Remembrance
By Sarah Page

Remembrance

The old man sat huddled in his raincoat on one of the hard benches which lined the marina wall. He stared along the boardwalk, which was almost a pier stretching out to sea, but curved round again towards the entrance of the harbour. So empty now, so clean and bare. The seagulls circling above had returned to nature – once again hunting their own food and not screeching for treats like angry toddlers.

The crashing of the waves was more clearly audible now that the summer tourists had left, and the season was over - no longer drowned beneath the music and the laughter, the crying and shouting. The wooden slats creaked, and the wind moaned through the floating forest of masts. A painful song calling across the sea to some unknown listener – beseeching and lamenting. Abandoned for the winter, for weeks now no sails had climbed those tall metal fingers, which reached for the cold clear sky.

The man didn’t notice the way the wrought iron dug into his legs, or how the biting wind whistled past his ear. He was lost in thought, finding himself somewhere else, in a summertime long ago, when this town was a different world.

All those years ago, the boy had run, barefoot, ahead of him, shouting backwards to hurry up, to come and see! Racing to get to the side of the harbour to watch the fishermen hauling up their catch, he had been impatient to see the futile jumping of the fish in the nets, and the crabs waving their claws in slow-motion defiance.  The boy had been so excited, that his ice-cream cone had fallen unnoticed to the ground. The smell of petrol-tainted water and sodden rope, had mingled with vinegar and candyfloss producing an almost nauseating cocktail.

Pointing out each creature the fishermen brought up, the child had wondered aloud whether it could be eaten, what it would taste like, which bits you would have to leave and whether it would put up a fight. The man had had no idea which were edible, but thought, with only a trace of humour, that they may yet have to resort to catching their own food if things didn’t pick up. He hadn’t had to tell the boy anything yet. Each time it had seemed inevitable, there had been a windfall, a bit of luck or a couple of odd jobs here and there. But this time it was a close run thing. The weekend away had almost sunk him, but he couldn’t deprive his son of some summer holiday. Not with his mother having….. Still. There was a chance his horse would come in. That was all he needed. One break. Just one.

Calling the boy back from the wall, the man had grasped the small delicate hand that was proffered to him. Swinging their arms back and forth, together they had walked slowly back through the crowds of tourists towards the small town, edging ever closer to the promise of fish and chips for tea.

As they had come to the edge of the town, they came across a family, with a young girl who was about the boy’s age. She looked the very image of happy innocence, in her clean white dress with a yellow ribbon tied in her hair, and a small bucket swinging in her hand.

The children, catching sight of each other, had stood and stared in the way only children can, each sizing up the other, their expressions inscrutable. Suddenly, as if at some unspoken signal, an instant rapport had broken out between them and they knew everything necessary to immediately become the best of friends. The man and the girl’s mother exchanged a few pleasantries, while the children swapped stories, competing as to who had had the best holiday so far. After a few minutes, the woman had been drawn aside by a friend, and the man was left to stand alone, his hands thrust deep into his pockets and his thoughts miles away, at Newmarket with Pourparler and the 1000 Guineas. Glancing up at the pavilion clock, he saw it was approaching race-time and the nerves began to get to him. He desperately needed this win. A couple of doors down from where they had stood was the betting shop he had visited earlier. That would have a radio at least – all these new betting shops did. And at least then he would know, either way. Backing towards it so that he could listen through the open doorway, he had watched his son with his new companion, happily feeding chips to a swarm of gulls at their feet.

The race had started and the man could just about hear the commentary over the background hubbub of holiday makers and seaside entertainments. He listened hard, glancing up at the family every now and then. His stomach tightened in excitement as he realised Pourparler was actually in the lead. Oh come on, just a few more furlongs, come on! Suddenly, something startled the seagulls and they were sent skywards in a chaotic mass of flapping and ear-piercing cries. Damn! The man couldn’t hear a thing over the ensuing racket, and ducked inside the shop for the final yards of the race. His horse was in the lead, by a nose, edging towards the finish – oh come on! Please! Yes! Oh, YES! He had punched the air with delight – scarcely able to believe it. The relief was so overwhelming he had been afraid he would cry. This would tide him over for a long while yet, it would give him time to find something more permanent, and finally they could stop living this precarious hand-to-mouth life.

He had rushed outside, impatient to tell his son he could have that kite that he had coveted all weekend. Standing in the bookmaker’s doorway, he looked across to where he had left the group. The family he had been with had vanished. There was no little girl with a white dress and a yellow ribbon in her hair. And there was no boy. Just a small metal bucket, discarded on the pavement, its contents spilled. Spinning around he scanned the route back towards the harbour. There was no sign of him.

The man had run back inside the shop – thinking perhaps he’d become bored and followed him in. But no. Nothing. Just a few old men, scrutinising the Racing Post or collecting their winnings.

Fear replaced relief in an instant. The knot in his stomach, which had been one of such excitement, now sickened him. Running outside again, he was almost blind with panic, shouting the boy’s name. He had grabbed at the people he passed – ‘Have you seen my boy? Has anyone seen my boy?’

As he neared the harbour itself, he had seen a group of men, bringing something up from the other side. It wasn’t fish they were hauling up now. The man had known it at once, from the quiet care they were taking over their task. A chill washed over him. His throat had contracted, and with a choking sob he had forced himself to move towards the scene. Reaching it, he had dropped to his knees, as if his sinking heart had pulled him down towards the tiny, fragile body. One careless lapse, one moment of stupidity, and he had lost his son – and with him, everything that had ever mattered, or ever would.

The man’s reverie was broken suddenly by an elderly couple wandering past, pointing out the milestones of their youth and he was brought slowly back to the present.

The slap of the child’s running feet on the wooden slats was now silenced, echoed only by the water lapping against the abandoned bows. The wet footprints had long since dried and vanished, the dropped ice cream washed away by countless rainy days. The man could almost see the boy now… running away from him into the distance, but eventually fading and disappearing completely. A memory, nothing more.

Eventually, he roused himself and realised his muscles had become stiff and sore, and he was chilled to the bone. He stretched his arms and buttoned up his coat. It was time to leave now. Time to move on.

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