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TSUNAMI
(Peter Rosier)
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It was a lovely day out.
I always used to say to my wife, “Maud, you just can’t beat the English countryside.” Of course she, being a woman, would take the opposite view and ask why, just once, we couldn’t go abroad for a change. But, as I pointed out with that superior logic for which the male of the species is justifiably famous, who wants to struggle with airports and passports and gyppy tummies when you can do just the same things here – and cheaper too.
So, just yesterday, although it seems longer ago now, on a bright summer Sunday, we set off for my favourite South Coast seaside town. I said to Maud as we loaded my faithful Morris Minor, “Maud, what a beautiful day.” But I’m not sure she could hear me; at least she didn’t reply, but that might have been because she had the handle of the portable kettle clenched between her teeth, her hands being busy with the deckchairs (no sense in paying an exorbitant fee to rent them there); windbreak; cooler box with sandwiches, cold drinks and milk; and a plastic box with tea bags and sugar. Yes, we know how to travel in style.
I’d have given her a hand but I had my pipe to light and a newspaper to hold at the same time. Can’t do everything, you know.
It was a wonderful drive down there. Of course, other motorists are so rude, honking and making signs (fortunately Maud didn’t understand most of them), as they sped by. But I say 35 miles per hour was good enough for my father when he drove and 35 miles per hour is good enough for me. I blame the Government. Telling people they can travel at 70 on these roads. It just makes them impatient.
The outskirts of our little seaside destination are ever so pretty. There’s green grass (or is it weeds?) on the roundabout where the dual carriageway meets the bypass. There’s plants and all sorts on the open spaces on the council estate; you know, between the railway line and the disused canal, where the main road into town runs. It’s so much nicer since the council pulled down the houses to create that open space. Of course, I suppose they had to after the houses were burnt out in the riots last year.
Then, there’s the disused fish gutting plant near to the docks. It’s becoming quite an attractive ruin with its broken windows and missing roof. It’ll soon look like Battle Abbey or one of those famous heritage sites. Maud just says it looks like a battle has already taken place there and who ever saw a heritage site with barbed wire around it? I didn’t bother to answer that, women can be so lacking in imagination. Besides, I needed to keep my mouth shut at that point because of the overwhelming smell of old and rotten fish that still hangs around there.
When we got to the sea front, we were able to park only five streets away from the prom. Well, it’s free in a residential street but you have to pay to park right on the esplanade. It’s really not a long way to walk as I told Maud, as well as “oh, and do try to keep up”. Just because she was carrying a few things like the chairs and windbreak and food and primus stove. But she likes having something in her hands. Women do, have you noticed? They can’t go anywhere without a handbag, at least.
I had my newspaper.
After about twenty minutes we reached the beach. It would have been quicker but Maud dropped the primus stove and I had to send her back for it. She had an awful job scrabbling about for it under the car where it had rolled.
Once we got to the beach, it was refreshingly uncrowded. I suppose the north east wind which had sprung up from nowhere might have had something to do with that or perhaps the clouds looming up. But, as I surveyed the length of shingle, unbroken as far as the eye could see, I thought how relaxing it was if you just turned your back to the wind.
“Come on, Maud,” I cried in my usual hearty fashion. But she had a job to keep up, bless her, sinking into the shingle with every step. I suppose it might have been the weight she was carrying but I didn’t want to deprive her of the pleasure of finishing what she had started, carrying our supplies from the car.
Once I found a suitable spot, we got settled in. I admit it was a bit hard to drive the pegs into the shingle to keep the windbreak up and Maud got quite exhausted hitting them with the mallet. But I like shingle: can’t stand sand. Sand gets in your food and under your dentures. Now shingle never ever blows into your food; take my word on that.
After a while of sitting there, me with my paper and Maud with her… her….., whatever she was doing. I didn’t take much notice, really. I’m an observant sort of chap normally, nothing much gets by me, but wives, well….. After all, I see Maud every day so it’s not reasonable to suppose I’m going to notice every last thing about her like if she’s changed her hair colour (I said to her, I said “what’s wrong with a blue rinse like your mother used to have?”), or bought a new outfit. Still, women are funny like that, get upset, don’t know why. Wouldn’t catch a chap getting upset if his best friend didn’t notice he’d bought a new tie. Wouldn’t be natural.
Anyway, it was time for a spot of lunch and a refreshing cup of tea. Can’t beat it. After I’d put Maud out by throwing seawater on her dress when the primus backfired (fortunately it wasn’t damaged), we had quite a nice lunch.
Just about then a very strange thing happened. There was a loud rumble and the ground seemed to shake. I nearly dropped my pipe. The sky darkened and even the seagulls seemed to go quiet.
Suddenly, on the horizon, I saw a wall of water, there is no other way to describe it, coming towards us, very fast. I said to Maud “That’s odd, what do you think it is?”
But Maud had gone. She was running for the esplanade full tilt over the shingle. I shouted “Maud, what about the deck chairs, take them with you,” but she wouldn’t stop to listen.
By this time the water was getting closer and I could see it was as high as a house or more and stretched along the coast from one side to the other as far as the eye could see. I decided to make a run for it, too, but couldn’t decide if to take just the primus stove or try for the cooler box as well. These things cost money, y’know.
As I turned to go, my foot got caught in the shingle and my ankle twisted. I went down just as a wall of water swept over me. I think the fact I got entangled in the windbreak probably saved me. Maud had hammered it in so firmly that it protected me and gave me something to hang on to.
Apparently, the main body of the water swept over the esplanade removing, in one go, a Mr Whippy ice cream van, Gypsy Petulengro’s tent (complete with fortune telling gypsy, there’s a lesson there somewhere), two hot dog and candy floss stalls and Maud.
Now it’s twenty-four hours later and things have calmed down a bit. They tell me it was a tsunami which is a fancy name for a big tidal wave. It was set off by a hitherto unknown fault line in the seabed outside Calais moving apart. I always said getting involved with Europe was a bad thing. And you never could trust the French.
They recovered the ice cream van and hot dog and candy floss stalls. Gypsy Petulengro remains lost at sea and there is no sign of Maud.
They had thought there was a sighting of her in France drifting up the Seine but, on investigation, it proved to be an old tree trunk. An easy mistake to make.
Now, all that needs to be done is for confirmation that poor Maud is no longer with us or ever likely to be again. I was fond of her, wife and all that, got to be fond really after all these years. But I need that confirmation. It’s for the Council Tax, you see. With just one of us living in the house, I can get a reduction.
THE END
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