an essential part of her charm.
He had seen the pier from the window of the House of Enchantment that morning, made himself notice what a strange and ugly structure it was, made of colourless concrete with stiff, spindly, jointless legs which seemed to bow as they met the water. The pier's legs have no ankles and no knees , the words of her description coming back to haunt, as if they had been as important at the time as the quality of laughter in her voice.
There were four shelters on the pier, built into the concrete for the benefit of fishermen, and a series of utilitarian street lamps leading towards the low-slung building at the end, which housed a caff and lavatories, flanked by semicircular platforms at a lower level nearer the sea. The caff looked like some miniature manufacturing plant, squatting on its own industry, while the whole of the pier looked like a benign mistake, simply a road which was intended to go further across the sea, ending where it did, the half-hearted beginning to a pedestrian bridge, because someone, somewhere, has simply decided to stop. Henry walked towards it, determined to keep his eyes off the ground and not to think about the cold around his ears.
There was no need to seek information: it was all there, written on two blackboards carefully placed to waylay the unwary at the porticoed entrance. Selective information_ Henry guessed, since the blackboards allowed the pier's caretaker to deliver different facts every day, changing them with a swipe of cloth and new, laborious lettering, according to whim. This pier is exactly 882 feet, nine inches, long and was opened in 1957. It replaces another pier which got hit by a ship in World war Two. Entrance is free, unless you wish to fish, in which case, 20p. The wind force today is 1-2 and the sea temperature is nil centigrade.
Low. Henry huddled into his jacket, reminded himself of the errand to buy a hat, and then reminded himself not to keep on thinking of what he was going to do next, but think of what he was doing now. Walking the concrete deck of a crazy structure unadorned with anything except the black umbrellas of fishermen, wooden benches fixed to the side walls, other walkers. It was relatively quiet; no loud music, no obvious sounds of fun, but the sound of human chatter against the sea.
He loved the openness of it and he was hungry; memories of India made him so; memories of never being ravenous, but never feeling fed, causing his stomach to growl ferociously. He blamed the sea air. From a ventilation shaft next to the door of the structure at the end, there wafted the forbidden, mouthwatering smell of frying bacon.
Henry forgot the view. The warmth inside was fuggy and humid and he found himself passing a hand over his stomach beneath his jacket, comforting it with a circular stroke, then measuring the extra flesh. He had been very fat, he had been gross for five years, and in those seven years since, he had craved the unnatural thinness which had been his in the rucksack-carrying year.
Without that weight, he might have tried to find her sooner. He had carried his luggage of vitamins, minerals, trace elements, supplements over several continents, leaving this until last. They weighed more than his baggage of water, twenty years ago. He scanned the menu for the vegetarian meal.
There had been a sign affixed to the entry door, announcing opening and closing times. Sometimes early and sometimes late , it said.
'Can I have the vegetarian option?'
'No call for it, squire, not really.'
There was no contempt, only patience. The tea was the colour of rust. Henry closed his eyes, drank it with sugar and went back to the counter and asked for more. Then he ate bacon and egg with soft, white toast, agonizing over each mouthful His father would have liked this. There was never a day when he did not think about his father.
Henry watched the calm skyline and thought about his father. Dead these last three months and, along
He had seen the pier from the window of the House of Enchantment that morning, made himself notice what a strange and ugly structure it was, made of colourless concrete with stiff, spindly, jointless legs which seemed to bow as they met the water. The pier's legs have no ankles and no knees , the words of her description coming back to haunt, as if they had been as important at the time as the quality of laughter in her voice.
There were four shelters on the pier, built into the concrete for the benefit of fishermen, and a series of utilitarian street lamps leading towards the low-slung building at the end, which housed a caff and lavatories, flanked by semicircular platforms at a lower level nearer the sea. The caff looked like some miniature manufacturing plant, squatting on its own industry, while the whole of the pier looked like a benign mistake, simply a road which was intended to go further across the sea, ending where it did, the half-hearted beginning to a pedestrian bridge, because someone, somewhere, has simply decided to stop. Henry walked towards it, determined to keep his eyes off the ground and not to think about the cold around his ears.
There was no need to seek information: it was all there, written on two blackboards carefully placed to waylay the unwary at the porticoed entrance. Selective information_ Henry guessed, since the blackboards allowed the pier's caretaker to deliver different facts every day, changing them with a swipe of cloth and new, laborious lettering, according to whim. This pier is exactly 882 feet, nine inches, long and was opened in 1957. It replaces another pier which got hit by a ship in World war Two. Entrance is free, unless you wish to fish, in which case, 20p. The wind force today is 1-2 and the sea temperature is nil centigrade.
Low. Henry huddled into his jacket, reminded himself of the errand to buy a hat, and then reminded himself not to keep on thinking of what he was going to do next, but think of what he was doing now. Walking the concrete deck of a crazy structure unadorned with anything except the black umbrellas of fishermen, wooden benches fixed to the side walls, other walkers. It was relatively quiet; no loud music, no obvious sounds of fun, but the sound of human chatter against the sea.
He loved the openness of it and he was hungry; memories of India made him so; memories of never being ravenous, but never feeling fed, causing his stomach to growl ferociously. He blamed the sea air. From a ventilation shaft next to the door of the structure at the end, there wafted the forbidden, mouthwatering smell of frying bacon.
Henry forgot the view. The warmth inside was fuggy and humid and he found himself passing a hand over his stomach beneath his jacket, comforting it with a circular stroke, then measuring the extra flesh. He had been very fat, he had been gross for five years, and in those seven years since, he had craved the unnatural thinness which had been his in the rucksack-carrying year.
Without that weight, he might have tried to find her sooner. He had carried his luggage of vitamins, minerals, trace elements, supplements over several continents, leaving this until last. They weighed more than his baggage of water, twenty years ago. He scanned the menu for the vegetarian meal.
There had been a sign affixed to the entry door, announcing opening and closing times. Sometimes early and sometimes late , it said.
'Can I have the vegetarian option?'
'No call for it, squire, not really.'
There was no contempt, only patience. The tea was the colour of rust. Henry closed his eyes, drank it with sugar and went back to the counter and asked for more. Then he ate bacon and egg with soft, white toast, agonizing over each mouthful His father would have liked this. There was never a day when he did not think about his father.
Henry watched the calm skyline and thought about his father. Dead these last three months and, along
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