I don’t know what it is about her. It’s like there’s a corner of my mind in which she’s taken up permanent residence. Every song I hear reminds me of her; everything I read reminds me of her; even cleaning my teeth reminds me of her. I pick up my phone and text her, just so I can get a reply.
I so want this weekend to work, but I lie in bed in Halls and I close my eyes and I can see her. Staring. And she’s sniggering.
I was told by the deaf old dear that I’d spoken to – everyone in the park that lunchtime knew our plans for the weekend – that the B&B was ten minutes from the station. Walk towards the sea and turn right.
A hobbit opened the door, a stick in one hand. You’re in the attic room, three floors up, she shouted at the threadbare carpet. Do you need help with your bags?
The room was not a room, it was a cupboard. I understood now why the door opened outwards. A double bed was pushed up against the sloping ceiling, above it a grubby dormer window. In the corner a tiny plastic sink with a single dripping tap. The toilet and shower were one floor down.
I dropped my rucksack onto the bed.
What shall we do now, raising my voice against the rattling windowpane.
Beth raised her eyebrows. My guts dropped into my underpants.
Now!
Unless you’d rather do the crossword?
And with that she pulled her jersey and blouse over her head in one fluid movement, her long red hair settling back with a flick of her head.
I stared.
She reached behind her. Close your mouth.
A whimper rose from the back of my throat.
Well, hands on hips, have you got them?
What? I asked her breasts.
You have remembered the condoms?
I tipped three pieces of foil onto the bed. I stared at them. She stared at them.
I love you Beth.
She looked up. So do I Shh.
I grinned. She called me Shh because — normally — I never shut up.
A period of unceremonious grappling with a million awkward buttons and zips before I leant over the edge of the bed searching for where the three foil packets had ended up.
We both lay on our stomachs, more comfortable for her than me, as I ripped open a packet.
Shit.
Ten minutes later. Beth, sitting back against the headboard, her arms across her chest.
You don’t have any more condoms!
No.
And you hadn’t practiced before we came?
No.
She sighed. I deflated.
Cryptic or Easy?
It was throwing it down as we made our way along the wide prom towards the centre of town. I say ‘throwing it down’, more across really. It was dark, there were no lights on in most of the hotels, and the wind swirled the rain around the swaying lampposts.
We turned away from the sea and one junction in looked left and right down the deserted high street. We could make out only two sets of lights, one left, one right. We chose right, because it was closer, and leant into the wind, clinging on and bellowing into each other’s ears.
The light was a chippy. An oasis. We entered into a cloud of fug; a greasy, damp, mist that coated us in a sheen of coddy clamminess. We peeled off our macs and jerseys before we dissolved completely and glanced around. We were inside a fish tank. The full height, full width front window was running with condensation. A family sat there, their little boy attempting to draw pictures on the glass. The strip lighting hummed. The drinks fridge rattled.
Behind the counter a large woman, I think it was a woman, nodded a greeting.
We sat down opposite each other in plastic bucket seats attached to a tacky plastic tabletop with metal runners; a four seater, one piece, indoor outdoor picnic table. Pulling two menus from the stand against the sweating brown wall tiles I peeled them apart and studied one.
I would have loved to have had the money to take Beth to a proper restaurant. You know, the ones with seats that you don’t stick to, the ones with metal knives and forks, the ones with a glass and ice for your drink, the ones where the chef doesn’t belch from behind the counter.
Back to the menu. Cod and Chips. Haddock and Chips. Cod, haddock and chips. Extra chips. Battered sausage. I winced.
The cod and chips was actually rather good and went some way to raising my flagging spirits. And, by the sound of it, it had stopped raining. Leaning forwards.
Fancy a stroll?
We decided to investigate the other light. We had a bit of cash left so we wondered if it was a pub. It had become mild and muggy and we strolled along, hand in hand, our macs, which had become even wetter hanging on the back of our chairs, in the other.
Ten metres from ‘the light’ we stood and stared. My flagging spirits no longer flagging.
I edged towards the counter, trying to be as invisible as I could, for as long as I could. Behind stood a middle-aged man, behind him a middle-aged woman stacking shelves. We’d pooled our money and managed to put together the exact change for a quick getaway. However that did mean…
The man glanced down at the eight packets of condoms. He looked me up and down and raised his eyebrows, as if to say – you don’t have it in you mate.
That’s…
I plonked the cash down.
…err. Thanks.
I turned, working hard to quell the urge to bolt. I took a step. A cough behind me.
Twisting, eyes down, I grabbed them. As Beth opened the door I caught their reflection in the glass. His arm was around her shoulders and they were both softly smiling.
The garret was now a sauna so I opened the dormer. We sat down on the bed.
Beth tutted. This is ridiculous, I’m roasting.
In no time at all, there we were, laying next to one another, as pale and pure as virgin snow, too slippery to attempt anything.
Twenty minutes later, cooler and prepped – the second packet – I stared down at Beth.
Yes?
Yes.
Her large blue eyes were shining and shiny in the 30W bedside lamp.
I steadied myself. I eased myself forwards. I took a breath, my eyes locked on Beth’s. She was beautiful and I loved her and I wanted this moment to be special. To be talked about and remembered until we were both old and grey.
So, I…
Jesus Christ!
I flung myself on top of Beth as she screamed. It had missed my head by millimetres. I covered Beth with my body as best I could as carnage ensued. Panicked flapping and screeching echoed around the room.
Then silence.
I risked a glance up. Grey and white feathers drifted slowly through space. A noise. I peeked over my shoulder. Two small beady eyes stared back warily over the rim of the tiny sink. For a few moments there was mutual assessment. I slowly rolled off of Beth.
Not to risk disturbing it we eased ourselves under the covers and turned out the lamp.
At first light I opened my eyes. It had gone.
We have three children now, and four grandchildren. And not a year has gone by without us receiving a card — birthday, mothers’ day, whatever — without there being a pigeon on it.
The story has entered family folklore. Still talked about and remembered. Now that we’re old and grey.
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