“Yes—yes—of course.” To Marion’s relief, Simon seemed satisfied with this, and she gave him her address and number to tap into his nice modern phone.
Despite living in a popular coastal resort, the Zetland family rarely visited the beach, and when they did, the main purpose of the trip, as far as Marion could tell, was for Mother to remind herself how much she despised it. On these rare outings, Mrs. Morrison, the family housekeeper, was invited as both guest and servant to the event. She would arrive to work early and spend an age slicing and buttering to prepare for the picnic. Mother liked egg-and-cress sandwiches that John complained smelled like farts when you first opened the Tupperware containers. Meat paste for Dad, even though Mother thought it common. Around ten thirty in the morning the Bentley would be loaded up for the ten-minute drive to the seafront.
Mother would be dressed in her two-piece wool suit, scarf tied around her hair and clear-framed sunglasses. Dad always wore a suit and polished shoes. Even on sunny days Marion and John were forced to keep their coats on for fear the easterly wind might permanently weaken their young bones. Mrs. Morrison dressed, as always, in her stiff nylon overall, her thick legs, mottled like raw sausage meat, bare.
It was Marion and John’s responsibility to help Dad set up “camp.” First the tartan blanket, always a little crusty with stains of previous picnics, was used to lay claim to a plot of suitable beach. Folding chairs with tight springs and metal frames that could snap shut on a child’s small pink fingers if you weren’t careful were brought for the adults to sit on. A series of striped canvas sheets attached to wooden posts marked the perimeter of the camp; their supposed function was to provide shelter from the wind, but they were really there, Marion thought, to separate Mother from the “rough types” who frequented the beach.
Mother did not paddle in the sea or walk along the sand enjoying the sunshine on her face. The only pleasure that she derived from visiting the beach was in disapproving of her inferiors; yet in order to enjoy this activity, she was required to place herself in proximity to them. Anyone who played cricket, listened to popular music, allowed their dogs or children to run free might fall victim to her disdain. She often peered over the windbreak, cigarette in hand, to criticize overly large backsides and sagging stomachs in a voice loud enough for the person to hear, while Marion cringed with shame.
As Dad preferred to stand, Mrs. Morrison would be offered a folding chair, though the offer would need to be repeated several times and refused before she sat down and got out her knitting, a long brown tube-shaped thing that she had been working on for as long as Marion had known her. If this was a sleeve, then the garment consisted of nothing but sleeve.
When they were little, Marion and John would be forced to ride the donkeys. Even though this was supposed to be a treat, Marion dreaded it. The donkeys were nasty stinky things with terrifying teeth, not cute and cuddly like the storybook animals she adored. And she was frightened of the grubby little men in caps with small, tough hands who plonked you on the seat, then smacked the donkeys’ bums to set them off hurtling down the beach, with you fearing you would be thrown headfirst over a pair of moth-eaten gray ears and break your neck.
Once they got settled, the picnic hamper would be opened and its contents unpacked and passed around with ritualistic formality: gilt-edged plates and cups with indelible stains around the rim, a crusty pot of Gentleman’s Relish, a fruitcake with icing that fought your teeth to see which was strongest, strange little forks and spoons that resembled scientific equipment, and enough sandwiches to bury a man.
While they were eating, Mrs. Morrison would commence her favorite topic of conversation: Mr. Morrison. A man who appeared to have no profession other than undergoing surgery on one part of his body after another. She would relate with pride how his ailments continued to baffle modern science as if by refusing to either die or be cured he had outwitted those smart-aleck surgeons. Mrs. Morrison would lower her voice when describing the more X-rated elements of Mr. Morrison’s treatment, while Marion, perched on the edge of the tartan blanket weaving its fringe into plaits, strained to listen to the gory details:
“They split him open like a kipper.”
“He’s had it all taken away, down there, you know.”
Sometimes the words were so dangerous that Mrs. Morrison could only mouth them, and then point to body parts, while Mother responded by raising her eyebrows in what could have been either surprise or disbelief.
While the women chatted, Dad and John were allowed beyond the perimeter of the camp to survey the beach. As John got closer to puberty she would sometimes overhear Dad whispering little comments to him about the girls in their bikinis.
“That one needs sorting out.”
“What you wouldn’t do to that, lad, if you got the chance, eh?”
“That doesn’t leave much to the imagination, does it, son?”
“I’d show her what for.”
“She needs a good seeing to.”
John would say nothing, just stand there watching the girls, his cheeks reddening in the wind.
One year a group of teenage girls, the type Mother would think common because of their loud giggling and bright makeup, formed their own camp close to the fortress of windbreaks and tartan. When they then switched on a large portable radio, a look of disgust wrinkled Mother’s face.
“Philip, go and tell them to turn down that racket,” she said to Dad.
Dad whispered something to John, and the two of them went off in the direction of the girls, while Mother leaned in to hear the details of Mr. Morrison’s most recent “ectomy.”
Marion watched Dad lean over to chat to one of the girls. She was the plainest of the group with short mousy hair and must have been fifteen or so, perhaps a little older than John. Then she was distracted by Mother scolding her for straining sand through her fingers. “Don’t touch that stuff, Marion, it’s full of dogs’ business and God knows what.”
When Dad returned, he was alone. An hour or so later John appeared, looking flushed and smirking in his nylon windcheater. Mother asked him what the devil he’d been up to. John replied he’d been looking for oysters, then shared a wink with Dad.
“Oysters? On Northport Beach? I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Mother replied.
Mrs. Morrison shook her head, then wound up the never-ending sleeve and shoved it into her bag.
Later that afternoon Marion glimpsed Dad under the South Pier giving the mousy-haired girl a couple of ten-pound notes. He then licked his thumb and wiped it across a fresh graze on the girl’s forehead. For some reason this sight made Marion shiver and cross her arms over her yet-unformed twelve-year-old bosom.
At the end of the picnic there would always be food left over.