Authors: Gil McNeil
The bickering from the back seat is reaching a whole new level as I join the queue for the traffic lights.
‘Stop it now, both of you. I know, let’s sing a song, shall we?’
I’d put some music on to lessen the tension but Archie
squirted the radio with his water pistol last week. I start singing Ten Green Bottles but there’s a marked silence from the back.
‘Are we nearly there yet?’
‘No, love, we’ve got to do the motorway first.’
‘Yes, Archie, stop being such a baby. It’s ages yet, ages and ages. When will we stop for our picnic, Mummy?’
Picnic? I don’t remember saying anything about a picnic. ‘It’s much too cold for a picnic, Jack.’
It may be July, but it’s grey and cold and the forecast is for torrential rain; probably just when George and the boys are unloading all our furniture.
‘Eskimos have picnics, and they’re on ice, so it must be cold. They probably have them in their igloos. If there was snow we could make an igloo and it would be great. And anyway you promised.’
‘When did I promise?’
‘You said we could have picnics. You did. By the sea. At our new house. And I’ve been looking forward to it. All day, I have.’
‘Yes, Jack, and we will. We can have a picnic tomorrow, if you like, and play on the beach. But not on the day we move in.’
He tuts.
‘Yes, but you said, you did, and that’s a lie and that’s not very nice you know, Mummy, telling lies.’
Here we go; he will now recite from his ever-expanding list of Lies My Mother Has Recently Told Me. I think he’s keeping it for when he’s older, probably for some kind of legal action, and even though he can’t remember to bring his packed-lunch bag home from school he has crystal-clear recall of the day I went to the hairdresser and promised to be back in an hour; only to come back three hours later with unscheduled highlights to find Nick had forgotten to give them lunch, and
they were both running on empty and entering the twilight zone, lying on the living-room floor kicking lumps off each other while Nick watched football. I think I’d better try a spot of what I think they call positive behaviour modification in all those Help Me, My Child’s a Total Sod books. In other words, bribery.
‘What about if instead of a picnic we stop at a Little Chef and have pancakes? How does that sound?’
Bingo. They start concentrating on scanning the horizon for red and white signs.
God, I wish the bloody radio worked.
I’m sitting in a Little Chef surrounded by enormous lorry drivers, all texting their friends and moaning about the weather because it’s pouring, and one of them is complaining that he’s supposed to be in Doncaster by ten, which, given that we’re only twenty miles from Dover and it’s nearly six, is going to be a bit of a challenge, unless Ferrari have started making lorries.
‘I love pancakes.’
Archie’s got maple syrup in his hair.
‘Do you? Well, that’s good, sweetheart, but try to be a bit more careful. You’re getting very sticky, you know.’
‘I like being sticky. It’s one of my best things.’
I’ve only ordered a coffee since I ate too many brownies earlier on with Ellen, who’s just texted me:
Good luck on first night, will call later. Love you. PS. Look out for Captain Birds Eye.
‘Did Daddy like pancakes? I can’t remember.’
Jack’s giving me one of his anxious looks. He’s been doing his Did Daddy Like This routine quite a lot lately; I think he’s worried he’s starting to forget him.
‘Yes, he loved them.’
He nods, satisfied.
Archie pauses between mouthfuls. ‘Yes, and he liked lots of sauce.’
‘It’s not sauce, you stupid, it’s syrup. Mable syrup, that’s what it’s called.’
Archie looks momentarily crestfallen, but rallies by jabbing Jack with his fork. Jack screeches and the lorry drivers start giving us Looks.
‘Archie, that was very horrible, and if you do it again you’ll have to have a baby spoon. And Jack, please stop teasing him, and it’s maple syrup, not mable. Let’s just finish eating, shall we? Gran will be waiting for us.’
‘Yes, and the lorry might be there and I can help, can’t I, Mum? I can help carry things. George said I was a very strong boy.’
‘Yes, Jack.’
‘I can help, too. I’m strong too. Look.’
Archie holds his plate above his head.
Great. More mable syrup in his hair.
They both get a free lollipop at the till to keep sugar levels at an absolute maximum, and there’s a brief but very bitter exchange about whose turn it is to sit in the front which I solve by putting them both in the back, so they sit united in hatred, jiggling about and singing silly songs with the occasional rude word thrown in, which I’m pretending I can’t hear, until we get our first glimpse of the sea.
Broadgate Bay is definitely one of those seaside towns where the tide went out a long time ago and looks like staying out. But among all the bungalows and bucket-and-spade shops there are signs that things might be on the turn: heritage colours have started to appear on a few front doors of the Victorian terraces, and there are geraniums in the occasional window box. People who can’t afford Whitstable have begun moving in, and the library in the high street still looks very grand with its grey stone columns and steps, and we’ve even got a new art gallery, even if it does mainly sell posh birthday cards and pretty watercolours by the kind of artists you’d be very surprised
to find on the shortlist for the Turner Prize, unless Stormy Sunsets become a special new category. And Gran says the local council’s getting very excited about the competition for Best Seaside Town (Small), and we’re in with a good chance this year because the judges are fed up with the same places always winning so they’ve changed all the rules.
As we drive past the shop I can see Gran’s done a new window display in honour of the competition, with what looks like a pyramid of red, white and blue wool, a few jumper patterns pinned to the green felt on the back wall and a vase of dusty plastic flowers; so I think a new window display might be moving up to the top of my list.
The shop looks quite faded and the gold Butterworth’s Wools lettering has gone patchy from all the sun and salt, which is something else that needs sorting, but I think I’ll wait for a while because I’m thinking of changing the name. McKnits is the favourite so far; officially I’m still a Mackenzie-Jones, since Nick and I combined our names when we got married, just after Jack was born. Nick liked the idea of being double-barrelled because he thought it looked better on screen, although I was never that attached to Jones. I don’t hate it as much as Vin does though, especially when Gran calls him Vinnie. Officially he’s Vincent, which is down to Mum being Artistic, so I’m lucky I only got stuck with Josephine. I did try going for Jo-Jo in my teens, but it didn’t stick. I think you probably need silk tassels to pull off being a Jo-Jo.
I’ll ask Gran what she thinks about McKnits, because I think a change of name would be good; it would signal a new start. But I don’t want to offend her; the shop’s been in the family for years, and she started working the week after she married Grandad, just after the war started and he was sent off on a naval destroyer from Dover. He only got home for one leave before he was blown up somewhere in the Baltic; she showed me all his medals once, with her wedding album full of black-and-white
photographs, and a bundle of letters with tiny, neat writing and rows of kisses at the end of each one, and a silk Valentine’s card, with red ribbon faded to pink. He was only twenty when he died, and Gran moved in with old Mrs Butterworth, and had Mum, and then gradually took over and ran things herself. So she might mind if I change things too quickly.
She’s standing by the front gate as we arrive, waving a duster.
‘How was the journey? Terrible I bet, I’ve been listening to the radio, and they said there was one of them hatchbacks on the motorway.’
Archie’s yelling, ‘We’re at the seaside, we’re at the seaside!’ and trying to find his fishing net.
‘A tailback?’
‘Yes. You poor things, you must be exhausted. Come on in and I’ll put the kettle on. I brought the spare one from the shop so we could have a nice cup of tea before the van gets here. Mind you it takes an age to boil – I think the element’s furred up. I keep telling Elsie we need to get one of those metal things you put in and they collect up all the bits. Mrs Lilly’s got one and she says it’s marvellous. Have you got one, love?’
‘What? Sorry, Gran, no, I haven’t. Archie, please stop that, and Jack, leave things in the car and we’ll bring them in later.’
‘But I need my blanket for tonight.’
‘Yes, I know, but don’t start unpacking things now. We haven’t even got the beds in yet.’
He sighs and Gran gives him a hug.
‘I’ve done the front room and given the bedrooms a quick wipe-over. Dust as thick as anything there was, you know, but I don’t think Gladys can have bothered. She always was a bit flighty if you ask me. She used to stop out all hours you know.’
Somehow I can’t quite see Gladys Tilling stopping out all hours. She’s got to be at least as old as Gran, and Gran’s eighty next year.
‘Did she? When was that?’
‘In the war, dear, she was very partial to the Americans at the base. Her and May Prentice, they’d come back all hours, with their stockings in their handbags if you get my meaning.’
‘Sounds like fun.’
‘Yes, but not with her Ted off in the desert getting shrapnel in his head. Mind you, he wasn’t exactly the full shilling before he went, but he managed very well; you’d think a head full of bits of metal and that’d be it, but he went on for years, and he could always tell you if there was bad weather on the way. Well, I just hope she’s happy in Australia, because it’s a long way to go at her age, you know, even if your daughter has got a pool and does barbecues every night. You wouldn’t catch me going all that way for a sausage. Do you want a hand with that, dear?’
‘No thanks, Gran, it’s fine. The removal men should be here soon.’
‘Yes and you’ve got to watch them, you know, make sure they don’t pinch your valuables – they’re all at it.’
‘They’ll have a hard job, Gran, unless they’re into Lego.’
‘Well I’ll be keeping an eye on them; it’s always in the
Gazette.
They start off all charming and then as soon as your back’s turned they’re in your bag before you can say “mugger”.’
Archie giggles. ‘Granny said “bugger”.’
‘Granny said “mugger”, Archie, and don’t start being rude.’
‘They’re probably tired from the journey, aren’t you, my lambs? Come on, let’s see if Granny’s got anything nice for you in her bag.’
Great. More sweets.
I ferry bags in from the car and get panicky about how much there is to do while the boys run around the front garden having a sword fight with a rather overgrown gorse bush, and then the sun comes out and I start to feel that maybe things might be all right after all, even if the house does look much more dilapidated
now that all Gladys’s things have gone. We’ve got a big front garden facing the park, and we’re only a five-minute walk up the hill from the shop and the sea front, and there’s a gate round to the back garden which is full of overgrown flowerbeds and brambles. There’s a garage, which I’m particularly excited about, even if it is full of old planks at the moment; it’ll be great not having to scrape ice off the car in the winter. Although we probably won’t need the car so much here because the school’s only a ten-minute walk across the park, so I’m hoping for far less refereeing in moving vehicles in the mornings, and the bracing sea air will help wake us all up. In theory.
The house is an Edwardian seaside villa according to the estate agent, but it’s nowhere near that grand, and every room needs redecorating. All the walls are covered in the kind of wallpaper that hasn’t come back into fashion and never will, or horrible old paint that’s chipped and faded. But it’s got a lovely solid feel to it, and you can see the sea if you stand on tiptoe in the bathroom, and there are fireplaces in most of the rooms so we won’t freeze if the boiler conks out. And there’s a big solid front door, with an old-fashioned door knocker which will make a nice change from that bloody doorbell at the old house, which made me jump every time someone rang it. I think I always half expected it to be the police again with more bad news.
Gran’s making a start on the kitchen cupboards as we go back in. She’s brought a bucket full of cloths and brushes and bottles of bleach, and is in her element, tutting and scrubbing away, humming hymns to herself; she’s always humming and today it’s For Those in Peril on the Sea, but she moves onto Big Band tunes if she’s tackling anything tricky, and she’s doing a pretty nifty medley of Glenn Miller’s greatest hits when George and the boys turn up and start filling the kitchen with crates.
The cupboards look pristine to me, but Gran’s not convinced, and is still busy bleaching things, and there’s no point
arguing with her since she just pats you on the arm and says, ‘Yes, dear,’ and then completely ignores you and carries on. She may be quite small, and she’s definitely got smaller over the years, but apart from a slightly collapsed look when she’s tired she still looks the same as she did when we used to come down for our summer holidays. Neat and tidy, with her hair done every week in the salon next to the chemist’s, a perm that looks like a helmet for the first couple of days, and then goes soft and wispy, busy with her pinny on, smiling and humming away to herself; blue eyes, and soft hands.
I put the kettle on to make tea, and notice that the old fridge Gladys left for us is making weird chuntering noises. But I can always put stuff in the larder if it conks out; it’s freezing in there, with thick stone shelves which remind me of Mrs Bridges and
Upstairs, Downstairs.
Maybe I’ll learn how to cook mutton and make game pie, and get into making jam and pickles and have all the jars lined up with pretty labels: only to be honest the last time I tried making jam it wouldn’t set, for hours, and then it suddenly set solid like peanut brittle and I had to get it out of the pan by bashing it with the garlic press, so perhaps I’ll just stick to lining up all my packets and jars in there if I ever work out which crate they’re in; so far all I can find are stacks of plates and a collection of old dusters, with the dustpan, but no brush, and a small piece of milk jug.