Clacton Beach Memoir: 1975

Clacton Beach Memoir: 1975

Was she red with anger? It was difficult to tell.
What with the sunburn, heat haze and lipstick.

From the water’s edge, where I was balanced,
tiptoed on sharp shingle, she was a windmill.
Such were her roundhouses.

It was an odd view. Like a circus on the telly.

The recipient. A geezer in green corduroy,
had knacks of sliding himself out of reach.

He was a master.
A ducker, diver, dancer!

As I stepped closer under the fib
of buying a cornet with a flake,
she screamed and hissed at him.

Come on you bastard!
Come and cut me if you can.

And he smirked a response.

I’ll slice your face, sweetheart.
So they can play noughts and crosses.

Then she whispered this.
Just loud enough for us all to finish him.

You couldn’t slice a loaf of bread, darlin’.

Now. It might have been prudent
to intervene. To shout for the police.
Make an embarrassed protest at least.

But. I brought that ice cream, with a flake.
And walked back up the beach to them. 
My Mum and Dad. My Terry and Julie.

As they kissed deeply in the sand.