responded, turning away to conceal the guilt that she knew must be apparent on her face – guilt for not having succeeded in saving her son’s life.
Silence again.
“Mum?” he sidled up to her, nudging one shoulder against hers.
“What?” she sniffed.
“I really am sorry.”
“I know,” she replied softly.
His face lit up. “At least we don’t have to worry about the traffic anymore,” he said brightly. “It can’t hurt us now, can it?”
“Don’t be such a smarty pants! That doesn’t bring us back to life, does it? And spare a thought for your father and your sister: They’ll be sick with worry when we don’t turn up back at home.”
“Perhaps we should go back anyway. It’s not far. What are we going to do otherwise – stand here watching the traffic go by for the rest of eternity?”
The mother pondered this for a moment.
“Well,” she sighed, “I don’t know where else we can go, so I suppose we might as well do as you suggest.”
Turning away from the road, the two retraced their route between the bushes, across the field and into the woods – to the cosy underground sett that had been their home.
The Chair
For as far back as my memory stretches (and probably some years further than that) the chair sat in my mother’s bedroom – although I’m sure I only ever sat on it once.
It was a typical 1960’s chair; iconic in appearance and simple in design. The seat was fundamentally round, but creased across the centre like a poorly-folded taco. It was made of inter-woven strips of plastic in carnation pink and white, which creaked loudly under the slightest weight. The frame and legs were fashioned from black metal as thin as the shaft of an arrow, each leg being tipped with a black rubber foot.
The one time I did sit on it, I remember lowering myself cautiously into the seat as the plastic creaked and bowed beneath me. It was surprisingly comfortable. But the sound it made under the weight of my seven-year-old body made me nervous: I worried that my bottom would burst through the seat, leaving me stranded inelegantly, my arms waving like a captured spider while both hands clung desperately to the twisted frame. Luckily, it was sturdier than it sounded and bore my weight easily.
During my childhood, the chair wasn’t used for sitting in, but as an overnight resting place for the clothes my mother would wear the next day. It was always draped with colourful paisley pattern trouser suits, hand-knitted jumpers and disturbingly fortified bras.
After I left home, the chair became ‘Mickey’s chair,’ occupied day and night by a 2-foot stuffed Mickey Mouse toy I bought for my mum on our ‘holiday of a lifetime’ to Disneyland in California.
Even the cat – who generally sat where he pleased, like all other cats – never sat in that chair. Perhaps the creaking put him off too, or maybe he thought of Mickey as a rival cat, into whose territory he dared not stray.
I wish I knew where the chair was today – I wish I’d had space for it in my own bedroom after my mother died. But the house-clearance company took it, along with all the rest of her 1960s furniture. They said it was ‘outdated’ and ‘wouldn’t sell well in today’s market’ – despite the fact that it was much better quality than the modern, flimsy, flat-pack rubbish with loose drawer bottoms and sagging shelves people queue up to buy from catalogue shops.
So the chair is gone, but I cannot be too dejected: In my memory, the chair will never grow old and worn. Its pink and white will never fade to grey. Its legs will never become weak and bent and brittle. It will always be the same as it was on the day that seven-year-old girl sat on it, and her mother smiled reassuringly at the look on her daughter’s face as the plastic creaked beneath her bottom.
The Promenade
It was a distinctly unpleasant, drizzly Sunday morning in mid-December. The writer was one of several people who were, for an undoubtedly varied range of reasons, walking along the wind-battered promenade. Looking out to sea, as she always did – drawn somehow to that immense force of nature – she contemplated the spectacle before her.
The waves, foaming like an out-of-control bubble bath along the pebbled shoreline, were a dirty yellowy-grey colour – similar to that of snow melting to slush on a gritted road, she decided. Overhead, a seagull wheeled around in the sky, drawing the symbol for infinity with its wings. How appropriate. She smiled to herself. The wind gusted and swirled, making her damp hair whip across her face in long, animated tendrils that reminded her of the frenzied sea monster from a pirate film she’d seen.
As she vainly attempted to shove the errant curls back into the hood of her coat, the writer passed a girl of about fifteen going in the opposite direction. She remembered her own daughter at a similar age.
Pretty girl – I wonder what she’s doing down here on a day like this? Perhaps she’s going to a secret assignation; meeting her boyfriend, Will, who is guitarist and lead singer in a band called something dramatic like ‘Impending Doom.’ Her parents disapprove of him, of course – the reason they keep their relationship under wraps. They discovered one another in an internet chat room and fell in love the very first time they met…
The girl, whose name was Fiona, passed by the writer without as much as a glance in her direction. Looking down onto the beach, she watched the waves lashing relentlessly against the shore. She thought back to her last geography lesson.
Coastal erosion in action – I wonder how much longer the rusting pier supports will stand up against rising sea levels and the increasingly destructive storms caused by climate change. She shook her head. I don’t understand the disbelieving idiots who choose to bury their heads in the sand and deny mankind’s responsibility for the obvious changes happening to the climate on their home planet.
Crossing the road at the traffic lights, Fiona looked at her watch. The library will be opening any second now, so I’ll be able to go to the reference section and find the information I need to finish my essay on tectonic plates.
Further along the promenade, the writer passed a man in his late twenties who was dashing purposefully along holding a child of about six by the hand. She frowned. He’s walking too fast for her little legs.
The child shot a soulful look at her as the man tugged his charge’s arm in a vain effort to get her to speed up.
He’s most likely the little girl’s father; he’s in the right age range. Perhaps he’s taking her to visit her great grandfather, who lives in a nursing home. The old man is a war hero, who took part in the Battle of Britain. But to the child, he’s just a boring old man with a stubbly face and she doesn’t like it when her daddy makes her kiss him goodbye.
Lee tightened his grip on his daughter and glanced at his watch. The football match would have started five minutes ago, he realised, silently cursing his wife, Molly. Why did she have to organise a shopping trip with her mother on the same day as Kayleigh’s best friend’s birthday party? She always takes Kayleigh to parties and to her dance and swimming lessons. Why didn’t she rearrange her shopping trip when she realised it clashed with the football? She knew I wanted to watch the big match!
Kayleigh, her arm aching from being almost dragged along the sea front, looked up at her father’s stern face. Why can’t you spend more time playing with me and less time at work or watching football? she wondered. It would be really nice to tell you about school and my friends and the dance recital next month. But you’re always working, or travelling or watching some horrid football match! I love you so much, Daddy… can’t we please slow down?
The writer paused next to the weather station. “Today’s forecast: Cloudy with long periods of rain or drizzle. Gusty winds. Maximum 7°C.” She nodded to herself. Sounds about right. At least tomorrow it’s supposed to warm up a little.
On the nearest bench, an older man sat, holding his hat on his head with a pale, bony hand.
The writer noticed his strong jawline and straight nose. He must have been a handsome young man once. He looks sad. Perhap
s he’s remembering when, as a boy, his mother received a telegraph telling her that his father had been killed on the beach at Dunkirk.
Norman stared along the sea front towards the pier. The weather was like this six years ago, when Richard and I stood together at the end of that pier. I don’t know what I would have done without Richard that day. If he hadn’t been there, I’d probably have fallen apart. He carried the urn along the promenade tucked under his coat, and held it for me while I opened it, and together, we carried out his mum’s last wish – to have her ashes scattered over the sea…
Turning to walk back the way she came, the writer only just saw the runner in time to avoid a collision with him. He’s certainly wearing bright enough clothing – I must have been distracted by the man on the bench. She took in the runner’s bright yellow tee-shirt and orange running shoes. Perhaps he used to be overweight? Spurred on by a new relationship, he’s taken up running to get himself in shape. He’s lost three stones, but will put it all back on (plus a little extra) when he discovers his new love is two-timing him with her fitness instructor.
Jason checked his running watch. 12.8 kilometres in an hour and two minutes. Not bad! Short of my P.B. by about half a minute, but pretty good in these weather conditions. I need to start building up distance if I’m going to run the half marathon in three months’