Broadstairs sounds fun. There's a sentence I never thought I'd write. Bit like praising Jaywick for its beach or Great Yarmouth for its bracing sea air.
My mum once saw a ghost in Lowestoft. There's another one. It was 1976, that hot summer. I was two and in a pushchair with a strange flowery sun hat on and orange dungarees. I know this because my mum and dad converted all their cine-films a few years ago, so we have DVD memories. There's my aunt's wedding in 1975 (Grandad on the cine-film, no sound, everything a bit jerky and grainy like the Zapruder one of Kennedy getting his head blown off 12 years earlier, only here no-one died, just looked daft with their shapeless shoulder length hair and sideburns like landing strips and tight suits) and there's my parents' holiday in Lowestoft 1976, my dad looking like a KGB agent in his reactalite glasses and his open-necked shirt, my mum demure in paisley print blouse and Suzi Quattro jeans, her camel toe as pronounced as her sunburn.
Anyway, she saw a ghost. An old lady in white, dressed like they did in the 1920's apparently. No smugglers. No ancient fishermen with their salt-furrowed skin and sou'westers. It was a boring story even when she first told me it when I was ten, at Hallowe'en. My dad has better stories. The telly series Des was on this week; my dad worked for the forensic science lab in the Met in 1983. I got the real stuff. Sod the recreations with (admittedly good) David Tennant. The real stuff, though he spoke about it being mundane at the time, was far grislier.
Tel rang on Thursday at about six. I'd been home an hour, was just pouring the second glass from the bottle of plonk. "Orlright then?" he asked, the line clear for a change. "Jus' nippin' out in a mo, eatin' at The Tart Frigger or summink, wife booked it". It sounded delightful, like a bordello in a Western. "I'm 'avin' the crab salad for starters an' then the sirloin wiv new spuds and veg an' mustard sauce". He paused to do something at his end, leaving me to swallow the drool that collected and remember my spartan dinner of gammon steak and oven chips. I didn't even have any tinned pineapple rings.
"S'been a nice break" said Tel when he reappeared on the line. "Nice weavver, been fer a few walks'n'that, been on the beach fer a picnic and a paddle, 'ad a few beers in the pubs; ah've got into the local ales, they do one called Boat Builder and thass a proper session beer. We've even 'ad a boat ride on the sea. Missus loved all that. She finks iss better than Spain for entertainment value. Plus yer can understand what the bleedin' 'ell they say. Mind you...." here he became confidential and lowered his voice slightly to show it, "...iss bleedin' pricey. We 'ad a meal out at some fish rest'rant, lobster, dover sole each, she 'ad a trio of puddin's, few brandies and a lager fer me and a couple'o'cokes fer 'er an' it set me back 'undred an' firty notes. Yer'd get that in Spain for about fifty quid cheaper. Still, the food was good and you weren't eatin' finking you might get the old thrupenny bits later. Thass the payoff".
He called off to go to his meal. "'Ave you 'ad a chance to nip in the bungalow at all?" he asked before he went. No, I said. "Oh right" he said and then I heard a mumbled conversation, presumably with Mrs Tel. Then she came on the phone. "Sorry luv, can you nip rand there tomorrow for us? I need ter pay the milkman, money's on the telephone table in the 'all, should be a tenner in change. It's about nine quid but leave 'im the tenner, 'e's trustable an' 'e'll give me back the loose. Jus' leave it under the box for the milk. Fanks darlin', see yer Mondy". The line went dead.
I let myself in, self-consciously, on Friday morning before work. No neighbours appeared in windows, the nets rustling, like they would at mine. They'd call the police if someone let themselves in to mine, especially if it was someone who looked a bit shady. That's the main reason I've never given Tel a key to my place.
The bungalow smelled of clean emptiness. I remembered to switch off their burglar alarm in the hall. I swore I was just going to put the money under the box, but then a frisson of thrill at being in someone else's place caught me, and I found myself having a quick tour, a bit like those people who like looking round National Trust properties just to see the po under the bed or the wardrobe full of thirties clothing. I salved my conscience by saying that it was the right thing to do, just have a quick look to make sure everything was OK.
The master bedroom was very neat and tidy. No dust, I noticed. The bed had (presumably) been remade before they went. The wardrobe doors were open and I saw the emptiness of the hangers on one side, presumably hers, with a load of clothes that I suspect she never wore hanging on the other side. His side was empty, save for several pairs of trainers and a pair of smart office shoes I'd never seen him wear before. Probably just for weddings, funerals and court appearances, that sort of thing.
The fridge was empty save for a bottle of water and two bottles of Diet Coke in the door. Glass bottles. The kitchen floor needed a hoover, so I found the hoover and did that for them. Then I replaced the hoover and went into the lounge. Fine. The dining room was fine as well. Nothing out of place. I watered a pot plant in the hall with the water from the fridge. The water seeped out the bottom of the pot so, cursing it, I found some kitchen roll and mopped up. It was only when I went back to check it that I noticed it wasn't real.
I went to put the wet kitchen roll in the swing bin in their kitchen, but then had second thoughts. If they found it, they'd wonder why it was in there, and then they'd probably notice the fake pot plant in the hall felt a bit damp. I could imagine the hilarity from Tel ("Yer stoopid wally, din't yer see iss made'o' paper?") and the tale would be retold to everyone, so I took it with me. In the bin, I saw a ripped up greetings card so took it out to have a look. It had a picture of a kitten in a wooly hat on it. Inside was the message "Tuesday 22 10.45 High Woods" in Mrs Tel's rounded hand. I replaced it as I found it, exactly. Then I went.
Yesterday was a good day. Bright, warm, perfect walk weather. I was meeting friends at seven for drinks and a bite to eat, so decided to have a stroll along the front at Walton. I ended up at The Naze, eating a Twister lolly on a bench and puffing a bit. I've become slightly unfit lately. Since Covid lockdown sort of ended, really.
I got back at four to watch the footy results and take a shower and change for the night out. We were still 0-0. Typical, I thought. Just like last season. I went for a shower and timed it just right; as I came out they were saying "and it's two nil to Ipswich at Bristol Rovers, Jon Nolan's 89th minute goal putting the Tractor Boys top as it stands". I stood and watched in my towel, the droplets scattering on my lounge carpet, the imprint of my wet feet looking like Hillary's photos of the Yeti in the snow. We held on. I was slightly cheered. Not overly, 'cos we've been here before. Exactly a year ago, almost. Look how that turned out.
My friends don't follow footy much. Not these friends anyway. One's a sort of Chelsea fan, in the same way I sort of follow modern music. Not often and not with any discernible pleasure. "Ipswich won" I said to them, by way of explaining my cheerier countenance. Oh, they said. Then they gossiped about absent friends and ordered drinks, and it was forgotten.
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