About the Author

Gillian Best

GILLIAN BEST is a writer, swimmer, and seaside enthusiast. She won the Bronwen Wallace Award for Short Fiction and was a finalist for the Bridport Prize International Creative Writing Competition and Wasafiri’s New Writing Prize. She was also longlisted for the WriteIdea Short Story Prize. She has studied at York University, University College Falmouth, and the University of Glasgow. Originally from Waterloo, Canada, she now lives in Bristol, U.K.

Books by this Author
The Last Wave

“Martha!” I heard my father call from the foot of the stairs. “Put your shoes on and grab a jumper, love.”

I looked out my bedroom window across the rooftops that stretched out towards the flash of the sea on the horizon. The sky was clear and though it wasn’t the bright blue of picture postcards, it seemed like the day was warm enough to go without a jumper which stood every chance of being lost or forgotten, but I did as I was told, taking my least favourite cardigan — mint green with a Peter Pan collar that I despised because it looked like a lime sherbet sweet — and hoping that the outing might provide a believable excuse for me to be rid of it. Though, if having to carry around a cardigan were the price of the excursion, I would happily pay it. Invitations like this did not come around often and if I behaved myself the chance of a second invitation seemed good. Fishing held no interest to me, but the prospect of leaving the confines of our house, garden and road was thrilling. Such escapes were few and far between, even now, a year after the war had ended.

My father stood by the door with his fishing line and a metal lunchbox that I knew contained the hooks and worms he would need my help with. I presented myself to him: feet together, back straight, saluting. It was a habit I had developed when he had come back from the fighting and I had hoped it would convince him that I was respectful and knowledgeable enough to hear about his adventures in France, especially the story that would explain how he had lost his right arm. It didn’t work, but it was one of the few things that could make his face soften.

“You carry the tackle,” he said, as he stepped out of the way so I could open the door for him.

I turned the handle and stepped aside. He walked past me, not stopping to make sure I had closed the door properly which made it perfectly clear to me that he and I were not going fishing together, but rather that I was an interloper and would have to pull my own weight and do my best to keep up.

“There is to be no talking,” my father said, when I had caught up to him.

I nodded in agreement. This was serious business.

“You’re to put one worm on each hook. No more, no less.”

I nodded.

“Take care not to drop the worm. I don’t want to be surrounded by dead worm bodies the rest of the afternoon.”

I kept nodding my head.

“And you’re not to jump and dance around. Not like last time.”

Last time I had not been at my best. I had been listening to the radio quite intensely the week before and worked out an elaborate dance I had insisted on demonstrating for my father and his friends. My father was not impressed, but it hadn’t mattered. I was captivated by the sound of my feet on the wooden slats of the pier, mixed with the echo from the waves washing up on shore and that had been more than enough excitement to fill my mind to near bursting, leaving little room for his lecture on proper behaviour.

“Keep out of the way,” he said. “And be quiet.”

This last instruction was the most important.

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