By Harry Waight
They leant over the railing on the pier, close against the cold, squinting hard into the Atlantic. Behind them stood the damp skeletons of Victorian hotels, all the cheer washed out of them long ago, leaving only thinning carpets, a barman drunk on his loneliness, cleaners in antiquated uniforms who wandered the empty corridors like ghosts.
On a clear day, people said you could see France from here. But Jack had never managed it. Not that he’d tried hard. He wasn’t particularly interested in France. Or the outside world in general.
This town was enough.
He lacked the escape velocity of provincial places.
Down the beach, he could see the wooden hut where they’d both lost their virginities. It had sunflowers daubed on the walls, wilting and yellow, a primary school project from a class that had grown up and moved on long ago. He had been very drunk on cheap cider, illicitly bought with his cousin’s ID.
That moment seemed to belong to a different epoch. One of school corridors, factions in the canteen, ties tossed over the shoulder, perpetual butterflies. The discovery of chest hair. But it was only eighteen months ago.
“When do you leave for university?” he asked, dread in his voice, like a man asking a doctor to be honest with him.
“I’m taking my bags up Sunday. For the start of Fresher’s Week.”
He nodded slowly. Fresher’s Week. Fresh. The word seemed thick with implications.
He was silent for a little while. “We could try? Aren’t students on holiday all the time?”
“No.”
“But you have your mum’s old car, you could drive back weekends. I’ve got a job in the hotel, I’ll save money.”
“Jack…it won’t work. Everything is changing.” She reached out, put her hand on his, squeezed it. It was so small, almost bird-like, the fingers dainty and beautiful.
He remembered when she had put one of those fingers across his lips, to hush him, in that beach hut, in that other epoch. They had heard heavy footsteps crushing the pebbles outside, searching. He could smell the mint on her breath. Her eyes glittered in the darkness. They fell asleep to the sound of the sea.
In the morning, she’d said, “If I’m pregnant, you’re stuck with me for life.” His heart had leapt a little.
A big wave came in, the frigid spray nipping at their elbows. She leant her head on his shoulder, wriggled into him affectionately, burrowing for warmth. She looked up: “Oh Jack, please don’t cry. It’s only making it harder for me.”
“I’m not. It’s just the wind.”
Harry Waight is a writer living in London. He has published short stories in Orbis, Confingo, Litro, Open Pen, Agenda, The Honest Ulsterman, The New Writer, Between These Shores (his story published in 2023 in this magazine was nominated for the Pushcart Prize), and others.