my temper. She plucked at the sleeves of her sweatshirt, rubbed her arms as if she was cold, and then sighed and picked up the kettle. But there wasnât any water â not until her plumber returned â and she called for Colin to come away from the television. She gave him the kettle and sent him next door, and as the gate rattled behind him she quietly said, It was all a long time ago, Paul. I donât see the point in dragging it up now; I think you just ought to leave it. But of course I could never do that. I got from my chair and persisted; I stood where she couldnât ignore me. Is that why they got married, Aunt Rene? Because Mum was pregnant, because she was forced to? No, she said sharply; your mum and dad were in love, Paul; they got married because they wanted to. I shook my head. I donât believe you, I said; I think thatâs just rubbish, Aunt Rene. I think youâre lying. And she glared at me then. She tightened her mouth and pushed past me, flung open the back door. Well, thereâs the fucking gate, Paul! she shouted, waving her arm. Go and interrogate your father. Better still, ask your bloody grandad. Because it has nothing to do with me, it never bloody did, and I wonât be called a liar in my own fucking house! Her face and her arm were shaking. And though I knew that I ought to apologise â and still wanted to talk about Susan â I picked up my jacket and went; I turned for the hallway and left by the front door, slamming it after me.
EIGHTEEN
On the patio outside the Golden Sands Cafeteria thereâs a fibre-glass ice-cream, two metres tall, and a board saying Leisure Fun Pleasure. A gifts carousel turns in the wind. The white plastic chairs are stacked up in fours, the striped parasols lowered, and a line of plump gulls sits perched on the railings. We often came here as students, and once I took a photo of Ruth standing next to the ice-cream, hunched beneath an umbrella in her fur-hooded parka, sipping tea from a styrofoam cup. That too was December, and later, much later, when we began to visit with you, I tried to take another just like it. I remember the afternoon sun was sharp in your eyes, and the cornet Iâd bought you melted on to your hand, then you complained you were seasick. You wouldnât stand still, refused to smile when I asked you, and in the end I gave up; I said we were leaving. But this café, you insisted, was your favourite. A square wooden shack with windows all round, there was the beach below to the right, a small playground behind it. The old man inside sometimes remembered your name. You said you wanted to stay â you wanted to play on the swings â but I was not listening. I walked on ahead, and it was Ruth who promised we would come here again. Maybe tomorrow, she said.
There are no other customers. The old man sits smoking at the table nearest the counter and doesnât glance up as I enter but carefully extinguishes his cigarette and folds over a newspaper. He slowly comes round to serve me, his face netted with wrinkles, deep pouches under his eyes. The food cabinets are empty, the steel surfaces bare. Buckets and spades hang down from the ceiling, beachballs and cricket sets, kites. A fan-heater churns in one corner. My face pricks in the warmth, and when I pull off my hat, my scarf and my gloves, he looks at me briefly, seems for a moment uncertain, then lays out a tray, a saucer and cup, and quietly says, Thatâs tea with no sugar. It isnât a question and he says nothing more. He adds a chocolate bar to the tray and shakes his head at my money, stares away to the door, wiping his hands on his apron. I place some coins by the till. The chocolate, I suppose, would be yours.
I sit facing the beach, the waves breaking grey on the shore, the sands mottled with snow, and hear the click of his lighter behind me. I take out my tobacco, my papers. The vague blur on the horizon is a gas-rig and the sky has
EIGHTEEN
On the patio outside the Golden Sands Cafeteria thereâs a fibre-glass ice-cream, two metres tall, and a board saying Leisure Fun Pleasure. A gifts carousel turns in the wind. The white plastic chairs are stacked up in fours, the striped parasols lowered, and a line of plump gulls sits perched on the railings. We often came here as students, and once I took a photo of Ruth standing next to the ice-cream, hunched beneath an umbrella in her fur-hooded parka, sipping tea from a styrofoam cup. That too was December, and later, much later, when we began to visit with you, I tried to take another just like it. I remember the afternoon sun was sharp in your eyes, and the cornet Iâd bought you melted on to your hand, then you complained you were seasick. You wouldnât stand still, refused to smile when I asked you, and in the end I gave up; I said we were leaving. But this café, you insisted, was your favourite. A square wooden shack with windows all round, there was the beach below to the right, a small playground behind it. The old man inside sometimes remembered your name. You said you wanted to stay â you wanted to play on the swings â but I was not listening. I walked on ahead, and it was Ruth who promised we would come here again. Maybe tomorrow, she said.
There are no other customers. The old man sits smoking at the table nearest the counter and doesnât glance up as I enter but carefully extinguishes his cigarette and folds over a newspaper. He slowly comes round to serve me, his face netted with wrinkles, deep pouches under his eyes. The food cabinets are empty, the steel surfaces bare. Buckets and spades hang down from the ceiling, beachballs and cricket sets, kites. A fan-heater churns in one corner. My face pricks in the warmth, and when I pull off my hat, my scarf and my gloves, he looks at me briefly, seems for a moment uncertain, then lays out a tray, a saucer and cup, and quietly says, Thatâs tea with no sugar. It isnât a question and he says nothing more. He adds a chocolate bar to the tray and shakes his head at my money, stares away to the door, wiping his hands on his apron. I place some coins by the till. The chocolate, I suppose, would be yours.
I sit facing the beach, the waves breaking grey on the shore, the sands mottled with snow, and hear the click of his lighter behind me. I take out my tobacco, my papers. The vague blur on the horizon is a gas-rig and the sky has
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