Well, that was that, I thought. With my aunt’s death there would no longer be a reason to come here. I had time for a stroll around, a trip down memory lane, before catching the train home
I hadn’t noticed them, or there hadn’t been any, going to the cemetery but on the way into the town centre, I saw the flags, flying from lampposts or hanging from windows. I saw quite a few were actually upside down. Dropping my gaze back to the road I saw that a man had moved into my path, forcing me to stop.
“Where are you from then?” he said.
I thought about ignoring the question and pushing past but somehow that didn’t seem to be the best course of action.
I told him where I’d travelled from that morning, adding “For my aunt’s funeral.”
“No, I mean where are you really from?” the man said.
Really? I thought.
“Actually, I was born and grew up here” I said and then “Why are you interested?
He just stared for a moment before saying “Well you don’t sound like it” and, after a pause, “or look like it.”
I thought a shrug was the best response.
I put a little firmness into my voice “I was having a walk around before I catch my train, so I need to make a move.” I said.
He didn’t say anything, so I stepped to the side and walked past him. For a moment, I thought he was going to take it further but I’ve always looked like I could take care of myself and I’d learned that a confident air and a firm tone often did the trick. I was shocked and a bit shaken. I suppose because it was my home town. Somewhere I’d grown up, happy and safe.
After walking around for a couple of hours I had seen that a lot had changed but the house that I grew up in was still there. I was sure that the crazy paving in the front garden had been laid by my father donkey’s years ago. My school was still there, although the buildings were no longer home to the senior school that I had attended. It didn’t seem to have changed apart from that. A lot of the shops I remembered no longer existed. Most, it seemed, were either fast food outlets or charity shops. The pubs where friends and I would put the world to rights over a few beers were still there. But as I walked, I thought I caught glances and outright stares everywhere. Real or imagined they seemed to say ‘you don’t belong here’.
I’d stayed longer than perhaps I should have and it was beginning to get dark by the time I got to the station. But trains were frequent and I’d be on my way home soon.
To get to the right platform I needed to cross the footbridge. From the bridge there would be a view of the Esplanade fronting the beach, the estuary beyond and the amusement arcades and shops common to any seaside town. I remembered walking there as a child with my parents, eating an ice cream.
But instead of people, families, strolling up and down, eating ice creams in the early evening, the whole length of the Esplanade was lined with people, unmoving. Many were holding a flag aloft or a light. The tide was out and the lights cast deep shadows across the mud.
With the tide out the mud covered a fair distance before the deeper water mid-estuary. I could see small boats, dozens of them, mostly inflatables, each one packed with people. I could clearly see faces staring at the shore. The boats were scarcely moving. I assumed that they were just going to let them drift in with the tide. What their occupants imagined would happen I don't know, but surely they could see that the crowd was not going to welcome them with open arms. Then there came the roar of engines from speedboats further out in the estuary and fire in the air as bottle after bottle, Molotov cocktails, were thrown at or into the packed boats. Over the yells of the crowd on shore and the roar of the speedboats came the screaming. People, some with their clothes on fire, jumped into the water and began splashing towards the shore.
Those making it to shallow water and believing themselves to be safe stood up and started to walk towards the shore, others simply changed clumsy swimming for crawling. Their smiles of relief turning once again to horror as they began to flounder in the mud, their legs becoming stuck and with the tide now rushing in and threatening to overwhelm them.
Those that made it out of the mud and up to the Esplanade faced further horror. As they tried to climb off the beach, baseball bats, lengths of timber, golf clubs, cricket bats and even tennis rackets were lifted and viciously brought down, again and again and again. After a time there was silence. I saw a few people looking around, as if checking for more targets.
Suddenly I was afraid. I hadn’t been taken for a local earlier and the crowd weren’t in the mood to give any benefit of doubt if I were seen now. I ran across the bridge, ducking to keep below the parapet.
Hiding in a dark corner of the platform for the ten minutes it took for my train to arrive, the scene at the Esplanade played over and over in my mind. Some of the people were probably ones I had lived alongside, gone to school with perhaps. I thought that my home town had changed when I wandered through its streets. Now I didn’t recognise it at all. I thought about the town I now lived in; had lived in happily for many years. I wondered long it would take before the flags went up there.
About the author
P. A. Westgate, Paul, lets his imagination run wild through short-story writing. In addition to writing, Paul enjoys an eclectic mix of activities including reading, singing, the Arts and cocktails. He lives quietly in his native Essex where he tries, with varying degrees of success, to keep his house and garden tidy.
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