hint at a deep connection; it’s just basic human psychology.

When he’s finished helping the group of men, Caleb bounds back to me looking flushed and happy.

‘So why were you so upset earlier?’ he asks, out of nowhere. ‘Did you hear from your ex?’

‘No. It’s me. I’m the problem.’

‘Why?’

‘I really want to check his YouTube channel. I haven’t touched it for a week and I’m starting to feel a bit stir-crazy.’

‘Why do you want to look at that – won’t it just make you feel worse, if you have to see him and hear him?’

He looks back at the sandcastle, where the waves are already surging in and overcoming the defences.

‘It’s a compulsion. I need to know.’

I watch as one of the men places a flag on the sandcastle. It’s not a black and white Cornish flag; it is 100 per cent red.

‘I really don’t think you should,’ he says, which is when I make up my mind: I’ll look as soon as I get back to the house.

Seventy-Three

Posy

I have to look. Fighting it is just making me depressed. Plus, I want to see Max, hear his voice. I know I’m just twisting the knife in my own back; this internet surveillance won’t hurt him, it’ll only hurt me. But I have to do it anyway.

I click on his channel and see that he’s posted a video from Detectorville – an Oxfordshire jamboree for metal-detecting enthusiasts – hundreds of them – who pay to detect new fields during the day, and get drunk in the beer marquee in the evening, before stumbling back to their two-man tents.

In the preview, he’s hinted at some extraordinary find and actually used the word ‘treasure’.

I flick my eyes down to the comments and see numerous repetitions of another word: Congratulations.

He must’ve found gold. Nothing gets detectorists excited like gold. Most of them even have a special dance up their sleeve for the occasion. Max does a ‘mudlark moonwalk’ whenever he finds anything good. Which is hard, on a foreshore full of bricks and divots. But he tries.

I watch the episode, scrolling forward every time he finds something that isn’t the treasure. And then he gets to it.

He pulls something out of a clod of earth. It’s a finger ring, yellow as egg yolk. It’s old, the purest gold, with a dark-purple stone worked into a rudimentary, slightly wonky setting.

Even more importantly that this, it is inscribed. Personalised finds are always the most special, the most coveted by detectorists, and this ring is inscribed with the words, Alas for fayte.

This is treasure, the very best kind – a posy ring – and Max is moonwalking harder than he’s moonwalked in his whole life. Then he’s lying on the ground and filming the sky, breathlessly taking the viewer through the specifics of the rarity and potential historical value of this coin.

When he’s finally calm enough to speak normally, he sits up and films a woman running towards him. He dislodges his camera from his chest harness and passes it to another friend behind him with the instruction to, ‘Please film this.’

The woman is Greta. Of course it is. I watch, transfixed, as he lifts her up and spins her round.

Then, he kisses her passionately and drops to one knee.

‘Will you marry me?’ he says, holding up the priceless, mud-encrusted artefact.

‘Oh my god, yes!’ she squeals, sliding the ring onto her finger.

A perfect fit. Just like them.

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