Tales of the Bright, the Dark & the Bizzare

by Maurice Connolly

  “Do you fancy anything else?” Dave asks Betty.

  “God, no. All those calories. I’m too fat as I am.”

  “No you’re not—you’re just right. I don’t like girls who are too skinny—like Beckham’s wife.”

  “Victoria. All the top models nowadays are skinny.”

  “They look unhealthy to me. Anyway, men don’t like walking skeletons. They like something warm and soft to hold on to.”

  “Skinny is the way the top fashion designers want them.”

  “That’s because most of the top fashion designers are gay. They don’t appreciate sexy, curvy women.”

  “Maybe there’s a happy medium somewhere.”

  “Maybe. What the hell about it. Will we head for the sea then? Isn’t that what you had in mind?”

  “We have nothing else to do around town? Sure we haven’t?”

  Dave shrugs his shoulders, “I don’t think so.”

  They stand up, look to say goodbye to Julie but she has gone into the kitchen. They have parked the car in the church car-park and make their way in that direction.

  “It’s a great day to be doing nothing,” Dave says, as they meander along. He starts to sing in a low, unobtrusive voice:

  “There’s a nice dress,” Betty remarks as they pass a ladies’ boutique.

  “A nice price too.”

  “It’s not too bad. The prices have come down. You mightn’t agree with me, but they have. Lots of things have come down.”

  Dave points to a fuel display sign. “Petrol is not one of them.”

  They link arms as they stroll along. Betty is an attractive, tall brunette, aged twenty-six, neatly dressed in appropriate, simple clothes for a day at the beach. Dave is of average build, with dark hair, slim, wearing Wranglers, denim jacket, wine coloured shirt. Both work in the catering industry. Due to a hectic weekend schedule they’ve been rewarded with an extra free day.

  “Left or right?” Dave queries. “Rosslare or Curracloe?”

  “Curracloe,” Betty decides.

  Having reached Dave’s car they get in and drive down Wexford’s narrow streets, across the long bridge that straddles the harbour estuary, and on out the Gorey-Dublin road. They drive for around six kilometres, slow down and turn right for their destination. They pass the little hamlet of Curracloe and follow the signs pointing to the beach. Curracloe is a quiet, pleasant, unspoiled area. The approach road leads in to the large car-park from where the sea is not yet visible—a high, wide embankment of sand separates the sea from the land. (A good proportion of the east coast of Ireland has a sandbank as a defence against the encroaching tide.) Adjacent to the car-park there is an arcade with indoor games and fast food. On quiet days—as on this occasion—it remains closed. Wooden walkways ascend and descend on to the beach. The beach itself is vast and attractive with packed, fine sand, making it ideal for walking. It appears to stretch up the coast for miles. Curracloe was the beach used for the famous D-Day Landing battle scenes in the film Saving Private Ryan.

  Having parked the car, Betty takes out the beach-bag containing their swim gear and they amble out on to the beach. They move to the water’s edge and back, and locate a nice spot for a bit of sunbathing. The day is sunny and pleasant, ideal for the seaside. It being mid-week and early in the season, they appear to have the place entirely to themselves.

  “God, that beach stretches for miles,” Dave observes.

  “Yeah, if you were super-fit you could walk to Dublin.”

  They spread out the beach towels and dress down to their swimming outfits. Betty’s consists of a revealing, skimpy two-piece.

  “I’m going in for a dip,” Dave announces. “You’re not, I’d say? I need hardly ask?”

  “No, the water’s too cold yet. It’s still only early May you know.”

  “Coward,” Dave jokes, as he heads out. ‘She was right—it’s fairly cold all right,’ he acknowledges to himself. “But only for the first few seconds” he says aloud, as he plunges into an oncoming wave. The initial shock over, his body adjusts to the temperature. He now embraces the crisp pleasure of sea and sun.

  Betty raises her head, observing Dave swimming and frolicking in the water. She’s aware that this is going to be her first full day alone with Dave. So far it has gone okay. But then a day is nothing—it’s only a day. A friend once told her that it was hugely important to spend as much time as possible alone with someone if you really wanted to know what that person was like. She, herself, had known several couples who had gone away on holidays together and it signalled the end of their affairs. Over the two weeks together they sadly discovered that it would never work out between them—they were just incompatible. After about twenty minutes Dave returns and dries himself down with a towel from the bag.

  “Was that nice?” Betty asks him.

  “Great,” he replies. “There’s something about the sea—the salt water on your lips and the waves crashing. There’s a theory, isn’t there, that we originated from the sea?”

  “So going in for a swim then is a bit like going home,” Betty smiles.

  “Exactly,” Dave replies as he stretches down beside her. He admires the contours of her body. “You have a great body, you know that?”

  “No, I have not. I’m too fat.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Betty requests, and he rubs suncream on her shoulders and back. She does the same to him. Both lie back.

  “This is the life,” Dave says contentedly.

  “The sound of the sea is soothing,” Betty responds.

  Dave leans over, kissing her on the cheek. “We’ll just close our eyes and relax then.” They savour the peace and quiet.

  Some young local, teenage boys arrive along and start kicking a plastic beach-ball about. Dave becomes aware that the ball is kicked in their direction far more often than one might expect. Then a thirteen or fourteen year old would slouch over and take his time retrieving the ball. It struck Dave that the ball was used as a ploy by those testosterone-driven youths to get a close-up of Betty’s semi-naked body.

  He mentions it to her and she smiles, saying, “You’re joking!”

  “Watch then,” Dave says. The ball duly sails over.

  “We’ll go,” Betty quickly decides. She stands up and blanketing herself with the beach towel she dresses. Dave does likewise.

  “Little feckers, aren’t they?” she says. “What’ll they be like when they’re bigger?”

  “I should grab that ball and launch it with an almighty kick out towards the sea.”

  “Don’t, you’d only draw their ire down on us. Oh, what about it!”

  “Will we go for a good walk along the beach? We’ll find someplace a bit more private.”

  “Okay.”

  “I don’t know about you,” Dave says, “but whether it was the swim or the sea breeze, but I feel like a sandwich.”

  “We’re not long out of Julie’s!”

  “I know.”

  They return to the car and deposit the damp towel and swimsuit in the boot. Dave takes out the picnic basket they have brought along and treats himself to a cup of tea and a couple of sandwiches. Betty says she’ll wait till later. After being to the toilet nearby, Betty looks around, observing the overgrown, desolate area behind the dunes running parallel to the beach, and the pathway or narrow roadway running through it.

  Dave suggests they take the beach towels and Betty packs them into a shoulder bag. They set off at a brisk pace and laugh as each tries to out-walk the other. After a while the pace slows to a leisurely stroll. Looking about, and noticing they are unobserved, they entwine arms and kiss.

  “Ever notice,” Dave says, “that you rarely get tired walking on a beach? Is it because it’s so flat, I wonder?”

  “I like walking barefoot, feeling the sand between my toes.”

  They suddenly observe two figures, two men, idling near the dunes. They are drinking cans of beer and smoking cigarettes. One is bearded. They turn away as
Dave and Betty approach. Betty throws them a cursory glance, Dave takes little notice. After another ten minutes or so they halt. Dave looks back.

  “We’ve come a good bit,” he indicates. “We might find a comfortable spot up there.”

  They move about and locate a cosy sun-trap of a soft space, between two sand dunes. They again spread out the beach towels.

  “I hope there are no creepy-crawlies here,” Betty says.

  “I didn’t see any snakes or lizards on the way down— there might be a few crocodiles in that marshy spot over there.”

  “Jurassic Park!”

  They lower themselves down on the towels, feeling the hot sand beneath. The suncream is again produced and liberally applied to faces, necks and arms. They lie close together, Betty’s head resting on Dave’s shoulder.

  “Working a fourteen hour day can get to you. I’m feeling tired today,” Betty admits. “Are you?”

  “I’m not too bad. But then, I don’t cover as much ground as you. That’s why you look so fit, so well—so beautiful.”

  “Don’t be joking me,” Betty retorts with a smile, ”I’m not beautiful—far from it.”

  “You are.”

  “I read in a magazine recently that a large proportion of girls hate certain parts of their own appearance. Would you believe that?”

  “It’s hard to credit it,” Dave responds, shrugging shoulders. “but then, you hear so many queer things that nothing is inclined to surprise you anymore.”

  “They get depressed,” the article said. “When they look in the mirror they despise themselves. Imagine that.”

  “It must be some form of mental thing,” Dave suggests. “Is it?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe it’s the pressure coming at girls from every angle. All the images of those glamorous models staring out at you from everywhere. ‘You, too, must have a figure like this.’

  “The Victoria type?”

  “Yes. Then when the average plain Jane looks at her reflection in the mirror it’s no wonder she feels depressed. She then starts out on a diet she can’t keep. That makes her feel even worse. The next step is liposuction, or some form of plastic surgery.”

  “One thing for sure, you’ll never have to go down that route.”

  “I don’t know. I’m not too fond of what I see in the mirror either.”

  “That’s rubbish talk.”

  “I’ll be going to no doctor, anyhow. So don’t worry.”

  “Good. Some men go for special treatments too, don’t they?”

  “They go to get a certain part enlarged.” Both laugh over this.

  “I don’t know what my poor old granny would make of it at all,” Dave says.

  “The world is changing so fast I wonder what will it be like in fifty years time?”

  “The world’s population will have increased by so much that Ireland will be overrun. Hunger will drive people here from all over Africa.”

  “Who knows? We’ll still be around by then—hopefully.”

  “The average lifespan will be close to a hundred,” Dave surmises.

  “A hundred! I don’t know would I like to live to be that age.”

  “But I prefer the here and now,” Dave declares, planting a light kiss on Betty’s lips. “Lying here on the warm sand with the girl of my dreams—what more could a man ask for?”

  “I’m always afraid of being over-optimistic about anything, you know that. A little nagging voice in the back of my head keeps telling me, ‘You’ll pay for this yet.’ That’s being stupid, I suppose?”

  “I never felt more optimistic than I do now. You make me feel that way.”

  “That’s good. This is a relaxing spot. We’re all alone— a million miles from the hustle and bustle of hotel life.” After a moment, Betty raises herself up on her elbows and looks out towards the sea. “Sea and sand, everywhere,” she vaguely whispers.”

  “What?”

  “Imagine being shipwrecked and ending up on a desert island—nothing to look at every day but sea and sand.”

  “Like old Robinson Crusoe.”

  “I heard a joke along those lines the other day. It’s a bit funny, but not terribly funny—do you want to hear it, anyway?”

  “Why not?”

  “These three fellows were ship-wrecked and ended up on a desert island. They were walking along the beach one day when they came across this peculiar shaped bottle. They uncorked the bottle and up rose a genie.”

  “The old genie one again,” Dave grins.

  “Yes. In thanks for being freed from the bottle the genie granted each one a single wish. The first fellow, a Scotsman, said he’d like to be back home with his family and friends again. Then whoosh! He suddenly found himself back in Aberdeen. The second fella, an Englishman, said he’d like the same. In a flash he was transported back to Somerset. The third fellow, a Wexford man—”

  “Hold on,” Dave interrupts, “a Wexford man! He wasn’t a Kilkenny man, or a Carlow man, by any chance?”

  “No,” Betty giggles, “he was a Wexford man. The genie, with a big toothy smile then asked, ‘And now Master, what is your wish?’ The Wexford man scratched his head and said, ‘I’m starting to feel a bit lonely now—I’d like to have my two friends back again.’”

  Both laugh a little.

  “You could call that going nowhere fast.”

  “Or,” Betty adds, “come back, all is forgiven.” Betty suddenly tenses up, becoming alert. “Dave,” she says, with a distinct note of urgency which causes him to sit up. “Look over there. No, keep down!”

  They observe two hooded men slinking along between the sand dunes as if searching. As they round a knoll the pair become more visible.

  “Aren’t those the two we saw on the beach?” Betty now asks with trepidation.

  “The two on the beach had no hoods.”

  “They had something draped on their arms. One of them had a beard too.” She becomes alarmed. “Those are the same two. There was no-one else.”

  “What are they looking for?” Dave asks with growing concern.

  “Could be us,” Betty retorts. “I heard of a couple who were attacked.”

  “Attacked!”

  “Come on, quick! I don’t like the look of them,” Betty urges.

  “Me neither. Christ! We’ll move, come on, come on”

  “Leave the towels—keep down,” Betty commands.

  “We’ll get on the pathway—we’d be able to move quicker—keep low.” Dave stresses.

  They move out onto the narrow roadway and, ducking down, they hurry along. Both are fearful now. Looking back they realize they have been spotted. They start to run, but the two hooded figures have also got onto the track and are giving chase.

  “They’re coming after us!” Betty blurts in panic.

  “Come on,” Dave urgently implores. He clasps Betty’s hand, pulling her, helping her to keep up. Glancing furtively back, they become aware that their pursuers are gaining fast. Betty sees something flashing in one of their hands.

  “They have a knife!” she gasps in terror.

  “We’ll fuckin’ kill you!” is roared at them from behind.

  The pathway twists and turns, but there is no sign of the amusement arcade or the few houses.

  “Don’t give up,” Dave urges frantically.

  “It’s no use,” Betty gasps, faltering.

  “Come on, come on,” Dave pleads, pulling her hard.

  Suddenly two hefty looking joggers come round a bend ahead of them, one a little in front of the other.

  “They’re attacking us! They’re attacking us!” Betty screams.

  The two giving chase now turn swiftly and start to retreat fast.

  “You dirty bastards!” the first jogger shouts, grabbing up a few fist sized rocks and hurtling them at the fleeing figures. ”You scumbags!” he again shouts.

  “You fuckin’ swine!” the second shouts.

  Betty runs to and throws her arms around the second jogger.

 
One of the hooded men halts and defiantly flings a stone back that whizzes by, hopping off the hard surface. This is answered by a well directed missile which narrowly misses its again fleeing target.

  “Thank you, thank you!” Betty cries. “They were after us!”

  “It’s all right, it’s all right,” Bill, the second jogger says, giving Betty a comforting hug. Dave has his hands on his knees and is panting breathlessly.

  “Are you okay?” Pat, the other man asks.

  “Yes,” Dave gulps. “Christ, thanks for that. Thanks! You saved our bacon. The bastards were almost on us.”

  “Okay boy, you’re fine now,” Pat says, putting a reassuring hand on Dave’s shoulder.

  Betty, in shock, holds Bill tight. “They meant to kill us,” she sobs. “They had a knife.”

  “Quick, your mobile!” Bill urgently commands, “The guards!”

  “Yeh, right,” Pat responds, dialling the number. “Are you all right?” he again asks Dave, as he waits for a reply.

  “I feel shook. I’m no hero.”

  “Hallo,” Pat speaks on his mobile. “Quick, listen, a young couple were chased and were lucky to escape, here in Curracloe… Bill Fennel… a few minutes ago… that narrow lane through the derelict area… two hooded bastards… they would only for myself and a friend coming along. We were out for a run… yeah, they could be the same two as Courtown… that struck me as well—the same likenesses.” He turns to Dave. “You’ll wait for the guards?”

  Dave nods his head, “Sure.”

  Pat continues, “Mark the spot. Right… we will… at the car park… okay.” He returns the mobile phone to his pocket. “They’ll be here as soon as possible.”

  Dave gives Betty a close hug. She cries a little more, her head on his shoulder.

  “It’s okay, we’re safe now,” he says, “we’re safe.”

  Pat extends his hand “I’m Pat, he’s Bill.”

  “Dave and Betty,” Dave responds. “We’ll be forever grateful to you.” They shake hands.