Spring Prize Giving Turning into Merchant Street, a lump came to his throat. Mary had lived there when they first met; he had always walked her home, first kissed her on the doorstep; from here she had come to marry him. Suddenly, unwilling to pass her house, he turned and shuffled towards the sea down Steyne Street. The thin overcoat was useless against the icy wind, his boots were saturated – but he struggled on to Lennox Street, to walk past their little home again, remembering their happy days there. Fewer and fewer people passed him; no one noticed the shabby old man standing outside the little house, gazing up at its dark windows as if expecting to see someone there. Hunger pangs gnawed at his stomach and he suddenly caught the old familiar smell of a fish and chip shop. Forcing numb legs forward, he groped in his pocket for his few remaining coins and in the light of the doorway of a gleaming new establishment studied the price list and entered. The young, shaven-headed assistant accepted a handful of coins for the swiftly wrapped parcel, grinned and called him ‘Grandad’. Had he looked back he would have seen the grin turn, briefly, to a look of concern as the door slammed and the old man shambled out into the bitter night. The snow was lying thickly, muffling traffic sounds; great flakes swirled down the shafts of street light. He stumbled onwards to the seafront road, hesitated, looking right and left. Memories flooded back – standing on this same corner holding small, warm and trusting hands in his, emphasising the necessity to cross safely. Those were summer days, long ago... blue sky, a gentle breeze from the sea. Now, on the other side of the world, those hands probably held little warm hands of their own... He would never know. At last he reached his final destination – the hotel – a majestic building staring solidly towards the sea. It appeared unchanged, 22
imposing as ever; lights in many windows. But there was no uniformed commissionaire standing ready to open limousine doors with a flourish. Now it had a modern, casual air about it. As he stood in the shadows he heard loud music from inside; several minicabs came and went, disgorging young, noisy passengers. It had been so different, so different in his day... Exhaustion overwhelmed him as he crossed the seafront road between a few struggling cars, clutching the warm parcel tighter with near-frozen fingers. Snow was drifting rapidly into smooth piles against the walls along The Esplanade. Struggling up the steps to the promenade he shuffled along to a shelter, then stood facing the inky blackness of a winter night. He was so cold, colder than he ever remembered... he must eat now... He swept the snow off the shelter seat with his hand and huddled into a corner, a single thought in mind – hot food. As he unwrapped the layers of paper he heard a faint ‘miaow’; suddenly a tabby cat leapt on to the seat beside him, purring loudly as it shoved an inquisitive nose into the paper. “Hello, moggy, smell the fish did you? Come on then, may as well share it.” His frozen fingers, slightly warmed by the food, broke up little pieces of batter and extracted morsels of fish, smiling when the cat gobbled and purred at the same time. Soon their supper was gone and the cat sniffed expectantly for more. “All gone, puss,” he said, stroking its soft coat and feeling the scrawny frame beneath. “Looks like we’ve both seen better days, eh?” The cat pushed its way into the folds of his coat and laid against him. He drew it closer. He listened to the sea roaring up the deserted beach, unseen, menacing. As the snow continued he groped for his one possession... the plastic carrier bag – and tipped out the contents beside him. Spring 2018 The Woman Writer