THIRD PRIZE: Mary Charnley - A Gap Year for Grandma

Morecambe again. How many years is it now? Tom was just sitting there on the seafront as usual, Daily Mirror over his face, snoring.  Yes; Morecombe every year, same old Band B, and if he wears that old tank top one more time I swear I’ll… Yes, I know his mother knitted it for him but she’s been dead for twenty years.

I used to love Morecambe; we went there for our honeymoon. Two nights and I still remember the smell of the sea, and the taste of the fish and chips as we strolled along the seafront in the dark and Tom held my hand, and then back to the creaky old bed and the landlady’s knowing smile when we went down to breakfast. I bring myself back to the present.

‘Shall we go on the big dipper?’ I say, ‘have a bit of a thrill?’

 ‘What you trying to do Shirl? Bleedin kill yerself? Can’t you see what it says; not suitable for pregnant women and the elderly.’ Well, I’m not pregnant I says, that’s for sure, and if I kill myself at least I won’t have to come to Morecambe any more.

Tom wakes up, pushing the newspaper off his nose. He’s got sunburn on his chest. Funny, I think to myself, how do you get sunburn when it its rains all the time.

‘Got any more of those cheese and pickle, Shirl?’ He asks.

No,’ I tell him, ‘you’ll have to have one of these,’ and I hand him a tortilla wrap. He looks at it as though it’s a dead slug.

‘What d’you call this?’ He says. ‘What’s it with all this foreign muck? You going through the change or something?’ Well he didn’t even notice when I did. Course he’s always been a bit of a stay at home type; you know, footie Saturday afternoons and then a couple of pints in the Oak.

‘What about a hardboiled egg then?’ I say. There’s not a lot of people around today, just a couple of young families, building sandcastles, waiting for the rain. That looks fun, I think to myself. I wish we’d had children. Tom wouldn’t go to the doctor. Too embarrassing, he’d said, ‘them poking around in my privates. I expect he was worried in case it was his fault. ‘Anyway, we’re happy just the two of us aren’t we?’

‘Pass us a Jammy Dodger,’ he says, pouring a cup of stewed tea from the thermos.

‘Ginger nuts,’ I say ‘take it or leave it and don’t look at me like that. You make the picnic next time.’ He’s never done that, cooked or anything. It was always me, and you get a bit fed up with it after a while don’t you, I mean having to think of what to cook every night of your life? I always try to get those offers, you know the Tesco ones, buy one get one free, only half of it goes in the bin.

            ‘Think of those starving children in Africa,’ I said to Tom.

‘Well if you’re so bothered,’ he said ‘why don’t you stick it in the post.’ I didn’t bother to reply. He always was a selfish bastard, gets worse as he gets older, whereas me, well I’m one of those caring types; you know, can’t pass a charity box without putting something in. I did think maybe when he retired… but here we are, still going to Morecombe every year to the Hacienda B and B (our usual room please) the one with the en-suite in avocado and a knitted crinoline over the spare toilet roll. I said maybe we should try one of those boutique hotels, you know, a bit posh, but then he wants to know what’s wrong with the Hacienda.

 ‘You won’t get full English like that anywhere else,’ he says, ‘not with those fried potatoes.’ and  then I dream of pancakes with maple syrup and fresh tropical fruit on a balcony somewhere and fragrant coffee served in one of those cafetieres like they have in Aunt Molly’s. I was there the other day with my friend Jean. It’s one of those what they call retro cafes, where they pick up odd cups and saucers from a jumble sale and then charge extra for a cup of tea. They even have those little miniature milk bottles on the table. My mum would’ve turned in her grave. Still the cakes are lovely. I always have the carrot. Well I know I shouldn’t but… Jean always has a toasted teacake, no butter. It’s her cholesterol apparently. There’s a sign on the wall, metal, scratched and a little bit rusty. What on earth did they want to put that old thing up there for? They could have given it a clean.

‘Live your life and forget your age,’ it said, and there’s this picture of an old woman dancing on an ironing board and I smiled.’

‘If I did that,’ I said to Jean, ‘I’d fall and fracture my hip.’

‘How do you know?’ She said, ‘bet you’ve never tried it’ And I haven’t, of course I haven’t but it made me think about all the things I hadn’t done and how my time was running out.

 

Tom’s eating a hard-boiled egg, picking a bit of shell off his lower lip and flicking it on the ground.

‘What’s that you’ve got there?’ he says, trying to snatch it out of my hand.

‘Nothing,’ and I push the brochure back in my bag.

‘Oi, give it here,’ he says.

‘Just lay off will you. It’s none of your bloody business.’ Well I never used to swear until I married Tom. He’s got hold of it now, starts turning the pages.

‘What’s this then?’ he sniggers, his mouth full of ginger nut, spitting a few crumbs on to my new ‘Secret Slimming’ swimsuit. ‘Gap Years for Grandmas.’ He opens it at page twenty one.

            ‘Where you off to then?’ He says, ‘bungee jumping in New Zealand or something? Don’t be so bloody daft.’

‘I’m thinking’ about it,’ I say, ‘I’m not coming to Morecambe every year until I die.’

‘What’s wrong with Morecambe?’ and he grabs the umbrella from my beach bag. ‘It’s always been all right before.’

‘This is what’s wrong with Morecambe,’ I say, pointing to the umbrella, ‘and there’s too many people.’ Canned music is spilling out from the amusement arcade and I put my hands over my ears.

‘It might be all right for you, but I want to live a little before it’s too late.’ He looks at me, and shoves another ginger nut in his mouth. I never used to mind his manners in the old days.

I remember when he retired, how I’d thought we might get a little camper van, you know, one of those with a settee that pulls out into a double bed, and a little galley kitchen. Time for just the two of us, like it used to be. He wouldn’t hear of it of course.

‘I’m not spending my precious retirement stuck in traffic jams on the M5,’ was all he said, and that was that.

 ‘You.’ I say, ‘you’ve got no sense of adventure have you? Your idea of an adventure is a Tikka Masala from the that new Indian place down the Willerby Road.’ Used to be ladies’ underwear if I remember rightly. Of course he was a bit iffy about it at first, what with that woman with the red spot on her head. ‘They’ve got as much right to live here as you,’ 

 He picks up a packet of cheese and onion.

‘Don’t you ever want to try anything different?’

                        ‘Like what?’ he says. ‘Barbecue flavour?’

‘No, you daft bugger. I mean an adventure, a proper adventure. You’ve never been further than Blackpool and a daytrip to Boulogne to pick up some booze. That’s about as foreign as you’ll ever get.’

‘An’ I was bloody seasick, what with that foreign food an all. I mean who wants to eat snails? Snails are for stampin’ on as far as I’m concerned.. They can’t even speak English over there. Bloody Johnny foreigners, the lot of ‘em, coming over here takin’ our jobs.’

‘I seem to remember you going over there taking their cheap fags,’ I said. ‘Get the flask out again will you, and stop staring at that fat cow in the bikini.’ He gets worse, I swear he does. Must be another mid-life crisis only he’s a bit too long in the tooth for that. He pours the tea, it’s stone cold by now and I suggest we go and find a little cafe somewhere, but he’s not listening.         

 ‘Cor blimey, look at this:’ he says. ‘Building a gravity feedwater system in Nicaragua? I can see you doin’ that Shirl; all those young blokes an all.’

‘Well at least it’s warm there.’ I say. ‘Better than sitting on some bloody beach in the rain eating a cheese sandwich.’

‘You’ve never even been on an aeroplane.’

                        ‘How do you know?’ I said, ‘I’ve been to Benidorm. I did have a life before I met you, you know.’

‘All right, what about this one then?’ he sneers. ‘Wildlife Warden in south Africa. Get up close with the animals. Blimey, them lions would get a good meal out of you . Don’t be so daft, you’re much too old for this sort of caper. Why don’t you go somewhere where they’ve still got cannibals, save on the funeral expenses?’

I snatch the brochure away from him and get up from my deckchair.

‘I don’t care what you think, I’m going to have an adventure for the first time in my life. I’ll die of boredom if I carry on like this.’

I never did do what I wanted, one of those secondary modern girls, failed my eleven plus and chucked on the dust heap. They don’t do that these days do they, everyone gets a chance? I could have been a nurse, gone out to one of those third world countries, you know, just caring for other people. Of course I always thought it’d be all right when I had kids, but it never happened and so I ended up working for the council and watching the paint dry. I’m retired now, took redundancy when they were cutting staff. Jean says I should go and help out in that old people’s place, you know, library trolley or something, but I don’t fancy that, all that bingo and talcum powder. It’s bad enough looking after Tom, old before his time. Well maybe he’s always been old. I should have known better but you know how it is; you make your bed and you have to lie on it. Funny, Mum was right about Tom, never wanted me to marry him.

 ‘White socks!’ she said, ‘and he picks his teeth. Even you can do better than that Shirley.’ Well I wish I’d listened to her now. but you don’t do you, not when you’re a teenager?

 ‘Oi,’ he says. ‘Sit down, you’re not goin’ anywhere, not unless I says so.’

 It’s always been the same, just like it was for Mum. Dad ruled the roost. In suppose I just let it happen same as she did. Mind you, he’s always been the faithful sort, not like Jean’s husband, dirty old sod. Yes; there’s always people worse off than you, I suppose, but they don’t have to go to Morecambe every year, do they? I suppose being boring isn’t really a crime.

I sit down, trying not to cry. He hates it when I cry, says it’s a sign of weakness.

‘So where are you goin’ then, Scott of the bleedin’ Antarctic? A Saga Holiday?’

                        ‘A Saga holiday?,’ I say, blowing my nose, ‘All those waterproof sheets?’ No. I really mean it this time and I don’t care about what he thinks. I snatch the brochure off him and pick up my bag. There’s no point in even talking to him. He picks up his newspaper again, puts it over his face.

 ‘You’re not interested are you? Just want to poke fun. Well I’m going and that’s that and you can come to Morecambe on your own and sit here with your Daily Mirror and your Jammy Dodgers. I’m going to live a little before it’s too late.’

 

 Of course, he didn’t know I’ve been going to the gym twice a week, getting myself fit, I’ve even got a personal trainer. Jules, he’s called and he’s got a body like a Greek god and I wish I was twenty years younger.

 ‘Got a bit of work to do on that gluteus maximus,’ he said. ‘Spend a lot of time sitting down do you?’ Well I suppose I do, reading and that, trying to improve myself. He showed me the cross trainer, for my biceps and something called the Latissimus Dorsi. Sounds like one of them fancy coffees.

             He got me to hold up my arms, tutting a little.

‘Batwings are such a waste of skin,’ he says. ‘The rowing machine should sort that out,’ and he took me over, and sat me down and put my feet in the straps.

 ‘Where have you decided to go then?’  He asked

‘Well I thought I might go off to Ecuador, work with some street kids, and then maybe a cultural exchange in China.’ I said. 

 ‘Good on you,’ he said, with a big smile, showing those perfect white teeth. Course it’s a shame about the acne, but it’s only on his back, you wouldn’t notice it, not really.

‘Send me a postcard,’ he said.

Tom’s not very happy. He never thought I’d do it, but I said, he can’t stop me and I’ve been saving that redundancy money.

‘Six months?’ He says, ‘bloody Norah. What am I supposed to do whilst you’re away catching up with your lost youth?’

‘I don’t care what you do,’ I say. ‘Do what you always do, read the paper, watch the telly, go down the pub, carry on moaning about everything. You can manage without me for a while.’ No I’ve had enough, and he’s been flirting with that tarty barmaid down at the Oak; Kelly, she’s called. Leather miniskirt and a bum like a rhinoceros. Silly old fool. I asked him about it.

                        ‘Same as you,’ he said, ‘trying to have a bit of excitement before it’s too late.’ Mind you, I didn’t worry about it, well not until he started wanting to tie me to the bed. Anyway, I can’t imagine any woman having an affair with him; she’d die of boredom before he even got her knickers off.

‘Perhaps she’d like to come over here and cook your tea. Find out what it’s really like spending time with an old fart like you. And then when you’ve had your tea you can go down to the allotment, show her your prize marrow and then do a bit of tidying up whilst you’re at it.’ 

We’re sleeping in separate bedrooms now. I can’t stand him snoring and stinking of booze. Even the fantasies about Lycra and six packs aren’t working any more. He’s down the pub every night now, and he’s bought himself one of those shirts, you know one of those jungle prints. I said to him

’Where you off to then? Hawaii?’

‘What’s it to you?’ he says. I suppose he thinks he’s teaching me a lesson.

I never did get to go, had to cancel my flight and everything, stupid bugger goes

and does his back in the week before I’m due to fly. I’d had all my jabs and everything He. said he couldn’t get out of bed, moaned every time he moved and I had to help him to the bathroom, bring him up cups of tea. Well I couldn’t just go and leave him could I, especially when he said he’d got this funny pain in his chest? Of course, he wouldn’t go to the doctor, not Tom, prefers to grumble than get better. So that’s that then, I think; I knew he’d win in the end, and then I try to feel sympathetic but I can’t. I go out to do some shopping; cheer myself up and maybe have lunch with Jean if she’s free. She’s volunteering now, down at the Oxfam shop, so she gets first pick, She asked me if I liked her trousers; only £2.50 she says. Well, I didn’t like to say and she is my best friend after all.

The Co- op’s got a special offer on this week, two packs of mince for the price of one. Maybe I’ll make him a nice cottage pie, cheer him up a bit.

‘No use crying over spilt milk, Shirley,’ I tell myself. ‘There’s always a next time,’ and I did manage to pick up a lemon cheesecake half price.

Anyway, when I get home, I take him up a cup of tea as usual but he’s not there. I wait for a while, thinking perhaps he’s managing a little walk, and then I start to get worried. Supposing he’s in hospital, had an accident, can’t get up off the pavement what with his bad back, and then I think serves him bloody well right, he should have stayed in bed. I go down to the pub, just in case, wondering if anyone’s seen him.

There’s a new barmaid today.  I ask her what’s happened to Kelly.

‘Oh she’s gone,’ she says, ‘just left a couple of hours ago, says she wants an adventure before it’s too late.

I go home wondering should I call the police, and I go upstairs just to make sure he’s not come back, and then I notice something funny. In spite of his bad back, he’s managed to get the big suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe.