Seaside Stories

by Adele Cosgrove-Bray



  Seaside Stories

  Riverside Writers Anthology 2012

  Edited By

  Adele Cosgrove-Bray

  Seaside Stories, 1st Edition.

  Copyright: Adele Cosgrove-Bray, 2012.

  The right of Adele Cosgrove-Bray to be identified as the editor of this work has been asserted. The rights of the contributing authors have been asserted over their own contributions.

  All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published. This free ebook may not be resold.

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  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  You Don't Need the Sea Shells - Tim Hulme

  Ibiza Bliss - Tim Hulme

  A Long Day at the Seaside - Tim Hulme

  The Forgiving Sea - Andy Siddle

  The Warning Sun - Andy Siddle

  The All-Seeing Eye - Andy Siddle

  The Camera Sometimes Lies - Andy Siddle

  As Long as They Could Remember - Andy Siddle

  Sally - Adele Cosgrove-Bray

  I Remember - Adele Cosgrove-Bray

  Margin of the Great Deep - Adele Cosgrove-Bray

  Friends Forever - Peter Caton

  The Inn to be In - Peter Caton

  Rörö - Nikki Bennett

  Sandsurfing on Hoylake Beach - Nikki Bennett

  Storm out to Sea - Nikki Bennett

  Flotsam and Jetsam - Ruth Ann Titley

  The Storm at Conwy Bay - Ruth Ann Titley

  About the Authors

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  Seaside Stories

  Riverside Writers Anthology 2012

  Introduction

  Riverside Writers are a lively and informal group of novelists, short story writers and poets who meet each month at West Kirby Library on the Wirral peninsula in England. Formed in 1998, they have organised and participated in many public readings and have been guests on local radio. Members' creative interests are entirely diverse, and the group is open to published authors and total beginners alike.

  The group's focus is determinedly on writing, rather than on merely talking about writing. Each month, members produce new work to a set theme; for example, a location, a collection of objects which all have to be mentioned within the piece, or an opening sentence. Many of the poems and stories which appear in this anthology came about through these projects.

  Thank you for downloading this free anthology. We hope you enjoy it, and encourage you to leave feedback on our website.

  Visit Riverside Writers website:

  https://riversidewriterswestkirby.blogspot.co.uk/

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  You Don't Need the Sea Shells

  Tim Hulme

  Harriet was harassed. Twenty-one children, fractious, determined not to stay together, not to stay in the bus station if they could escape - and there was no sign of the coach. Jim had told her it was definitely booked for 8.30. He had checked three times, he said; she didn’t believe him. And here it was nine o’clock - no sign. Four of the mothers were still here, complaining loudly, and - oh dear, little Wayne was chasing Berenice, waving a pair of scissors, obviously with evil intent. Why did her mum let Berenice’s hair grow that long?

  And where was Jim? It was ten minutes since he last said he would go and phone again. Why hadn’t he brought his mobile? “Because I thought you’d bring yours,” he’d said. But he knew she never did in case Terry - “techno Terry” as they called him - got his nasty little fiddlesome hands on it. She wished Penny would help with the children, but she just stood there, a vacant smile on her face, while mayhem rushed around her. Didn’t she understand this was a working day for the staff, not a holiday to the seaside?

  Then Jim came running. “It’s here; get them together.” What the hell did he think she’d been trying to do for the last half hour? But once the children saw the coach they did become one jostling, fighting, shrieking lump of humanity, streaming inside even before the doors were fully open. Harriet sat at the front with the microphone. Jim sat behind the driver; he was going to sleep the whole way as usual, wasn’t he, leaving Harriet and Penny to keep the peace - well, just Harriet really; all Penny ever did was smile sweetly at even the most heinous crimes of youth.

  Half way there, Harriet’s mind was made up. “Never again”. Berenice had come to the front complaining that sitting on the back seat made her feel sick, whereupon she promptly was, straight into the microphone at maximum volume and covering the shoulder of Harriet’s jumper. Little Wayne, meanwhile, had given up on Berenice, and snipped off Darren’s pigtail in one deft flick of the scissors. Darren had been growing this for months, and, as if it were the loss of his manhood, the deed clearly merited a fight to the death.

  No, never again! At lunchtime, she would find that shop which sold ornamental shells and buy two of them, so that, on the return journey, she could clamp one over each ear and, oblivious to the civil war around her, she would listen to the caressing sighing of the sea.

  But first she had to get through the day. They took it in turns - two on, one off. Harriet was always “on” in the afternoon. From 2.30, the children were her responsibility (and Penny’s), finally rounding them up for the 4.30 departure. And where would Jim be? In the pub, of course. But that’s the way it always was.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Jim’s face and bald pate were red with rage. “It’s 4 o’clock and I’ve had these kids all day. It’s not fair, Harriet. This is a working day, you know the system.”

  But it was Harriet’s turn to smile vacantly at him and Penny. “Yes, I know the system, Jim, and you know where you can stick it. I’ll see you on the coach.”

  And on the coach, she remembered how, outside the shop which sold ornamental shells, she had met the young man with blonde hair and watery grey eyes, whose name was Brian and who told her that he too was in charge of a school trip and that he too would never do it again. And she had remarked how warm it was as a desperate excuse to shed the jumper that still bore the evidence of Berenice’s breakfast, and he had invited her for a drink and then lunch, when they swapped school stories and eventually telephone numbers. Now she thought only of the call from Brian tomorrow evening. Oblivious to the civil war around her, she did not need those ornamental sea shells to hear the caressing sighing of the sea.

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  Ibiza Bliss

  Tim Hulme

  Antonio scanned the hotel pool from his manager’s office window. By the edge of the deep end a man and a girl were making love. A woman in a deckchair watched. Typical English! Still, nothing was spoiling his blissful Ibiza life. He dozed.

  At 60, Arthur had never given the kiss of life to anyone. He knelt over the apparently lifeless girl’s body he had just pulled from the pool. She had fallen in and, like himself, could not swim. He pumped her chest and blew into her mouth. No response.

  John, returning from the bar, saw an old man obviously raping his girlfriend Shirley. Running to her rescue, he tripped over Arthur’s feet, went flying into the water and knocked himself senseless against the concrete edge. The impact rolled Arthur into the water as he desperately shouted “Help!” at the woman in the deckchair.

  In her deckchair, Jean remembered in horror her vain attempts to rescue her drowning husband. A violent chest pain froze her to the deckchair.

  When Antonio scanned the pool again, the woman was still in her deckchair, the girl
was obviously sunbathing and two men were practising floating on the water. All was well. He dozed again.

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  A Long Day at the Seaside

  Tim Hulme

  “There’s nobody here!” wailed Cindy, as she gazed in amazement down the main street to the sea.

  “There was nobody in the car park neither,” grumbled her husband Lance. “You’d ‘ave thought we’d ‘ave seen someone with spare time on their ticket. And that machine wouldn’t give me a ticket however hard I bashed it.”

  “How much did you have to pay, Lance?”

  “I’ve never paid for a bloody car park in my life!” he shouted, “and I’m not starting now!”

  Cindy shrugged and started to waddle towards the Ladies, dragging her round daughter behind her. Cindy had truly made Millie in her own image with a solid diet of crisps, chocolate and pizza. “It’s closed!” she cried. “What’ll we do, Lance?”

  “Do like me,” said Lance, as he did his best to kill off a hydrangea in full flower. “No-one’s looking. There’s not a bloody soul.”

  Cindy shrugged again and squeezed herself and Millie between two conifers.

  “Hurry up,” yelled Lance.

  Cindy emerged trying to straighten her own pink trousers as well as make a token attempt to insert Millie back in her jeans.

  “Why did we come here, Lance?” moaned Cindy. “It’s supposed to be a nice seaside. You’d think there’d be more people at the end of June.”

  “It was your stupid idea. I bet they’re all on the beach. Come on. Let’s find a café.”

  The cafe was empty, although the used plates on the red formica tables seemed only just abandoned. There was the smell of fresh brewed coffee and toasted tea cakes. Lance found the kitchen, but there was no sign of teacakes or coffee or owner.

  There was a “Special Today” blackboard, all chalked up. “But who the hell is serving, and where’s the food?” Lance shouted at Cindy.

  “I don’t know,” wailed Cindy.

  Millie screamed, “I want a pizza!”

  “Well you can’t have a pizza, 'cos there’s no bloody pizzas!” yelled her father, and Millie burst into tears.

  “There must be something,” said Cindy. “See what’s on that board, Lance.”

  “It says, ‘Closed until the 4th’. Christ, that’s the week after next. This is stupid - a seaside in the middle of summer, and the damned café’s shut. They must be out of their minds. You should ‘ave asked when you rang the Tourist Information.”

  “Well I didn’t know, did I? Let’s go somewhere else,” pleaded Cindy.

  “I want a pizza,” screamed Millie, and then burst into tears as her father grabbed her.

  “We are going back to the car and leaving this dump now,” said Lance decisively.

  “We haven’t seen the sea yet,” mumbled Millie, between sobs.

  “Well you’re not going to see the sea!” yelled Lance, and the sobs became a flood.

  Back at the car park, there was no sign of the car. Lance knew where they had parked, two spaces from the ticket machine. But there weren’t two spaces. The machine was in the corner now and the car park seemed smaller.

  “Is this the right car park?” ventured Cindy.

  “Of course, it’s the right place - there, that’s the Ladies that was closed,” proclaimed Lance. “It’s open now, look. Go and ask where the police station is. Someone’s nicked the car, obviously.”

  But Cindy found nobody.

  The main street was still deserted. They walked down to the sea. The beach stretched as far as the eye could see in both directions. Excitedly Millie rushed to the ice-cream kiosk which waved its “Open for Walls Ices” flag invitingly. It was open, but no sign of an attendant. Millie reached into the chocolate ice-cream tray but there was none left. She tried each flavour in turn, but each container was scraped clean. She sat down on the concrete step, a picture of over-fed misery.

  Cindy was looking at the beach. “There’re lots of footprints in the sand but no people. Where are they all, Lance? The car park was full. They must be somewhere.”

  Suddenly red in the face, his little fat frame convulsed in anger, Lance cupped his hands and yelled, “Is anybody here? We want some bloody service!”

  But to this little family, who had never attended a service in their lives, had never done anything for anyone but themselves, answer came there none.

  The sound of singing made them turn. “Listen to that. It must be coming from that church,” said Cindy more cheerfully. “It must be a wedding or something. There’ll be locals in there. Oh come on, Lance. You don’t have to go in. We’ll sort it out, won’t we, Millie?”

  “Will there be pizzas?” said Millie, unconvinced.

  Cindy was not used to churches. She pushed at the door gently, in case the noise disturbed the wedding. Inside, the singing was no louder in than it had been outside. The rows of pews were empty except for the odd hymn book.

  “It must be a record, that singing,” whispered Cindy.

  A vertical shaft of light formed a misty halo above the altar. It looked as if it was rising from the altar itself.

  “It’s like Indiana Jones,” said Millie. “You know, at the end, when they take the lid of the whatsit and all those things come out.”

  Outside again, they found Lance looking at a notice board. “I think I know where to find people. Look.”

  Cindy looked.

  “It’s too high. I can’t see,” complained Millie.

  “Just wait,” said Cindy. “I’ll read it out. It says ‘Forthcoming Events’. Then below that someone has chalked ‘Twenty 12’. That’s today, the twentieth. It says ‘Judgment Day with prize-giving in the Victory Hall.’ I wonder what they’re judging. Probably home-made cakes or something.”

  Millie’s eyes lit up.

  “Does it matter?” complained Lance.

  “It says next week – the 30th – is Reassessment Day. Funny sort of competition, to give prizes one week and change their minds the next.

  “We can ask them when we get there. Come on,” said Lance.

  Millie reached the Victory Hall first. The smell of freshly cooked pizza was almost overpowering. Inside, her parents found her in tears again. “There isn’t anything to eat,” she wailed.

  From a door marked ‘Staircase to Basement’, the delights of hot fatty bacon and chips now assailed their noses; but despite all his efforts, Lance could not open it.

  They went into the main hall. On the stage was a trestle table, a harassed man in a white suit was talking to a woman.

  Lance shouted, “Oy, you. What the hell’s going on?”

  The man ignored him. “I am very sorry, Mrs Edwards, but I can’t allow you to share your husband’s prize. It was for him alone. Your entry was judged separately and you will receive your prize upstairs.”

  The woman was crying. “But … but …” when she vanished.

  Lance advanced as menacingly as his rotund figure could manage. Without looking up, the man said, “What is it? Your entry has already been judged.”

  “What do you mean ‘our entry’?” asked Lance, stopping abruptly. “We’ve only just arrived here.”

  “Precisely,” said the man, looking down his long nose at Lance as Cindy and Millie caught up. “You are here for your prize.”

  “Is it a pizza?” asked Millie eagerly.

  “You already have your prize.”

  Cindy said: “I don’t understand. We can’t find anything or anybody, except you.”

  “Well. We don’t usually explain things – but I have a moment. Your entry wasn’t anything like as bad as Mrs Edwards’ husband, so downstairs would have been a bit harsh. Upstairs was out of the question so I have awarded you one of our milder purgatories. I think you have explored most of it already.”

  The man’s words began slowly to sink into Lance’s addled brain. Slyly he asked, “If you ar
e going to all this trouble to judge us today, why are you going to re-assess in a couple of weeks? That café reopens on the 4th. That’ll make a mess of your plans when everyone comes back.”

  The man smiled condescendingly. “Up until this year, your prize was for ever. However, the new Human Rights Act introduced Reassessment Days. At first they were to be every hundred years – but you can imagine the administration involved there! So in the end, the Board compromised on every thousand years. So your Reassessment will be in the year 3012 as it said on the “Forthcoming Events” notice and, you will be pleased to know, the café will be open that year, quite near the beginning of the 4th millennium. Meanwhile try to do something worthwhile. It all helps. But don’t go vandalising the place. It will only make it smaller. Now I must go.”

  They were alone.

  “Right!”said Lance. “Let’s get to that car park and out of this mad place!”

  The car park was empty. Cindy moaned. Millie cried. Lance kicked the parking meter. Four parking spaces disappeared. They walked to the café and then on to the beach. They went into the church and then back to the Victory Hall and then…

  Millie said: “I want a pizza.”

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  The Forgiving Sea

  Andy Siddle

  Tom lay down on the hard, wooden bench. His mind was racing again, darting this way and that like a paper bag in the wind, from one ragged gust of a thought to the next.

  ‘Cold, the old enemy cold – no good see, makes you shiver, makes your teeth chatter, makes you rattle inside … makes your mind race … mustn’t get your feet wet, can’t come back from that if your feet are wet… Tuck ’em in, tuck ’em in. Pull the sheets close, there’s home now, there’s tidy … Read them and weep … Bring the Boys Back Home … The Pound is Down … Unemployment is Up … Recession … Depression … Our Night of Passion … The Latest Fashion … Easy to Fasten …’