Sometimes, in their stories, their accounts of life, people will kick up a sort of dust of the past, a churning smoke in which every particle is perfectly formed in a wonderful blooming cloud of flawless remembrance—when this happens it is as though it has conjured up the very Platonic form of delectable evocation.
And so a tale was told me, of a time before my own, flowing within this flawless magic smoke of particles, arranged before me by an old man in a heavy leather coat who asked so civilly if he could share the bench I sat on so that together we could stare out towards the sea. He engaged me, not me him, and he opened up his life so freshly, so clearly, that for the few minutes we sat side by side I was enveloped by the mist he created and I inhabited the world he recollected for me.
‘I was just out of the army, with my friend, Reg. We had been together since leaving school. We were filled with ideas of life and freedom. We bought two motor bikes with our discharge pay and set off for a holiday to the south coast of England, to Cornwall where neither of us had ever been. How exciting it all was—the travelling, the summer heat. We rode down the Brighton road from London and picked up two girl hitchhikers—Gilda and Hilda, rhyming German girl scouts; Gilda with a delectable lisp, Hilda with a broader smile than I had ever seen. They joined us enthusiastically; Gilda jumping up behind me and Hilda behind Reg. Each vaulted onto the pillion seats as if they were mounting a favourite horse. I felt Gilda's knees pressing tightly against my hips as we aimed for somewhere beyond Brighton—going west, seething with excitement.
We stopped at a transport café, The Southern Belle. It was full of lorry drivers wearing brown leather jerkins so popular after the second war and bought as army surplus. They all turned and stared as we escorted our passengers inside—delightfully incongruous in this oil-scented, male-made, bacon-sandwiched environment. With all eyes on us we ate chips in a corner at a dirty table. We left with a throttled roar and streams of dust across the deeply potholed lorry park that surrounded The Southern Belle, leaving it marooned as if it were an as yet undiscovered island.
And so on, along the fossil studded coast to which Thomas Hardy’s greatest protagonist had made her weary way, through bombed out naval ports yet to be rebuilt in slab-sided concrete, between fields of sheep overburdened by unshorn fleeces until at last we reached somewhere near the end of England—somewhere where there was no further to go. Our passengers lifted their knees to dismount, and in unison, each standing for a moment only on a rusty metal footrest, climbed down and stood on the pavement. This was their destination. They stood together, side by side, facing forward and at attention. In perfect unison, and as if guided by some controlling force beyond our understanding they raised their hands to their foreheads in perfectly formed, flat palmed salutes. It was a dismissal—our duty done; our function completed we were heralded away.
And as we rode away, that is how we left them, still saluting on the side of the road, their white neckerchiefs pulled neatly at their necks through sliver clasps, like sensual sentinels, guarding a place the secrets of which only they knew. It is unbelievable now that we could so willingly have parted company with such delightful and beguiling creatures; unbelievable now that we were so uninformed and naive in the lives our parents had so keenly settled on us.
And as we rode around we could find nowhere to stay. I can see the notice boards so clearly outside road after road of bed and breakfast accommodation—“B&B, NO VACANCIES”. And now it was getting late, and the heat of the day had given away to the coolness of evening, and we were risking having to sleep in the open—and we had done enough of that in the last few years to want only to avoid it. I said to Reg that my Uncle Jack had always said that if you were ever stuck for somewhere to stay then you should go to the local police station.
So we rolled up at the entrance to a small seaside town police station. Inside we found a fat, jolly, and red faced police sergeant. It was as if he had jumped out of a cartoon about fat, jolly, and red faced police sergeants. He said the town was full of tourists, keen to have a break by the sea in the current spell of good weather, and as a relief from rationing and the continual over-spilling austerity of what were proving unforgiving post war years. But, he suggested with a smile that there was no one “Staying overnight” as he put it in the cells, and so we could if we wished have them as our night’s accommodation. “No charge” he added wryly, though at the time I don’t think we understood his pun. “Here you are, lads,” as he led us into the open cells. “I can do you a bacon sandwich as well, if you like?”
We didn’t know what to say or do. We stared at each other—lost for words, struggling, floundering outside our experience. Then, like a great bursting dam, the police sergeant had enjoyed enough of our discomfort. He burst explosively into laughter. “It’s a joke, lads! A joke! Don’t worry. It’s a joke! We can do better than that! Come on, you two need a good warm bed!”
He was retiring soon, he explained, and he and his wife were going to start a bed and breakfast business. They were already taking a few guests to get the feel of things. We followed him as he rode perched on top of his bicycle through the streets. We propped our bikes up outside the newly made sign that hung above the front door of his house: “Bed and Breakfast—VACANCIES”
“Come on, lads; meet the wife, Mrs Simkins! She’ll take you up to your rooms. I think you’ll enjoy your stay—everything is laid on here!”
Mrs Simkins was as fat and red faced and jolly as her husband. She bustled as she walked; rolling from side to side and turning continually to flash a wide and welcoming smile.
“I hope you don’t mind sharing,” she said turning back again and grinning as she opened the door of a large bay windowed room looking out to flaming red sunset over the now misty sea.
“No...no...not at all,” we both said falteringly as, open mouthed, we saw standing to attention in front of the bed two delectable German girl scouts with broad grins and impeccable salutes.’
