towards the town, she could see the lights of a fun-fair. She imagined whooshing down the helter-skelter, shrieking with excitement; soaring in a swingboat higher than the sun.
On the hill beyond were dozens of hotels, their icing-sugar whiteness belying the dirty weekends they had witnessed in the past. She remembered her friend Maisie stealing away for a seaside “honeymoon” with her young man, Arthur Wainwright. Maisie had bought a Woolworth’s ring, which she was careful to display while Arthur booked them in as Mr and Mrs Smith.
She had never had a young man, or a ring; never been plucked from naïve spinsterhood and turned into adventurous Mrs Smith.
Dawdling back along the pier, she came upon a kiosk selling rock. Sticks of every size and colour were arrayed beguilingly, each imprinted with tiny red letters that lasted until the final lick. If rock had different names inside - not Brighton or Bournemouth or Blackpool, but “youth” and “health” and “friendship” - then might those things last longer?
She ambled on to the next kiosk and studied the pictures of the ice-creams: Mivvis, Magnums, Oyster Shells, Cornettos. In her day it had been plain vanilla and you ate it at the table from a dish.
“Yes, can I help you, love?”
“A tutti frutti, please.” She liked the name - exotic again - and the intriguing little fruity pieces nestling in the rich smoothness of the ice-cream. She didn’t eat the last inch of the cornet, but wrapped it in her handkerchief and put it in her bag. Another souvenir.
The bag was an encumbrance. Dare she leave it somewhere? Then she could take her shoes and stockings off and paddle in the sea.
She found a ladies’ lavatory, gloomy-dark and smelly after the bracing glare outside. Sitting on the toilet seat, she unfastened her suspenders and removed her lace-up shoes. It took some time - even at seventy-four she had arthritis - but it was worth the effort. A wonderful sensation: bare feet on hot sand.
Picking her way through the sun-worshippers, she ventured to the sea’s edge. A wavelet frilled across her crooked toes, joltingly cold. A child ran past, splashing her unknowingly. She laughed to feel the water against her legs. Her limbs had been confined so long, they’d gone grey-pale, like grubs, but now they were untrammelled, exposed to light and air. With every step, she lost another decade. Sixty-four; fifty-four; a slip of a thing in her twenties; a little girl of ten. She stooped to pick up a shell, and put it in her pocket. Hidden treasure. And when she found a discarded pail, still serviceable despite its missing handle, it gave her an idea: now she could make sand pies.
Having lowered herself cautiously to a sitting position, she scrabbled up some damp sand with her fingers, packed it into the pail and pressed it down. Her father smiled in approval. ‘Clever girl!’ he said, as she turned out a perfect pie and placed the shell on top as the finishing touch. ‘Is that for Daddy?’
“Yes,” she whispered, feeling his strong arms around her, his cheek rough against her own.
She made another pie, and another; turned out a whole batch. With every one she felt more independent. Now she had food in the larder, money in the bank - and company, it seemed. Half a dozen children had gathered to watch, and were staring at her wonderingly.
She closed her eyes. Not that she was tired - you didn’t get tired at seventy-four - but a nap would be delightful. Naps were difficult at Eldon Court; someone was always barging in, to give you pills you didn’t want.
When she woke, the children had gone. There were fewer people altogether, and the sun was less cocksure. Her back ached and she had cramp in her legs. The holiday was over - time to catch her train.
Reluctantly she hauled herself to her feet and returned to the ladies’ toilet, where her bag was still hanging on the hook behind the door. Not bothering to put on her stockings, she wriggled her bare feet
On the hill beyond were dozens of hotels, their icing-sugar whiteness belying the dirty weekends they had witnessed in the past. She remembered her friend Maisie stealing away for a seaside “honeymoon” with her young man, Arthur Wainwright. Maisie had bought a Woolworth’s ring, which she was careful to display while Arthur booked them in as Mr and Mrs Smith.
She had never had a young man, or a ring; never been plucked from naïve spinsterhood and turned into adventurous Mrs Smith.
Dawdling back along the pier, she came upon a kiosk selling rock. Sticks of every size and colour were arrayed beguilingly, each imprinted with tiny red letters that lasted until the final lick. If rock had different names inside - not Brighton or Bournemouth or Blackpool, but “youth” and “health” and “friendship” - then might those things last longer?
She ambled on to the next kiosk and studied the pictures of the ice-creams: Mivvis, Magnums, Oyster Shells, Cornettos. In her day it had been plain vanilla and you ate it at the table from a dish.
“Yes, can I help you, love?”
“A tutti frutti, please.” She liked the name - exotic again - and the intriguing little fruity pieces nestling in the rich smoothness of the ice-cream. She didn’t eat the last inch of the cornet, but wrapped it in her handkerchief and put it in her bag. Another souvenir.
The bag was an encumbrance. Dare she leave it somewhere? Then she could take her shoes and stockings off and paddle in the sea.
She found a ladies’ lavatory, gloomy-dark and smelly after the bracing glare outside. Sitting on the toilet seat, she unfastened her suspenders and removed her lace-up shoes. It took some time - even at seventy-four she had arthritis - but it was worth the effort. A wonderful sensation: bare feet on hot sand.
Picking her way through the sun-worshippers, she ventured to the sea’s edge. A wavelet frilled across her crooked toes, joltingly cold. A child ran past, splashing her unknowingly. She laughed to feel the water against her legs. Her limbs had been confined so long, they’d gone grey-pale, like grubs, but now they were untrammelled, exposed to light and air. With every step, she lost another decade. Sixty-four; fifty-four; a slip of a thing in her twenties; a little girl of ten. She stooped to pick up a shell, and put it in her pocket. Hidden treasure. And when she found a discarded pail, still serviceable despite its missing handle, it gave her an idea: now she could make sand pies.
Having lowered herself cautiously to a sitting position, she scrabbled up some damp sand with her fingers, packed it into the pail and pressed it down. Her father smiled in approval. ‘Clever girl!’ he said, as she turned out a perfect pie and placed the shell on top as the finishing touch. ‘Is that for Daddy?’
“Yes,” she whispered, feeling his strong arms around her, his cheek rough against her own.
She made another pie, and another; turned out a whole batch. With every one she felt more independent. Now she had food in the larder, money in the bank - and company, it seemed. Half a dozen children had gathered to watch, and were staring at her wonderingly.
She closed her eyes. Not that she was tired - you didn’t get tired at seventy-four - but a nap would be delightful. Naps were difficult at Eldon Court; someone was always barging in, to give you pills you didn’t want.
When she woke, the children had gone. There were fewer people altogether, and the sun was less cocksure. Her back ached and she had cramp in her legs. The holiday was over - time to catch her train.
Reluctantly she hauled herself to her feet and returned to the ladies’ toilet, where her bag was still hanging on the hook behind the door. Not bothering to put on her stockings, she wriggled her bare feet
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