It’s all right. No need to look like a crushed raspberry. I think it’s rather sweet. So when are you going to take me out? Tonight?’
‘Not tonight. I promised to meet someone.’ The moment Tim said it he regretted it, but he would not retract because that was to show weakness, and he had shown enough of that already.
‘Oh. Okay,’ said Tamsyn. She seemed disappointed, but at least she showed no curiosity about whom he was to meet.
‘But tomorrow. It’s a Sunday. No show. We could go for a curry . . . or something.’
‘Okay.’
Leaving the promenade, they descended some concrete steps on to the shingle shore. Tamsyn let Freddie off the leash and he bounded away up the beach while she watched him intently, making little chirruping noises of encouragement and slapping her strong, boyish thighs. Tim knew that Tamsyn had ceased to be conscious of his presence, and that he had involuntarily become a voyeur, prying into a secret personal moment between her and Freddie. He found the experience curiously exciting, arousing even; while at the same time he was being made aware that there would always be a part of her that would be closed to him, a locked door in her soul with the word DOG written on it.
That night in the dressing room, as they made up for the show, Tim was reluctant to submit to Owen’s interrogation about him and Sheilah.
‘Did she say anything about me?’ he asked.
‘I’m meeting Sheilah tonight,’ said Tim, taking some pleasure in frustrating his egoism.
‘Where?’
‘At Sunnybeach. The Holiday Camp on the West Shore.’
Owen seemed shocked for some reason. ‘Sunnybeach! My God, what d’you want to go there for?’
‘I don’t know. Ask Sheilah.’
‘You don’t want to go up there. Not to Sunnybeach.’
‘Why not? Are you jealous or something?’
They had been talking at each other through the brightly lit dressing room mirror. Every nuance of expression was evident. Tim saw Owen grimace involuntarily, then a slow subtle smile curled his lips as he carefully began to apply a tiny line of blue shadow to his upper eyelid.
* * * * *
The town of Pontybwlch lies on a headland. On the East Shore is a bay where the main part of the town is situated; the so-called West Shore overlooks the estuary of the River Dovey. It consists mainly of a number of select, wealthy dwellings, some Old People’s Homes, and the Sunnybeach Holiday Camp. Tim had not visited the West Shore (weekly repertory offers little opportunity for idle exploration), but he knew the way. It was fine and starry as he emerged from the theatre after the last night of Deathtrap , and at that moment nothing seemed more exciting than a twenty-minute walk through the dark to a mysterious assignation. Its ultimate purpose was something Tim tried to keep out of his thoughts. He was experienced enough in life to know how anticipation can desecrate the event.
The Sunnybeach Holiday Camp was easy enough to find. Tim did ask one passer-by and received for his pains detailed instructions and a rather odd look, of the kind that used to be called ‘old-fashioned’. This did not worry him greatly: the Welsh, he had noticed, particularly the senior ones, went in for funny looks.
The Sunnybeach Holiday Camp proved to be a large, fenced compound, well-situated on a bluff at the mouth of the Dovey. The fence enclosed a number of white, rather elegant Art Deco buildings with curved balconies and large, metal-framed windows. Evidently it was a step or two up from Butlins, but Tim was mildly surprised that the place was not better lit. There were lights in many of the windows but they were all yellow, faded somehow.
At the entrance was a dimly lit lodge in which sat a figure whose features Tim could not make out in the dark. He — Tim assumed it was a he — appeared to be reading a newspaper, but he did not seem to have enough light for such an activity. Tim walked up to the gatehouse, but the figure took no notice of him.
‘Not tonight. I promised to meet someone.’ The moment Tim said it he regretted it, but he would not retract because that was to show weakness, and he had shown enough of that already.
‘Oh. Okay,’ said Tamsyn. She seemed disappointed, but at least she showed no curiosity about whom he was to meet.
‘But tomorrow. It’s a Sunday. No show. We could go for a curry . . . or something.’
‘Okay.’
Leaving the promenade, they descended some concrete steps on to the shingle shore. Tamsyn let Freddie off the leash and he bounded away up the beach while she watched him intently, making little chirruping noises of encouragement and slapping her strong, boyish thighs. Tim knew that Tamsyn had ceased to be conscious of his presence, and that he had involuntarily become a voyeur, prying into a secret personal moment between her and Freddie. He found the experience curiously exciting, arousing even; while at the same time he was being made aware that there would always be a part of her that would be closed to him, a locked door in her soul with the word DOG written on it.
That night in the dressing room, as they made up for the show, Tim was reluctant to submit to Owen’s interrogation about him and Sheilah.
‘Did she say anything about me?’ he asked.
‘I’m meeting Sheilah tonight,’ said Tim, taking some pleasure in frustrating his egoism.
‘Where?’
‘At Sunnybeach. The Holiday Camp on the West Shore.’
Owen seemed shocked for some reason. ‘Sunnybeach! My God, what d’you want to go there for?’
‘I don’t know. Ask Sheilah.’
‘You don’t want to go up there. Not to Sunnybeach.’
‘Why not? Are you jealous or something?’
They had been talking at each other through the brightly lit dressing room mirror. Every nuance of expression was evident. Tim saw Owen grimace involuntarily, then a slow subtle smile curled his lips as he carefully began to apply a tiny line of blue shadow to his upper eyelid.
* * * * *
The town of Pontybwlch lies on a headland. On the East Shore is a bay where the main part of the town is situated; the so-called West Shore overlooks the estuary of the River Dovey. It consists mainly of a number of select, wealthy dwellings, some Old People’s Homes, and the Sunnybeach Holiday Camp. Tim had not visited the West Shore (weekly repertory offers little opportunity for idle exploration), but he knew the way. It was fine and starry as he emerged from the theatre after the last night of Deathtrap , and at that moment nothing seemed more exciting than a twenty-minute walk through the dark to a mysterious assignation. Its ultimate purpose was something Tim tried to keep out of his thoughts. He was experienced enough in life to know how anticipation can desecrate the event.
The Sunnybeach Holiday Camp was easy enough to find. Tim did ask one passer-by and received for his pains detailed instructions and a rather odd look, of the kind that used to be called ‘old-fashioned’. This did not worry him greatly: the Welsh, he had noticed, particularly the senior ones, went in for funny looks.
The Sunnybeach Holiday Camp proved to be a large, fenced compound, well-situated on a bluff at the mouth of the Dovey. The fence enclosed a number of white, rather elegant Art Deco buildings with curved balconies and large, metal-framed windows. Evidently it was a step or two up from Butlins, but Tim was mildly surprised that the place was not better lit. There were lights in many of the windows but they were all yellow, faded somehow.
At the entrance was a dimly lit lodge in which sat a figure whose features Tim could not make out in the dark. He — Tim assumed it was a he — appeared to be reading a newspaper, but he did not seem to have enough light for such an activity. Tim walked up to the gatehouse, but the figure took no notice of him.
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