July
“It looks like being another beautiful day.”
Mary Metcalfe put two plates of eggs, bacon, mushrooms and tomatoes in front of the men sitting at the table in the dining room.
“This looks swell,” said the fair one.
“For years I’ve said Mum should go into the bed and breakfast business,” the dark one declared, shaking a bottle of brown sauce.
“Oh, be careful with that, Paul, your father...”
Too late. A splat heralded the arrival of a large, spreading brown stain on the white tablecloth.
“Sorry, Mum,” he sighed. “What were you going to say about Dad?”
“I was going to say your father has a habit of not screwing the tops back on the sauce bottles.”
“I’ll get a cloth.”
Paul was halfway out to the kitchen but Mary had already sopped up the worst with the cloth with which she had carried the hot plates to the table.
“It’s all right, dear. When you’ve finished breakfast, I’ll wash the cloth and polish the table. Come and sit down, your breakfast is getting cold.”
Paul obeyed. His fellow diner picked up a bottle of tomato ketchup.
“Paul?” he said, holding it out to him.
“No thanks, I’ll just have the brown. And Adam… mind the top.”
“I don’t know what time we’ll be back tonight, Mum,” said Paul, shouldering his small rucksack. “It depends on what time we leave Brighton. And that depends what time we get there. We’ll be at least an hour at Chrissie and Roland’s. I’ll ring and let you know when we’re on our way.”
“That’s fine, dear, your father will be in all evening and I’ll be back from my meeting at church by half past nine. Have a lovely day, both of you.”
Even on tiptoe she could not reach them and she had to pull their heads down so she could kiss them goodbye. It was something she had always done whenever her boys went out – and Adam Svenson was now classed as one of ‘her boys’.
Waving, they set off down the gravel drive. Charles was not an early riser now; he was older than Mary by several years and lately, he had been looking – and feeling – his age. Paul had been shocked, on his last visit home, to see just how much his father had aged. Charles was still active, still walked Humphrey the Labrador regularly and played golf, but there had been a noticeable slowing down of his hitherto rapid pace. In a way, Paul was glad about the slowing; his uncle Bernard had died of a heart attack when he was younger than Charles was now and Paul was hoping his father regarded this as a warning and tempered his behaviour accordingly.
Tudor Lodge was on the edge of Winchester but Paul knew a short cut into the city. This took them along lanes and across a field. After a hot, dry spell, the ground was dry. By the time they arrived at the railway station, they were dusty but at least they didn’t have wet feet.
Adam rather liked Britain’s railways. He had relatives in Plymouth and had visited them the year before. He thoroughly enjoyed travelling from London Paddington to Plymouth on the Great Western service and his interest in IK Brunel had been kindled. This led to him becoming interested not just in Brunel’s life and achievements but also those of other railway engineers. Paul was ashamed to admit that Adam’s knowledge of British railway history far outweighed his own. He had studied history at university but it had been geared towards military and political history; industrial history had not quite made it onto his agenda. He promised himself he would borrow Adam’s books and get stuck in – one day.
Their first destination was to be Chichester. Paul’s brother and sister-in-law were in France and he had promised to look in at their house en route to Brighton. At Winchester, he purchased two return tickets to Chichester and enquired about services from there to Brighton.
“There’s a train at five to every hour,” he informed Adam who was waiting for him at the platform barrier. “We should have time to get to the house and back in an hour – it’s a twenty-minute walk from the station and it shouldn’t take us more than a couple of minutes to pick up the post and do a walk-round check.”
They arrived at Chichester before ten.
Right, Svenson, best foot forward,” Paul declared as he led his friend out of the station and along South Street.
“Hey, I like this place.”
Adam looked about him as they walked towards the intersection of the four main streets, a typical Roman plan. The city had once been known as Noviomagus.
“One day we’ll have a good look round,” Paul promised him. “We can stay with Chrissie and Roland. I’m sure they’ll give us each a bed for the night in return for hosing the beans and picking up the windfall apples.”
“What’s that, Paul?”
Adam’s quiet, refined voice drew his friend’s attention to a stone structure standing solidly at the intersection.
“That’s the market cross,” said Paul. “Chichester people are very proud of it. They always boast that it’s 16th century. Only just, though – It was erected in 1599. And that’s the cathedral,” he added, noticing Adam gazing along West Street. “Would you rather stay here for the day?”
Adam thought for a moment.
“No, I guess it’s best we do Brighton today, while the weather’s fine. Here seems a good place for a wet day.”
Chrissie and Roland lived in a semi-detached house in Park Crescent.
“They’re house hunting at the moment,” said Paul, pushing open the front gate and marching along the path to the front door. “They’ve got their eye on a detached property on the north-west side of the city. It’s farther out than here but they’re all better properties.”
“What don’t they like about this one?”
“They like it,” said Paul, unlocking the front door. “They just want something newer and bigger. This is classed as three-bedroom but it’s really two beds and a store. Now Roly’s bagged the middle bedroom and turned it into an office, it only leaves one small room for guests … hello, what’s this?”
He bent down and picked up a parcel from the doorstep.
“That’s clever – the postman’s just dumped it there; obviously, he wasn’t going to carry it back to the depot.”
He stepped inside, examining the parcel.
“’Handle with Care’,” he read. “’This Way Up’ – oh, bloody Hell, I’ve just turned it upside down to see if there was a return address on the bottom. Oh, well, nothing’s leaking.”
“You don’t think it could be something live, do you?” Adam suggested.
“Well, if it is, I’d say I’ve just given it a big surprise,” Paul declared. “What does this say – ‘Perishable’ – oh, that’s nice, it’ll stink to high Heaven by the time they get home.”
He gathered up the rest of the mail, which had fallen onto the hall carpet, and left it in a neat pile on a small table. Then he examined the parcel again.
“I think I ought to ring Chrissie and ask if she’s expecting anything perishable. We might be a bit late getting back to the station – do you mind?”
“Not at all.”
Paul pulled his phone from the back pocket of his jeans and found Chrissie’s number.
“Chrissie – sorry to disturb your sunbathing but you’ve had a parcel and I don’t know what to do with it. Are you expecting anything perishable?”
“Not that I can remember,” came Chrissie’s voice. “What does it look like?”
“Oh… it’s about twenty centimetres square. Looks like something private rather than from a mail order company.”
“What’s the postmark?”
Paul squinted at the almost-illegible postmark over the stamp.
“Looks like Devon,” he said.
“It’ll be clotted cream. One of the girls at work said she’d send me some.”
“It was clotted cream,” he corrected her. “It’s been sitting on the doorstep in the sun for at least a couple of hours. It’s probably something resembling a brick now.”
“Put it in the fridge, Paul,” said Chrissie.
“Right, on your own head be it. It’ll probably be unfit for human consumption by the time you get home, but I’ll do as you say.”
“Is everything else all right?”
“We’re just going to check through the house.”
“Thanks for doing this for us, Paul. I know it’s your day out; we really do appreciate you making a detour for our benefit.”
“It’s no problem,” said Paul. “I’ll go now, Chrissie, we want to catch the next train to Brighton if we can. Enjoy the rest of your holiday, both of you. Right,” he announced, slipping the phone back into his pocket, “one room at a time, then we’re back to the station. When I’ve put this brick in the fridge…”
“I think we might make the five to eleven train,” said Paul, dragging Adam across a road, oblivious to the delivery van bearing down on them.
“In one piece or several?”
They raced down North Street, past the market cross and into South Street, arriving at the station with five minutes to spare.
“There’s a queue for tickets,” said Paul, coming to an abrupt and hazardous halt in the concourse. “We’ll get them on the train.”
Adam felt himself yanked almost off his feet, in the direction of the stairs. They clattered up the stone staircase just as the train pulled in.
“Platform two for Brighton calling at Barnham, Angmering, Goring-by-Sea, Durrington-on-Sea, West Worthing, Worthing, East Worthing, Lancing, Shoreham-by-Sea and Brighton.”
They half-fell onto the platform as the announcement echoed around the station rafters. They were seconds from the train when the doors swished shut. A whistle blew, the driver acknowledged it with a blast on the horn, the conductor stepped nimbly into one of the vestibules and the train began to slide gracefully out of the station.
“Bugger! They didn’t hang about, did they?” Paul ran his hand through his black hair which had blown in all directions during the chase over the bridge. “And after we risked life and limb getting here… come on, Adam, I’ll buy you a coffee.”
They recrossed the bridge to the buffet. Paul peered round the side of the entrance to the platform.
“Here,” he said, thrusting a note at Adam, “get us a couple of coffees – there’s no queue at the ticket office, I’ll get our tickets.”
Five minutes later, Paul appeared in the buffet waving two tickets.
“I got you a regular coffee with milk – that OK?” said Adam.
“Fine. Thanks. There’s a bit of a problem, Adam. It seems nothing’s going all the way to Brighton; there’s been an incident on the line and everyone’s being turfed off at Shoreham and shoved onto a bus.”
“An incident?”
“That’s railway parlance for something getting the way of the train,” said Paul, sitting down and easing the plastic lid from the coffee cup. “Some silly blighter pushing his luck on a level crossing and having to make a dash for it and abandon his car on the track; this line’s notorious for it. Or it could be a farmer’s cattle making an escape bid; Network Rail has to switch the power off for a whole section if that happens, till they’ve rounded them all up. Anyway, the trains are getting through to Worthing, so I’ve booked tickets for there. All right?”
“Okay with me,” said Adam.
“Well Worthing isn’t Brighton; it’s a bit Costa Geriatrica, but it’ll be a day out.”
Within in an hour, they were on their way to Worthing.
“There isn’t a lot there,” said Paul, “and the beach is no great shakes – it’s pebbly – but there is a very good lido on the sea front. It was completely refurbished about ten years ago and it’s got a cafe bar and games rooms as well as an Olympic-size pool. It’s not a bad venue for a hot day.”
Indeed, it was a hot day. When they arrived, they made straight for the Lido. This had been built in the 1950s and although the Town Council had made valiant attempts at repainting it and keeping it tidy, it was not until 2050 that they were successful in applying for National Lottery Fund money, and the entire area was closed for ten years while every brick, tile and railing was replaced. Worthing Lido was one of the tourist honeypots of the Sussex coast. If it was an attempt on the part of the Council to attract visitors away from Brighton and to Worthing, it was a successful attempt. It was crammed to capacity on weekends and it was not unusual for people to be turned away during school holidays. In early July, however, when the school term had not yet finished, it was busy but tolerable. Paul and Adam grabbed a table beneath an umbrella and took it in turns to change into their swimming shorts while the other guarded the table; these were the most popular spots and the sight of anyone about to vacate theirs would lead to a small mob gathering on the periphery, vying with each other to see who could stake their claim on it.
They had a beer and a sandwich from the cafe bar at lunchtime and once that had settled, they swam in the pool, revelling in the fact that the lack of schoolchildren and families meant it was possible to swim rather than to flap about trying to avoid collisions. Eventually, they emerged from the water and sat a little longer at their table, talking.
“What time is it?” Paul suddenly asked, looking up at the clock attached to the balcony which ran round the Lido and formed an extra floor with shops and a tea room. “Ten to five. I don’t know about you, Adam, but I’m ravenous.”
“Yeah, guess I am getting that way myself. What do we do about dinner? Are there any good bars in Worthing?”
“I haven’t a clue. They probably still call them Smoke Rooms here. You’re not allowed in unless you’ve got a pipe and a flat cap. There are plenty of tea rooms. They’re a touch genteel round these parts… Now that’s an idea – I know a really good tea room where they do a traditional English tea. They’re open until half past six and I’ve known them stretch it a bit if they still have customers in. Shall we get dressed and go?”
“Sounds good.”
The Spinet was in a quiet street near Steyne Gardens. It looked quite chintzy from the outside and was very chintzy on the inside, with old-fashioned furniture and lace curtains. They chose a seat in the window and looked at the menu. The traditional English tea consisted of sandwiches, home-made cakes and scones with jam and cream, accompanied by either coffee or a pot of tea, the blend of the customer’s choice.
“Foregone conclusion?” said Paul.
“You bet.”
Paul smiled charmingly at one of the waitresses. She was a thin woman in her forties who looked tired and had obviously been on her feet for a very long time, but she hurried over, smiling despite her fatigue.
“Yes, gentleman, what can I get you?” she asked brandishing her notepad.
“Could we have two traditional English teas please, one with Earl Grey, and what would you like, Adam, tea or coffee?”
“I’m sorry, Sir, we can’t do the traditional teas. We’ve run out of cakes and scones.”
“Well, could we have sandwiches and a pudding?”
“Yes, we can do that. I think we’ve got some apple pie and cheesecake left. What would you like in your sandwiches?”
“I’ll have salmon, please,” said Paul.
“Ham for me, please,” said Adam.
“With salad?”
“Yes, please.”
“Just cucumber for me,” said Paul.
She bustled off. A few minutes later she reappeared.
“I’m very sorry, but we haven’t got any salmon left.”
“Tuna?” said Paul in desperation.
“We don’t do tuna.”
“Let’s see what Plan B has to offer,” said Paul picking up the menu.
They decided to forget the teas. Paul opted for plaice and chips, Adam ham, eggs and chips.
“To Hell with the cholesterol,” Paul declared as the waitress scuttled off with their revised orders.
Paul stuck to his original choice of Earl Grey but Adam opted for coffee. There was only one piece of cheesecake left and one piece of apple pie, so Paul had the cheesecake and Adam the pie with ice cream.
“Just like being in Boston,” he grinned at Paul.
“So much for the traditional English tea. Never mind, we’ll have some real English beer when we get back to Winchester.”
They had to change trains in Chichester.
“Want to nip up to the Old Cross?” said Paul.
This was one of his favourite pubs, not least because it had Sussex Gold ale, brewed at Arundel less than twelve miles away. Adam wasn’t bothered - he was no connoisseur of beer – but he’d liked the look of the Old Cross as they scurried past in the morning.
“I’ll ring Mum and tell her we’ll be home late. I told her I’d let her know what time we’d be back. They’ll go to bed, I expect, I can’t see them waiting up for us.”
It was gone eight o’clock when they left the train at Chichester and walked towards North Street. The Old Cross was Chichester’s oldest pub and was a charming half-timbered building. The city was quiet, the only pedestrians apart from themselves were cleaners going home at the ends of their shifts and early revellers going out. The Cross was not too crowded, although several people were congregating at the bar. Paul elbowed his way through, Adam following.
“What are you having? They’ve got Stella and Fosters.”
“Fosters will be just fine.”
Paul attracted the attention of one of the bar staff.
“Pint of Fosters and one of Sussex Gold, please.”
“Gold’s off, Sir, we’re having trouble with the pumps.”
Paul couldn’t help it – he burst into exuberant laughter.
“Well, that just about puts the tin hat on it!” he declared. “We couldn’t get to Brighton, we couldn’t get a traditional English tea and now, the bloody Gold’s off! Oh,” He ran his eyes along the row of pumps, “... Give me a pint of Old Speckled Hen – at least it’s brewed in Bury St Edmunds, and Suffolk isn’t a million miles away. It is on, is it?”
The barman had now joined in the fun.
“It certainly is, and in excellent condition.”
“Thank God for that.”
It was getting on for midnight by the time Paul and Adam walked up the gravel drive of Tudor Lodge – as quietly as they could – to the front door. The house was dark and quiet. They went into the kitchen.
“Coffee?” said Paul seizing the kettle.
“No, I’m fine thanks,” said Adam.
“Same here; I’ll be spending the night in the loo if I do.”
He put it back on the worktop and noticed something slipped beneath the heating plate. It was a note from Mary.
Boys
You’ll have gathered Dad and I have gone to bed. Take anything you want from the pantry or fridge if you’re hungry. See you in the morning. Hope you had a nice day.
Love Mum.
Paul grinned as he passed it to Adam.
“Thanks, Mum,” he said. “Well, what do you think, Adam? Did we have a nice day, all things considered?”
Author’s note:
I should perhaps add here that I am not being paid to promote Sussex Gold or Old Speckled Hen. I haven’t even tried Sussex Gold. Paul Metcalfe would not approve.