Kennack Sands, 1956

I’m old now so it’s odd to discover how this salt-sticky evening still knows me, remembers my young body from that blue and gold morning when I paddled in the sand-stirring shallows, the undertow sucking at my pink jelly shoes, pulling me down like a dream or a spell. The Old Man of the Sea played this little–piggy with my toes and foam-feather-tickled my ankles; then he grabbed at my leg with his sand-gritty fingers, weed-whipped my belly and chubby, pink thighs. But I was a mermaid with pearls in my hair so I waded out deeper and deeper. Saw the starfish glinting in the blue sea-sky and the sea-trees waving in the wind. Dream-deep in the ocean, I never minded for a minute that you had left your blanket and come running, running to save me. Lifting up your skirts, you came splashing through the shallows, squealing, squawking and spoiling. I had fixed my eyes on the faraway silver, stubbornly pretending not to hear. It did no good. You cut through air like a black-back after fish-bits, you swooped, gulped me down in one pelican swallow. À bientôt, Old Man of the Sea.

If anyone asks

The bonnet of the Daimler is green like the leaves on Nana’s apple tree, shiny like the sweat on his pink, greasy face and under his sparse, sandy hair. The posh Daimler pitches and rolls like the ferry between Gravesend and Tilbury. The sloppiness of it is making her feel queasy but she swallows the sick to keep it down. The sun on the windscreen is just pretending to be warm. It’s February, not even proper spring. The car smells of his aftershave, leather and wood. He tells her the dashboard is walnut. She eats walnuts at Christmas time. The bits get stuck in her teeth. His aftershave is not spicy, not like her dad’s, but stickily sweet like the tiny lace-edged hankies Nana keeps in her drawer for Sunday best. Nana used to go to church on Sundays. She doesn’t any more. His fingers on the wheel are pudgy and soft. Thick as a Walls pork sausage. For driving, he wears special gloves with leather insets. He has wet patches underneath his arms. When we get there, stay in the car. If anyone asks, you are my niece. It is Sunday afternoon. They are driving in the country. Here is a car park with a green lawn and  some trees. Don’t forget  what I said.  She watches him leave, squirms on the leather upholstery. He wears fawn trousers, a brown tweed jacket,  tan-coloured, leather, lace-up shoes. When he comes back, he is walking fast. It’s windy so his green tie is flapping. He is carrying two glasses, one in each hand. I’ve bought you a vodka and lime. 

Billy Pilgrim has come unstuck in time

Listen! Like a creature snuffling and snoring, his breath
comes from deep inside the burrow
of his duvet he cannot be bothered to wash. Eyes fast shut
he has come unstuck, floating through the dark
like a blue balloon trailing his string. Going nowhere.

Mornings, sleepy Billy dawdle-dozes, blotting out the vast grey silence.
Now the clock has stopped, he’s uncertain which day has just dawned.
He stumbles out of bed past noon, breakfasts on cold pizza in crimson pyjamas.
A dozen beer bottles chink in the sink, more than he opened, he is sure.
Hey there, Billy. Isn’t this fun? Billy is always having a party.

Afternoons, Billy scratches his arse, binge watches a series on Netflix.
He checks in on Facebook, Twitter, Insta, and picks fights if he can.
Sometimes he thinks fondly of the ordinary job he thought he hated.
Imagines himself on a Saturday night, suited and booted on the town.
Say a prayer for poor Billy, alone with no one to turn to.

Evenings and nights are the worst.
Little Billy hears voices: You’re a waste
of space, they croon in his shell-like. A loser. Not right in the head.
Billy opens another bottle of beer.
He wishes he still had some uppers.