
Holes
By Maxim Griffin.
Big coat, collar up, leaning into the end of another year – between tides and the North Sea is dressed for business – that storm blew loads of sand across the prom – that café’s closed – you’re dressed in black – there are 400 gulls but only one turned up for work today – you say good morning to an older gentleman with a tiny dog and he corrects you – of course, good afternoon – a couple of the chalets have had a recent lick of paint but the best ones are time blasted and peeling – you take note of their names – Our Shack, Future Days, Krusty Krab, The Rits – all shut for winter – salt welded padlocks holding ancient timber together – there’s a metaphor in there somewhere.
You walk on – steel railings, shapely concrete – a sign from the powers that be promises new developments in 2025 – a dim morning is revealing aspects of the sun on the slate grey sea – two hardy looking fellas sit on a bench and are sharing a lunch of cans from a bag for life – first fella says nothing but the second fella turns as you pass – he’s got tinsel on his hat and wishes you a Merry Christmas with a tip of his beverage – you return the greeting with the best for the coming year – he is pleased with this and looks you square in the eye – you’ve been a good friend to me and that means something – huh? cheers pal, cheers – you walk on, off the concrete and onto the sand.
In search of flints
The sea has done the hard work for you – a rough spell of nights has brought up an index of flints – there’s a word for the right kind of stone, but you can’t recall it – you know what you are looking for – a flint with a hole, naturally formed – chalk won’t cut it, has to be flint – a talisman from the old times, something to keep sinister forces at arm’s length – you step methodically along the strandline – it doesn’t take long, you’ve the eye for these things – a shiny wet flint, black and blue – you raise it up and blow shale from the aperture – good – this one’s yours – a little rinse as the water comes in – good enough – in the pocket it goes – two paces and you find another – excellent – you repeat the process – a few paces, head down, pick, examine, select – fifteen minutes go without notice – fifteen more – the ample pockets of big coat are heavy, damp – you carry on, happy enough to let the water go to your socks – footsteps approach.
You do know it’s actually an offence to take stones from the beach? Oh great – a person – you keep looking and assure the gentleman that the stones are of no interest to you and you are only here for the holes – but – just the holes – you keep looking, a methodical step or two – but – just the holes – no reply – footsteps go away as you pry a fine chert loose with your boot – no, not a keeper – it is good to be the flint inspector here at the edge of everything – your pockets tell you that that is enough – plenty to be getting on with – so you turn your attention to the next matter – cordage.
All the bigger debris lands near the sea wall so you move inland, a little heavier, a little wetter – halfway in the flints underfoot are chunkier and the sand finer – a complication of smaller driftwood, feathers, bone – no litter though and that’s a good thing – to be honest, the beach gets a little grim during the summer – sparse is better – the beach reveals itself at midwinter – there – look – rope – it’s old and unspools with a wrist flick – a couple of feet will suffice – your pen knife is blunt but there’s an edge to those flints so you cut the rope in the older style and briefly see yourself as a Neolithic midwife – you hunker down on the step at the foot of the sea wall and start to thread rope through stone – within a few minutes you’ve fashioned some kind of stone wreath – good job – you lift it up and the holes settle into position along the old rope – ah – some kind of rosary perhaps – either way the object has a weight and purpose you didn’t expect – you stand, brush the sand off your big coat and look for some steps off the beach.
Universal memorial
You walk along the concrete prom – a single bar of sunlight across flat grey – low – midwinter and it’ll be getting dark soon – those two bench fellas have shuffled onwards – you occupy their perch – ah – you didn’t notice before – someone’s fixed a small bunch of flowers to the railing – there’s a card but whatever message there was has worn away – the flowers are nylon – salt frayed and colour drained – some kind of universal memorial for the year’s end – you dangle the rope of flints over the railing – a shaggy dog stops and sniffs – you’re about to give it a bit of fuss but it gets called on – best get going – you watch the sea a little longer.
The electric buzz of a mobility scooter gets closer and stops not far behind you – a tin lid pops and a lighter clicks into life after three tries – you turn as she exhales – trinkets hang from her ride – she’s wearing a black fleece with wolves on and is hauling supplies for the long journey south – plastic bags rattle in the breeze – she inhales again and speaks with a cavernous rasp – My Brian’s sat there – you stand quickly – oh sorry, I didn’t – she croaks again – My Brian’s sat there – you look around – the bench is empty – she inhales again – exhales – blue smoke, low sun, just – gulls – you turn to her to apologise, you didn’t know the seat was taken – she fixes you with grey eyes in a grey face deep in black wolf fleece and the scooter buzzes into life – Not dark yet luv, she says – no, not yet – you walk on and leave Brian and the flints to it.
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