Beside the Sea
It was the third day of blistering heat and Gordon McGloughlin was wondering if the whole of County Down had poured into the seaside town of Newcastle. Bobbing heads and grinning sun-kissed features as far as the eye could see. His own hollow cheeked reflection looking back at him from a hundred shop windows and oncoming Ray-Bans – the sad little man who had come to the seaside on his own.
To the left lay the huge expanse of sandy beach. Hundreds of sunbathers complete with all the paraphernalia he remembered from his boyhood –flip-flops, inflatable sharks, floppy hats. In the distance he could make out the fizz of the wave foam and the fluttering reds and blues of high flying kites. Dogs of all sizes frolicking in and out, pink tongues lolling, unbelieving of their luck. There would be music and laughter as well, the gay sound of girls shrieking. He could hear none of this and he was glad.
On the other side of the one-way street could be found the dinging and clatter of the amusement arcades, where you could be the saviour in a zombie apocalypse (two pounds for two minutes) or try out the dodgems at the back, now slowed to a virtual crawl after some wimp had sued over a broken shoulder.
All in the shadow of the Mourne Mountains, clothed in green forest and, almost unbelievably, boasting a white cap of snow at the very top.
Gordon wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry at all the gaiety, so he did neither and slurped at his cappuccino. It was at the perfect temperature now and tasted rather good. Not quite as delicious as the one he had enjoyed with Sophie last year in Aix en Provence. A dark, delicious roast so flavoursome and aromatic. Sophie’s slim elegant fingers around the cup, her manicure showcasing the solitaire twist he’d placed there moments before.
But what was the point in thinking about that?
He wondered where she was right now and if she was still with him.
Wherever they were he hoped it was raining.
A grandmother and granddaughter on the bench ahead, both devouring an ice-cream, the old woman deftly wiping the child’s hands and licking the drips from the cone – the little girl appalled at this blatant theft. Then a trio of young teenagers in tiny denim shorts and halter tops, two pasty midriffs flanking a bronze – proud and superior on her return from the continent. He managed not to stare at their braless joggle. It would be just like the thing for one of these anonymous faces around him to suddenly dissolve into a parent or student and witness Mr McGloughlin ogling an eyeful. Dirty old man. Teacher lech.
And then, the two teenage boys. Standing outside the Pizza Hut.
The tall one was puffing out his cheeks to simulate obesity, the other one doubled over in paroxysms of barely suppressed mirth. They were looking towards the beach and Gordon saw there a family who were large in every sense of the word, headed by a matronly figure who must have tipped the scales at twenty stones.
Scummy little bastards.
They weren’t from his school; but he recognised them for all that. These were the boys who clung to the radiators and whispered furtively as teachers walked by. The boys on hand to witness and report the pretty girl slipping on the patch of ice in the depth of winter. They were dressed almost identically in an all-white ensemble of ripped jeans and Jordan t-shirts. The taller of the two had a reversed baseball cap offset bizarrely by John Lennon style sunglasses; his shorter companion had forgotten the sunglasses, but as Gordon drew closer he (tragically) reversed his own baseball cap in imitation of his hero.
Tall and skinny was expounding in short little staccato bursts, his nonsensical dialogue peppered with profanity. The other was grinning in all the right places, eyes alight, desperate for some acknowledgement of his presence, a nod of approbation.
And in a sudden jolt of razor-sharp insight, Gordon knew that this second boy was doomed.
And he was right, of course.
In less than five minutes his jaw would be broken in several places, and he would never be able to fully close his mouth again. His eye socket would be fractured, his eardrum perforated, and news of the subsequent brain swelling would drain the colour from his grandmother’s face – the way she had looked when first told about the poor little Dunblane children. She would not have recognised this sneering baseball-capped teenager. She knew only the cheerful little chap who helped carry in her shopping on Sunday.
The revelation staggered Gordon and he slowed to a halt opposite them, every fibre of his being wanting to reach out and say this:
“Lads, I know you’re not really bad. But hanging here is not a good idea. Too much humanity. Too many things for you to react to.”
What would their reaction be?
That was easy.
Hooting, braying laughter.
They would think him a weirdo or a paedo – look to their ready-made audience and invite them to see him as such as well.
No. There was nothing left for it but to leave them to their fate. And so he walked on. On through the heavy throng of sun worshippers, amusement makers, sandcastle builders and ice-cream lickers – these good, decent people, capable of every evil imaginable, but today just happy to be beside the seaside beside the sea.
The little girl was charging full pelt down the pavement, pigtails flying, as if her very life depended upon it. Head down, fists pumping. Gregory grinned at the sight of her and the sweet memories she evoked.
Running with gay abandon. The sheer joy of having the wind in her face. Slowing to a halt, then running back to her family, turning, and charging back the way she came. People were having to veer to each side to give her space – but her energy in the hot sun was irresistible and there could be heard a smattering of applause from those with hands not otherwise engaged.
Something now about the squat figure as the gap between them closed. Pretty but in a distinct way. The nose slightly flattened. Upward slanting eyelids. Tongue protruding slightly.
An old woman in a wheelchair reached back and set her hand on her son’s, gesturing for him to stop and acknowledge the child. The old woman was paying her last visit to the beach and both she and her son knew it. The cancer was racing around her body now and by the end of the month even this torturous journey would be beyond them. But oh, was she glad they had made the effort today. The sun on her shoulders was glorious, they still had the tarts from the pastry shop to look forward to, and now – behold this beautiful little girl.
“Look, Rupert. How happy she is.”
His real name wasn’t Rupert. It was a private joke. As a boy he had cherished a pair of Rupert the Bear chequered trousers and they had always made her smile. Last February, after her diagnosis, he had bought himself a pair from Amazon just to see her smile again. He was looking now at where she pointed, but for a moment couldn’t see beyond the blister pack and the slow release morphine tablets he MUST NOT FORGET to pick up from the chemist. Then the little girl hared back along the pavement and he cracked wide a grin, looked down at his mother, and saw her again in all her vigour and vitality.
Here came her family. A harried woman struggling under the burden of a beach bag, an older sister – loving, supportive – but also (she was a teenager) glancing self-consciously here and there, eyes mostly on the gum scarred pavement. There was Dad. Head high, a bear of a man, commanding the centre of the walkway, eyes fixed on the bobbing, flying pigtails.
And in a blink, Gregory finds himself in the hospital delivery room, hovering slightly above them, silently observing the last climatic moments.
The young midwife slightly concerned now but hiding it well. The mother pink with exertion, streaming mucus. The big bear standing to the side and squeezing her hand, spouting soft gibberish.
A purple gush from below, a tangle of little arms and legs – then a great buzzing bell slicing through the air and the little bundle whisked away, no time for him to even cut the cord.
Thirty seconds of utter ghastliness. Time enough for Dad to look skyward and say to himself, with a coherence that banishes all other thought: God, here’s the deal. Take me instead of her! I’ll die now this very instant if you let her live!
Before God has a chance to consider his offer, their new daughter is borne back in, wrapped in white linen and belatedly announcing her arrival with a chin vibrating screech. The relief they feel is monumental. But it is only fleeting; for now Gordon sees her father noticing something not quite right about her. Not the colour, that will correct itself in a moment; it is the shape of her head …ever so slightly wrong.
About the author
Keith Mckibbin is an English teacher working in Glasgow. He is married with four daughters and two beautiful granddaughters. His favourite short story writers are O.Henry and Raymond Carver. He has been published in both the Bath and Edinburgh short story competitions. Paste author bio here
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