The last time I saw the sea was from a Cornish beach at 9 am on the morning of Sunday, 15th August. I didn’t know I was never going to see it again; I would have spent the whole day there had I known.
It was a perfect day. The sea was calm and shimmered in the morning sunshine. Overhead the seagulls circled, so high that they looked like white butterflies dancing in the sky. The beach was deserted, apart from a couple of dog walkers. It was too early for the families and the holidaymakers, too early for the candy floss stall, the hot dog man and the beach-side café.
I walked to my car, without looking back to say farewell to the sea. The road from the beach was steep and narrow, winding past the fishermen’s cottages, the tourist shops and the B&Bs, the pubs and the cafes. None of them was open and there were no people about, all normal for a Sunday morning.
It wasn’t until I started up the hill that I saw the long line of cars ahead of me. Where had they come from? There hadn’t been any cars when I’d parked half an hour earlier. It was almost as if they’d driven down to the sea, turned around and started back up. Why would anyone do that? Had they been waiting for me, parking on the road until they saw me leave the carpark?
What ridiculous thoughts come into your head when you’re alone in the car!
I could see five cars ahead of me before the road bent to the right. At the front of the queue was an old Humber, gleaming in the sunlight, metal and paintwork highly polished. It was driven by an old man wearing a flat cap, accompanied by an old lady who also wore a hat. They reminded me of my grandparents who loved a day by the seaside, who always dressed in their Sunday best and never took their coats off, even on the hottest of days. They used to sit in their deckchairs, watching the sea and sharing a thermos of tea.
Behind them was a Mini, a proper Mini from the 60s with a Union Jack painted on the roof. I remembered the sliding windows and the string to open the doors; surprising to see one that old still on the road. There were several young people crammed into it, one a young woman with long dark hair wearing a floppy hat. My best friend when I was a teenager had a Mini. She went everywhere in it – London, day trips to Brighton and Margate, once even on the ferry to France. I was still at school, taking A-levels, and she was working. She had money and freedom – I had essays and exams, but sometimes I was able to get away for a day and we’d go off on an adventure.
The cars inched forward and I got a better look at the third one. It was a blue Vauxhall Estate. My father’d had one of those. It was his second car after the pink Renault 5, which he could always find in a multi-storey carpark, unlike the Vauxhall. I remember him wandering from level to level, muttering, “I know it’s here somewhere.” He was a terrible driver; he didn’t learn to drive until he was in his mid-40s. There were more of us than there were seats so one of my brothers had to travel in the luggage compartment. Probably illegal to do that now, I thought, but my brothers had loved it, arguing over who got to go in the “doggy bin”. I couldn’t see the driver of this car clearly, only that he was a man with a woman beside him and children in the back.
The next car was an old blue Escort, driven by a man. My husband’s first car had been just like it. We’d borrowed the money to pay for it. At the time it was a huge debt and we’d struggled to pay it back. But it had been wonderful not to take buses or trains, to drive wherever we wanted to go, whenever we wanted.
The fifth car was a bright red Metro, driven by a woman. My first car was an MG Metro and I’d loved it. For no good reason I’d named it Rover and pretended it came when I called it. That sounds very silly now, but I was young. My second car was a Nissan Micra, also bright red – I always have bright red cars. I kept it for over 22 years because it was so reliable. I pretended it was called Liam – Liam Nissan, but that was just a silly joke.
The cars crawled forward again. This was a procession of my past, leading me up the hill from the sea. I shivered. I raised my eyes to look in the rear view mirror and saw another car had joined the queue, the final car, a hearse as dark as the night. A woman wearing a black suit and a top hat walked in front of it, leading it up the road.
Cold mist swirled up from the sea and I closed my windows. I knew I should be afraid, but I wasn’t. I had reached the top of the hill. The seaside village disappeared in the mist and the cars ahead had vanished. I drove along the cliff road for a few yards, then parked. The hearse stopped behind me.
Yesterday – where had I been yesterday? Not in Cornwall. I hadn’t been there for 40 years, not since our honeymoon. I didn’t drive anymore and yet here I was in my little red Kia – the car I’d sold six years ago. There was something I couldn’t remember, something important. I wanted to drive away, but the car wouldn’t start. I opened the door and the funeral director walked over to me. She pointed to the hearse. And I knew.
It was a perfect day. The sea was calm and shimmered in the morning sunshine. Overhead the seagulls circled, so high that they looked like white butterflies dancing in the sky. The beach was deserted, apart from a couple of dog walkers. It was too early for the families and the holidaymakers, too early for the candy floss stall, the hot dog man and the beach-side café.
I walked to my car, without looking back to say farewell to the sea. The road from the beach was steep and narrow, winding past the fishermen’s cottages, the tourist shops and the B&Bs, the pubs and the cafes. None of them was open and there were no people about, all normal for a Sunday morning.
It wasn’t until I started up the hill that I saw the long line of cars ahead of me. Where had they come from? There hadn’t been any cars when I’d parked half an hour earlier. It was almost as if they’d driven down to the sea, turned around and started back up. Why would anyone do that? Had they been waiting for me, parking on the road until they saw me leave the carpark?
What ridiculous thoughts come into your head when you’re alone in the car!
I could see five cars ahead of me before the road bent to the right. At the front of the queue was an old Humber, gleaming in the sunlight, metal and paintwork highly polished. It was driven by an old man wearing a flat cap, accompanied by an old lady who also wore a hat. They reminded me of my grandparents who loved a day by the seaside, who always dressed in their Sunday best and never took their coats off, even on the hottest of days. They used to sit in their deckchairs, watching the sea and sharing a thermos of tea.
Behind them was a Mini, a proper Mini from the 60s with a Union Jack painted on the roof. I remembered the sliding windows and the string to open the doors; surprising to see one that old still on the road. There were several young people crammed into it, one a young woman with long dark hair wearing a floppy hat. My best friend when I was a teenager had a Mini. She went everywhere in it – London, day trips to Brighton and Margate, once even on the ferry to France. I was still at school, taking A-levels, and she was working. She had money and freedom – I had essays and exams, but sometimes I was able to get away for a day and we’d go off on an adventure.
The cars inched forward and I got a better look at the third one. It was a blue Vauxhall Estate. My father’d had one of those. It was his second car after the pink Renault 5, which he could always find in a multi-storey carpark, unlike the Vauxhall. I remember him wandering from level to level, muttering, “I know it’s here somewhere.” He was a terrible driver; he didn’t learn to drive until he was in his mid-40s. There were more of us than there were seats so one of my brothers had to travel in the luggage compartment. Probably illegal to do that now, I thought, but my brothers had loved it, arguing over who got to go in the “doggy bin”. I couldn’t see the driver of this car clearly, only that he was a man with a woman beside him and children in the back.
The next car was an old blue Escort, driven by a man. My husband’s first car had been just like it. We’d borrowed the money to pay for it. At the time it was a huge debt and we’d struggled to pay it back. But it had been wonderful not to take buses or trains, to drive wherever we wanted to go, whenever we wanted.
The fifth car was a bright red Metro, driven by a woman. My first car was an MG Metro and I’d loved it. For no good reason I’d named it Rover and pretended it came when I called it. That sounds very silly now, but I was young. My second car was a Nissan Micra, also bright red – I always have bright red cars. I kept it for over 22 years because it was so reliable. I pretended it was called Liam – Liam Nissan, but that was just a silly joke.
The cars crawled forward again. This was a procession of my past, leading me up the hill from the sea. I shivered. I raised my eyes to look in the rear view mirror and saw another car had joined the queue, the final car, a hearse as dark as the night. A woman wearing a black suit and a top hat walked in front of it, leading it up the road.
Cold mist swirled up from the sea and I closed my windows. I knew I should be afraid, but I wasn’t. I had reached the top of the hill. The seaside village disappeared in the mist and the cars ahead had vanished. I drove along the cliff road for a few yards, then parked. The hearse stopped behind me.
Yesterday – where had I been yesterday? Not in Cornwall. I hadn’t been there for 40 years, not since our honeymoon. I didn’t drive anymore and yet here I was in my little red Kia – the car I’d sold six years ago. There was something I couldn’t remember, something important. I wanted to drive away, but the car wouldn’t start. I opened the door and the funeral director walked over to me. She pointed to the hearse. And I knew.