this wasn’t the time to enlighten her.
The tramp stared at them vacantly with glazed eyes. He lowered the newspaper and spoke in a raspy, barely audible voice. ‘Never be without … never be without …’
Bobbie asked Vince, ‘Do you have any money?’
Vince nodded. He took out a ten-shilling note and offered it to the derelict. The offer was accepted, and a scabby hand grabbed the note. He then lifted the newspaper again and returned to delivering his eulogies. ‘Elizabeth Creighton, loving daughter of Ethel and Peter Creighton, died peacefully on …’
Vince and Bobbie walked on.
‘What did he say?’
Vince shrugged. ‘Who knows. Best ask the sea.’
‘That was good of you, to give him that much money. I was thinking of just enough for a cup of tea.’
‘He looked like he could use something stronger. A lot stronger.’
They made their way past the angel statue that divides Brighton from Hove. The crowds were coming out of the pubs and clubs and dance halls. Things could get lively now. And a stoned blonde turning cartwheels could prove a hazard. Vince stuck closer to Bobbie as they passed the pub on the seafront, between the two piers, where the Mods had clashed with the Rockers earlier. It had portholes for windows and a ‘seafaring’ wooden facade that jutted out like the bow of a boat about to set out to sea.
There were about thirty boys and girls milling outside. They were dancing around to Major Lance being played on a plastic portable record player, and clearly well tuned up on pills, speeding the night away. Bobbie wanted to join them, but Vince saw the looks some of the girls were giving her. Under all that makeup were hard little faces, hailing from Shepherd’s Bush, as tough and territorial as any of the boys. Vince steered Bobbie away, but she saw something else taking her fancy, and spun away from him.
A small bonfire was dying all alone on the beach, and that’s where Bobbie was now heading. Still barefoot, she skipped over the shingle, which didn’t seem to bother her. Vince followed obediently and laid down his jacket for Bobbie to stretch out on it, her eyes closed as if moonbathing on the beach.
He sat down beside her and stared at the crackling embers of the dying fire. ‘Are you originally from Brighton?’ he asked.
When Bobbie’s eyes opened, the redness had disappeared – seemingly cleansed under the blue light of the moon.
‘No, a small village in the New Forest. Before he retired, my father was the local GP, and my mother taught at the local school. We lived in a house just outside the village, surrounded by woods and fields. Father used to grow all his own vegetables. My mother kept horses, so my brother and I were riding almost as soon as we could walk. We had two dogs, a pair of black Labradors.’
Vince nodded solemnly, then commented, ‘It sounds … idyllic?’
Bobbie sat up and wrapped her arms protectively around her knees. She hadn’t noticed the question mark in his tone.
‘It really was. I was lucky to have such parents. Those were the happiest times of my life, I think.’
Vince retrieved his jacket and draped it around her shoulders. ‘Why did you come to Brighton, then? Why not London? That’s usually the first port of call.’
‘I did live in London for a few years. But there’s something about the sea, I guess. I just felt drawn to it.’
‘How do they feel about you being with Jack Regent?’
‘Who?’
‘Your parents.’
The dreamy melancholy look she had worn whilst talking about her childhood was suddenly transformed into a challenging glare. It was accompanied by a snide, pointed reply. ‘Oh dear, you really are a policeman, aren’t you? Really just can’t help yourself.’
This broke the spell of the moonlight and the music, and brought Vince sharply back into focus. ‘Well, Jack Regent isn’t exactly ideal son-in-law material. Just wondering how two such pillars of the community might feel about their daughter shacking
The tramp stared at them vacantly with glazed eyes. He lowered the newspaper and spoke in a raspy, barely audible voice. ‘Never be without … never be without …’
Bobbie asked Vince, ‘Do you have any money?’
Vince nodded. He took out a ten-shilling note and offered it to the derelict. The offer was accepted, and a scabby hand grabbed the note. He then lifted the newspaper again and returned to delivering his eulogies. ‘Elizabeth Creighton, loving daughter of Ethel and Peter Creighton, died peacefully on …’
Vince and Bobbie walked on.
‘What did he say?’
Vince shrugged. ‘Who knows. Best ask the sea.’
‘That was good of you, to give him that much money. I was thinking of just enough for a cup of tea.’
‘He looked like he could use something stronger. A lot stronger.’
They made their way past the angel statue that divides Brighton from Hove. The crowds were coming out of the pubs and clubs and dance halls. Things could get lively now. And a stoned blonde turning cartwheels could prove a hazard. Vince stuck closer to Bobbie as they passed the pub on the seafront, between the two piers, where the Mods had clashed with the Rockers earlier. It had portholes for windows and a ‘seafaring’ wooden facade that jutted out like the bow of a boat about to set out to sea.
There were about thirty boys and girls milling outside. They were dancing around to Major Lance being played on a plastic portable record player, and clearly well tuned up on pills, speeding the night away. Bobbie wanted to join them, but Vince saw the looks some of the girls were giving her. Under all that makeup were hard little faces, hailing from Shepherd’s Bush, as tough and territorial as any of the boys. Vince steered Bobbie away, but she saw something else taking her fancy, and spun away from him.
A small bonfire was dying all alone on the beach, and that’s where Bobbie was now heading. Still barefoot, she skipped over the shingle, which didn’t seem to bother her. Vince followed obediently and laid down his jacket for Bobbie to stretch out on it, her eyes closed as if moonbathing on the beach.
He sat down beside her and stared at the crackling embers of the dying fire. ‘Are you originally from Brighton?’ he asked.
When Bobbie’s eyes opened, the redness had disappeared – seemingly cleansed under the blue light of the moon.
‘No, a small village in the New Forest. Before he retired, my father was the local GP, and my mother taught at the local school. We lived in a house just outside the village, surrounded by woods and fields. Father used to grow all his own vegetables. My mother kept horses, so my brother and I were riding almost as soon as we could walk. We had two dogs, a pair of black Labradors.’
Vince nodded solemnly, then commented, ‘It sounds … idyllic?’
Bobbie sat up and wrapped her arms protectively around her knees. She hadn’t noticed the question mark in his tone.
‘It really was. I was lucky to have such parents. Those were the happiest times of my life, I think.’
Vince retrieved his jacket and draped it around her shoulders. ‘Why did you come to Brighton, then? Why not London? That’s usually the first port of call.’
‘I did live in London for a few years. But there’s something about the sea, I guess. I just felt drawn to it.’
‘How do they feel about you being with Jack Regent?’
‘Who?’
‘Your parents.’
The dreamy melancholy look she had worn whilst talking about her childhood was suddenly transformed into a challenging glare. It was accompanied by a snide, pointed reply. ‘Oh dear, you really are a policeman, aren’t you? Really just can’t help yourself.’
This broke the spell of the moonlight and the music, and brought Vince sharply back into focus. ‘Well, Jack Regent isn’t exactly ideal son-in-law material. Just wondering how two such pillars of the community might feel about their daughter shacking
Similar Books
