She had a way of saying stuff that left me clueless about how to reply.
“I think I could find a way to live with that,” I said eventually.
True to the Brighton taxi driver’s word, the storm has blown itself out from the night before. I wake up early and hungry, having gone to sleep so soon after arriving, and I sense the brightness of the sun behind the heavy hotel curtains. I walk over to the window, reach out and pull the cord to let the sunlight shine directly on my face. As I look out, the sun is over to my left and reflected across the sea. I squint to check the time on the digital display of the TV.
“Seven-fifty,” I say out loud. Not so early then.
I walk through to the bathroom, go to the toilet and splash my face with cold water. Back in the bedroom, I put on my one set of clothes and pick up my glasses from the side of the bed. There doesn’t seem much point in taking a shower just to get back into dirty clothes and besides, I’m hungry so I go downstairs. I take a peek outside the main entrance, and what I see makes me forget about eating for just a while. I’m drawn across the busy road to the prom by the light on the sea. Once I’m on the prom, I see there’s another prom running below me. The sound of the waves on the pebbles is different to anything I’d come across in Greece or Italy – more physical somehow, more English.
I like this piece of England, I think. I’ve come to the right place.
I watch a young woman walking across the beach by the shoreline with her dog – a huge Alsatian – and the two of them are striding out across the pebbles. It must be heavy going walking at an angle on such an uneven surface, but both owner and dog seem to step lightly across in front of me. The dog is off the lead, but the woman is carrying a thick chain in her left hand. There’s no one else on the beach as far as I can see. She’s probably walking her dog before leaving for work. I wonder if the dog will be alone all day? Or can she make it home for lunch? That sure is a big dog; it makes her look petite but I don’t think she is.
Above and behind her, I follow slowly in the same direction. The cry of the gulls cuts through the sound of the early morning traffic. There’s already some warmth in the sun on the back of my neck. I stop after a short distance and lean on the railings. I look out at the remains of the broken-down pier, a black silhouette in the brightness of the sea. I think I remember as a child reading in the newspaper – my parents’ Daily Mail probably – about the time the pier burnt down. Or did it collapse in a storm? So I don’t really remember then. I can see why they’ve left it as it is though; it’s a hell of a statement out there in the waves.
I watch as the woman and her Alsatian reach the derelict pier and turn back along the beach. I imagine this to be a daily routine and wonder how far she walks each morning. She covers the distance quickly and is soon passing by again, in front of where I’m standing on the prom. I turn to look where the sun is already high above the other pier and close my eyes against the light. I stand holding on to the railings, letting the sun work its magic on my face. I listen to the gulls. I love that sound; I could only be at an English seaside resort. The Grand Hotel is behind me and I’m bracketed by the two piers reaching out to sea. But then my stomach reminds me about breakfast and I walk back across the road to the hotel.
I go straight through to the breakfast room, wait to be seated and give the waitress my room number. I’ve enjoyed living quite frugally for the past couple of years and I appreciate good bread and coffee for breakfast and the simplicity of a clean room to sleep in. I guess I’m paying through the nose here at the Grand for exactly the same things, but I don’t care. I’m going to look after myself from now on, whatever it takes and whatever it costs. While I wait for my breakfast to be served, I do a quick calculation of how long I could afford to live like this before my money runs out; maybe two thousand nights, or call it five or six years. And I should be worried about booking in for a couple of days? I tell myself to relax and enjoy; it’s not as though I do this all the time and I certainly won’t be doing it for a number of years.
After my breakfast I see the concierge from last night and he doffs his cap. I smile and walk over.
“If a man needed a new set of clothes,” I ask, “where in Brighton would you recommend?”
He looks at the state of me, leaving me in no two minds that he’s of the same opinion – it’s about time I did some shopping.
“Are we talking about a gentleman’s set of clothes, sir, or a trendier, younger person’s range of wear?”
“We’re talking absolute basics of T-shirts, trousers, shorts and sandals – casual wear, shall we say?”
“Ye-es.” He’s disappointed but not surprised. “I think you’ll find what you’re looking for in the North Street area of shops.”
I love this guy; he reminds me of a white and weedy version of Siobhan’s bodyguard Stevie.
“And where would I find North Street?”
He reaches beneath his desk and opens out a small map.
“We’re on the seafront here,” he says, pointing with the tip of his pen. “If you turn left outside the entrance to the hotel and then left again here, you’ll find a whole range of shops to choose from.”
I pick up the map and thank him. I want to ask him his name – just as I’m sure Danny might have done – but I daren’t. I’d like him to stop calling me sir, but I daren’t ask him to do that either. I just thank him again and walk over to the lifts.
I decide after all to take a shower and a shave. I swap my glasses for contact lenses and look out the window of my hotel room, shaking my head again in disbelief at the view. This was such the right place to have come and already I’m thinking of how I could settle in Brighton, start a new life and, who knows, maybe even be happy?
I nod across to the concierge as I leave the hotel and see an eyebrow raised in acknowledgement. I feel him watch me out the door; I obviously amuse him in some way.
I’m drawn across the road to the seafront again, but I resist the urge and turn left out the hotel and then left again away from the prom. I see what Mr. Concierge means about North Street and I have no difficulty – apart from the prices I pay – in finding trousers, shirts, underwear and some socks. I might ask him where he would recommend a gentleman to shop, just out of interest; maybe I could do with a style makeover? Perhaps I’m not thinking enough about clothes and shit? But I still find myself looking for a new pair of sandals and I know that comfort comes before style for me every time. The thing is, I don’t give a damn about the way I look, only about the way I feel. I’m too old for most of the clothes I see in the shops and too young, I hope, for where Mr. Concierge would like to send me for a fitting.
I do buy some new music. I know for a fact that what I’ve been listening to while I was away has gotten stale and it’s time to take a chance on a few things, a leap in the musical dark to freshen up my senses. While I’m at it, I also buy some new batteries to go in my Walkman. I’m ready for another coffee and, rather than venture into The Lanes, I decide to return to the Grand.
Mr. Concierge is at his desk and I ask him if he knows a place I could take my boots for some tender loving care.
“I could organize that for you, sir.” He waits while I untie the laces and hand over the boots. He picks them up between two fingers.
“Thank you,” I say.
“That’s not a problem, sir. I shall have these back to you by this evening.”
I walk across the foyer in my dirty stocking feet and take the lift up to my room. I love money and what it can do for you.
I drink my coffee in the lobby area downstairs. There are tourist flyers in the lobby and I glance through these before setting off in my new sandals. This is the moment I like most when I arrive in a new town: tramping around to get my bearings, deliberately taking a few wrong turnings, and arriving back where I stated, exhausted but no longer in need of a map. Or – this being Brighton – perhaps today I shall walk the length of the seafront before venturing further around the town tomorrow? What
ever – I don’t care; I’m just so glad to be discovering a new place.
I take my Walkman with me, but most of the time there’s so much to see and hear that I have the headphones on but the music turned off – Eminem in Jesus sandals.
Once I’m on the prom, it’s tempting to go down to the beach, but then I’d lose this fantastic view. I decide to leave the beach for later and set off towards the pier – the West Pier I now know it’s called. The prom is busy and it’s a different experience to my pre-breakfast stroll. It’s still the height of the season and the front is gearing itself up for another day. Picking up my pace, I step out a little and feel as though I could go on walking along the coast forever, beyond Brighton, past the Isle of Wight, and through all those seaside towns of southern England; through Dorset and into Devon and finally into Cornwall, down to the very end of England – that would be a fine thing to do.
But not today, and not in my new sandals – I’d need to be wearing my boots for that. I take a seat on a bench and have a rest, not wanting to end up with blisters on my very first day. When I head back towards the Grand, I take it at a much slower pace and feel and look like every other tourist on the prom. The sunshine is definitely a very different type of light to what I’ve become used to abroad, but I like it too much to think of blocking it out with sunglasses.
Once I’m close enough to the Grand, I cross the road to buy some fish and chips and a takeaway cup of tea for my lunch. I cross back over and make my way down to the beach. I know I’m only enjoying what thousands before me have enjoyed but I don’t care; I feel truly content. Brighton seems right to me – a place I might even one day call my home.
The gulls are attracted by the fish and chips of all the punters eating their lunch. They’re not shy either and they’re fucking huge when you see them up close like this. I take a sip of my tea and secure the cup in the pebbles on the beach.
So this is where they came to fight in sixties. Hard work, I think, running and fighting on all this shingle.
The horizon line runs straight and uninterrupted for as far as I can see. I’ve never seen a view like this; the sea seems raised above us, stretching out into infinity. France must be out there somewhere, or is it just the Atlantic – if there can be such a thing as just the Atlantic?
The gulls lose interest in me as I finish my lunch. I drink my tea and lie back in the sunshine, listening to the families and the steady flow of people arriving and leaving the beach. It’s warm and pleasant to have a little doze, but I wake up with a dry mouth from the salt on my chips. There are two young girls a short distance away, eating their lunch on the beach. I can see down the top of one of their pants, down to the hint of her beautiful young arse. There’s plenty of flesh on open view at the beach but it’s the promise of what’s in those pants that turns me on. They’re teenagers but I don’t give a shit. When next I look though, the girls are kissing and one has her hand down the back of those very same pants. They break away laughing and stand up to walk away.
Bitches and faggots, I think. Bitches and faggots.
I smile like it’s me that’s been outed and stand up unsteadily in the sun. There’s a rubbish bin at the top of the beach and a shop to buy a bottle of water. It might be nice to take off my sandals and paddle along the shoreline in the sea, but I choose instead to walk along the lower level of the prom towards the Pier. If I aim for the Marina, it’s not too ambitious a destination for an afternoon’s walk.
I take it easy. I stroll along the length of the pier, turning around to enjoy the view of the seafront from out here at sea. The pier is crazy busy but I’m alone in my own world; I can watch and listen without being a part of it all. This is the closest I feel to the Brighton of yesteryear, the Brighton of Brighton Rock, and I can feel the ghost of Pinky in every piece of seaside tack. The toffee apples and the candyfloss, the ice cream and candy; seafood you’d never think of eating anywhere else – they’re all here. The noise is relentless but I don’t mind; it’s like a soundtrack of the seaside playing in my head.
The swirling green water I see through the gaps in the boardwalk – isn’t that how Pinky’s story ends? I’m confused between the film and the book; didn’t the film cop out in some way? I remember the water beneath the pier though; that’s right – he falls to his death from the pier at the end of the film. Yes, and then the scratched record letting Rose off the hook and her believing Pinky was a saint.
I walk past the bars where Pinky and his gang drank and on to the funfair where he was such a deadeye shot at the firing range. I listen to the music of the carousel and feel like I’m in the story myself. People push past me but I just stand there. I still have my headphones on but I’m not listening to music; I’m listening to the sound of a time I thought was gone forever. I move to the railings out of the way of the crowds and rest for a while with my face to the sun. And then I move on again.
I continue my walk towards the Marina, where I have another little rest. I walk back to the Grand along the upper prom, into a sun that is now moving firmly into the west. My feet are aching with the new sandals but as I walk back up the steps of the Grand I’m pleased with the distance I’ve covered. I don’t see Mr. Concierge but my boots are waiting for me just inside the bedroom door. I run a bath and soak contentedly; I’ve got away with no blisters, but I think tomorrow it’s back to the boots.
I’m up early again the next morning. I leave the hotel and cross the road to look out to sea, as though it might still not be there – but it is, and so too is the woman walking her dog. I can imagine getting hooked on this view each morning. I stick around for her passing by in the opposite direction and then return to the hotel for my breakfast. Mr. Concierge must be on a day off or something, or on a different shift maybe, so I ask at reception if I can stay for the rest of the week. I say I can give them my credit card as a guarantee, if only they’ll let me settle my final bill with cash. They’re happy enough with this and I like that it gives me more time to get my bearings in the town.
I’m well rested – I just had a sandwich and a couple of pints in the bar of the hotel last night and the briefest of strolls along the prom. The pier, lit up by night-time, looked tempting, but I thought that experience could wait for another time.
I lace up my boots and set off on another day of discovery. I cover the obvious places by lunchtime – the Pavilion, the Dome and The Lanes. The city has that classic seaside combination of grandeur and decay. I can see the attraction in The Lanes, but it’s not really for me. All those bars and restaurants, antique shops, jewellery shops – the quaintness is fine; but I prefer the seafront any day. I also appreciate the hilliness of the city. I see a lot of high-rise flats close by and know I’m only a step away from real life.
I take a break back in my hotel room. I order up some room service and take the time to think this through. If I’m serious about staying here, I’m going to have to find somewhere to live. That means tramping further afield, finding an area I like and buying the local paper to study the ads. It’s do-able – anything is do-able – and I can think of no good reason why I shouldn’t try.
I think back to the luggage label that brought me to Brighton – Springfield, was it? I check out my map and find a Springfield Road not too far away. It’s as good a place to start as any. I see there’s a bus route up there, but I decide to walk; I’ll get a much better feel for the place on foot. I have a little nap before setting out again.
I cut through The Lanes, where the pubs are still busy with the late lunch crowd, and continue up towards North Laine. This is immediately much more to my liking, much more my kind of scene. Okay, so cafés and shops dominate the area, but I can see from the people who work here that this place is alive. It’s still no place to live, but it looks like a great place to be a part of. I spread out my map, though I know it’s definitely not cool to do so. I smile as I see Dyke Road over to my left, but I cut down to my right to join up with London Road. This is different again – very busy, very norma
l, lots of traffic; it’s like a high street of a completely different town. There are banks and shops and pubs and, except for the cry of the gulls, you’d never guess you were so close to the Brighton seafront.
I cross over to the Co-op department store to use their toilet. That’s one of the things I love about England: you can always find a toilet when you need one. Stepping into the Co-op is like stepping into a different past, a world of haberdashery and soft furnishings that are badly displayed by middle-aged English sales assistants – hundreds of them, all doing nothing very much but appearing to be busy all the same. Who the fuck would ever buy anything here? How old is all this shit and how long has it been on sale here? I ask directions for the toilet and get the slow-sounding, only-pleased-to-help southern English politeness that I hate. I smile my thanks and want to smash the old bitch in the face.
I get out of there as fast as I can. I come across an open market, just off the main road and this restores my faith in the area. Unlike The Lanes and North Laine, you could live here. You could shop here every day for fresh produce; I like that in a place. Plus there are supermarkets if you want them, post offices and charity shops; this town looks like it works.
A huge railway viaduct cuts across the road and I stand and stare at it for a while, admiring the balls it took to build such a thing. In its own way, it’s a piece of art – a great big fuck-off piece of art that, come to think of it, speaks of money and power and how the two always go hand in hand. I’m glad to see it defaced by graffiti: ‘BUSH IS A CRIMINAL’, and ‘BRIGHTON IS WITH YOU, OMAR’.
I walk underneath as a train goes by overhead and it all adds up to a very different noise to what I’ve been hearing down on the seafront. The next turning off is Springfield Road. This isn’t necessarily where she lives, but I’m interested all the same. There’s some work going on in the entrance to the road, but once I’m past this it’s immediately a lot quieter than the main road, much more residential and homely. The houses are large and I can imagine my English Rose growing up in one of them.
Dancing to the End of Love Page 5
