Out of Towners

by Dan Tunstall

  George smirks. “Hummingbird, more like.”

  Dylan readjusts his parts.

  “Anyway. Are we having a swim or are you girls going to spend the afternoon looking at my groin?”

  We all stand up. The tide is right in and lots of people are already paddling. Overweight men and women in badly-fitting swimwear, kids with armbands. On the horizon I can see an oil tanker inching its way along. Heading down the beach, we come past the strand line where we hunted for firewood last night. It’s a grim sight in the daylight. There’s a bottle of Yop, some feathers, a dead flatfish, three beer cans and a used condom.

  Dylan tuts.

  “You reckon this beach has got a Blue Flag?”

  “Doubt it,” Robbie says. “They get some strange things washed up. One year when I was a kid, they had a Minke Whale. Poor bastard took a wrong turn out in the ocean and wound up here. It was on the news. They tried to drag it back into the sea, but the tractor got stuck.”

  “Shit,” I say. “What a way to go. Suffocated in Whitbourne.”

  We’re at the edge of the water now and we wade in, up to our waists. It’s not much warmer than it was last night. In this heat, that’s a good thing. Dylan’s the first to put his head under, diving through a wave and freestyling out to the end of the groynes. I’m next, and pretty soon we’re all bobbing around, splashing and shouting.

  I take a lungful of air and go underwater to de-bag George. I nearly get his shorts right off, but he grabs hold of them when they’re round his ankles. As I’m coming up to the surface, Robbie ducks me back in, and then all three of us team up on Dylan. I get his legs, George and Robbie get his arms and we manage to lift him up out of the water and sling him in. He doesn’t mind though.

  I swim straight out, cutting across the course of an old bloke in a rubber cap who’s thrashing away at the water like a blindfolded drunk fighting. Soon I’m quite a long way from shore. I stop and tread water, looking across at the pier. It’s an assortment of white-painted buildings, stretched out along a wooden platform. There’s a big thing like a hall near the front, another up at the end. In between there are all sorts of little huts and shacks. It’s like a shantytown on spindly metal legs.

  I turn ninety degrees and look at the beach. It looks different from here. A patchwork of colours and shapes. There’s not many people this far out. Just a couple of lads on a lilo. It’s lonely and quiet. I find myself thinking about my mum and dad. What would they say if they could see me now?

  I’m starting to get cold, so I scull back across to Robbie.

  “Going back to the towels mate,” I say.

  Back on the stones I dry myself off, put my watch on and check that my mobile and wallet are where I left them. The seagulls have cleared off. I lay my towel down again, turning it round to track the sun in the sky. Over to the right, the old bloke in the rubber cap is still swimming. He’s moved onto breaststroke. He looks like one of those wind-up frog bath toys. I watch him for a while until Robbie, George and Dylan make their way up the slope.

  “Enjoy that?” I ask.

  “Yeah yeah yeah,” Robbie says, bending forward and swishing his hair from side to side like one of those old English sheepdogs, sending little beads of water flying everywhere.

  George turns his towel round so it’s facing the same way as mine, and Dylan fiddles with his Speedos, getting his package sorted out.

  “We didn’t get cramp then, George,” I say.

  George smooths his hair down.

  “You can never be too careful.”

  I put my sunglasses on and check my watch. Nearly ten to three. I’ve tried not to think about Steph for the last couple of hours. But I’m thinking about her now. We’re supposed to be meeting the girls in forty minutes. I look out to sea again. There’s no sign of the old bloke any more. A couple of lifeguards on the next beach along are exchanging worried glances.

  We all lie back to get some sun. It’s really beating down. Half an hour passes slowly. I can feel the tops of my feet starting to burn, so I sit up and put my trainers and socks on. I’m not in the mood for sunbathing anyway. I’m itching to see Steph again. It’s a weird sensation. Something totally new. When we set off from Letchford yesterday, I never thought anything like this would happen. I thought we were coming down here to piss about and have a bit of fun.

  “Better get ourselves down to the bandstand,” I say, sticking my top back on.

  Robbie and George start getting their shirts on. Dylan’s leaving his off. To impress Nikita, I suppose.

  I lob a pebble at him and laugh.

  “Get some clothes on, you buff twat.”

  Dylan looks pleased with himself.

  “If you had abs and lats like this Chris, you’d live your life topless.”

  George rolls up our towels and puts them in his bag. Robbie grabs the Poundtastic carriers with our rubbish in, and we head up the beach.

  Back on the prom the crowds have thinned out. It’s getting too hot. A lot of the oldies have gone back to their hotels for a while, and the Spanish kids with rucksacks have separated into groups sitting on different parts of the beach. The two sunburnt Scousers we saw earlier are sitting in the shade of an overhanging yucca. They’re dabbing sunblock on one another, but it’s too little, too late. They’re both purple now.

  It’s not far to the bandstand. The sun is bouncing off the blue domed roof. There’s nothing on at the moment, but two blokes are putting out the deckchairs ready for later. A banner hanging across the front of the stage is advertising tonight’s show.

  SATURDAY LIVE AT 8.00

  THE WHITBOURNE CONCERT ENSEMBLE

  CLASSICAL FAVOURITES

  THE 1812 OVERTURE AND

  FIREWORK DISPLAY

  Robbie looks at the banner.

  “They’ve had that same show on every Saturday night since I was a kid.”

  “Must be a bit of a crowd-pleaser,” George says.

  “Dunno about that. Fireworks at the end are brilliant though.”

  We sit on the wall by the flowerbeds and wait. Butterflies and bees are skittering about behind us. I have another glance at my watch. Twenty-five past three. As I look up again, I see the girls walking down towards us. They’re all ready for the beach in flip-flops and sunglasses. Steph’s leading the way. My heart leaps. It feels like it’s stuck in my throat.

  As I’m trying to get my emotions straightened out, a nasty chain of thought starts off in my head. What if Steph’s funny with me today? What if, without the alcohol and the night-time, she thinks I’m a bit of a nob? I can’t believe I didn’t put her number in my mobile. I could have texted her today. Then I’d know how things were going to be. My heart sinks. All that stuff I said to her. Earlier on I convinced myself it was nothing to be ashamed of. Now I’m not so sure.

  The girls have seen us. They’re fifty metres off and closing. The next few seconds are going to be vital. I hold my breath. But then Steph starts to wave. She’s smiling. Happy to see us. Happy to see me. It’s going to be okay.

  “How are you doing, boys?” Nikita asks.

  “Not bad,” Dylan says, standing as tall as he can, making sure his six-pack is on show.

  Robbie puts his arm round Dylan. He looks at Nikita and grins.

  “Don’t you love that washboard physique?”

  Nikita giggles, while Dylan goes into a bodybuilding pose.

  I look at him and wonder if he had the doubts in his mind that I had. Not likely, knowing Dylan. But as I glance at George, I can see that he’s had precisely the same thoughts as me flickering through his head. He really did make a dick of himself last night. Gemma seems fine though, and the relief is written all over George’s face.

  Steph sits down next to me. She’s even more gorgeous in the daylight. For the first time, I see her eyes are light green. There’s a spark to them that makes her look like she’s just about to burst out laughing. Her hair is tied up again, shining in the sun. She’s still wearing the black nail varnish she had
on last night. It’s slightly chipped in places, but it looks cool.

  “Having a good day?” she asks.

  “I am now,” I say, smiling.

  nine

  The bit of beach nearest the bandstand is heaving, so we climb over the groyne to the next stretch of stones. With me and Steph out front, we head for a big patch of open space right in the middle. There’s plenty of room for all seven of us to spread out for some hardcore sun-worship.

  George rummages in his bag for our towels and tosses them to us. I notice that Gemma’s doing the same thing for the girls. Last night I had her down as George in a skirt. I was right.

  Gemma’s bag is huge. The girls have come better prepared than us. They’ve not only got towels, they’ve got thin bamboo mats to lie on, little bolster pillows, loads of bottled drinks and enough sun tan cream to keep them going for months.

  It’s not long before we’ve all got ourselves sorted. There’s a long row of us. Me, Steph, Gemma, George, Robbie, Dylan and Nikita. Towels have been smoothed out, sharp stones have been removed and we’re almost ready for the burn. I take off my shoes and socks then, a bit self-consciously, pull my T-shirt up over my head. My physique isn’t much in comparison with Dylan’s, but I reckon Steph looks for something more in a bloke than big biceps. The thing is, she’s peering at me and shaking her head.

  I sit upright, pulling my stomach in.

  “How long have you been in the sun today?” Steph asks.

  “Dunno. Couple of hours I suppose.”

  “I bet you haven’t had sunscreen on have you?”

  “Er, no,” I say.

  Steph shakes her head again.

  “Typical lad. You’re going bright pink.”

  I pull a face. I was just laughing about those Scousers being sunburnt.

  “Here,” Steph says. “Put this on.”

  She passes me some Factor 15. I squirt a bit into my hand and rub it across my chest, my stomach and the front of my legs. It smells nice. Like coconut. I hand the bottle back.

  “You need to put it all over,” she says. “Lie on your front and I’ll cover the rest of you up.”

  I can’t believe my luck. I do as she says, fighting against the urge to let a stupid grin spread across my face as I feel her kneading my shoulder blades and moving in circles on her way down to the top of my shorts.

  “All done,” she says eventually.

  I roll over.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  Steph starts taking off her shirt and shorts. I try not to stare but it’s difficult. She looks amazing. Nikita and Gemma look good too, Nikita in a green tankini and Gemma in one of those tan-through swimsuits like my mum wears, but Steph’s something else. She’s in a red bikini with white polkadots. Her skin is golden, her legs are smooth and toned. She slaps sun cream across her front, gently working it in, then she lies down face first on her towel.

  “Right,” she says matter-of-factly. “I need my back doing.”

  My heart doesn’t so much leap, as jump right out of my chest and bounce off into the centre of Whitbourne. But I’ve got to get a grip on myself.

  “Yeah,” I say, as casual as possible. “No problem.”

  I pick up the sun lotion and do my best not to catch Robbie’s eye as he stares at me open-mouthed. I smear some of the cream between my palms and slowly massage it into Steph’s skin. I run my hands across her back, down her sides, over her hips. I wish I could carry on, but it would be too obvious what I was up to. I click the cap back on the bottle and hand it to her, then I stretch out to soak up some sun.

  I do ten minutes on my front, then turn over for ten minutes on my back. Soon I’m on the verge of dozing off. The warmth, the gentle crashing of the waves, the tiredness from last night, the remnants of my hangover. They’re all tipping me over the edge. I’ve been totally out of it for a while when Steph nudges me in the side.

  “What’s up?” I ask, still half-asleep.

  Steph looks concerned. She gestures up the beach.

  “There’s something happening over there.”

  I push myself onto my elbow and squint my eyes in the direction she’s pointing. Up to the right there’s a group of the Spanish kids we saw earlier, two boys and two girls. Only they’re not alone. They’ve been joined by what looks like local lads. Six of them. The locals are sitting with their backs to us, but it’s not too difficult to see what’s going on. A bit of good old-fashioned sexual harassment. A flavour of England that probably wasn’t in the brochure.

  The Spanish girls are getting flustered. One of the lads looks scared, but the other one isn’t taking any crap. He’s a little bloke, skinny with floppy black hair and a bumfluff moustache, but he’s standing up, waving his arms around.

  “Piss off,” he’s saying. “Piss off. Wankers.”

  I’m impressed. He’s obviously been learning something useful at the Language school. The problem is, the lads aren’t pissing off.

  I sit up and get my sunglasses. Quite a few people have clocked what’s going on. Families are picking up their stuff and moving away in case things get nasty. George is still flat out, but Robbie and Dylan are on the alert.

  Robbie looks across at me.

  “Better keep an eye on this,” he says. “Six on two isn’t exactly a fair contest. There’s no other Spanish kids to help them out.”

  I nod. I start putting my trainers and socks on, just in case.

  The other Spanish lad is joining in the verbals now. He’s taller than his mate but if anything he’s even skinnier. His grey hoody is hanging off him. One by one, the locals are getting to their feet. The two Spanish girls look close to tears. It’s about to kick off.

  Robbie and Dylan have got their shoes on. Robbie pokes George in the ribs. He finally realises what’s occurring. He puts his shoes on too.

  I stand up.

  “Come on. We need to go and have a word.”

  Earlier, Steph was looking concerned. Now there’s fear in her eyes. It’s the way she looked last night, when the fighting started in the Family Entertainment Centre.

  “Chris, be careful,” she says.

  I don’t say anything. I just nod.

  Up the beach, things are reaching a critical point.

  As the four of us crunch across the stones I’m completely psyched up. I don’t know what we’re going to do. But we can’t sit around sunbathing while some kids get a shoeing.

  The Spanish lads have seen us coming. They both look terrified. For all they know, the six kids they thought they were dealing with has become ten. But we’re here to even up the numbers. If it gets physical, it’s six-on-six.

  The first of the local mob has seen us coming. He’s a little shortarse in a red cap with a face like pizza topping. I know him from somewhere. He nudges the big bloke next to him. And when he turns round, everything clicks. Gelled hair. Brown and cream Nikes. Tattoo on his neck. Kirkie.

  “Well, well,” Kirkie says. “Look who it is.”

  His whole gang is catching on. It’s like a chain reaction. They’ve forgotten all about the Spanish lot.

  The kid with the head shaped like a lightbulb leers at us. He’s still wearing his box-fresh fake Timberlands. He’s got a black eye since I last saw him, a big comedy shiner like something you’d see on Tom and Jerry.

  “The out of towners,” he grunts. He runs out of inspiration after that.

  For a few seconds we all stand looking at each other. In the end it’s George who speaks up.

  “Now come on,” he says, chewing at his lip. “Let's all stop messing. There’s no need for any aggro.”

  Kirkie’s mate in the red cap takes a couple of steps forward. He seems to have got the wrong end of the stick.

  “You want aggro?” he says. “I’ll give you some aggro, boy.”

  I look at him and sigh. Watching him having a pop at George is like watching a Chihuahua biting the ankles of a Great Dane. But I’m getting a sinking feeling. We shouldn’t have got into this.

 
A thin kid in a cheap white anorak with red tartan across the shoulders starts staring me out. His bottom jaw is wider than the top of his head. His ginger hair is shaved round the sides and spiked on top. The ends are frosted blond. He’s got his phone in his hand, pointing it round, taking the whole scene in. Something to post on YouTube.

  Lightbulb Head glares at me and Robbie.

  “Were you cheeky twats taking the piss yesterday?”

  I wish he hadn’t asked that. I feel like laughing again. I glance across at Robbie. I can see he’s thinking along similar lines.

  “Look,” I say. “This doesn’t have to get out of hand. Let’s all get on with our own business, yeah?”

  Even as I’m saying the words, I know how lame they sound.

  A fat kid with sticky-out teeth, the one who had a fag behind his ear yesterday, gets involved.

  “Kirkie told you. You come to Whitbourne, you pay for the privilege. We’re taxing you.”

  The rest of the mob starts laughing. They seem to be taking it in turns to have a go. It’s like a shit boy-band all doing their solo spot. Kirkie’s standing back and watching.

  The next member is stepping up. He looks a bit like a bulldog. He’s broader than he is tall, in baggy shorts and a vest, topped off by a woolly hat with earflaps. He’s got phoney tribal tattoos on both shoulders. Something tells me he’s the token bitch of the bunch. He’s even more badly-dressed than the others, and he’s got the saddest pair of trainers you’ve ever seen. Lime green Adidas. The kind they have on the sale rack outside JJB Sports.

  “So come on. Wallets at the ready. It’s taxation time.” For some reason he’s got a Jamaican twang to his voice. Robbie’s mum’s parents were born in Jamaica, but their accents aren’t as broad as that. When he’s finished, he looks up at Kirkie for approval, but he’s getting blanked.

  Robbie shakes his head.

  “We all know that’s not happening.”

  It’s a proper standoff. The Spanish kid in the hoody tries to butt in, but no-one’s listening. My thoughts are all over the place. I don’t know what’s coming next. I’ve got no idea if I’m any good at fighting. I’ve never had to find out. Sweat is running down my back. It’s got nothing to do with the temperature. I start to wish I wasn’t wearing my sunglasses. They cost me twenty-five quid from Top Man, and I could see them getting smashed here.