by Sue Teddern
A rock-solid wall keeps back the sea. Once you’re the other side of it, Canvey Island disappears behind a faded, peeling mural in episodic form which tells the tale of the floods of 1953. It’s actually quite moving.
I sit on one of the benches and watch two massive container ships approach and pass each other on the Thames estuary, like two trucks on a B road. Dad would have loved this. I wonder if he ever came here . . .
I wish I had a dog; everyone else walking the length of the sea wall seems to have one. A creaky Jack Russell with grey whiskers and a pot belly waddles over to sniff my shoe. Some dogs smile and this one is positively beaming.
‘Sorry love, she’s a right tart, my Olga.’ A wiry man in his seventies, in a flat cap and fake fur-trimmed parka sits down next to me with a pained sigh. ‘Cor dear, I don’t know whose arthritis is more of a bugger. Hers or mine.’
He cuts Olga some slack on the lead so that she can sniff bench legs and get in the path of a pair of power walkers and their Nordic poles.
‘Why’s she called Olga?’ I ask. Obvious question really.
He chuckles. ‘Don’t tell my late wife. Not that you could anyway because she died five years ago. Olga was a girlfriend from when I was in the Merchant Navy, long before I got married. Linda, that’s my late wife, she thinks we named her after Olga Korbut. You know? That nippy little Russian gymnast from the ’72 Olympics. Now look at her. About as nippy as a sack of spuds, bless her.’
Olga emits a weary grunt and takes the weight off under the bench, occasionally sniffing my shoe in case she’s missed anything.
‘We do this every afternoon, rain or shine,’ the man says. ‘Dogs keep you fit. You ever had a dog?’
‘A cat.’
‘Never saw the point. Neither use nor ornament.’
I’m not having that. ‘Cromarty’s part of the family. As was Flo before him.’
‘If you say so.’ He isn’t convinced.
We gaze out at the container ships that have – at long last – passed each other. It’s impossible to sense their size or speed from here. They look like moving shopping malls.
‘Why’s your cat called Cromarty?’ the man asks.
‘My dad was potty about the Shipping Forecast.’
‘Was he a sailor and all?’
‘Not even remotely. He lived in St Albans. As landlocked as you can get. He just liked the names, the rhythm . . . Sole, Fastnet, Shannon, Rockall.’
‘He might not have been such a fan in a Force 8 off Biscay. Rough as old Harry.’
I nod to the mural behind us, with a panel listing the lives lost from the North Sea floods: Netherlands, England, Belgium . . . ‘You can’t have been born when that happened.’
‘I bloody was. I was 4. We lost our telly.’
‘Your telly?’
He looks so pleased to explain. ‘We was still living in Leyton. My dad bought one of the first tellies. Size of a small shed. Anyway, it went on the blink and his cousin Ken, who lived on the island, he said he could fix it. So Dad drove it down and left it with him. All our family survived the floods, thank God, but the telly got swept away. Could have been a lot worse. It was for some. Fifty-eight drowned on Canvey alone. Terrible business. This sea wall is like a shrine to them.’
He sighs, as if he still can’t quite fathom the enormity of it. ‘Linda and I moved here from Becontree when I retired. And then she died. But I thought, Sod it, I’m going nowhere. It suits me, this place. And, well, here I am. Me and Olga.’
I nearly take his hand. I so want to. Instead I divert it to patting Olga’s warm little head which has caught the sun. She snorts her appreciation, then re-settles behind her owner’s feet, safe from the occasional cyclist.
‘So you weren’t here in the early nineties? You were still in Becontree?’
‘Not living here, no, love, but visiting. Why d’you ask?’
‘My dad loved the Shipping Forecast and Dr Feelgood. I just wondered if you’d known any of them, Lee Brilleaux, Wilko Johnson and the rest. Canvey’s such a small place.’
It’s as if I’ve suddenly plugged him into the mains. He sits forward on the bench and his eyes shine with enthusiasm.
‘I wish! Only the best bloody band ever, bar none. I’m starting to like your dad. I’m guessing he’s not with us any more, right?’
I nod. ‘He died last month.’
‘Sorry to upset you, love. Me and my size 10s.’
I shake my head, to clear the tears. ‘You didn’t. Anything but. I reckoned he’d have liked you too.’
Olga wakes with a start. A poodle, plus owner, is passing by and territorial rights need to be established. She barks with a fury you wouldn’t expect from such a mature dog. The moment is broken.
The man pulls himself to his feet, groaning again. ‘Bloody arthritis. God’s way of telling you that lad in the Merchant Navy is just a folk memory.’
‘Course not. He’s right here.’
‘In your dreams, love. In your dreams. Anyway, nice chatting with you. Come on, Olga.’ He gives a wave and they head off, Olga looking up at him every so often for reassurance.
I stay for a while. Adrian at the Airbnb in Leigh-on-Sea asked if I could check in after five so I’m in no hurry. And then my phone rings. It’s Kate. Is she calling to apologize – again – or to have another go at me? Shall I even answer? I give it a couple of rings but I can’t not.
‘Annie, are you in Canvey yet?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘My train’s just pulling in to South Benfleet station. That’s the nearest I could get. So . . . are you going to pick me up or just leave me here?’
The Airbnb turns out to be a well-appointed loft conversion with views across the estuary. We have a big double bed, a dinky little en suite, a microwave and a kettle. Adrian and Jonny, our hosts, assume we’re a couple. I’m not fussed what they think, but Kate’s super-keen to set them, quite literally, straight.
‘We’re sisters. We’re not, you know, together. Well, we are but not like that. We’re sisters.’
Adrian beams. ‘We’re the last ones to judge, hun. Now, there’s home-made sourdough rolls and raspberry conserve in the garden room at 8 a.m., if you fancy it. I’ll leave you to settle yourselves in.’
Kate kicks off her shoes and lies on the bed. I climb out of my trainers, chuck a stack of Orla Kiely cushions to one side and join her. It feels like being on a therapist’s couch for two. Maybe we can talk to each other without eye-rolls and sarcasm if we’re both staring at the ceiling.
‘You said things were too fraught at work for you to come,’ I ask tentatively.
‘They are. I pulled a sickie. Apparently I’ve got a terrible migraine, I’ve been sick three times and I can’t even open my blinds.’
This is a first for Kate. If she lost both legs in a freak skiing accident, she’d still wheel herself into work on a supermarket trolley. She’s slim, bordering on skinny, because she skips lunch to finish an urgent report or plough through emails. She works at a small start-up software company and I reckon the couple who started it up – Ros and Ross – take advantage of her loyalty. But she doesn’t mind.
‘It means a lot that you came, Katkin. Oh crikey, you don’t want us to scatter Dad’s ashes tomorrow, do you? Off Southend Pier? I’m not ready to say goodbye to him yet.’
‘Course not. I’m a completist. You know I don’t like things unfinished, like when I had to read every Harry Potter. So I totally get that you want Dad to visit all the Shipping Forecast. I really do, An-An.’
I explain that, in actual fact, I can’t possibly take him to every sea area because it’s just too ambitious and unwieldy. But if Dad and I can work our way round the Scottish, English and Welsh coastline, ignoring Ireland, that will reduce the stops from thirty-one to fourteen. So that’s what I’m doing and I think he’d approve. Kate agrees, right?
She doesn’t reply. Is she taking issue with my assessment of the situation? Does she think I’d be letting Dad down if we don’
t make it to either Utsire? No. She’s fast asleep. She’ll be annoyed that she’s nodded off in her Toast linen jacket, but what’s a crease or two? Merely an acknowledgement that she doesn’t have to achieve perfection 24/7. Me, I’ve never had that problem.
She wakes with a start an hour later, has a shower and changes into tight cropped chinos and a white T-shirt. She really is effortlessly stylish and extraordinarily gorgeous. Mum and Dad were just practising parenthood on me, ironing out the glitches for Daughter Number Two, who is everything I’m not.
We walk into downtown Southend. It excels at a tackiness that Scarborough can only aspire to. The naff souvenir shops, banging arcades and lairy theme pubs are cocky and brazen. They don’t give a stuff what any bugger thinks. You don’t come to Southend-on-Sea for subtlety and nuance. ‘If you don’t feckin’ like us, jog on.’
Kate has a sudden urge for curry. She normally takes little interest in what she eats so I’m more than happy to indulge her. If we over-order – which we do – we can always warm up the doggy-bagged leftovers for breakfast in our microwave. Welcome to my world.
We glug down our Kingfisher beers, I karate-chop a pile of poppadoms into manageable pieces and we’re off. This is so great, eating out in a proper restaurant with my baby sister. I can’t help wondering why it’s such a novelty. What stopped us going for a balti in St Albans? Why must we be far away to be close?
‘This is so great,’ I say out loud as I smear mango chutney on to a shard of poppadom.
‘The pickle’s a bit vicious.’
‘I meant us. This. Being all sisterly in Southend. I’m really glad you came.’
‘Yeah, well. I didn’t have much choice.’
‘I asked nicely, Kate. I didn’t bloody force you here.’
She stops eating and does one of her humourless laughs. I am about to be bollocked.
‘An-An, this may come as a shock, but the world doesn’t revolve around you. I needed to be somewhere else and Canvey Island, Southend, wherever we are, was as good a place as any. More a case of self-preservation than visiting sea area – which one is it again?’
‘Thames.’
‘Thames. That’s it. Shall I order more beers? God, I must have been thirsty.’
Kate does one of those international hand signals to the waiter and two more beers appear. I am chastened, silenced. Self-preservation? From what? Does she want me to ask or will I be told off for being too nosy?
She pours her beer and finds her voice. ‘I said things were a bit shit at work, didn’t I.’
‘Fraught. You said fraught.’
‘It started at fraught, moved on to shit and now, and now, I am in Olympic-level, A-grade, proper fucked-up-big-time territory.’ Her voice wobbles. This sounds serious.
‘I told you we had a meeting in Coventry. Presentation to a new client. Ros and Ross wanted me along because apparently I add gravitas. So there was me, Ros, Ross and Charlie, our production manager. And we were put up in a nice hotel. Nice meal out, nice company. All very . . . nice. And then I ruined it. I ruined everything.’
My mind fills with possibilities. Kate’s idea of ruining everything could be using the fish knife on steak or spilling her wine. She doesn’t cut herself much slack.
‘Well, go on. What? How?’
‘After the meal, one of the Coventry people suggested a club so me and Charlie and a couple of them said yes. Ros and Ross looked a bit disapproving but I didn’t care because I’d had two gin and tonics, three glasses of wine and a brandy. And, well, I got a bit uninhibited.’
‘You went dancing? So? Dancing isn’t a sackable offence.’ I think of Kim and me, plus two businessmen, strutting our stuff in that deserted hotel bar in Scarborough. Dancing makes you feel alive. How can that be bad for someone as buttoned-up as Kate?
She slugs back another gulp of beer. She’s working up to something.
‘I slept with Charlie.’
‘Ah.’
‘I’ve always been scrupulous about keeping work and relationships separate. So that if it goes tits up, I don’t have to face them every day. Plus you lose status, authority, if someone’s seen you in, well, you know, in . . .’
‘In the nuddy?’
‘In an intimate context, I was going to say.’
Kate really does look shaken. Okay, it’s not great but it’s hardly the end of the world. I slept with my boss when I had the City job. More than once, as I recall. If anything, it shifted me one rung higher up the corporate ladder.
‘Is Charlie discreet?’ I ask. ‘Can it stay your little secret?’
‘I don’t know. Yes. Probably.’
‘Well, stop worrying then. If it doesn’t affect your work relationship, you’ll be fine, Kate. It takes two to tango. He’s probably shitting bricks that he got rat-arsed and slept with the PR manager.’
‘Charlie isn’t a “he”.’
I don’t take it in when she says it the first time. She looks pained.
‘I said, Charlie isn’t a “he”. He’s a she. I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t know who I am, Annie. I don’t know any more.’
We park the conversation for an hour or two. I’m keen to dig deeper as Kate rarely, if ever, lets her defences down and does something so spontaneous . . . and so primal. But she’s said enough for now and I don’t want to push: even telling me this much is a personal best for her. I know about previous relationships but she’s never been in full confessional mode before. She’d just throw out selected scraps of information for me to tack together. She was always in total control of how much I knew and what I was supposed to think.
This Charlie thing is totally new territory so it’s best if I leave her to navigate, rather than steer her somewhere she doesn’t want to go. I’m actually rather impressed with how sensitively I’m dealing with this. I’m being a proper big sister and I like it.
After our waistband-expanding curry, we go for a wander and find ourselves at the Southend Kursaal. We get a fiver’s worth of two-pence pieces and feed them into a Penny Falls machine, always a favourite when we were kids. We won bugger all then too.
And now, here we are, lying alongside each other in our Airbnb bed. It’s pitch dark, save for a stripe of moonlight under the blind. We’re both wide awake, regretting that final scraping of sag aloo. With no eye contact possible, maybe we can pick up where we left off. I don’t start with Charlie, though. I’m not daft.
‘You said you’d tell me about Rory some time. How about now?’
Kate inhales deeply. In her current emotional turmoil, she’d forgotten about him. ‘Ah, Rory. What a shit!’
I turn on the bedside light. ‘Would this work better with a cup of cocoa? Look, they’ve given us two sachets.’
‘On top of all that spicy food? Seriously, Annie?’ Two seconds later: ‘Oh, go on then.’
This must be our very first pyjama party, although I’m in my Boyzone T-shirt and a pair of Rob’s boxers and Kate’s in something silky, chemise-y and classy. We sit cross-legged on the bed, over-stirring our cocoa, and Kate begins.
‘Well, you know my CV on the relationship front. I always pick unsuitable men or men who are already spoken for: Asif . . . Julian . . . that shitty little French toad who will remain nameless. So, when Rory said he was unhappily married, I believed him.’
‘That he was unhappy?’
‘That he was married. It was starting to get serious. You know, more than just a shag, talking about the future. And he kept saying if only he could leave his wife and his daughter but Sarah was so emotionally unstable and poor little Holly or Polly or Molly or whatever had special needs and relied hugely on him.
‘He made me want him because he was unavailable and then it turned out he was lying through his teeth. No Sarah, no kid, no cute cat called Scampi with a bent tail. Just a photo of his cousin’s wife and kid in his wallet, in case he needed to make a fast getaway. And then, can you believe it, when I found out, he dumped me!’
‘Perhaps Charlie was a
reaction to that,’ I suggest. ‘You know, to show Rory – and men in general – that you didn’t need him?’
‘Wouldn’t that be convenient? Don’t be daft. Course not, An-An. Charlie was a spur-of-the-moment thing. She knew exactly what she was doing. I didn’t. But I was pissed and I wanted to see it through, to see how it made me feel.’
‘And?’
‘You’re not getting every sleazy detail.’
‘I don’t want every sleazy detail, whether it’s Charlie, Rory or that chinless boy scout you dated when you were 12. Eeeuw!’
‘Sorry.’
She does look genuinely sorry. Sometimes Kate has no idea who I am, just a version of me that suits her narrative.
‘All I meant was . . . was this thing with Charlie just . . . a thing? Or a thing with a future.’
‘Hardly. Not least because I work with her. She’s out and proud to Ros and Ross and everyone. What if she tells someone about us? What if they find out? What will they think of me?’
I’m lost. What is Kate concerned about? Her privacy? Her sexuality? Her non-adherence to work protocol?
‘Do you want to know what I think?’ I ask.
‘No. Yes. Only if you’re on my side.’
‘Now you’re being ridiculous. I’m hardly rooting for Charlie, am I? What I think is: this is only an issue at work if you make it one. Pretend it’s no biggie but don’t do it again . . . unless you want to. Do you want to?’
Her instant reply takes a second or two longer than it should. ‘It will never happen again. Not with another co-worker and certainly not with Charlie. That was a one-off, a mistake. I’ve drawn a line and moved on. Now I’m really tired and I think we should both get some sleep. God, I feel stuffed. Why did you make me have that cocoa?’
