"So what are the good things?" asked Paula.
Susie continued. "Well, I've always got someone to play with. And someone to talk to. And it's taught me how to share; we love sharing things! And if I'm in trouble outside, my big sisters stick up for me. And we're always laughing. My Dad is always making us laugh. He's very funny."
"What does he do? asked Victoria.
"Well, he makes funny rubber faces." Susie sat up ... put her thumbs in her mouth ... and pulled her ears forward. "Like this!"
They all burst out laughing. So they tried to copy her by making rubber faces, too!
Except Paula. She just stared out at the beach, like she wasn't listening.
"Oh,come on Paula. Don't you think that's funny?"
She didn't answer. She just kept staring. But Daniel, he was a clever boy. He knew there was something wrong. So he went and sat close to her and quietly said: "Paula, what's wrong?" Then she started to cry.
And this was her sad story. "Nobody ever laughs in our house. My Mum and Dad are always fighting. Me and my little brother hide under the stairs. We always go there when we hear them fighting. That's our safe place."
"What do they fight about?" asked Carlos, looking very serious.
"Oh, all kinds of stuff," she replied. "They argue about money. They argue about our house. Sometimes they argue about me. I've even heard my Mum say: 'I wish she'd never been born!' And then I start to cry. Sometimes, I see my Dad hitting my Mum hard. He makes her bleed and she cries."
Paula stopped. And there were no more questions. Her friends felt very sorry for her.
Susie suddenly came out with, "Never mind, Paula. We're your friends forever." So they all joined hands and shouted, "Friends forever!"
Then Susie reached for the sandwiches. She was hungry. "Come on, guys. Time for lunch."
Once again, it went quiet. But this time, it was the sound of ... munching!
As soon as they'd finished, they all turned and stared at Carlos. He stared back.
"Whatccchhh?" he said, with a mouth full of banana.
"Now it's your turn, Carlos. What's it like in your house?"
Now Carlos loved talking, and talking loud. But now he went quiet. And slowly started to tell his story. "I've only got a Mum. She told me my Dad ran away when I was a baby. So I've never seen him. And he never comes to see me. If I ever meet him, I'll ask him, 'Why won't you come and see me?' My Mum doesn't know how angry I am. Why did he leave us on our own? I want an answer!"
When he'd finished his story, they all looked through the doorway again, into the sky. They were very quiet.
Then Daniel broke the silence.
"That's the best thing about being friends," he said.
"What is?" asked Carlos.
"We can tell each other our problems."
"And," added Victoria, "we can cheer each other up."
Now she was smiling. Now everyone was smiling.
Paula happened to look outside. The sky was blue. The sun was out. It had stopped raining.
"It's stopped raining!" she shouted.
"That means," said Carlos, showing his lovely white teeth, "we can play outside!"
They jumped up, Carlos grabbed the ball, and they ran outside into the sand. It was all a bit soggy. But they didn't mind that. All afternoon, they played football together: boys against girls.
And guess who won. The girls won 21 - 19!
*******
The Inn to be In
Peter Caton
"On ... a ... bi ...cy ... cle ... made ... for ... two!"
Hugo was good at thinking up lyrics for new songs. But sometimes, when he stretched his imagination too far, he met with opposition.
"On a what?" asked Leo, somewhat startled.
"On a bi-cy-cle," replied Hugo.
"So, what's a bi-cy-cle?"
"Well, I've been to one of those circuses, you know, that travel round entertaining people. They're very good; worth every groat. One of the acts is a man sitting on a wheel. I think he called it a 'uni-cy-cle': that's a wheel with a seat on top. He sits there and does all kinds of tricks. 'Uni' simply means 'one'. So I reckon a bi-cy-cle is a wheel with two people on top. See?"
"That's a bit dangerous, isn't it?" said William.
"Let's just get back to business, shall we?" interrupted Leo, who seemed to be in charge.
"Hello, good evening. My name's Silas and I'm the innkeeper here. Are you enjoying your stay? Is your room comfortable? In case you're wondering, in case you're wondering what's going on, let me tell you. You're staying at The Sailors Rest, an inn just up the road from the harbour here in Plymouth. You may feel a bit out-of-it dressed in those strange clothes, but then this is the seventeenth century!
"And those three sitting round that table by the door? They're our local music publishers: Leo, Hugo, and William. They're always in here - every Friday night - giving us live music. They've already composed lots of songs for us to sing: songs for when these lads are out there putting to sea; and lullabies to sing to our children at home. They've got a real passion for music and poetry. They hope to be famous, one day.
"It's an education and a privilege to have them here. This is the inn to be in! So let's listen to them for a while longer, shall we?"
Leo continued, "Singing about a bo-cy-cle, or whatever you call it, Hugo, singing about a bo-cy-cle is so dull. No, that won't work. We've got to try something with a bit more life in it."
"Like what?" challenged William.
Suddenly, an unknown voice came from a dark corner of the inn:
"I'll show you a wife,
A pretty little wife,
But she can't cook
To save her life!"
…Immediately followed by roars of grotesque manly laughter.
"I write the songs!" stormed Leo.
"Correction: we write the songs," added Hugo and William in unison as the three of them stood up to challenge the anonymous contributor.
"Easy, lads," warned Silas, with a voice of authority about him. "Any trouble and you're outside."
After that, things settled down again.
Leo continued, "We need something with that ... er ... that 'X' factor."
"What d'you mean, 'X' factor?"
"That special ingredient."
"So what is it?"
Leo thought for a moment. "I ... er ... I think it's that quality to last, to span generations, so that people for years to come will be singing our songs."
"You've got it!" exclaimed Hugo and William. "That's it. We've got the formula. Now all we need is something to sing about. Or someone."
Silence fell around that table, as the three stared into their empty tankards. In the background, the drone of voices could be heard from the four corners of this crowded house, accompanied by the clink of tankards being thrown together as friends cheered each other; and the eerie, dull moan of the night wind as it passed by in the street outside, occasionally rattling the door of the old inn. It was now past midnight and some were thinking of going home.
Without warning, the door suddenly burst open and an old sailor staggered in and fell on his face. He raised his head, just once, to ask, "Haveyougotanightforthebed?" then finally collapsed in a heap in the middle of the floor.
Everyone stared at him. No one was sure what to do next.
"I ... I feel a song coming on," stuttered William. "Yes, I think I've got a song."
"Let's have it then," invited his two companions.
William reached for his lute. He plucked hesitantly at the strings.
"Are you ready, lads? Here we go:
"What shall we do with the drunken sailor?
What shall we do with the drunken sailor?
What shall we do with the drunken sailor
Ear-ly in the mornin'?"
Ooooh-ray, up she rises,
Ooooh-ray, up she rises,
Ooooh-ray, and up she ris
es,
Ear-ly in the mornin'."
The whole company had been listening. Now, table-by-table, they started to join in with this new song, until it could be heard loud and clear down in the harbour - that is, if anyone was there so early in the morning.
"Drink up, my lads, drink up!" Silas shouted above the chanting. "I think we've got hit material here."
There was a fine feeling of satisfaction - even of achievement - as men started to leave the Sailors Rest to go to their homes. And down in the harbour, overlooked by a sympathetic full-moon, an old sailor lay sleeping in a longboat. Nothing did he know of the contribution he had made that night to the seventeenth century Music Industry.
*******
Rörö
Nikki Bennett
Island of peace,
sun shining on solitary dwellings
clinging, like limpets, to granite rock
covered with tiny flowers – hare-bells, heather.
Your peace echoes everywhere,
broken only by the lapping of waves,
the shrieking of gulls,
and gentle breezes playing in the trees.
I’ll always remember the harbour,
the hills,
your endless paths
leading to the simplicity of nature in its best and most beautiful array.
Island of terror,
rain beating on spattered window-panes,
riverlets of salty water collecting in colourless pools,
bathing grounds for twittering sparrows.
Your rage echoes everywhere,
the waves thundering against huge boulders,
sheltering dried, snowy foam,
that blows, like tiny ping-pong balls,
away to the depths of a fragrant pine-forest.
I’ll always remember the harbour,
the fishing boats, anchored but tossing in the storm,
the greyness,
the bleakness
leading to the maliciousness of nature in her wildest and most impressive rage.
*******
Sandsurfing on Hoylake Beach
Nikki Bennett
The roaring reciprocity
of wind-catching
networks in its swirls,
twirls, cross-hatching
and feather strokes,
mixes with smoky
darkness, misty moments,
near naked nanoseconds;
while the dots and dashes
fade into a faintness
pulled back by
a fierce force,
a seering surge of
adrenaline rush
and a salt tang
that stimulates, invigorates;
from earthy-solid base
aspiring to wispy lilac flumes,
and beyond, pulled by
plain sails of green and yellow –
our earth, our sun –
comes our power-trip, our sand-dream
pushing, pulling, piping us,
onwards, outwards, upwards.
*******
Storm out to Sea
Nikki Bennett
In St Lucia, on her honeymoon,
she’d laughed at her new husband,
his first attempts at windsurfing,
aching ankles, wrenched wrists, bruised back.
She’d sat on the sands,
listened to the hotelier’s wife’s
horror story of the manager
who drifted away, never to be seen again.
Had he clung on tight –
hoping against hope, she wondered.
Here, crying into the wind,
she howls back at the storm
with the pain, aches, bruises
of a mangled and wrenched heart.
Here, on this colder-climate beach,
she wails at the storm-strewn seascape,
eyes straining at the drifting, distant shape,
clinging onto hope against hope,
praying it is a manager
coming home to replace her absent husband.
*******
Flotsam and Jetsam
Ruth Ann Titley
Spring came early that year, in the late fifties, with temperatures rising well above the norm. The expected March winds had refused to breathe even a sigh, and the showery April’s dreams of summer had become a reality when an extraordinary heat-wave swept across our green and pleasant land.
Floss and Jess had taken to walking the three miles to school every morning. They usually met up in front of the Ferryboat buildings and, if the tide was out, made their way down the steps from the promenade embankment to begin their brisk walk in bare feet along the beach.
On this particularly bright morning the two girls planned to take a swim. The joy of taking an early morning dip was, for these two young ladies in the bloom of their youth, a glamorously romantic and adventurous thing to do.
Young Daniel Forrester, a keen horseman, rode his horse, Pippa, gingerly down the slipway to the wide expanse of beach, a couple of miles away from where Floss and Jess had commenced their walk. Daniel never missed the opportunity to enjoy the pure pleasure of a vigorous gallop with Pippa, before going to his rather boring office job in a photographic studio in the village.
Meanwhile, Doctor Dean, a middle-aged, well respected general practitioner and father of three boisterous children who created mayhem every morning at breakfast time, had also been drawn out to enjoy the pleasures of an early morning constitutional. Of late, Doctor Dean had found his rather sedentary work at the surgery extremely tiresome; a drain on his general sense of well-being. Therefore, it was with a certain joie de vivre that, each morning, he jogged his way back to a healthier state of boyish enthusiasm with a zest for life that he had not felt in a long while.
On this particular morning Doctor Dean had begun his jog from the same point as Floss and Jess. He noticed the girls running down to the water’s edge to bathe, and smiled when he heard their girlish laughter when they entered the water. He paused to watch them, just for a brief moment, before resuming his rhythmic stride. Then stepping up his pace in order to reach his turning point; the last sycamore tree closest to the slipway, he put his shoulders back and raised his head to take the wind. He noticed some sombrous, heavy clouds approaching from the west but paying them no heed he, like the free spirit he had become, immersed himself in his athleticism. When a few minutes later he became breathless, he stopped again to rest his hands on his knees to recover.
It was then that he heard the dull thudding sound of hooves pounding on the sand as the galloping steed ridden by Daniel Forrester came ever closer.
Suddenly a loud rumble of thunder directly overhead drowned out the thudding of the horse’s hooves, followed almost immediately by a ripping, blinding flash of forked lightning which struck the surface of the water and lit up the heavily overcast sky. Blinded momentarily, Doctor Dean did not see the galloping horse rear up, throwing its rider backwards onto the sand.
When a second bolt of lightning struck without warning, he flung himself down and instinctively curled up for his own protection, from where he saw the rider-less horse careering madly away in the direction of where the young school girls had been swimming.
A deep throated groan reached the doctor’s ears and, turning his head slowly, he saw a pain-stricken young man lying on the sand a short distance away. He crawled towards him and using his own neckerchief to wipe away the blood and sand from Daniel Forrester’s face, he noticed that blood appeared to be seeping from his mouth as he lapsed into unconsciousness. Though Doctor Dean tried, he could not rouse him.
The tide had turned he noticed. He would have to act fast if he was to get the injured youth away from the rising waters to the safety of higher ground. Fearful of the injuries the young man may have sustained in his fall from his horse, he did not dare to move him while in such a comatose state. He glanced around, desperately looking for someone who co
uld assist him, but there was no one to be seen. He covered him with his own shirt to protect him from chill air the storm had brought with it. Then he searched the young man’s pockets looking for a whistle. “Thank God,” he muttered nervously to himself at finding one, and began to blow it as loud as he could.
He felt the cold lapping of the waves on his thighs as the rising tide crept in relentlessly, until the doctor felt himself being rocked about with each buoyant swell. Finally he gave in to the forces of nature by easing himself and his patient into the deeper calmer water where he supported the young man’s head and body as best he could and whistled and shouted while he waited for help to come.
A mile away, Floss and Jess, who had run to shelter by the embankment wall, heard the horse approaching and seeing the reins thrashing about its withers ran forward to stop the frightened creature. Floss was quick to catch hold of the reins and she hung on as the horse slowed to a standstill.
“Get dressed, Jess,” she called to her friend as she made much of the horse to calm it.
“They’ve gone, Floss,” Jess shouted back, her voice filled with dismay. “Our clothes have been washed away and we’ll be cut off if we don’t reach the safety of the slipway.”
Floss and Jess had no difficulty mounting the horse, and once in the saddle they hung on for dear life as the horse began to canter through the rising sea water which had begun to flood over every narrow remaining strip of dry sand close to the embankment wall.
By the grace of God, a passerby who had heard Doctor Dean’s whistle and cries for help alerted the ambulance service. Therefore, when Floss and Jess arrived at the scene of the accident, they quickly dismounted to see if they could help the ambulance men who had already arrived and were attempting to gently float young Daniel Forrester’s limp body onto the submerged stretcher to spare him any further trauma.
Doctor Dean, who was by this time suffering from exposure, was reluctant to go to hospital in the ambulance.
“It’s for your own good, sir,” the medic insisted. “It’s just to be on the safe-side, sir.”
The passerby, a rosy-cheeked lady who had returned to offer her assistance after making the 999 call, also insisted that he should go to hospital.
Seaside Stories Page 4