Memories

“Remember that summer at Hayling Island?” the man says.

“Yeah,” the red-headed woman replies. “In the caravan. All five of us. You couldn’t swing a cat!”

I wonder why anyone would want to swing a cat. They’re nice creatures and don’t deserve that kind of treatment.

Despite my distaste, I smile, because smiling seems to go down well with these people. The woman with blonde hair lays a hand on my shoulder and gives it a little squeeze.

“But it was the most we could afford, wasn’t it? And we did have a lovely time.”

I like this last person. Her face is open, kind, and somehow familiar. She’s the one that poured the tea, and we’re all sipping away now. Mine’s a little too weak, but I haven't said anything to the woman because I don’t want to hurt her feelings.

I’m glad she’s the one sitting with me on the sofa and not the man. It’s funny: they all look kind of similar, but their eyes are different: the man’s are hard, the red-head’s are distracted, but the blonde’s are bright, warm. She takes the conversation in a different direction.

“Then there was that time we stayed in the converted garage!”

They all laugh.

“We got a lift from Tony,” the man says, addressing me. “You know, the bloke you used to work with?”

I think nodding’s the appropriate response, so that’s what I do.

“He drove like a maniac,” he continues, pulling a face. “And on those old roads too, before they built the motorway,”

“Yeah – you needed a holiday just to recover from the drive down!”

The red-head seems to like to respond to comments with a quip. The others laugh again, and I join in this time.

“That moment we pull up outside the really nice bungalow,” the man giggles. “We all pile out of the car and the owner comes down the garden path to meet us. ‘That looks lovely’, Mum says. And the poor bloke, all embarrassed, says ‘Ah, no. Follow me.’ So we traipse round to the back and he points at the old concrete garage, with the sink and toilet outside.”

“There was a curtain in the middle of the room to separate the two bedrooms, remember?” the blonde one says. “Like in that Clark Gable film … what was the name?”

“It Happened One Night,” the red-haired one says. “With Claudette Colbert. Black and white. And it was a blanket.”

“That’s it!” the blonde one says, apparently relieved to have the gaps filled in.

These names mean nothing to me. I resolve to listen harder, so as not to get completely lost.

“Course, we didn’t have the Internet in those days,” the man says authoritatively. He likes the sound of his own voice, I can tell. I’ve heard of the Internet, but I’ve filed it under ‘too late in life to waste time getting my head around it’.

“‘Cos if we had,” he continues, “we could’ve searched and checked the photos of the place. All Mum and Dad were going on was letters between them and that bloke, the owner.”

“But you know what?” the blonde one says gently, putting a hand on my knee now. “That was a great holiday. We just made do.”

I can tell the man is annoyed, though I can’t work out why.

“Making do, getting by,” he says. “That was the story of our childhood.”

There’s a silence now. The women are suddenly interested in their laps. The man folds his arms, as if to underline what he’s just said and dare the others to come back at him. But the blonde one does come back.

“Different times,” she says, trying to pour oil on the tense atmosphere; I really do like her. “And sometimes we didn’t help.”

The man unfolds his arms and sits forward in his chair.

“What do you mean by that?!” he asks, and it’s clear he knows what she means.

“Anyone want a biscuit?” I say, pointing to the plate on the coffee table, doing my bit to help lift the heaviness. At least that’s the aim, but it’s no good.

“What do you mean by that?” the man repeats, ignoring me.

The red-haired woman’s eyes are twinkling; I think she wants there to be a row. The blonde woman shakes her head slightly; she most certainly doesn’t want one.

“Go on then!” the man insists. He’s very rude. If I were a few years younger…

The blonde woman gives in with a sigh.

“That time we almost didn’t go on holiday at all.”

The man scoffs loudly. The red-haired woman’s eyes almost pop out of her head with expectation.

“I knew that would come up!” the man says. “I was fifteen!”

The red-haired woman isn’t content with watching from the sidelines.

“Mum always said it wasn’t you that did it anyway,” she says.

The man nods energetically, gratefully accepting the support.

“Whether it was or wasn’t,” the blonde says diplomatically, “the money Mum and Dad had to pay old man Barker for his windscreen – what was it, twenty pounds? – was a fortune for them. And we almost didn’t go anywhere that summer.”

“But we did, though, didn’t we!?” the man says, an edge to his voice.

The blonde woman opens her mouth to respond but nothing comes out.

“Yeah, that holiday camp near Bognor. For the nth year running,” the red-head pipes up. I don’t know what an nth year is, but I can tell from her curled lip that she didn’t appreciate the holiday camp.

“Well, I’m going to have one,” I say, referring to the biscuits. They’re a subject close to my heart – at least closer than these bloody holidays they keep banging on about.

“Me too,” the blonde says, leaning over to grab the plate and offer me one. I take two – chocolate-chip, my favourite. She takes one, offers the plate to the others, they shake their heads, and she puts the plate back on the table. While I’m scoffing my biscuits, I notice that she’s just nibbling at hers; I don’t think she really wanted one at all.

“But we had a good life growing up, don’t you think?” she asks the other two, a note of desperation in her voice. “Generally.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her making a strange face, looking at the other two but tilting her head towards me.

The man’s eyes soften, and the red-head repeats “Yeah!” several times, a bit over-enthusiastically. It feels like a plot of some sort.

“Yep,” the blonde says. “It wasn’t as bad as all that.” And she squeezes my shoulder again.

I can feel myself frowning. All that talk of holidays, and childhoods … it’s confused me a little. And I’m feeling tired, too; I force a yawn, and they notice luckily. The man gets up.

“Well, we’d best be off, I suppose,” he says, and the two women get up, too. They gather their coats and things, say good bye and leave … not a moment too soon if you ask me.

A couple of minutes later, the blonde one comes back, leans over, and gives me a long, warm hug, which feels very nice. And then she’s gone again.

I wish I could figure out where I know her from.