There
is an uncelebrated stretch of coastal road, somewhere in England, but nowhere
in particular, along which I first walked half my life ago. Today, I feel the
need to be here again.
A
rectangular green field leads to the water’s edge. In the middle of it lies a
bright blue, parachute-shaped kite. A faceless man struggles to get it
airborne. A few seconds later, he tries again. He is foiled again but
refuses to give up. A young girl waits, with equal patience and frustration, at
his side. Her dress is the same colour as the kite. The choice was probably
his.
I
wander along the roadside overlooking the water. The tide is in but beginning to
ebb (Figure 98.1). A few seagulls hover overhead. Alongside me, I notice a
silver-coloured dog lead, twinkling in the sunlight. At one end of it is a
white, short-haired terrier. It is eager, perhaps overeager, its eyes wide and
tongue hanging out at the side. At the other end is an elderly man. He walks
too slowly for the dog’s liking. Time passes too quickly for his own. A lone
barbecue puffs away behind a striped canvas windbreak.
Figure 98.1
Copyright
© 2016 Paul Spradbery
Beyond
the field’s paved edge are some plush bistros. I count nine. Not one is more
than a year old. Their terraces are empty. Further along, in embarrassing
contrast, is a scruffy corner café. Lime green paint peels from its exterior
woodwork. Inside, varnished chairs and tables are set in fixed rows. They look
as old as I am. Most of the clientele are older still and mostly silent. On a
polished shelf, behind the counter, is an old whisky bottle full of copper
coins. Next to it sits a compact analogue radio. The muffled sound of Tracy
Chapman’s Fast Car miraculously
conveys every human emotion in less than five minutes. I sit alone and
anonymously, drink hot tea from a cup with a saucer, then up and leave without
speaking to anyone. No one notices.
Turning
another corner, the breeze drops. I begin the feel the sun’s warmth. The war
memorial (Figure 98.2) is still decked with poppy wreaths from last November. A
young boy pedals by on a small bicycle with crooked stabilizers. I climb the
twenty-odd steps leading inland.
Figure 98.2
Copyright
© 2016 Paul Spradbery
Next,
Berkeley or Brackenhurst? It is no matter: I know that both short roads lead to
the same junction. I choose Berkeley. On the other side of a black fence, four
old-timers, cacooned from the world, play bowls (Figure 98.3). The
timber-framed pavilion is lovingly preserved. Their friendship is no doubt the
same.
Figure 98.3
Copyright
© 2016 Paul Spradbery
Another
right turn sets me on the way back to where I set out. Near the hilltop, there stands
a tall, dark-haired man. Even in khaki overalls he appears dignified. He is
replacing a wooden gatepost. Everything he does is thorough. I watch him check
verticality over and over again with a well-used spirit level. Across the road
is a car dealer’s forecourt. Coloured balloons are tied to second-hand cars.
Opposite, a small, brick-built Baptist church bears an ‘All Welcome’ sign on
its closed doors. A brown paper bag drifts in front of the gates like
tumbleweed. An hour has passed.
Different
individuals react to, and try to cope with, bitterly sad news in different
ways. Here, today, this is mine. I am back at square one and feel a little more
composed. The sun is lower. Above the field, that same blue kite now soars and
flutters without effort (Figure 98.4). At a certain angle, its colour matches
the clear summer sky. On the grass below, the young girl now holds the strings.
Her father is elsewhere. His work is done.
Figure 98.4
Copyright
© 2016 Paul Spradbery
The
circuit is complete. Everything changes with time – and yet, the essence of
this place will forever remain the same.
In
dear memory of Len (1934-2016).
Copyright
© 2016 Paul Spradbery
