Annie Stanley, All At Sea

by Sue Teddern

  Chapter Sixteen

  Wight

  I process Hilary’s little secret on the train from Bexhill to Brighton and I’m still slightly shocked. Rob’s godmother does sexy talk with strangers. Am I being a prude or just jealous of her chutzpah? I honestly think, if Toni can thaw the ice, those two could be best friends in no time.

  I’d needed a break from driving so I returned the Kia to the Bexhill branch of the car-hire firm and was relieved when it was signed in as scratch-and-dent free. I swear the guy I handed the keys to was the same Wesley I hired it from four days ago in Scarborough. Only the accent was different. Maybe their diversity employment policy is a hundred per cent Wesley-centred.

  I sit back in my window seat and enjoy the scenery, without having to negotiate jams, roundabouts and diversions. We trundle through the little towns of the south coast: Pevensey, Polegate, Berwick, plus the buzzing metropolis that is Eastbourne.

  When I was packing, Hilary saw my expanding collection of yarns and knitted squares. She eagerly donated a ball of lumpy, muesli-like wool that she’d woven on a crafts retreat. She was happy to get shot of it and now I have my wool sample to represent sea area Dover.

  In the hour or so it takes to get to Brighton, I crank out a quick square with the wool I bought in Benfleet. This little side project has turned into a bit of a chore but I tell myself it will be worth it when I’ve completed my journey around the British mainland and have the blanket to prove it. Mum would be gobsmacked – I wish I could show her.

  That makes me sad for one brief moment but, actually, I’m feeling unfeasibly upbeat and that’s down to Hilary. After I upset Kate with my misplaced words of wisdom, it felt good to give advice . . . and to receive it. I must call Kate, see if she’s ready to talk to me again. She’ll have bounced back. Kate always bounces back.

  I’m not quite ready for that conversation just yet, however, so instead I dial a different number.

  Rob picks up on the second ring.

  ‘Hey Annie. I was just thinking about you. How’s it going?’

  ‘Fine. Good. I’m heading for Brighton.’

  ‘And you visited Hilary? I didn’t want to phone her before speaking to you.’

  ‘I did. She even put me up for the night. She’s fine, Rob.’

  ‘Really? I know she can be a bit of a cranky old bird when she’s unsettled.’

  ‘She’s not totally at home yet but she knows she needs to make more of an effort. We exchanged a few home truths.’

  He chuckles. ‘I can hear her giving it out. I can’t hear her receiving it.’

  ‘She did. She will. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘And what home truths did she tell you? “Look sharp, wear a vest, fight the patriarchy.”’

  Wouldn’t he like to know? ‘Something like that, yes.’

  ‘I’ll try to get down to Bexhill once this job’s finished but, honestly, it’s like painting the Forth Bridge. Now they want a bigger larder and an extended wine rack in the utility room. Life would be so much easier if there weren’t any customers. Just the work and the satisfaction of a job well done. Anyway, thanks, Annie. Seriously. I’m relieved to know she’s okay. Is she making friends?’

  ‘Slowly, but I have high hopes for her neighbour. Hilary’s very sociable online, though. She’s in loads of interesting chat rooms and forums. She’s very popular there, by all accounts.’

  ‘Wow! That’s amazing. Good for her. Look, I’d better go or they’ll send out a search party to the wood merchant’s. Love you for doing that, Annie. Keep in touch, yeah? Bye.’

  Rob loves me. For visiting Hilary. But he loves Fi for everything else. Hilary’s ruddy well right. I need to spread my wings, open up to new relationships. Preferably not with a fake name and fake boobs in a closed group for toe-suckers.

  I check in to a quirky little budget hotel on the Hove/Brighton borders, with views of what’s left of the West Pier. My bank account is still healthy – I check the balance at every ATM – but there’s no need to stay anywhere overly grand if it’s just a bed for the night.

  When I lived here in the mid-noughties, the structure of the pier was still identifiable, not long after the fire that had decimated it. Now it looks like a series of interlinked coat hangers. It has a kind of beauty, though. Worn away by wind and tide, standing proud and not going quietly. A bit like Hilary . . .

  Brighton is exactly the same as I remember it and totally different, in equal measure. It still feels buzzy. It still has an energy that’s almost tangible; I sensed it as soon as I moved here from St Albans as a fresh-faced student all those years ago. But it feels more corporate and grown-up now. There’s the i360, a doughnut-shaped viewing capsule on a pole, that dominates the skyline.

  And stretched out across the horizon is a massive wind farm. Britain’s offshore gales might toss around fishing boats and ferries but they also power factories and high streets and homes. ‘Cyclonic later. Good.’ Dad admired innovation, clever new ways of doing things. I’m not sure he’d have been a fan of the i360 though.

  Wandering the slightly down-at-heel streets and squares that connect the seafront to the town centre, I regret that I never lived in the heart of Brighton. I had friends who did: Sally Wotsit, Dougie the dope dealer . . . didn’t Hilary say she had a secret lover squirrelled away around here? Ah, Hilary. I know I dragged my heels when Rob asked me to visit her but it’s definitely the highlight of my grand tour so far.

  My favourite part of Brighton, the North Laine, is heaving with dawdling pedestrians, as it always was and, yes, some of my go-to shops appear to have survived, despite all the new eateries and vape outlets. I come across a wool shop and buy a ball of buttery-coloured cashmere that feels like Cromarty when you stroke it. I miss that cat.

  As I walk up West Street, I pass a hen party teetering on unfeasibly high heels down from the station, each with a wheelie suitcase. They wear tiaras and fuchsia pink, personally sloganed, T-shirts: ‘Slapper Sienna’ . . . ‘Treeza the Tart’ . . . ‘Big Boobs Bex’. Bex’s T-shirt takes a moment to read because she does, indeed, have a splendid pair. Two older women are let off with ‘Bride’s Mum’ and ‘Groom’s Mum’. The bride herself is easy to spot in her tiara, train and a T-shirt which reads: ‘Shag Me While I’m Single’. A couple of cocky lads attempt to take her on but she bats them away. Plenty of time for that . . .

  It’s a hot summer’s day so the benches outside the Feathers are packed with drinkers, mostly laidback locals by the look of them. The Feathers was always a bit of a dive and I’m relieved to see that it still is. It hasn’t been transformed into one of those self-conscious gastro-pubs, with artfully mismatched furniture, artisanal ciders that smell of wee and shelves stuffed with books-by-the-yard.

  Duncan and I often rocked up here, before or after doing something else. The call of the jukebox, the price of the lager, the general sleaziness, not to mention the occasional lock-in, were big draws. It was also a regular haunt for Brighton’s duckers-and-divers and we loved shooting the breeze with them, doing a line or two of coke, as long as it was on them. In retrospect, they probably had a huge laugh at our expense: those two wet-behind-the-ears middle-class kids, desperate to impress, hanging with the big boys.

  I can’t resist. I take a peek inside the open door as I stroll by. Even the cracked, sticky lino hasn’t changed and, omigod, there’s a familiar face behind the bar. It’s only bloody Simon . . . Duncan’s friend Simon, who I had a mad fuckathon with before I left for London. He was always tall and wiry with long, dark-brown hair, often tied back haphazardly with a found scrunchie. Now he’s shaven headed, muscly and fit. Simon has morphed into a total hunk and no one flipping told me.

  He catches my eye just as I catch his. He comes out from behind the bar and strides over. Did he always stride like that? How come I missed it? Then he picks me up and swings me around. He seems pleased to see me. I could get used to reactions like this, even if my T-shirt is riding up, exposing flabby tummy, and I kick a stool over with my
trainer.

  ‘Shit-a-brick, Stannie Anley, it is you, isn’t it? I haven’t grabbed a total stranger?’ He puts me down and stands back to check.

  ‘It is me. Older but not wiser. Bloody hell, Simon. I didn’t expect to see you here.’

  ‘I know. Groundhog Day or what?’

  He takes my hand and pulls me over to the bar so that he can finish serving the customer he just abandoned. Then he pours me a complimentary pint and brings it over.

  ‘You are, ahem, conversing with the manager,’ he boasts, with faux pride. ‘How the not very mighty are fallen.’

  How this can be? Has he been working at the Feathers since I left Brighton? What about his acting plans? He had such big plans.

  Simon explains that he shouldn’t even be here; it’s his day off but he’s holding the fort for a couple of hours while one of his staff has a doctor’s appointment. When she arrives, he’s free for the rest of the day if I am.

  ‘How about half two at the falafel-and-wrap place across the road? And that’s not a question, that’s an order, Stannie Anley. That’s if you’re still a “Stanley”. Are you? No, no, tell me at half two.’

  He is jaw-droppingly hot. How can I refuse?

  When I lived here, the falafel-and-wrap place was a grubby kebab shop. Now it’s all Farrow & Ball walls and Middle Eastern tiles. Downstairs is busy but we have the first floor practically to ourselves. Simon eats with gusto and finishes my wrap when I give up. Eating with enthusiasm is surprisingly sexy, even when he gets tahini dressing down his chin and wipes it off with the back of a square, hairy hand. It suddenly feels hot in here. I gulp down some water.

  ‘So,’ he says, pushing away his empty plate. ‘Who wants to start? My life story since we last saw each other. Or yours?’

  ‘Yours. Obviously. Because you’re taller than me.

  ‘Obviously.’ He laughs. He’s got a great laugh. ‘Okay then, here goes.’

  He really didn’t plan to return to the Feathers. It just sort of happened: part-time bar work when he was skint that then progressed to becoming manager when the previous one was caught with his hand in the till. And it suits him. That shithole is like a second home, right?

  Then he rewinds to the beginning. Yes, he had high hopes of becoming the next Martin Freeman. He figured there was room for more than one and casting directors often compared them. But, well, it didn’t happen.

  ‘I gave it my best shot, Stannie. I really did. So many castings. So many nearly jobs. So many door-slams and knock-backs. I know it goes with the territory. I’m not daft. But after a while, you start to think maybe it’s God’s way of telling you that, sorry mate, you’re a bit shit at this whole pretending-to-be-someone-else lark.’

  ‘But you’re good, Simon. I saw you in that show at the fringe. You blew everyone else off the stage.’

  ‘My finest hour. Quite literally. All downhill from there.’ He gives a brave smile. He knows he’s good but now he has to believe he isn’t, which is sad.

  ‘I did have one ridiculously well-paid job for three years. Meant I could buy a motorbike, get a mortgage.’ He pulls a discomfited face and points to it. ‘Do you recognize Antacid Andy, the busy van driver who was a martyr to his heartburn? I was in three commercials over two years. Who knew chronic indigestion could be so lucrative? Did you see me? I often popped up in the Corrie breaks.’

  ‘Um . . .’

  ‘Yeah well, you’d probably nipped to the kitchen to make some tea. Or you zapped through the ads. My mum was dead proud. Even now, she won’t take any other indigestion remedy, even though they sacked me. KJ loved the ads too. He could act them out off by heart.’

  Simon sees my confused face. KJ? He whips a phone out of his pocket and shows me his screensaver: it’s Simon and a mini-Simon, perched proudly on the pillion of his parked motorbike.

  ‘That’s from a couple of years ago. He’s 11 now. Lives with his mum in Lewes.’ Simon beams at the photo for a second or two. ‘I know everyone says their kid’s the best. But KJ actually is. Fact. He is, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’s very cute. He’s got your hair.’

  ‘Which probably means he’ll inherit my male pattern baldness too, poor little sod. Remember my ponytail? I actually had a ponytail. Now look at me. Baldy McBaldface.’

  ‘You look a hundred per cent better without it, Si. Ponytails are for . . . ponies.’

  He beams. Have I overdone it? Probably. But he really does look bloody good.

  ‘Well, go on then,’ he says. ‘I’ve shown you mine. You show me yours. What’s the story, Stannie?’

  I wonder where to start, where to finish, what to leave out. ‘I am still Annie Stanley. I’ve been in a couple of long-term relationships – not right now – but no wedding bells. I got that job in the City, didn’t I, around the time we were – um, we were close.’

  ‘“Close.” Yes. Nicely put.’

  ‘So I did that for a bit, got sick of it and retrained as a teacher. I’m taking a sabbatical at the moment because I got poorly. I’m fine now, as you can see. I’m trying to decide whether to go back to it or—or –’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Exactly. Or what. I have no idea.’

  ‘I can see you being a good teacher. You’re assertive, confident, dare I say engaging.’

  ‘Be my guest. It gets you down, though. It can be very stressful and draining. I miss it, of course I do, but I’m not ready to go there again. Not yet. Maybe never.’

  ‘What do you teach?’

  ‘Geography. It’s what I studied at uni, after all.’

  ‘Geography, eh? Okay then, how are you on wind farms?’

  ‘Like the one off the coast here? I approve. Both as a geography teacher and an energy user. Wind farms are definitely a “good thing”. Why?’

  He stands and pulls me out of my chair, suddenly eager to leave. ‘That, Stannie Anley, is the correct answer. Now, come with me.’

  An hour and a bit later, we’re at Brighton Marina, clambering onto a catamaran that will take us on a tour of Rampion, the offshore wind farm that dominates the horizon. There are six others in our group: two Danish students and two couples from Worthing who watched from the shore as the 116 turbines were constructed and are now keen to see it up close, as a birthday present for one of them. I’m not sure why we’re here, though.

  Once we pull away from the marina, our captain – Steve – provides a running commentary. Why the wind farm was built, how much power it generates, what renewable energy can do to fight climate change. My schoolkids would love this, especially Mason McIsaac . . . seeing innovative, energy-saving solutions at the coal face, so to speak. When – if – I return to teaching, I’ll bring them here. Definitely.

  Back at the cafe, Simon was laid back, funny and confident in a self-deprecating way. Now he hunkers down in his seat and stares straight ahead, as if he’s on a long, dull coach trip. He barely speaks, even when I tell him what a treat this is. We hit choppy waters and he grips my hand so tightly that I have to unpeel his white knuckles to free my fingers.

  ‘You’re not enjoying this, are you, Si?’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘But it was your idea.’

  ‘I know, I know. I decided you were the person to do it with.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  He sighs, defeated. ‘I don’t like the sea. I’m fucking petrified. I also hate swimming pools, lidos, lakes, the lot. Because I can’t swim, okay. I hate this, Annie. You’ve no idea how much I hate this.’

  ‘Then why put yourself through it?’

  ‘I’m doing a one-man show. Two nights in a room above a pub. Not my pub. Another pub. A one-man show starring me. “Not Drowning but Drowning.” That’s the title and the programme’s been printed so I’m stuck with it. Too late to change it now. I suppose I could call it something else on the night, but that isn’t good marketing, is it? All about me and my hate-hate relationship with water. Fucking great deep, black, deep, fucking water like this.’
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br />   Now I take his hand and he slowly bambles to a halt. His palm is clammy and his forehead is beaded with sweat.

  ‘Hey-ho, matey. Worse things happen at sea.’

  Simon laughs, despite himself. ‘I should have called it that. My show. Great title.’

  I’ve made him laugh. This is an improvement. I even manage to convince him that we won’t capsize if he gets up and goes to the loo. The trip there and back gives him confidence and when he returns, he looks a little less green.

  ‘I need to get back on stage, Stannie,’ he says, forcing himself to stare out of the sea-sprayed window. ‘I know I can do it. I need KJ to see me as more than just a van driver with heartburn. See, I realized, I’ve lived by the sea nearly half my life so why’s it got the better of me? Then I thought, Hey, I can do a show about this. About my sea phobia. From when I first encountered the seaside as a kid, swimming lessons at school, getting pushed in by the big boys. You know, confessional and uplifting. Funny and bittersweet. With a happy ending.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘That I conquer my fear of water on this catamaran and, at the ripe old age of 38, I learn to swim. And I finally swim in the sea, here in Brighton, with my lad. And then I swim the Channel and win an Olympic gold for butterfly and become Sports Personality of the Year. Okay, maybe not that last bit but a man can dream.’

  ‘I still don’t know why you asked me to come with you.’

  ‘Because I feel relaxed with you. Not vulnerable and embarrassed. You’re just passing through so you won’t judge me. My everyday friends think I’m Macho Man because I run marathons and play five-a-side and I’ve got a six-pack.’

  Simon’s got a six-pack. I instantly visualize it. It’s a very fine six-pack, with little tufts of dark baby hair around the belly button. My turn to get clammy hands.

  ‘Thank you, Si,’ I say and I mean it. ‘I’m genuinely touched that you thought of me like that. How are you feeling now?’

  ‘Still shit-scared, but at least I have the ending to my show. I did it. I did this and it’s marginally better than I expected, especially now I’ve had that piss.’