French Knickers and Other Decadences by Gill James, dry Martini

"There is something incredibly decadent," said Jay, "about sitting here in French knickers, reading magazines and worrying about skin care. At a time like this." She chuckled. "You don't need skincare. You're young. You have beautiful skin. But I'll treat you to some Oil of Ulay anyway. You've been so kind and you'll need it when you're my age. You can't start the habit too soon."

It was the heat wave of 1976. We were sitting in what amounted to the back garden of the cottage. It was really more beach than garden. The front faced the main street, the back the sea. Jay's friend Gloria lived in the back in the summer months and rented out the front to holiday-makers.

I was wearing a normal bikini. But Jay hadn't thought to pack anything like that. Greg's funeral had just been a week before. She was anxious to get back to her youngest, Georgie, who had not attended the funeral and had been parked here at the seaside. She was going to leave Ellen, her second youngest, there. The two of us would return on Monday. The twins, now seventeen, had been left at home.

I'd always been fond of my cousin Greg. He died much too young. He was the gentlest of people. This really was the least I could do for them. 

The sun was relaxing. It and the salt air made us feel good. There was something so fine about wriggling your toes in the warm sand. Ellen and Georgie bobbed in and out of the sea and tired themselves out. We all needed this. The last few weeks had been a struggle, watching Greg gradually fade away from us.

The sun started sinking towards the sea.

"That's what he always loved about this place," said Jay. "The way the sun sets over the water." She sighed. "We have been lazy, haven't we? Do you fancy a walk up to the headland before the light's completely gone? You get a great view from up there."

We packed our things away. Ellen and Georgie opted not to come with us.

"It's fine," said Gloria.  "I can amuse them for a bit and I'll get supper in about an hour."

It's quite a challenging walk, up to the headland, especially in the heat. It was worth it when we got to the top. The view was spectacular, especially of the sun that was now sitting on top of the sea.

"It was over there, you know." Jay was pointing to a large rock in the bay." That's where the two young lads got cut off by the tide and Greg rescued them."

I'd not heard that story before but it didn't surprise me. Why had this strong, brave, kind man become so ill?

We stood for a few moments without saying a word.

Jay sighed. "I'm going to pop round to the vicarage tomorrow and ask if we can have his ashes in the churchyard and put a plaque there. I've got a copy of a newspaper article about it."             

Walking back was much easier. Downhill, of course. The path was well lit. When we were back on the main street Jay glanced at her watch. "We've still got a good twenty minutes before supper's ready. Do you fancy an aperitif in The Black Lion?"

It was cosy in the little pub. Just the right number people there to stop if feeling lonely but quiet enough that we got served quickly and we could hear each other.

"Let the decadence continue," said Jay and held up her glass to clink with mine. We'd both chosen dry Martinis.

"Dad told me about this place," I said.

Jay nodded. "I think the whole family used to come here, didn't they?"

I was talking about the pub but she meant the village. I knew anyway that Gloria's place was the same one that they used to rent. How did they get all of them in there? My father was the youngest of nine siblings and the married ones used to bring their whole family with them. There was something about tents, I think, though I couldn't work out where they could pitch them here.  

Jay giggled. "Did you ever hear about Greg's Auntie Peggy?"

I nodded. "Three different dresses every day. And never repeating once in the whole fortnight."

"It's a great place for a holiday, though, isn't it?"           

It is indeed a grand place for a holiday. I've always measured seaside places against the first one I ever visited, just a few miles round the coast from here. We went there several times when I was very young. It had a couple of miles of glorious flat toffee-coloured sand that was ideal for making sandcastles. It had a sparkling pier and a nice little fun fair.

Jay had a point about this place, though. There was plenty of sand castle material here as well. A short bike ride away you found some much softer sand and fascinating dunes where you could lose yourself for hours.

There were some spectacular walks around here as well. And mushrooms. Dad would often go our foraging early in the morning when we stayed here. Then there would be lovely field mushrooms for breakfast. I've even heard that there are magic mushrooms in plentiful supply here - not that I've tried them.

Both Dad and Greg were artists and there were some lovely views for them to paint here.     

 

I've moved on a little since then in my choice of beaches and now have a favourite on the south coast of Spain. The weather is more reliable there. That hot summer of 1976 was a bit of a fluke. I've found a place where the sea and sand always relaxes and where people-watching inspires stories.  

Yet nothing quite compares with what happened later that evening.   

 

Gloria had prepared an excellent meal for us. The sea air had given us all appetites. Jay and I did the washing up.

We felt drowsy too. Georgie fell asleep at the table and had to be carried to bed.

But not Ellen "I'm not tired yet." She was looking grumpy but she was already in her pyjamas.

"Let's go and have a last look at the sea," said Jay.

"But I'm ready for bed."

Jay laughed. "You'll be no more decadent that your mother was earlier today, sitting like a tart on the beach in her French knickers. Come on. Let's go."

It was lovely outside. The waves bounced gently on to the beach. Their foam glistened in the moonlight. It was still warm but not hot.

"I wonder where Daddy is now," said Ellen as she dipped her toes into the water.

"He's not far away, I don't suppose," said Jay.

We all felt it then. He was there with us for sure. And he was laughing at the French knickers, the dry Martinis and the child outside in pyjamas.

"I think he's here, right now," said Ellen.

"Yes," I said.

"He is indeed," whispered Jay. "Well, my love, I hope you'll get to paint lovely pictures every day now."

I could feel his love of life. Of art, of music, and of the sea and the sand and of all of nature

 

I now have the same disease that carried him off but it seems not to be as successful at killing me. My doctors are pleased with me and I'm convinced I'm going to live to be 104. I have to use a moisturiser now, and I'm rather fond Oil of Olay, even though they changed the spelling.     

And now, at odd moments, on any beach anywhere, because that experience was so strong that time, I feel a connection to my lovely cousin Greg. 

About the author 

Gill James is published by The Red Telephone, Butterfly and Chapeltown. She edits CafeLit and writes for the online community news magazine: Talking About My Generation. She teaches Creative Writing and has an MA in Writing for Children and PhD in Creative and Critical Writing.

http://www.gilljameswriter.com 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B001KMQRKE 

https://www.facebook.com/gilljameswriter 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

The Letter by Peter Lingard, a very dry and dirty Martini

Angie continued her duet with the radio but her voice faded to those in the house as she walked up the driveway to the mail-box.  Her singing stopped mid-syllable as the flap on the box slapped shut and her youngest son lifted his head to see what had happened.  His mother stood motionless with envelopes and fliers in one hand and a solitary airmail envelope in the other.  As he sensed the change in atmosphere, the boy returned to the safety of homework.

 

After propping the envelope against the mirror of her vanity table, Angie sat on the bed and stared at it.  There had been a moment in the driveway when she thought she was going to faint, but she had now regained most of her composure, even if the flimsy airmail envelope still chased many thoughts around her head.  She looked at the date on the postmark again.  Was it the letter the friend, what was his name?  Billy?  The letter Billy had told her John promised to send all those years ago?  She had wondered at the time if the alleged friend had actually seen John, and, if so, why hadn’t he delivered it.  Was this really it?  It was certainly from John.  Her hands had gone cold, her stomach queasy, at her recognition of the scrawl.  Why had the post office delivered the thing after such a long time?  Couldn’t they have destroyed it and averted such turmoil?

 

She had never dated anyone but Brad, once she had accepted John had moved on without the guts to tell her goodbye.  She remembered wondering on her wedding eve if perhaps Billy had told the truth, that John really had been incarcerated in Singapore.  She recalled their last time together and felt a heat rise.  Her eyes welled with tears.  It had been a long time since such thoughts had surfaced.   

 

Two years after Billy had told her of John being in Changi (the name made her think of wartime Singapore and she wondered if Billy had made up the story – but why would he bother?) she had contacted the Australian government for help. They reported that John had been in Changi but had been released fourteen months earlier and his current whereabouts were unknown.

 

She and John had purchased the house in which she and Brad now lived.  It had been her dream house and she had begged Brad to agree to make it their marital home.  Brad had acquiesced and put money equivalent to John’s investment into an escrow account, waiting for the day he made contact.  Had John kissed his money goodbye rather than face her?  He obviously hadn’t known her well – she would have forgiven anything up to the moment she said ’I do’ to Brad.

 

The envelope seemed to have grown larger.

 

There had been a barbeque some time ago when she had seen a friend flirt with Brad.  He had seemed not to respond, but Angie recalled the torrid night when she had done her best to convince her husband not to stray.  What a trivial matter that had been compared to the thoughts in her head now.

 

The creased and dirty envelope almost glowed and she would swear on a bible she had seen it lengthen.

 

Could anyone at the post office have opened it?  She and Brad knew two people who worked for Australia Post and she felt mortified by the thought that either of them might have read the letter.  She leaned to her left and tried to see in the mirror if the flap was securely stuck in place.  Her angle of sight was poor, so she leaned to the right to get a better view.  It made no difference.  She got off the bed and stretched out her hand to pick up the correspondence.  When her extended fingers were just centimetres from the object, she quickly withdrew them and smothered them in an armpit.

Angie again sat on the bed and put her head in her hands.  As long as she looked at the floor, she could not see her crookedly written name.  John had never possessed an artistic hand.  The advent of computers would have gladdened him.  Funny thing was, he used to write to her to tell her how much he loved her and recall their bedroom adventures with what was sometimes, days after the event and when read over muesli and blueberries, uncomfortable clarity.  He never mailed the letters, he just handed them to her occasionally as he was going out the door.

Her eyes followed the fall of a tear to the carpet and then she looked away from the point where it landed.  Her gaze returned to see if she could find the wet spot, but it had been lost in the pattern.  She sat up and dabbed at her eyes to wipe away the salty liquid, and then dried the heels of her hands on the bedcover.  I would have told the kids off, if they’d done that, she thought.  How stupid!  If anyone knew what’s going through my head, they would tell me off. 

 

John had been the love of her life. 

 

Two years after the date John had gone missing ‘whereabouts unknown’, she accepted the offer of a date from Brad.

 

The front door slammed shut and broke her reverie. Her son apologised. ‘Sorry it was the wind.’

 

 Oh, sweet Jesus, what am I going to do? Get up and do something. Angie shook her body to chase her mood and stood up.  She smoothed down her dress, wiped her eyes once more and picked up the envelope.  Then her resolve disappeared as quickly as it had surfaced.  Oh, this is ridiculous; she chided herself, and threw the unopened letter into the wastebasket beneath her dressing table.  She started to repair her make-up but couldn’t concentrate, knowing John’s letter was so close.  Tears blurred her image in the mirror.  She grabbed the edges of the wastebasket liner, jerked them tight and then knotted two extremes. 

When her make-up was satisfactory, Angie took the liner to the kitchen and stuffed it in the rubbish bin.

About the author

Peter Lingard, plingaus@bigpond.com, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)