The donkeys are collected in a little circle a few yards away, but it takes Beth some time to reach them. She labors through
the deep sand, the hem of her winter coat brushing the surface and her shoes filling with every step. The decision as to which
donkey to choose is difficult. Bronco has a somber expression and knobbly knees. He stands perfectly still, disinclined to
move even when the donkey man tugs his reins. Next to Bronco is Fred. Beth has been watching the donkeys for some days and
knows that he is the slowest and always the first to turn back. The next donkey is called Lucy. She has a wary look in her
eye and refuses to be stroked, shying away from eager children and jostling the other donkeys if they come too close. Beth
is disappointed, she had wanted a donkey with a sunhat, like the ones on the front of the postcards.
“You go on Beryl,” Red Hawk whispers. “She’s the best, but you have to give her a good kick to get her going.”
Beth is shocked. She wouldn’t dream of kicking a donkey. Beryl’s mane is several shades darker than her creamy white coat
and it stands as stiff as the bristles on a yard brush. Her name is in metal lettering across the front of a bridle that tinkles
with half a dozen bells every time Beryl moves. She is young and flighty, prone to clearing off at full speed given half a
chance. Beth hesitates, suddenly overwhelmed by the magnitude of what she is about to do. She can imagine the look on her
mother’s face if she ever found out. It is such a vivid sensation that she turns round, believing for a moment that her mother
is actually there, her mouth twisted with anger and her tongue sharp with reproach. The donkey man has already taken the money
for the rides and helped Red Hawk into the saddle. He steps forward and catches Beth under her arms to lift her on to the
nearest donkey. Beth twitches with pain from her scar and grits her teeth until the sensation passes.
When Beth is settled on Beryl’s back she leans forward and buries her nose in the donkey’s short fur. The smell is a sour
mixture of sweat, manure and sweet hay, and another smell Beth can’t quite identify. Beryl is warm to the touch but she’s
restless. Her legs twitch and her hooves shift in the sand. The saddle is smooth under Beth’s thighs but her legs aren’t long
enough to reach the stirrups. Beryl shakes her head when she senses Beth’s weight and a tremor runs all the way down her back.
When Beth takes the reins the donkey snatches her head into the wind and snorts. And then they’re moving. The donkey man takes
hold of Beryl’s bridle and the group sets off with all the other donkeys trailing behind. Beth hangs on to the metal handle
at the front of the saddle and laughs as Beryl sways from side to side, making her way through sand strewn with litter and
droppings. On the way back the man asks if she wants a gallop. Beth nods furiously, too excited to speak, and the donkey man
directs a sharp slap to Beryl’s rump. A cloud of dust and sand rises as he lets go of the bridle. Beryl completes the rest
of the ride at full pelt and is only caught and led back to the ring of waiting donkeys by the prompt action of the donkey
man’s assistant. Beth’s heart thumps and lurches in her chest, and she’s covered in sweat, but it’s the most exciting ride
she’s ever had.
The two children wander back across the sands. Central Pier rises like a monster, high above their heads. Beth can hear the
rattle of stilettos and thump of crêpe-soled Teddy boys on the planking above her. “Here Comes Summer” is playing at full
volume. The song is familiar. She’s seen Helen jive across the flagged scullery floor when it comes on the radio. To her right,
further into the shadows under the pier, sand-locked lovers wrestle in a muddle of legs and discarded clothes. Beth pulls
out her I-Spy book and stares at the picture of a rock pool on the front cover. There are dozens of points to be earned from
a decent rock pool. A whelk scores ten, a whelk with a hermit crab inside scores a dizzying thirty-five. But Beth must find
a rock pool if she is to stand a chance of earning points.
“I’ve seen loads of those,” Red Hawk says, pointing to an anemone.
“Where?”
“Over there.” The boy points to a pool of water that has collected round the base of the iron pier supports. “Come on, I’ll
show you.”
The rock pools are confined to the cool dark strip under the pier where salt water is marooned in crevices and hollows from
the morning tide. Beth looks up and is relieved to spy Helen’s pink-and-white skirt billowing out between the pier railings
above her head. Helen has her arms crossed behind her back and her hands grasp the sky-blue railings. Beth shouts and waves
but Helen is deep in conversation with Alan. Beth can see her sister’s blonde hair lift in the breeze when she tilts her head
back and laughs.
Beth imagines that all rock pools will be crammed with exciting finds like the one on the cover of her book. It is filled
with brightly colored fish and shells, scarlet anemones, aurelias, sea gooseberries, seaweed, limpets and periwinkles. She
only needs to see one rock pool today to spot at least nine different things and so earn more points than she can easily count.
It stands to reason—everything else, the birds, the boats, and the seaweed all look the same as in the book—why shouldn’t
the rock pool? But still she hesitates. The pier is out of bounds. She’s already come far too close. But Red Hawk is older
than her and knows the beach a lot better. And it would be exciting to see all the different types of fish. Perhaps, if she
could find a jam jar, she’d be able to catch one and show her sister. Then it would all be worth it, worth getting into trouble
for.
Red Hawk has climbed halfway up the pier’s dark geometry of rusted stanchions and he’s tired of waiting. He climbs back down
and runs over to where Beth is standing. “Come on,” he says, and when she fails to move, he takes her hand and drags her with
him into the darkness.
It’s sunny and bright on the beach but dark and dank under the pier with the fierce smell of rotting seaweed and the taste
of salt. The iron supports bedded in rough concrete are covered with barnacles sharp enough to rip the delicate skin of a
child’s foot or hand. Water drips from the planking of the pier overhead and there is the constant rumble of holidaymakers’
feet passing back and forth. The rusting iron flakes off in her hand as she threads her way through the bars and supports.
The sand is damp and the rocks are covered with seaweed.
Beth is glad of Red Hawk’s hand to steady her. “Watch out here,” he warns, “it’s slippery.” When they come to the place where
the iron bars cross the supports he says, “Mind your head.”
His voice echoes around the maze of rusted iron. The salty darkness under the pier is the retreat of courting couples. The
girls’ summer dresses are whipped up by the breeze and the men in joke hats, with shirtsleeves rolled up, reveal a straining
of muscles under sunburnt skin. Beth picks her way unnoticed past the couples wrapped in each other’s arms. She pauses, waiting
until her eyes become accustomed to the gloom. The first rock pool they come to is a disappointment. It’s empty except for
a few pebbles and a piece of seaweed. Red Hawk shrugs and leads her on, confident that the next rock pool will contain enough
wonders to fill in the whole two pages.
If you can spot lots of children sitting cross-legged on the sands in front of a tall striped box it means that there’s a
Punch and Judy show. Children love to see Mr. Punch losing his temper and hitting Judy with his stick until she cries. What
a laugh! Score 10 points for some typical family fun.
W
hat’s the panic?” Ruth asks the minute they’re out of earshot of their husbands. Cora tips her head towards an arrow pointing
to “Ladies’ Powder Room” above a curvy silhouette of a woman with powder puff poised. There are two swing doors to negotiate
before they enter the powder room proper. It’s an ode to femininity with its cream porcelain, flower arrangements, cotton-wool
balls and low-lit mirrors. Cora slumps on a heavily upholstered button-back turquoise velvet chair and puts her head in her
hands.
Ruth feels a rush of annoyance. “Don’t you start that, Cora Lloyd. You’ve no reason. You’d have a good enough reason to put
your head in your hands if you were me. Jack has been offered a really good job and he’s dithering about taking it! He’d be
earning more than enough to cover the cost of a mortgage on that semi I’ve been looking at. You’d think he’d have the wit
to consider what would be best for his family instead of suiting himself. But no. He has to have everything his own way. Now
I have to continue struggling to bring up the girls crammed in a miserable terraced house just because he doesn’t want a better
job. I’m that frustrated with him I could scream. If it wasn’t for the girls I’d leave him. See how far his principles would
get him then. You’re lucky with your Ronald. You wouldn’t catch him getting up on his high horse over some silly principle,
would you?”
Cora slips the sunglasses from her face.
“Anyway, I’ve told him straight. An end terrace may be good enough for him but it’s not for me or the girls. I—” Ruth is cut
short by the expression on Cora’s face as she raises her head. There’s silence while Ruth takes in the sight. Even in this
subtle lighting Cora’s face is a battlefield. Ruth takes her friend’s chin carefully in her hand and tilts Cora’s head to
the light. “What happened? Who did this?”
“It’s my fault. I got into an argument with Ronnie a couple of days ago.”
“So that’s why you rang and asked me to come over. You were frightened he was going to start knocking you around. Dear God.
What did you say to him to deserve this?”
“I can’t remember now.”
“How can you not remember?”
“I mean it could have been anything. It doesn’t take a lot.”
Ruth is incredulous. She struggles to take it all in.
Cora grabs Ruth’s hand and says, “You won’t tell anyone, will you? I couldn’t stand it if people were pointing to me and saying
‘her husband knocks her around.’”
“It’s too late, Cora. They’re already saying it. Irene Sykes said as much to Helen the other day.”
Cora puts her head in her hands again and rocks forward in her chair. “Oh, God. And I suppose it’s common knowledge that he
spends time down Liverpool Road as well.”
“Does he? But why would he bother with some prostitute from Liverpool Road when he has got you? I can’t credit it. How dare
he use his fists on you? You should call the police. For two pins I’d give him a taste of his own medicine. I can’t believe
it. I always thought—you always said—you were happy. I believed you. I mean, you’ve got everything: a wealthy husband, a big
house. For goodness’ sake, Cora, you even have a housekeeper. And you’ve no children. What is there left to argue about?”
“He’s out every night with one thing and another. If it’s been a bank do he comes home the worse for wear and anything I say
aggravates him. It’s nothing new, Ruth. He’s been doing this since we were married. I haven’t told anyone. When people say
how lucky I am it’s easier to agree. I mean, everyone looks up to him and thinks he’s a real gentleman. I must be in the wrong
for aggravating him in the first place. He wouldn’t shake me about if I didn’t deserve it.”
“This is more than a shaking about. He’s been using his fists on you.”
“Well, it started with him grabbing hold and shaking me, but then he’d give me the odd kick and I’d lose my balance. He only
started using his fists this last week.”
“Why?”
“He thought I was being too friendly with the waiter. You know, smiling too much. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I won’t do it
again.”
“So he gave you a black eye?”
“Oh, that was yesterday. He’d had a bad day on the golf course. He was annoyed. I’d been stuck in the hotel room and hadn’t
seen anyone all day and I started chattering at him when he wanted to relax and be quiet. And he always says sorry afterwards.”
Ruth takes hold of Cora’s hand. “Call the police.”
“Don’t make me laugh. They’re as bad as he is. Ronnie has got friendly with a few policemen since he joined the Freemasons.
I’d a split lip last time he invited them over for dinner and not one of them said a word. I can’t see them charging him with
assault, can you?”
“Then leave him.”
“And go where?”
“Anywhere. You could go back and live with your dad.”
“I can’t. Do you think he’d have me back? He’d say, ‘You’ve made your bed, madam, now lie on it.’ I told him Ronald was knocking
me about the last time I saw him and he said, ‘Well, learn to keep your mouth shut then.’ There’s nothing for it, Ruth. I’ve
just got to hang on until things get better. It’d be different if I could just get pregnant. He wouldn’t lay a finger on me
if I was pregnant. I can’t leave. I have to stay put. That’s the way it is.”
“But it’s not fair,” Ruth says.
“Oh, Ruth, don’t be so naive. Nothing’s fair.”
Ruth is offended. After all, she’s seven years older than Cora and she’s given birth to two daughters. If anyone could be
accused of being naive surely it’s Cora. “But why can’t you leave? Even if your dad won’t have you, you’ve enough to live
by yourself. You could go anywhere you wanted. After all, you’re hardly short of money, are you?” Ruth struggles to keep the
envy out of her voice.
“I don’t have any money,” Cora says and, seeing the look of total disbelief on Ruth’s face, she adds, “I don’t! I haven’t
a penny. Do you think I’d have let you pay for tea and scones on Wednesday if I’d had any money? Why do you think I had the
Tupperware party? Everything is in his name. I was better off when I worked six looms at Fosters.”
“Well, then, what was the point in marrying him if it wasn’t for the money?”
“Is that all you think of me, Ruth? You think I married for money? That I’m nothing better than a prostitute with a marriage
certificate? I married Ronnie for the same reason you married Jack. I was in love with him. I thought he’d look after me.”
“Well, you were wrong there, weren’t you.”