Page 69 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay
“You’re only allowed to do four miles an hour on the pavement,” Alex reminded him.
“Pah! Come on. Just give me a minute to put my teeth in.” He accepted a hand to get out of his chair, and let Alex help him on with his coat.
Marcus was in the kitchen. “You drive safely now,” he warned. “It’s not a Ferrari, you know.”
The old man chuckled. “I’m getting one of those next week.”
Alex shared an amused glance with the carer, and gave Arthur his arm out of the back door and down the garden to the shed. Inside stood a gleaming brand-new bright-red mobility scooter.
“There she is. Ain’t she a beauty?” he declared proudly. “Come on then, my luvver, let’s show you off to the town.”
Alex unplugged the charger, and Arthur settled himself on the seat and started her up. “Brrm brrm! Off we go!”
Alex hurried to open the gate, watching with some anxiety as his grandfather steered the scooter out onto the back lane. Bythe time he had shut the shed and the gate he had to hurry to catch up with him as he turned down Church Road, heading for the Esplanade.
“Grandpa, slow down!” he pleaded. “You’ll get arrested.”
“Whoo hoo! I’m enjoying this. What are they going to do? Throw me in jail? I’m ninety-four, you know.”
“I know that. But if the police catch you speeding they might stop you riding it.”
“Pah!” But the warning was enough to persuade him to slow to a walking pace.
Fortunately, the pavement wasn’t as crowded as it would have been in the high season, and nobody seemed to mind stepping aside for the grinning old man waving and whooping as he bowled along.
At the far end of the Esplanade he crossed the road and turned back along the pavement beside the sea wall, then into the Memorial Gardens with its neatly trimmed lawn and well-tended flowerbeds, all weeded and mulched down for the winter.
In the middle of the gardens the old clock tower stood like a sentinel in the cool November sunshine. To Alex’s surprise, Arthur drew the mobility scooter to an abrupt halt beside it. He levered himself to his feet and stepped carefully up to it, peering closely to study the names of the fallen etched onto the weathered brass plaques.
“Mogford, Ernest: Corporal — Freddie’s dad,” he murmured. “Pym, Albert: Sargeant. Waycott, Dennis: Private.”
“You knew them?”
“Oh, ah.” He nodded. “Dennis Waycott were apprentice to old George Stanbury as had the garage over on Haytor Avenue. That’s gone now. And Albert, he were the postman’s son.”
He drew himself up proudly erect and lifted his hand in a smart parade-ground salute. He stood like that for a longmoment, his eyes gazing back into some long-ago time, a single tear tracking down his cheek.
Alex watched him in silence. His grandfather was prone to these sudden mood swings, from happy and rumbunctious to sentimental and full of memories.
It really wasn’t a surprise that the Memorial should have triggered him, carrying the weight of the years and all the sacrifices that had been made. All those men who hadn’t come home, and those who had, but with changes that would last their lifetimes.
He glanced across at the rambling white facade of the Carleton. Eighty-something years ago other airmen would have stood here, looking up at that building.
Of course, the white walls would have been streaked with smoky-grey camouflage paint then, and the gardens would have been given over to growing vegetables: ‘Dig For Britain’.
The Carleton had done her bit.
Arthur stepped back and grinned, rubbing his hands together. “Right. Let’s be getting up to the hotel. I could do with a nice cup of tea.” Back on his scooter, he swooped out of the gardens and round to the hotel car park, jerking to a halt again beside the front entrance.
Alex offered his arm to walk him up the steps. Jess was on duty in reception and she greeted them with a warm smile. “Hi there, Arthur. Have you come down for afternoon tea?”
“Of course, my luvver. Out on the terrace, if you please.”
She glanced at Alex and he guessed she was thinking the same thing that he was. “Don’t you think it might be a bit chilly out there?”
“Pah! I’ve got my coat on. I’ll be warm as a bug in a rug.”
Alex smiled wryly, and helped him out to the terrace, settling him comfortably at one of the tables.
