Open Writing

It was nice on the beach.

Cold. Out of season. No shells, only pebbles and smooth sand. A motor bike helmet was stranded on the tide line, rocking about as the tide turned and licked it back and forth. There was a nasty crack in it, no good to anyone, then.

No tourists, they had all gone, and high on the cliff round the curve of the bay a rash of caravans clung to the green slopes, empty now, grubby white boxes waiting for their return. When the winter months give way to the sharp light of spring, they will need to be clean and fresh, and sparkle again.

Slides and roundabouts, coffee stalls and souvenir shops, all were deserted and safely locked: not the public toilets, I saw with relief. And from somewhere, the smell of vinegar on fish and chips came drifting down. It was mid-October, and I suppose that there were enough visitors passing through to make frying profitable. Another month, perhaps, then most places would close for the winter.

* * * * *
I stood for a long time in the wind, embracing the cold air of the North Sea as it came pounding in to the Norfolk coast. I had been here to Cromer as a child, and I got lost then on a day trip to Sheringham, a few miles away. I can still see the huge wrought-iron gates of the park as I stood peering through, and calling out to the backs of my parents as they walked away with my little sister and disappeared under some trees. I don’t remember how I became stranded or how I was found, but I was hoping, on this trip, to find those gates again and wipe away that memory.

A man and his dog went by, but there was no-one else. I wandered on a bit in that queer way the English do on a beach. I don’t know about the Welsh or the Scots so I can’t say, or the Irish for that matter. We seem to stare a bit and start to walk a bit, then stop and go into a small trance as we gaze out to the horizon. Unless you have a dog to chase or are in charge of small children, then we and the foraging seagulls look much the same. We take a step or two, then stop, then bend down for a look at something, and stand up straight again, feet spread-eagled on the sand to stare at the horizon again. Go down to the water’s edge and breathe deeply; fill your lungs with the cold, salty air.

My mother always told us, “Take deep breaths, come on, take deep breaths”, and she would make a pantomime of breathing deeply and puffing her chest out like a Christmas robin. We children would stand there and try to copy her till our lungs nearly burst.

* * * * *

After a hundred yards or so of meandering I turned back. Cromer has a lovely pier and I wanted to have a proper look at it while the weather was good. So many piers have suffered with the passage of time, some from neglect, and the usual ravages, some from vandalism and fire. This one is clean and swept and in good condition, and right at the end is the lifeboat station; there are benches and seats, a souvenir shop and little coffee bars, and a theatre, of course, that puts on shows throughout the year. The winter programme was pinned to a board, and it was really good - an evening out on the pier with your man or your girlfriend, wrapped up warm, and with the promise of those vinegary chips and fish afterwards - who could ask for more?

A few people were on the pier: a man ambling along with his dog, and a young couple by the rail, laughing and kissing: a bit too chilly for sitting about, and the wooden seats were all empty. Near the entrance the café was doing no business at all, and the man in charge was sitting behind the counter reading the Sports page. It was the same story in the souvenir shop. I looked through the window at the teddies and key rings, tins of fudge and knick-knacks. There was already the hint of a spider’s web in one corner, and the buckets and spades were a bit dusty. A woman peered back at me, and I moved away. She knew I wasn’t going to buy anything.

Down at the bottom of the pier, and just before the theatre, I could see a second café. Before I reached it I could hear music - the tinny sounds of an old-fashioned juke box were blowing about on the wind, and outside the chairs and tables were all set up, enough for a small crowd.

“How strange,” I thought, “quite different from the other place.” The door was open, and I could see a batch of tray bakes, packets of crisps and a bunch of bananas, and twin towers of ice-cream cones tilted at an angle, waiting to be filled. The two women in charge were holding mugs of tea and having a giggle about something. They didn’t even look in my direction.

I thought I’d just carry on to the lifeboat station, then on the way back I’d have a cup of tea and a scone. There was room to walk between the rail and the café wall. Plenty of space for two or three abreast pushing a pram or a buggy, or even a wheelchair.

Yes, indeed. It was wide enough for a wheelchair.

* * * * *

There were ten of them, huddled in a circle of wheelchairs behind the café. Ten casualties of the genetic lottery, hidden away where Mr and Mrs Jones wouldn’t bump into them, couldn’t be disturbed by the sight of them. A few seagulls were feasting on the tray bake crumbs under the wheels and the carers were chatting quietly to each other, while my smile went unrecognised by the group. You know how sad it feels when you smile at someone and they just don’t smile back, or perhaps they can’t, or life at that moment makes it impossible to smile. I suddenly felt unable to smile myself.

I walked on to the lifeboat station but it was closed. They were replacing the slipway so there was no point in staying, and I retraced my steps. No-one had moved, of course, but I did try, one more time; I smiled at them, and I longed for just one smile back, but it didn’t come.

I didn’t stop for a cup of tea, I walked back along the pier, thinking about people and the way things are.

Then I thought about Dark Matter.

“Clusters and super clusters of galaxies bound huge voids of dark matter, which may account for most of the volume of the Universe.” - National Geographic World Atlas