Marie’s not getting any younger either; perhaps she’s the one who’s not well. I think we should meet her and hear her out.’
‘Oh, do you indeed!’
Eileen turned away and was silent for so long that Tony looked at his watch, thinking of the restaurant reservation. He silently berated himself for tackling the subject of Marie and her letter only now. He’d thought the prospect of an evening out would have offset the news he had to break to Eileen. Of course, this wasn’t the first time he’d totally misjudged the situation, he reflected ruefully.
When Eileen turned back Tony was not entirely comforted by the expression on her face, though her words could be interpreted as conciliatory.
‘All right, we’ll see her. Let’s hear what she has to say after all this time.’
‘Thank you, love. That’s very generous of you. She said she’d meet us late morning, at the Blue Bench. But actually, she said she’d be staying here tonight.’
‘Good grief, it gets worse! Why on earth …?’
‘I don’t know, Eileen. Maybe she didn’t want to miss us if I’d said no to the meeting or if we didn’t show.’
‘Sounds a bit desperate to me.’
‘Aye, well, I think you’re right there, love, but let’s just see what she has to say, eh?’
Eileen sighed heavily. ‘All right, Tony. Whatever you want.’
‘Good girl.’ He kissed her cheek, glanced again at his watch and started to gather his loose change into his pocket. ‘Time we were off. We might be a few minutes late, even.’
‘You go down, Tony, and perhaps you’d better phone the restaurant from the foyer to say we’re running late while I check I’ve got what I need in my handbag.’
As soon as Tony had closed the door behind him Eileen grabbed a sheet of the hotel stationery and quickly wrote a few words. Then she took one of the smart blue envelopes and addressed it to ‘Mrs Marie Foster’. If she were quick she’d be able to leave it at Reception while Tony was busy telephoning.
ON WHAT PROMISED to be a glorious summer’s day, two workmen strode purposely back along Central Pier, the echoing thud of their heavy work-boots resounding a soulful rhythm against the ancient, wooden boards, their shoulders hefting their canvas tool bags.
On this gloriously warm morning the first priority was a true labour of love; the task being the ongoing restoration of the famous Blue Bench, one of the oldest and much-loved landmarks along the entire coast.
Painstakingly painted year after year in a shade as blue as the skies above, the old bench was instantly recognised and cherished by those who had often found comfort and peace when seeking to rest awhile.
For over eighty years, as far as the records implied, the small, upright bench had proudly stood in the same place, from where it offered much-needed refuge for both locals and the many hordes of holidaymakers who arrived at the resort, year after year. Danny shook his head in admiration. It’s a great pity but we may never find out where she came from, he thought to himself. I’d love to know who put her there, standing forever strong against whatever the weather throws at her. Sometimes feel a bit sorry for the old thing, when the holidaymakers have gone, the Blue Bench could look sad and lonely, her paint would start to crack and peel and her arms would creak and rust. That bench must have witnessed many unforgettable sights, silently keeping the secrets of many sad souls who used her as refuge. He hoped she would stand there facing the elements long after he and John were departed, he thought, with a gentle smile lighting up his eyes.
‘Hey, Danny Boy!’ John Ferguson called out to his colleague, who had hurried ahead of him. ‘Slow down, man! There’s no need to rush about to start another hard day’s work? Especially in this damned heat!’ He gave a low, agonising groan. ‘If there was any justice, the two of us would be flat out on the beach right now, sunning ourselves!’
‘Fat chance o’ that, me old mate!’ Danny kept up his pace. ‘We’re not here to lie on the beach. Like it or not, you and I, Big John, are just two working men, bought and paid for. We’ve looked at those handrails, now we’d better see what else is to do. And I, for one, think the pair of us should be grateful to be still earning a wage at our time o’ life!’
Having spoken his piece, Danny pressed on along the pier, with Big John ranting on as he followed. ‘Slow down! Why the big rush? I dare say that useless bench will outlive us, you see if I’m not right!’ Once John climbed onto his soapbox, there was no shutting him up. ‘I mean it, Danny Boy! It’s time we took it a bit easier. Like I said, we’re at a certain age now. We’re no longer two young men just larking about. We’ve grown old, and that’s the truth of it!’
Their attention was duly diverted to watch some children scampering over the wide stone steps leading to the sea front and to the ice cream shop. ‘It’s a wonder the little devils don’t get seriously hurt … fighting and shoving like that.’ Shaking his head, John looked away and moved on.
Danny took a moment to watch the children. ‘It’s like a Christmas sale at the Co-op!’ he chuckled. ‘Hordes of frantic women knocking seven bells out of each other, fighting like cat and dog in order to reach the bargains before anyone else. It’s downright mayhem, so it is!’
John laughed, ‘Is that so? And how would you know that, eh? Unless you were there in the queues yourself?’
Grabbing Danny’s shoulder, he pushed him forward. ‘Stop your idling now, and employ your mind to something useful. Come on, eyes front, before the boss catches us wasting precious time.’
Having said his piece he increased his pace and strode steadily onward. Danny measured his step so as to walk alongside the big man, who appeared to have slipped into a silent world of his own. But Danny continued to chatter along.
‘We’ve had some good years haven’t we? Lived for the moment, with our boozing til dawn, backing the horses good and bad, mostly losing our shirt into the bargain! Enjoying ourselves come what may, never giving a thought to the consequences.’
Their wayward antics over the years had now begun to hit them hard as age caught up with them, but each man always looked at the bright side, no matter the woe or the weather.
John nudged his pal, ‘We were good at the game though and still are. When we’re not worn and knackered from a hard day’s work, that is.’
That’s what Danny Boy could do to him, always put a smile on his face. The twinkle in his eye grew bright as his thoughts wandered back to good times.
Ever practical, John remained a straight-talking fellow. In the main a hard-working man, he liked to work and earn a wage, and he enjoyed the treats that money could buy. Now in his sixties, he was thankful to be healthy and able, although he deeply regretted the years passing by so quickly. A man could still dream his dreams, but he did so now with a heavy heart.
He was as huge and as handsome as he’d been in his prime and his heavy-booted feet still made the walkways tremble as he thumped along.
Danny Magee and John Ferguson had been close friends and workmates for more years than either of them cared to remember. By now, they were more like brothers than workmates. Each man had earned the respect of the other, having been tried and tested through good times and bad. They rarely rowed, but when they did – usually about work and women – it was fast and furious, then soon forgotten. In some ways theirs was an unlikely alliance, each man having strongly held views and differing opinions on many subjects, though they shared a powerful passion for the after-work leisure, especially football. If George Best was their hero, Stanley Matthews had been their god. More often than not these days, this leisure time would find them growing increasingly rowdy and comical as they relayed stories of their heyday, while they supped their pints of beer, played their shots at the billiard