‘It’s good to see you here again, Mr Moore.’
‘It’s Arnold, call me Arnold.’
‘Forty years I’ve been coming here and they still call me Mr Moore,’ he said as the man turned to another table. I couldn’t resist.
‘I thought you were deaf?’
‘It’s like Betty says. She’s silly, and I’m wise.’
Then it was him who burst into laughter.
She was right, I wasn’t bored. I also began to relax. They left the table around nine p.m., saying they were getting up early to go on a coach trip to nearby Sheringham. They insisted I sit with them the next night and then used each other for support as they left the room.
That wasn’t surprising as I lost count of the G and Ts that went missing from Betty’s side of the table. Arnold drank most of my bottle of wine and all of another one he bought. They were so content in each other's company. The comfort of a lifetime together must be a wonderful thing to own.
They were living in the moment, too. Almost like they had lived life, and this was a bonus. Talk of their grandchildren lit up their faces, and pride ironed out the lines. Arnold was sent back to his room to get pictures of them. It made me a little sad for the lack of extended family in my life, but we can’t all be lucky.
After they’d gone, I left to go to my room and then remembered the French girl. It wasn’t a surprise. Thoughts of her hadn’t been far from my mind all night. Instead, I took a detour and strolled down the corridor where she’d pointed earlier and found a small bar with huge windows facing the sea. The weather had deteriorated and raindrops lashed the glass. The room was empty though, even of staff.
That wasn’t a problem as my stomach creaked from my first ever steak. It all felt like a relaxing daydream. The sky looked haunting, so I wandered over to enjoy the view, my shoulders dropping with the delightful sensation of no responsibilities.
I tried to picture my dad snoring in his chair, or my mum lighting a fag, eyes on the distance, while sitting on the wheelchair ramp. They were there in my mind but I could only see them like they were in an old faded photograph. It was as though time had stopped there after I left, leaving him open-mouthed and my mum’s smoke frozen in the breeze as if from a small steam train.
The shock of a meaty clap on my shoulders almost ejected this evening’s fare straight out of my arse and onto the carpet.
‘You came. Come to the bar and talk.’
I perched on a stool, in what I hoped was a continental manner. She talked and talked. I watched; I'd never met a person like her. She sashayed and swayed behind the bar in an almost dance-like manner, yet she was big. To quote my mother; ‘She had a rear you could rest a plant pot on,’ and her forearms wouldn’t have seemed out of place on a bricklayer. Yet, I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
‘Sit and drink, Vincent.’
‘What is it?’
‘Ricard. It will put fire inside you.’
I took a sip and grimaced, then knocked the remainder back in one go. A voice in my head told me I may need that strength later, although I wasn’t sure why. I finally got to ask some of the questions I had for her.
‘Why are you here, Sara?’
‘Wow, you pronounce my name as though you have brain damage.’
‘I’m sorry, how should I say it?’
‘Sa. Ra. Said fast.’
‘Why are you here, Sa Ra.’
She gave me a funny look as I mangled her name, as if I was being deliberately difficult, but continued.
‘I finish my exams and I take one year to come to here. To perfect my English. I speak very well already as my grandfather was English. You can tell that, of course. He was there for the liberation of Paris in 1944 and stayed. We have a guesthouse in the suburbs there.
‘They said my mother was born on that wonderful day, but I did the sums and they are, as you say, bullshitters. My great uncle, or something like that, never left this town. A fisherman still. He got me the job here at this old people’s home.’
As we laughed, she knocked another shot back. Her third in ten minutes. I sipped my second. It stayed in my mouth, seemingly unwilling to be swallowed, so I let it trickle down my throat to prevent inevitable projectile vomiting. The third one she'd poured me sat just out of view, yet I felt its presence, like a taunting mouse I daren’t regard.
‘Where are you from, Vincent?’
Only my mother called me Vincent, it was Vinnie with everyone else. I wondered if it was a sign of how someone felt about me.
‘Peterborough.’
‘Petersburg? How lovely. Is it far?’
‘No, three hours by coach.’
‘Did you know there is a song called Vincent, by Don McLean.’ She held my hand. ‘I love it very much. It suits you.’
She looked at my remaining drink and knocked that back too.
‘Come, show me if you have a nice room.’
‘What about the bar?’
‘It’s only us who do not snore here at ten p.m.’
I half-ran and was half dragged to my freezing room. A quick flick of the light switch revealed discarded clothes which I guided under my bed with a foot.
‘The view is good,’ I began.
She dragged her T-shirt off and removed her bra, dropping them both in the doorway. My eyes bulged at the looming image.
‘I know what the room is like, Vincent. I work here.’
Chapter 7
The bus pulled in at the station and made us all step back from the kerb. I couldn’t comprehend why she hadn’t come. The dream was ending with a nightmare.
She was distant yesterday, but we’d still been all over each other. Betty had called us giddy little goats, and I'd felt alive and engaged with the world. She showed me the funfair, the amusements, the pubs, and the walks. Everything was fun. The world I encountered in books was real, and I didn’t need them anymore. I hadn’t read a single page since I arrived.
I ate with Betty and Arnold every night. Doris, her friend, joined us too. To my amazement, she drank more than Betty. Her husband had died the previous year. She said it felt like he had taken half of her with him. ‘Embrace life she whispered, the part that matters is over before you know it.’
I embraced Sara, like she might slip away. Sometimes three times a day. I danced. With her all week, and with Betty and Doris at the hotel parties on the Friday and Saturday night. All three of them pinched my bum.
Much to my amazement, Vincent was fun. Was it the real me, or just someone who went on holiday? People liked him, Sara loved him. I hoped I would take him home.
The driver checked my ticket with a smile I couldn’t return. I wanted to get off and sprint to the hotel but the bus was the last one I could catch. My mind strained for anything I might have missed.
The manager had come over the previous night and spoken to her whilst I was eating. I could see her face drop from where I was sitting. I assumed she was being told off. She was a terrible member of staff: late, rude, drunk, and yet the guests loved her. Afterwards, she said nothing.
I went to the back of the bus and looked over the seats - there was no joy finding them empty this time - and stared down the street. We didn’t even have a phone at our house for her to get in touch. Would she want me to ring her? I prayed she would come. However, dark thoughts arose, and I realised that she may have thought it was better to have a clean break.
My stomach lurched as the drowning sorrow of unreturned love, that I remembered from the books I’d read, was mine to enjoy. Expose yourself to life and you reveal your weaknesses. I understood.
The bus crept away from the kerb and I took one last look back. Sara pelted along the pavement into view. People were dodging out of the way as if it were the running of the bull.
‘Wait!’ I bellowed.
The driver eased on the brakes.
‘Just a moment, sir. My girlfriend, can I please say goodbye?’
My earnest face must have jogged a distant memory.
�
��Sure.’
She crushed me when I got off.
‘I’m sorry. I had to ring home. It’s a nightmare. My mother is diagnosed with cancer. My dad cannot cope. I’ve just rung them. I must go back.’
‘Can you visit me?’ I felt selfish, but it was the only thing my mind possessed.
‘I will try, Vincent.’
The waiting bus stole my speech. We breathed hard and gazed at each other until a smile dawned on her face.
‘I know, Vincent. I feel it too. You are a special person. One I will not forget.’
‘I’ve had such a good week.’
‘Me too,’ she pressed her wonderful bosom against mine and kissed me with a passion I can't describe.
The driver tooted his horn.
‘I will write. Starry, starry night, Vincent.’
‘You never played me that song.’
‘One day.’
Sara gave me another peck, and I climbed aboard the bus. She walked alongside as I moved down the rows of seats, and I watched her wave until she disappeared out of sight.
I sat down and wondered if she had my address.
By the time I arrived in Peterborough the streetlights were lit. My bag felt heavy as I dragged it from underneath the bus, heaved it onto my back and began the long walk home. I walked and my mood brightened.
Even if I never saw her again, that week was something I would carry with me for the rest of my life. Maybe that was all it could be; a flash of colour in a black and white film. A glimpse of what was out there if I was man enough to reach for it. A girl had wanted me with a passion that took our breaths away. I may have been naïve, but deep down I knew that chances were, someone else would too.
There was a grain of confidence inside me that she had watered and nurtured these last seven days. Although it had taken a long time, now I felt ready for the world.
My shoulders straightened and my stride lengthened as I reached my street. I was looking forward to seeing my family.
The back of the house was dark, and I tripped up the ramp. I edged through the empty and quiet kitchen. The muffled sound of the television in the lounge became all I could hear. I poked my head into the room, so I could surprise them.
For a few seconds, I thought they were both dead. As I got closer I saw shallow chests rising in unison. My mum’s eyes flickered open, and she hauled herself out of her seat like a hibernating bear on the first day of spring.
‘Welcome home, son. You have a good time?’
She looked so rough I forgot about pleasantries.
‘Are you okay? You look all in.’
Each short sentence was a challenge for her.
‘Yes, just fell asleep. You want a cuppa? Bet you’re parched.’
‘Sit down, I’ll do it.’
She didn’t need telling twice and flopped back. I pottered about in the kitchen making the tea. I hoped my dad wouldn’t stir as there was only enough milk left for two. The cupboards were empty and so was the fridge. My greedy brother must have chomped the lot.
My mum’s eyes edged open when I returned.
‘Where’s Frank?’ I demanded.
Anger gave her strength.
‘He’s gone. The idiot was absent without leave. He told me they’d agreed to the holiday. Anyway, the police turned up when he was changing a bulb for May next door. Apparently, he’d been gone for over a month. He saw them get back in their car, came home, got his stuff and disappeared.’
‘When was that?’
‘The day after you went.’
‘No way.’ I scowled as I thought of the myriad of tasks that would've left my mum to do. ‘What a shit. So, you’ve been on your own?’
‘Come on, Vincent. Give him a break, we don’t know what happened.’
‘No wonder you’re knackered.’
‘May gave me a hand.’
The thought of poor old May trying to drag my disabled father on to a commode was not helpful.
‘Look, go to bed. I’ll sort things here. Don't worry. I’ll do a big shop in the morning.’
‘I’m glad you're home, Vinnie.’
‘Try not to worry. How’s Dad?’
‘The same.’
She shuffled past, weary, stopping to kiss me on the cheek. Not for the first time, I noticed my dad had more colour in his cheeks than she did. I sat on the seat my mum had vacated, and sipped my tea. My thoughts wandered to what now seemed a long distant holiday.
I reached in my pocket and got my new wallet out. Sara had won it on a ten pence grabbing game. Afterwards, she presented it to me. There was a Polaroid picture of us in it, the one she'd made me buy for a pound from the man who came to the hotel. She had laughed when I said it was a waste of money, yet right then, it was the best thing I’d ever bought.
Chapter 8
1984 - Age: 18
My brother finally reappeared nine months later. They caught him after he was involved in a car crash. One of the other occupants, another deserter, died at the scene. The police arrested Frank when he was in hospital with a mild concussion.
He got six months at a Military Corrective Training Centre and was then discharged dishonourably from the navy. It turns out he wasn’t suitable for the forces as the only orders he could be relied on to follow were his own. He came home and moved into his old room.
‘You should go away for a few days,’ Frank said. ‘Have a break.’
‘You can imagine my reticence after what happened last time.’
‘Big words for a removal guy.’
‘At least I have a job.’
‘I have an interview next week. You said yourself there's nothing to do this weekend. You’ve got the Cortina up and running. I’ll come with you. It’ll be a boys’ break. I’ll take blankets and we can sleep in the car if you don’t get lucky. Mum’s new fella said he’ll give her a hand while we’re away.’
‘You cheeky sod. He’s just a friend.’
My mum was earwigging from the kitchen. Another neighbour had been popping over. He was blatantly keen and possibly up to no good with her. I hoped so because I now knew happiness was fleeting.
I considered my options. My dad was deteriorating daily and becoming less trouble. The doctors said it was incredible he had lasted so long. I’m not sure those were the words he would’ve used if he could have uttered any himself.
He didn’t seem to know what was going on, was rarely out of bed and often not awake. It was more like looking after a baby than a toddler. He was leaving after the weekend for a hospice. They had the right machines and trained staff. Mum felt she was letting him down, but we’d explained she’d done her part. He didn’t know where he was now, or who was with him.
I’d been thinking of going to Cromer and the Hotel De Paris continuously. That’s why I tinkered with the car. I thought passing my test and repairing it was taking my mind off her, but the truth was I knew I would return when it was ready.
I ruined many days and nights waiting for a letter to arrive. What I wanted never came. I wrote to the hotel, putting Sara’s name on the envelope, three times. The final time, I felt stupid as my hand hovered near the post box because I'd heard nothing back. I sent it regardless. Pride seemed a small price to pay.
I considered ringing, but needed to see her face. Even if the answer she gave me wasn’t what I hoped to hear, I still wanted to be with her if only for a while. I needed to go back soon. If she sorted her problems out at home and returned to finish her year at the hotel, there would only be a few more weekends before her course started at university in France. Then, she would leave again.
‘Go, Vincent,’ my mum said from the door.
She and Frank nodded at each other. They seemed closer then. Now that my dad didn’t recognise anyone, my brother didn’t mind helping out. It was me that got a job. Never think life is predictable because it's far from that. The possibilities you worry about won’t be the things that blindside you.
‘Fine, we’ll leave at four tomorrow. I need to tax the
car in the morning.’
We set off at five in the end. Frank insisted on getting Dad sorted for the evening and doing all the tasks that dragged for me after so many years. Our twin tub washing machine must have been constructed by elves to have lasted so long. The day was waning by the time he came out to leave. Mum hugged us both with tears in her eyes.
‘We’re only going for a night,’ I said.
‘You drive carefully. Special cargo. I’m just pleased to see you doing things together.’
There wasn’t any traffic that late in the day so we made quick progress. The closer we got the more nervous I became. By the time we arrived at the outskirts I was incapable of conversation. We pulled up in the carpark outside the hotel, and I loosened my grip on the steering wheel.
‘Go for it, Vinnie. You need to know.’
I tried to use the revolving doors, but they juddered in their frame without moving. Feeling childish, I let myself in by the door at the side. It was still church quiet. A mop of black curls looked down at the reception desk. I crept closer, a smile lifting like an African sunrise.
She glanced up and I froze in shock. It was a man with long hair.
‘Can I help, sir? Is everything okay?’
My bowels had turned to water.
‘Sorry, I’m fine. I'm looking for someone who used to work here.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Sara, a French girl.’
‘Nope, sorry. I’ve been here six months. All the staff are new. It shut for refurbishment before that, due to a change in management. They’re Spanish.’
My brain struggled to react to the news.
‘I wrote to her,’ is all I could add.
The man gave me a huge grin and my hopes rose.
‘Are these yours?’ He passed me my three letters. ‘No one knew what to do with them.’
I turned and walked away, knowing I was being rude, but a plunging sickness in my stomach made me want to curl up. I had to dodge walking sticks and strollers as the ancient army come down for their evening meal. A familiar sight came into view. Not the vision I’d dreamt of but welcome, nevertheless.
Fifty Years of Fear Page 3
