Lighter parts – traces of leather sandal straps – meet with tiny
Human grid – I say quietly.
protrusions made of ligaments and veins. My first memory, I say to Paul, is connected to the soles of my feet. Some four
Sorry?
inches long, they want to carry the strong body of a three-yearold girl to the other side of a metal grid. I remember pine tree
Our grid is for people, not for cattle. So we
needles that stick lightly into the tender, still spotless skin,
can call it a human grid. – I stutter.
leaving behind traces of sap and sticky Mediterranean dust. I try to detect the most painless possible way of getting the feet
That sounds a bit apocalyptic, don’t you think? –
across the obstacle. Because once before, the feet reached out
Paul blows away the smoke and moves the ceramic
across, but were stopped by sharp metal edges which cut deep
ashtray from his naked stomach on to the floor. – In
into the child’s skin. Unaccustomed to pain, the feet pulled
translation, you always have to be careful with
back. I fiddle with my red cotton shorts that are tight around
overstatements. English can’t take overstatements.
my soft loins and I look closely at what goes on in the empty spaces of the metal grid. In the corners, there is densely packed
Of course it can’t – I mutter to myself and reach out
soil and in the middle I see black ants burdened with bread
for my part of the bedding – In English, the word sea
crumbs stolen from our hotel breakfast. It would be clever to
is an overstatement. – I strike back with vengeance,
step on the grid where the soil has filled up the gaps – that
bringing my wish to be understood to an end.
would make the child’s body less heavy on the metal edges. But the feet care little about rational calculations. When they
For Paul, words which describe the watercolours of my
hear their mother’s voice calling them, without thinking, they
soul have a meaning, but they lack sense. He couldn’t
dash across their hurdle, forgetting the pain which remains
understand why I wanted to see the Irish Sea in the
thumping in the arches of their soles for a long time.
north-west of England. Our house is only ten miles away from the coast, where the river and sea meet in a gentle
What do you call this metal grid in English? – I ask
plain. Still, it took months before I finally talked him
Paul, because it is important that he understands
into showing me the sand banks of Arnside Knot. On
my earliest memory. – The grid people have in front
the town promenade, the access to the sea is guarded
of the door to brush mud from their shoes?
by a bright red fence. In spite of the harsh wind and the lack of sun, local people take their daily walks along
Paul takes a pull on his freshly lit cigarette with a deep sigh and
the waterfront, checking the dangerous tide which either
looks blankly into the white ceiling. – We don’t have such a thing
floods the beach or makes it into a vast muddy wasteland.
– he finally disappoints me – hang on, yes, on farms... There are
Everybody keeps away from the metal frontier with the
these grids which people have to prevent cattle from leaving their
grey expanse, in which islands of sand emerge in the
enclosed space. A cattle grid. But they are much wider. You see.
distance. In Arnside, it is difficult to squat down by the
If a cow wanted to stroll off, its hoof would get caught in the grid
sea and touch the supple surface with the palms of your
– Paul says peeping at the intellectual expression on my face,
hands. I was surprised at the teacher who was trying
from which the last traces of sensual surrender have disappeared.
to get the children away from the sea in panic. She