His week started Sunday morning, since they'd agreed that it was too much to land him with cleaning up from the holidays. But there'd still been dirty clothes left over on Sunday morning, so that's where he'd started, learning to separate the colours and the whites under his mum's watchful eyes. She'd said that he could ask for her advice anytime he wanted, but she was going to watch him like a hawk in the laundry, they couldn't afford any screw ups there.Then he'd made them all breakfast, done the dishes, tidied the kitchen until his mum was satisfied, gone back to the laundry, tidied the lounge, gone out and mowed the lawn, come back in and done lunch ... where had his morning gone?After lunch, his mum pointed out that he actually had a couple hours of freedom as she went off to the gym. Chris sucked in his breath, gritted his teeth, and rode his bike around to Lisa's house. It'd come to him in the middle of the night, a bitterly cold night out under the stars while on holiday: he. He let his consciousness drift out to sea like some white-winged sea-bird, until a new sound cut through his contemplations. That had to be hiking boots scraping granite gravel. Damn! He decided to pretend to be asleep — like, he was respectably covered and hadn’t moved for an hour anyway. He listened. Boots on gravel — they’re on the flat bit on the other side of the pool. Only one person, he realised. Let them get on with whatever they’d come up here for and wait until they’d gone. No tinkling from carbine hooks, so it wasn’t a rock-climber. Sailcloth swish — a day-pack being pulled off a shoulder and dropped on the granite? Velcro buzz — feet being released from hiking boots? Rustling sounds — clothes? Yes, because now the sounds of wading and swimming. His secret swimming-hole wasn’t a secret any more — had he lost his place of refuge? Three strokes out, but instead of three strokes back there were more wading sounds followed by wet bare feet on rock. On this side, damn! Water.
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