Merboy went out one afternoon to hunt for shells. I remember him tanned at the dusk-end of a summer; barefoot, covered with whole, undamaged skin. He crashed through the bluebell woods lining the creek, on past the boat-house, up the track to the end of the headland, where he paused to look out over Great Mew and Little Mew, towards Plymouth Sound, before running through crisp, fading bracken down to Cellar Beach. The beach was empty at the end of the summer: the yachties had left. He paddled the water’s edge, crabbing along, bent double, scooping up handfuls of sand, sifting them through his fingers. He watched his hands change colour each time he dipped them in the sea to rinse away the sand that was left. He did this for ages as the light deepened and stretched the shadows. I remember Merboy reaching the rocks at the far end of the beach and digging deep, feeling coarse sand grate beneath his nails, pulling the reluctant pile through foaming water. I remember him standing and letting dollops of heavy, damp sand fall, until left resting on his palm was a wendletrap, at least three inches long. He stared at it and closed his hands round the shell before rinsing it and lifting it to the falling sun. He counted the pale, fawn ridges to be sure — fifteen whorls. An undamaged, three-inch wendletrap. A dinghy rounded the headland and he looked up, distracted by the buzzing of an outboard. The man waved and Merboy flapped a hand in his direction (and nothing happened). I remember Merboy looking back to his hand and seeing pale flesh emerging tentatively from the shell. He looked at it for a long time. I don’t remember what he thought as he looked at the animal and neither do I remember what he felt in his heart but I do remember Merboy drawing back his arm suddenly and throwing the unique, spiralling shell back into the water. He watched its fall and splash, then turned to run back through the bluebell woods, running home to his mother, wanting to knock aside her book and sit on her lap.