Jumping the Queue

by Mary Wesley

  ‘They all pop out

  Pop is the name of the girl inside

  She sells the ginger pop you see!’

  Matilda didn’t want to think about dogs. Suddenly she realized why her grandmother did not like her to sing the ditty. Miss Renouff, blue eyes and shingled hair, had taught it to her. Grandpa had cast-an appraising eye in that direction. All dead now of course. All popping over for that lot.

  The lane twisting between tall banks led to the cliffs. She parked the car in the cliff car park, took out her picnic basket, swung her bag over her shoulder, locked the car.

  All round her families with children were packing into their cars, getting ready to leave. Matilda picked her way past waste paper, lolly sticks, torn cellophane and remains of picnics, tipped – but not into the wire baskets provided. She wondered whether to pause, collect a few Coca Cola tins and beer cans and put them into the basket, but the jibe ‘pernickety’ still rankled. She kicked a can with her espadrille and watched it merrily roll.

  All the way along the cliff path she met weary holidaymakers returning.

  ‘Pop, pop, poppity pop, I shall have the beach to myself,’ she hummed, strolling neither fast nor slow, carrying the basket with the Brie, the rolls, the peaches and the Beaujolais swinging along downwards, twisting and turning down from the top of the tall granite cliffs to the beach and the sea sighing gently over the sand to stroke the line of pebbles until they rattled. The tide was up, would soon turn and drag itself out across the sand leaving it clean and smooth for her feet.

  Matilda paused at the bottom of the cliff path. Three lots of people were getting ready for the long climb up. One group was having a last swim. Matilda had seen them before, knew their routine. They would soon be gone. She walked along the stones enjoying her rope soles. At the far end of the beach she stopped by the favourite rock. Here she would sit in the sun and wait. She put the basket in the shade and undressed, pulling on the bathing suit, deciding to swim before the picnic. It was early yet. It would be light for a long time.

  Out to sea a boat sailed slowly across the bay. She could hear the voices of the people on board and a dog barking. The boat had a blue sail.

  Not wanting to wet her hair she walked into the sea and swam slowly, breast stroke, no effort, her body received by the wonderfully warm sea. Here so often they had swum, paddling out slowly and chatting with the same closeness as the closeness of bed but unleavened by sex. Matilda, swimming gently, savoured the memory of long swims, the easy talk, the intimacy, remembering conversations wrapped in water, their heads close, bodies floating. A long way out she turned to look at the cliffs which were so like Sounion.

  Down the zigzag track came a party of people, young, lithe, noisy. They laughed and talked among themselves. They carried armfuls of rugs, carrier bags, spare sweaters. In jeans and T-shirts they were beautiful and young. Two girls danced down the track swinging a bottle of wine in each hand. Their voices carried across the water.

  ‘Bobby and Vanessa collect the driftwood. We’ll get the fire for the barbecue going while you swim.’

  ‘Super, it’s so warm we can sleep down here.’

  ‘Super, super.’

  ‘I shan’t sleep, I shall watch the moon. Super.’

  ‘I shall watch Vanessa.’

  ‘Super.’

  ‘Let’s swim naked.’

  ‘Super.’

  ‘Not yet, there’s someone in the water.’

  ‘Oh, bugger, is there?’

  ‘Yes, but she’ll soon be gone.’

  ‘Oh yes. Oh, isn’t it super.’

  Cold, sick with disappointment Matilda swam for the shore, thrusting her arms through the unwelcome sea no longer hers.

  Slowly, bitterly she dried herself. The barbecue party had settled fifty yards away. Fifty yards and the beach was half a mile long.

  ‘I’d meant to use that flat rock she’s on as a table but she’s on it. It’s got useful dips which hold the food. I mix the salad in one of them.’

  ‘She’ll be gone soon, don’t worry. It’s a super rock, just the job, super.’

  Matilda slowly rubbed her legs, pushing the towel down to her ankles, up, then down again.

  ‘I thought we’d have it to ourselves, it’s always empty at this time, everyone goes home,’ the boy arranging the fire grumbled.

  ‘We will. It’s super. She won’t be long, she’s drying herself, look.’

  Matilda rubbed her arms, looking out to sea where the boat with the dog on board sailed slowly, the sail turning purple. The barbecue party moved continuously, bringing driftwood, fidgeting, throwing their long young limbs about. Their inane voices carried in the clear air.

  ‘Shall we swim now or later?’

  ‘I want to swim naked.’

  ‘Super! Why not?’

  ‘Well –’

  ‘She’d go more quickly if we stripped.’

  ‘Super. Do strip Bobby – go on.’

  Matilda pulled off her bathing suit and dried herself standing on the hot rock, baked all day in the sun.

  ‘Christ! She’s stripped. D’you think she heard us?’

  ‘No, of course not. She’s old, she can’t have.’

  ‘Old people aren’t necessarily deaf.’ The girl called Vanessa spoke crisply.

  ‘Oh Vanessa, you are so witty, why don’t you strip?’

  ‘I’m not beautiful enough or old enough not to care.’

  She meant me to hear that, Matilda thought, sitting down on the warm rock. That girl would murder her mother without hesitation if she thought she wouldn’t be caught. There’s no passion in that voice. I bet the Matricide has passion.

  ‘I want that flat rock as a table. I had it all planned.’ The voice held a whining note.

  ‘She’ll be gone soon.’

  ‘Yes, poor old bird.’

  Feeling the rock warm on her bottom Matilda reached for her shirt thinking. ‘Yes, I’ll be gone soon, you despoilers of my beach.’

  Pulling her shirt on and buttoning it slowly she suddenly wept, remembering this rock with – well, with him her love, he lying back, his hips in one of the hollows, his crane-like legs stretched long and thin towards the sea, grey hair falling back onto the rock, the colour of the granite and the hair merging. Or of watching him stepping slowly along the edge of the water like a heron, unhurried, thoughtful, beaky nose, grey hair, elongated legs, flapping his arms to tease Stub who barked to attract his attention, to make him play, and the children tailing heel and toe along the sand, pressing in toes to form a pattern with Stub’s paw marks, Stub who dearly loved swimming and even once with Gus who had become so emotional he’d messed all over the rock and the car going home. Matilda let herself pee allowing the hot urine to flow into a dip in the rock. She stood up, dried between her legs, pulled on her jeans, zipped them.

  ‘She isn’t wearing knickers,’ a girl’s voice hissed. ‘Fancy, an old person like that!’

  Matilda picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder. She remembered she had a sweater in the car and was glad. She took up her basket feeling the weight of the Beaujolais. It would be heavier by the time she got back to the car park.

  ‘Goodnight – there’s your table.’ she said, moving off away from the barbecue party and the rock gently steaming.

  ‘Oh. Goodnight. Thanks. Super.’

  ‘Have a good time.’

  ‘Thanks, we will.’

  ‘Do you think she was listening to us?’

  ‘Of course she was, the old bitch.’

  Matilda grinned, walking barefoot along the sand.

  3

  A LONG HAUL up the goat track. That voice – ‘one more twist, one more turn – nearly there, nearly there now.’ Voices linger in the mind long after the face blurs. The muscles of her thighs hurt as they always did. Her breath came short, her heart beat. A matter of honour not to stop, however slow one went, until the top. She remembered another very steep path at Le Brusc down to the pebbles in the cove, no sand there, a
nd the hair-raising climb at Pedney Founder where they hauled themselves up clutching at clumps of thrift.

  What madness to bring Gus here. Still, he had adored the sea even if he had hissed and honked all the way up the cliff. Stub had barked running ahead and then run back to encourage them. The top at last. Matilda set down the heavy basket, dropped her bag and sat gasping, her legs trembling. Away on the horizon the boat sailed almost out of sight, below on the beach the young people had the fire going, the food laid on the flat rock. Two girls were swimming in water as clear here as in Greece, their hair streaming behind them. They were naked. Their distant voices cried ‘Super! Oh, it’s super!’ Super for some. Would he lay the salad on the rock and would a girl cry, ‘Oh Bobby, what a super salad dressing. What did you put in it? I’ve never tasted anything like it, it’s super.’

  Her heart steadied, her breathing slowed. Matilda looked at the view. She was humming a Brandenburg Concerto now. Away to the west were other beaches but all with easy access and car parks. What to do?

  Back to the car.

  She shouldered her bag, picked up the basket, walked along the cliff, strolling slowly. There was heaps of time. The tide must go out, pause, and come in again. She had to fill in time. That was all. A little more waiting didn’t matter. The car smelt of hot metal. Matilda opened the windows, started the engine and drove slowly to the town down the steep streets to the harbour car park. With difficulty she found a place. She locked the picnic basket in the car and set off to wander round.

  The town wore its summer face: shops with souvenirs, striped awnings, clusters of buckets, spades, beach balls, racks of picture postcards, the harbour full, every mooring filled. Now was the time for yachtsmen to come ashore, drink long, talk loudly in the pubs, boring on in yard-arm voices. Matilda strolled slowly among the people, observing the fat women in tight trousers or bikinis. They did not seem to mind their bulges burned red by the sun. Nor did the men, their shorts held up by tight belts biting into beer stomachs, mind their shape.

  The fat and middle-aged were predominant by the harbour, wandering along with peeling noses, thighs sore from rubbing together. She turned up the main street, glancing in at the shop windows. A group of people stood staring at a television shop. The colour sets were showing the news on BBC and ITV.

  ‘I wonder what he’s saying?’ A small child holding his mother’s hand tugged. ‘Come on Mum, I’m tired.’

  ‘Just a minute love, let’s see the news.’

  ‘You can’t hear it –’

  ‘I like that girl announcer, she’s lovely.’

  ‘I like the man best.’

  ‘Oh look dad, that must be the Matricide.’ A teenage girl in shorts pointed. ‘He doesn’t look like a murderer.’

  ‘Murdered his mother, a right bastard.’

  ‘Oh Mum, I’m tired. Can’t we go home?’

  ‘Wait a minute. There may be a new photo.’

  ‘They’ve shown the same photo ever since he did it. You’d think a bloke like that would have lots of photos done.’

  ‘I like the way she does her hair. D’you think that way would suit me, Mum?’ the girl questioned.

  ‘Ask your Dad, dear.’

  ‘I’m tired,’ whined the small boy.

  ‘I expect with all that money he’s had a nose job done by now.’

  ‘A nose job?’

  ‘Well anyone would recognize that great hooter.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mum sounded pleased with the idea. ‘You’re clever, Dad.’ Dad looked gratified.

  ‘Big hooter like that stands out a mile, don’t it? So he has a nose job sharpish. That’s what I read in the paper anyway, either a nose job or he’s done away with himself.’

  ‘If he had any decent feelings he’d have done that.’

  ‘Oh Mum, I’m tired –’

  ‘Come on, son, I’ll give you a ride.’ The father hoisted the little boy onto his shoulder. ‘Up you go!’

  ‘Oh look, look, they’re shooting! Wait a minute, wait.’ The child craned down from his father’s shoulders to watch a scene of violence, bodies falling, ragged men lying legs astraddle firing guns. ‘Oh look, that one’s dead.’ He sounded joyful. ‘Look at the blood.’

  ‘So’s the Matricide’s Ma.’ The father started up the street carrying the boy who looked back towards the silent television, craning his neck to see death happening.

  ‘D’you think our Mr Antoine could do my hair like that, Mum?’ the girl urged.

  ‘Don’t see why not, dear. You ask him when we get home. He’ll charge, mind.’

  ‘Oh I don’t mind.’

  Matilda stood idly watching the man talking and pointing to the weather chart which had circles all over it in which were written ‘High’. Up the street she heard the husband say to his wife, ‘Bring back hanging, that’s what they ought to do.’

  ‘Hanging isn’t good enough, Dad.’

  ‘Got to catch him first, haven’t they? Shouldn’t be difficult with that great hooter.’

  Matilda turned back down the street remembering a pub which was relatively quiet. She would sit there and rest.

  At a corner shop she bought a paper and strolled along entertaining speculations of that tired child grown up murdering his dreary mother at some future date. Why not? Children like that, perfectly commonplace children, became Guerillas and shot people.

  Finding the pub with an unoccupied seat outside she ordered a whisky, sat down to wait and read her paper.

  The paper was not one she was used to. She read an article on fashion, another on diet, an account of a footballer’s divorce, several accounts of rail, motor and plane crashes, a new earth tremor in Guatemala. On the last page but one the usual photograph of the Matricide, now supposed to have reached Japan. He did not, Matilda thought, seem to have such a very huge nose, nothing out of the ordinary, not much larger than Tom’s. The photograph could be anybody. She sipped her whisky, looked at her watch. Still early. A lot of people about, a lot of time to creep by.

  Poor man. She looked at the photograph. The country was full of large noses, large cocks too. ‘My God, I feel tired,’ Matilda muttered, not even hungry, too tired to eat. What frightful waste of Brie. Mustn’t get drunk, she thought, but one more whisky won’t hurt me.

  She took her empty glass to the bar. As she waited to be served she observed the people sitting round the tables or standing talking. She listened to the topics of conversation. A group of three men and a pretty girl were discussing a couple called Jeffrey and Sally. Sally had upped and left Jeffrey and gone to Ibiza with Johnnie, whose wife Vanessa had moved in with Chris.

  ‘Which Vanessa?’ asked one of the men.

  ‘The dark one, you know her, the one they call the Dark Filly.’

  Everybody laughed and chorused, ‘Oh, that Vanessa,’ understandingly.

  ‘But what about Sally when she comes back?’

  ‘She hasn’t a leg to stand on. She’s been having it off with Charles for a year, everybody knows that.’

  ‘But Chris doesn’t.’

  ‘No, Chris doesn’t.’

  ‘They only mind about the money. There aren’t any kids.’

  Gossip, thought Matilda, paying for her whisky, never varied much. She edged back to the door, noting three conversations about sailing, two about cars, another husband and wife complex. Nobody, she thought as she regained her place outside, was talking about plane, train or car crashes, terrorists, Guerillas or Earthquakes. They were so saturated with horrors they were immune to catastrophe.

  Her watch said 8.30. Time creeping on. She put her whisky on the table, not wanting it now, and sat with her legs stretched out watching the passers-by.

  On the whole, she reflected, the human race was unbeautiful although some of the girls in long skirts, were lovely as they passed, holding their lovers’ hands, looking up into the ordinary faces of their men who, whether their noses were large, snub or crooked, were transformed by the girls’ love to beauty. Matilda remembered Gus’s be
ak and sighed. ‘A great hooter.’ She wondered how he was faring among the strange geese and took a sorrowful sip of whisky.

  Stub’s nose had been long, sad, black, Prissy’s a tender pink. Matilda allowed her thoughts a brief recollection of those companions, very brief, for to think of Stub and Prissy made her think of Tom. There, the thought was there. Tom, Tom, Tom, she said in her mind. Tom, Stub, Prissy, all dead. She had said it to herself. Dead, dead, dead, those three and Gus she had betrayed. Matilda had another sip of whisky and looked down towards the harbour.

  I am a great betrayer, she thought. That is my sin. I am not a sticker. I betray from laziness, fear and lack of interest.

  Beyond the harbour the sea was growing dark, on board the boats were lights and laughter. The sailors had returned from the pubs to cook their suppers.

  Matilda stood up, leaving her whisky unfinished, pulled her bag over her shoulder. Inside the bar the musak was turned up and with it rose the decibels of conversation as she started down the street. The voices cried, ‘Ignition’, ‘It’s only the money!’, ‘If we altered the spinnaker’, ‘I really think a Jag is best never mind the Japanese’. Matilda went down to the harbour.

  She reached the bridge where the river joined the sea. Peering over the parapet she could see that the tide was up, about to turn. A feeling of intense excitement almost made her cry out. She gripped the parapet, stared down at the water, secret, black; soon with the tide running out there would be ripples, as sweet flowed into salt to be drawn out to sea, swing west with the current far beyond the cliffs, round the bay a long way out under the sickle moon.

  Suddenly she felt furiously hungry.

  She looked at her watch, luminous in the dark. Too late. She felt cheated.

  ‘No Brie, no rolls, no Beaujolais. Damn’, muttered Matilda, ‘Damn and blast!’

  She only realized she had spoken aloud when a man, also leaning over the parapet, shifted his feet. She felt fury. What business had he here, how dare he invade her privacy?

  Would he go away? He must. There was nothing to keep him here unless, she thought with a sinking heart, he has a tryst. He is meeting his girl. Curse him, she thought. Curse him and his girl. She looked at him sidelong, not turning her head. He looked dreadfully tired. He couldn’t be meeting a girl as tired as that. He leant on his elbows, his face in his hands, obviously exhausted. A car passed, driving slowly across the bridge, heading away to the country beyond the town. The man did not move or look up. Perhaps he was drunk. Matilda risked a quick glance. Tall but slumped with depression.