Open Writing

I would probably not visit Burnham-on-Sea at all these days if it did not possess the nearest branch to Wells of the Nationwide Building Society, with whom I need to carry out business from time to time. For me the seaside magic I knew as a child is long gone; in its stead is a town I think of as tired and rather sad. Yet if, as today, the weather is bright and clear, the breeze balmy, and I can close my mind to the thought of billions of particles of radiation wafting across Bridgwater Bay from Hinkley Point, then the Esplanade at Burnham can still be a pleasant place. But I cannot linger on this airy sea front. Down a dingy side street the Nationwide office beckons.
Happily, today there is a queue. I use the word 'happily' because that gives me the chance to savour the photograph on the office wall. Actually it is not so much on the wall; rather it is the wall - a large mural in black and white concisely entitled SANDS BURNHAM, depicting a panoramic view of the crowded beach on a summer's day, early in the last century at a guess.
Faces from that bygone era stare hauntingly out at me. Who were these people? What happened to them immediately after the camera clicked? What happened to them in their later lives? As they look down at me in curiosity from their beach on the wall it is as though I have depressed the 'pause' button while watching a
video and so frozen their world. If I were to depress the button again the whole scene would spring into life. Let's do it! Click!
* * *
Oddly enough there is not a great deal of movement, initially at least. Everybody is just standing about, apart from one old lady - clad from head to toe in black - sitting in a deck chair, and the indistinct figures perambulating along the distant promenade. Most of the people within view are chatting, in pairs or in groups. Those in my immediate vicinity are looking at me as, my back to the sea, I stand beside the camera I have mounted on a tripod. They are not posing, they are just curious.
Nor is the switch to colour a shock. The tints on view are subdued. The wet sands are mud coloured, the backdrop of the promenade and the buildings lining it charcoal grey. As for the occupants of the beach, their clothing is in nothing more startling than pastel shades. The colours predominating the scene are black, white, grey and brown.
All the adults are fully clad. The ladies wear ankle length skirts, or dresses, and leather boots. Most are wearing wide brimmed hats, and, without exception, their dresses, blouses or coats are long sleeved. The men are in suits, with collars and ties; they too have leather boots. Most wear a hat: flat caps, boaters, homburgs, bowler hats even, all are on show. And all this on a hot summer's day! Flesh is not on show, however. The only naked limbs to be seen are the calves of children. And of the many children on the beach, only the few standing on the wet sand near me are barefoot at all.

Prominent among those watching me are two young boys, their knickerbockers hitched above their knees, jackets fully buttoned. One is aged about twelve. He wears a flat cap and is carrying his boots. His younger companion wears a straw boater with a wide band of dark blue, an Eton type collar, and a bow tie - also dark blue. 'Hey mister,' he calls, grinning cheekily at me. 'What're you doing?'
'Recording you for posterity.'
'What's that mean then?'
'He's taking your picture, stupid,' his companion translates. 'I shouldn't, mister, if I was you. His ugly mug'll probably break your camera. Ow! That hurt, Joe.' (This in answer to the punch he receives on his arm.)
'Serves you right then, Charlie.'
'Hold still for just one moment, boys, will you?' I ask them. Obediently they stand motionless just long enough for me to activate the shutter of my camera. They scamper off before I can thank them.

A young girl wearing a white pinafore dress and black stockings is looking anxiously along the sands. 'Is something wrong, young lady?' I ask.
'I can't see my father.'
I have the advantage of height. 'Is that him over there?' I suggest, indicating a man standing alone, hands behind his back, staring sorrowfully in her direction. Even from this distance I can tell by the cut of his clothes that he is a gentleman.
The girl's face lights up. 'Thank you, sir,' she says and runs off happily.

Silently I savour her politeness. How different from what I am accustomed to in my time.
'I hope your camera caught my good side,' calls a woman standing some yards away. Her coat and skirt are of a pale lemon colour, and she is clutching the wide brim of her beribboned hat against the breeze.
'I'm sure you are equally charming from any angle, madam,' I tell her.
'Aren't you the flatterer!' she replies.
The nosegay pinned to her bosom catches my attention. 'Your posy is nice.'
She laughs. 'It's a birthday gift from this young man, my son.'
A boy stands beside her, looking embarrassed by the conversation. 'Say hello to the gentleman, Billy.'
The son mumbles something and looks away.
'Hello Billy,' I greet him in reply. 'It's good to meet you.'
With a wave of farewell from the mother, she and her son move off.
A young girl wearing a sailor's cap is staring at me. 'That's a smart hat, dear,' I tell her.
'It's a present from my daddy,' she replies proudly. 'He's a sailor.'
'Is he away at sea now?'
'Yes, he's in a place called Hong Kong. It's in China. He's coming home after Christmas. I can hardly wait.'?
'That's nice,' I say.

It is nice. Nice too that she is happy to chat with me, a stranger. Nicer yet again that I, a stranger, can chat with her. It wouldn't happen in my own time. That's progress for you! A group of cub scouts is being gathered together by their cub master. 'Come on lads,' he calls out, 'it's time to get our things packed up. We've a train to catch.'

My photograph done, it's time for me to pack up too. I start to dismantle my apparatus.
'Are you finished, Mister?' Joe and Charlie have returned.
'Yes, Joe, I've a home to go to.'
'Did you get me?'
'Yes, I got you both.'
'Are you going home on our train then?' Charlie asks.
'No, I've got a car.'
'A car? Do you mean a motor car? Do you hear that, Joe? The man's got a motor car!'
'Where are you going to,' Joe asks eagerly.
'Wells.'
'Wells! We live in Wells too. Can you give us a ride?'
'Sorry, Joe, no. Another time perhaps.'
'Oh well!' he acknowledges philosophically. 'I bet we get there before you do, anyway.'
'I expect you will,' I concede, thinking of the usual struggle to fight my way across the A38 at Highbridge. 'Goodbye, you two.'
'Goodbye, mister,' they chorus. As the pair scuttle off depression settles over me. I am aware of the reason for this onslaught of melancholy. Joe, Charlie, Billy, the cubs - what ages are these lads? Probably between eight and twelve. And what is the year? 1904 or 1905 at a guess. That then is what depresses me. In ten years or so, the cataclysm of the First World War will be unleashed about them. How many of these young boys will perish? And those who manage to survive, at what cost? Indeed, how much grief is in store for all these happy folk on this sunny beach?

On the sands around me everything is light and gay. (I can use that word in its proper context in this era!) It should be kept that way. Let me leave these good people frozen in their time of happiness. I click the 'pause' button on my mental handset and the picture is stilled again.
* * *
'Have you got all day, mate, or what?' a voice breaks into my reverie. It is the man behind me in the queue, pointing me in the direction of the cashier waiting to serve me.
As I come to leave the office, after completing my banking business, I bid my friends on the wall a silent goodbye as I pass them. I could almost swear that young Joe winks back at me.