(impossible with dogs) but now she was abroad at last - a tropical sun blazing down, and a group of dark-skinned men in turbans strolling past.
In a happy daze she set off towards the pier. On the beach, scores of bodies were stretched out on towels, exposing naked flesh. Some of the women had even removed their tops, and lay face-up, revealing their breasts. When she was a girl, she’d been encased in layers of clothing: liberty bodice, woollen vest, starched white petticoats, voluminous pink bloomers that came up above the waist and down below the knee. She unbuttoned her cardigan and slowly took it off, smiling with pleasure as warm air caressed her arms.
Postcards, she thought. She must send a sea-view to all her friends. ‘Having a lovely time. Wish you were here.’ If she was only seventy-four, they would still be at their old addresses, not in coffins in the cemetery. And there would be money in her Post Office account, not yet swallowed up by Eldon Court.
At the pier, she paid her entrance fee, staring down at the cracks between the boards, thrilled to see the long glistening lines of water. Sea beneath her and all around her, rippling and white-flecked. She was on a boat, cruising from tropical island to tropical island, the band playing a romantic waltz, the chef preparing a five-course banquet.
Yes, she could do with something to eat. Before setting off this morning she’d had only a cup of tea and an osborne biscuit. (Breakfast was served later on bank holidays, and sometimes didn’t arrive at all.)
“Would you mind if I joined you?” she asked a heavy-jowled man, wearing what appeared to be his vest. It was the only empty seat.
He shook his head, unable to speak with a mouth full of chips. He was eating them from a small white plastic tray, dunking each in ketchup before cramming it into his mouth with barely a pause before the next one.
She was about to order soup and a roll, then changed her mind. “A portion of chips, please, dear,” she told the waitress. At Eldon Court it was always boiled or mashed.
The waitress returned with an identical tray, piled with luscious fat chips. Excitedly, she prodded one with the plastic fork, spearing the white floury flesh beneath the golden coating. She reached for the ketchup container - a plump red plastic tomato with a nozzle at the top - and squeezed out her initials, two Fs. She had been christened Freda after her father, Frederick, although he had never liked her much.
She bit into a chip, relishing the glorious greasy taste. Glancing up, she caught sight of the blue expanse again, sparkling outside the windows of the café. Where was their next port of call - Miami? Honolulu?
She span out the chips as long as she could. The man had finished eating and was flicking through the Daily Mirror . There were bristly dark hairs on the backs of his hands, a tiny clump sprouting on each finger. She was cruising with her gentleman friend. At any moment he would speak to her, suggest they took a stroll on deck.
“Yes, I’d love to,” she fluttered, rising to her feet. (She pocketed the plastic fork as a souvenir - although she would have to hide it in her bedside drawer. Anything you left about was stolen.)
Outside, she feasted on the colours: pink whorls of candyfloss, purple flowers splashed across a man’s Hawaiian shirt, gold and scarlet cockerels on the children’s roundabout. At Eldon Court everything was beige.
Her nose twitched with a clash of smells: hot doughnuts, shellfish, vinegar. And there was a cacophony of sounds as well: the jaunty carousel music vying with the thudding beat booming from a neon-lit arcade.
She reached the end of the pier and stood gazing out to infinity, watching a blue-sailed yacht tacking in the wind. As a child she had lived in Walsall, where the sea was just a word. But now the world had become a playground with no work, no rules, no Matron. Everyone was carefree - swimming, boating, water-skiing. And, looking back
In a happy daze she set off towards the pier. On the beach, scores of bodies were stretched out on towels, exposing naked flesh. Some of the women had even removed their tops, and lay face-up, revealing their breasts. When she was a girl, she’d been encased in layers of clothing: liberty bodice, woollen vest, starched white petticoats, voluminous pink bloomers that came up above the waist and down below the knee. She unbuttoned her cardigan and slowly took it off, smiling with pleasure as warm air caressed her arms.
Postcards, she thought. She must send a sea-view to all her friends. ‘Having a lovely time. Wish you were here.’ If she was only seventy-four, they would still be at their old addresses, not in coffins in the cemetery. And there would be money in her Post Office account, not yet swallowed up by Eldon Court.
At the pier, she paid her entrance fee, staring down at the cracks between the boards, thrilled to see the long glistening lines of water. Sea beneath her and all around her, rippling and white-flecked. She was on a boat, cruising from tropical island to tropical island, the band playing a romantic waltz, the chef preparing a five-course banquet.
Yes, she could do with something to eat. Before setting off this morning she’d had only a cup of tea and an osborne biscuit. (Breakfast was served later on bank holidays, and sometimes didn’t arrive at all.)
“Would you mind if I joined you?” she asked a heavy-jowled man, wearing what appeared to be his vest. It was the only empty seat.
He shook his head, unable to speak with a mouth full of chips. He was eating them from a small white plastic tray, dunking each in ketchup before cramming it into his mouth with barely a pause before the next one.
She was about to order soup and a roll, then changed her mind. “A portion of chips, please, dear,” she told the waitress. At Eldon Court it was always boiled or mashed.
The waitress returned with an identical tray, piled with luscious fat chips. Excitedly, she prodded one with the plastic fork, spearing the white floury flesh beneath the golden coating. She reached for the ketchup container - a plump red plastic tomato with a nozzle at the top - and squeezed out her initials, two Fs. She had been christened Freda after her father, Frederick, although he had never liked her much.
She bit into a chip, relishing the glorious greasy taste. Glancing up, she caught sight of the blue expanse again, sparkling outside the windows of the café. Where was their next port of call - Miami? Honolulu?
She span out the chips as long as she could. The man had finished eating and was flicking through the Daily Mirror . There were bristly dark hairs on the backs of his hands, a tiny clump sprouting on each finger. She was cruising with her gentleman friend. At any moment he would speak to her, suggest they took a stroll on deck.
“Yes, I’d love to,” she fluttered, rising to her feet. (She pocketed the plastic fork as a souvenir - although she would have to hide it in her bedside drawer. Anything you left about was stolen.)
Outside, she feasted on the colours: pink whorls of candyfloss, purple flowers splashed across a man’s Hawaiian shirt, gold and scarlet cockerels on the children’s roundabout. At Eldon Court everything was beige.
Her nose twitched with a clash of smells: hot doughnuts, shellfish, vinegar. And there was a cacophony of sounds as well: the jaunty carousel music vying with the thudding beat booming from a neon-lit arcade.
She reached the end of the pier and stood gazing out to infinity, watching a blue-sailed yacht tacking in the wind. As a child she had lived in Walsall, where the sea was just a word. But now the world had become a playground with no work, no rules, no Matron. Everyone was carefree - swimming, boating, water-skiing. And, looking back
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