Seaside II Chapter 3

 

“Kingsgate Castle, situated on the scenic coast of Kent, is a captivating historical landmark. This unique structure, originally built in the 1760s as a residence for Lord Holland, now stands as a stunning private residence. 

 

Its striking neo-gothic architecture, perched dramatically on the cliffs overlooking Kingsgate Bay, adds an air of enchantment to the landscape. Though not open to the public, the castle's presence remains a focal point of the coastal scenery, attracting admirers who appreciate its romantic charm and picturesque setting.”

 

Once we left the pub terrace, my phone sparked into life and sent me a torrent of information through the sky. I looked up at the castle, reassured of its solidity and presence in the same realm as myself. It also informed me that it was another three miles or so to the centre of Broadstairs. We abandoned the walk and called a taxi. The idea of walking along the coast in the sun was a lovely one but the reality was that we were tired, dehydrated and wanted to be some place. We sat in the back of the car as it wended its way along the coast. There were glimpses of the sea and long stretches of suburban utopia shrouded in the shade of mature trees. The driver dropped us near the high street and we stood in front of a small branch of Tesco unsure of even which way the sea might be. I wanted a scotch egg and the thought of processed meat sweating in a cellophane wrapper felt overwhelming. Bonnie stood next to me, waiting for me to decide which way to head. I picked a direction and we started walking. We passed a bookshop that whilst looking as if it had recently been ransacked, promised a trove of interesting finds. I pretended not to notice it and crossed the road. I sensed that Bonnie had noticed it and was hanging back a bit. 

    “They’re probably closing by now, Bon,” I said as I turned half back to her. She caught up with me and was about to say something when I noticed a glimpse of the sea down a narrow walkway off what passed for the main road we were on.

    “Look, there’s the sea down there,” I pointed and started to head towards the line of blue. We walked down the side of the two buildings and emerged onto a path that overlooked the beach.

 

“Viking Bay in Broadstairs is a coastal gem nestled on the southeastern shores of England. Named after the Viking invaders who once frequented its shores, this sheltered sandy cove exudes timeless charm. With its gently curving coastline framed by chalky cliffs, it offers a picturesque setting for sun-seekers and families alike.”

 

We stood holding the railings and looked down over the bay. The sand lay in a golden spiral, swirling around to a miniature stone arm that seemed to cradle the whole scene. The beach here was busier than any we had seen before that day, even though it was late in the afternoon by then. I had a sense that it all felt familiar, that maybe I had been here after all. It was also possible that spending hours on the internet looking at pictures of this view had implanted this memory.

“This all seems so familiar, “ I said. Bonnie had put her hand on my arm that was holding the railing.

“I thought you said you’d never been here before?”

“I didn’t think I had.”

“Maybe you’re having a Madeleine moment?”

“A what?”

“It’s a thing that Proust goes on about, involuntary memory invoked by a seemingly trivial experience.”

“Oh right. I thought you meant Madeleine McCann.”

“Have you read any Proust?”

“No, never. Have you?”

“No, too heavy for me. But I am an English teacher so you kinda pick these things up along the way.”

 

“Proust's "madeleine moment" in "In Search of Lost Time" exemplifies how a single taste can trigger profound involuntary memories. It underscores the intricate relationship between sensory perception, recollection, and the fluidity of time, captivating readers with its exploration of memory's enduring influence on human experience.”

 

I read quickly about the Proust thing on my phone but felt none the wiser.    

    “I dunno, maybe it is an involuntary memory or maybe I am just old and confused.”

    “Chris, you’re 51, stop being dramatic.”

    “I’m 52. Now you’re misremembering my life too.”

    “Are you? Oh, well I mean, you’re not old.”

    “Not as old as you.”

    “Yeah, thanks, fuck off. Let’s go for a drink, down there at that olde worlde pub.” She pointed across me down towards the stone arm that was holding the beach.

    “Yeah, sure. Bet the beer is shit though.”

 

The beer was not shit.  The wine was decent too according to Bonnie. We had a bowl of mussels with crusty bread. We were feeling like we were on holiday for the first time. There is always a period when a holiday is embarked on, before it becomes fun. There is a period where the strains of travel weigh too heavily, the unfamiliarity of surroundings are more disconcerting rather than exciting, when the brain refuses to accept this ripple in your existence. We had only driven two hours to a place in the same country as we lived in, so the change in state was a relatively rapid experience. Once my parents had a bit more money, we stopped going to the likes of Margate, Clacton and Worthing. We glided effortlessly into the world of continental travel. Air travel was still too expensive for us, so we drove for what seemed like weeks across Europe, mainly to central France. I imagine the drive was just one overnight stay but it took a toll on all of us. Even the drive to Margate had been draining and by increasing the distance several fold, we all arrived exhausted and feeling like we wanted to go home again. Dad suffered the most as he had to do all the driving. Once we were there, he would unpack the car and go to bed for a couple of days. He would immediately succumb to a migraine and it would take him the best part of a week to right himself and return to the reality of being on holiday. I always thought that he must dread holidays and what a sad existence that must have been.  

    “What are you thinking about?” Bonnie brought me back to the present, to the remnants of the mussels, to the Japanese couple at the bar trying to figure out what the fuck English beer was all about, to the earnest looking labrador that was staring at our bread from underneath the next table.

    “Holidays. Like, how they are meant to be so relaxing but seem to also stress people out.”

    “Are you stressed out now?”

    “No, I’m fine. We’re past that bit. It’s not like we’ve come far.”

    “Good. I feel quite relaxed.”

    “Well, you’re a few weeks into the summer holidays, you’ve been practising for a while now.” 

    “I’ve still had do all that fucking marking!”

    “Fucking marking!”

    “Fuck the marking!” We clinked glasses in a toast to fucking the marking and I went ot the bar and ordered another round. 

 

When I returned, the labrador had managed to stretch its lead so that it was almost under our table. I noticed that some of the leftover bread crusts had gone and I could see from the gleeful look on Bonnie’s face that she was the conduit for the dog to receive our daily bread. I smiled and put the drinks on the table. I leaned down and ruffled the dog’s head. He showed limited interest before he realised that I didn’t have a fistful of food.

    “More drinks?” Bonnie lifted up her glass of wine and looked at it as if it was the first time she had ever seen such a thing.

    “Where did you think I had gone?”
    “I dunno, to the toilet? You didn’t ask me if I wanted another drink.” I watched the dog start to slide back to his table and I wished I could do the same.

    “Bet you did though, right?”

    “That’s not the point Chris, you should ask.”

    “Don’t make this into a thing Bon, we’re having a good time aren’t we?”

    “Hmm…” She put her glass down and I picked mine up and took a good swig of beer. In the hubbub of the pub, we were a wellspring of silence. 

 

We were back at the guest house by 10pm. The silence in the pub had been broken by the return of the bread loving labrador. Bonnie unfolded her arms and the world felt good again. She went to the bar and we had another drink. We talked, half drunkenly by then, about getting a dog, the responsibility, the vet bills, the joint custody once we had parted ways. The last part was meant to be a joke but Bonnie wasn’t laughing.

    “It was just a joke, Bon. I have two friends who have joint custody of their dog. Rebecca said ‘it works quite well if your ex isn’t a twat and actually even if he is’ “ Bonnie had smiled at that and I felt like I had reversed out of a very tight corner with only a slight scratch to the bodywork.

    In the bedroom en suite, we took turns brushing our teeth. I still had a craving  for a scotch egg and had even checked on my phone if anywhere local was open. I imagined creeping down the stairs, across the main road and into the petrol station to procure such ugly meat. I thought about the ripping open of the wrapper and the first bite through the scratchy sausage, the festering egg puffing gentle gas into my mouth. I thought of the shame and heartburn that would ensue. I put the thought and then myself to bed. Bonnie was reading something on her phone as I slid in next to her. She glowered at me over her reading glasses as she rose up in the bed under my weight. 

    “What are you reading?” I asked.

    “Hmm? Oh, just nonsense really. I did look at places to go in Margate for tomorrow but I’ve already forgotten most of it.”

    “Well, I want to go to Dreamland…”

    “And every pub along the way.”

    “Inevitably, refreshment will be taken.”

    “Well, maybe for you, I’m driving tomorrow evening, you got me on that one again.”

    “I didn’t ‘get you’. I just planned ahead,”

    “Hmmm.”

I wiggled my head further down into the pillow and closed my eyes.

    “Are you going to sleep now?” Bonnie asked.

    “Yeah, I’m done in.”

    “Chris?”

    “Mmmm.”

    “Do you still  love me?”

    “Yes Bon, I do.”

    “Ok.”

    “Is this because of the doggy joint custody thing I said earlier?”

    “No. Yes. I dunno. Sometimes I just think that you don’t really like me.”

    “Bon, not this, not now. Let’s just sleep.”

    “Yeah, sorry, it’s just the wine talking.”

    “Ok, I’m going to dream of Dreamland”.

I put out a hand and touched her thigh and I felt her hand come down to meet mine. I squeezed her fingers gently and pulled a bit more duvet up around my neck.