A Trip To The Seaside

6

A Trip To The Seaside

April 4 Not. The Rolls had rolled up to the Ovendens’ front door in good time, we were all washed, brushed, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and the Egg cried: “Boaters on, chaps!”

    And we assumed the aforesaid, and piled into the jolly old Lamontly vehicle.

    Mr L. being the type of man he was, we didn’t just go directly to Bexhill-on-Sea, he had a special route all planned, which took in a good deal of England’s south coast—once we got that far, which took some time. The roads weren’t crammed with day trippers, but they were jolly busy all the same. The boys would rather not have had the scenic tour, judging from the comments such as: “I say, aren’t we there yet?” from the Bean (more than once), and: “Is this it, Dad?” from the Crumpet (ditto) and even, tho he’d been privily ordered not to hint, from Bean Minor: “I say, I’m awfully hungry, we’re not going to be too late for tea, are we?”

    Poor Mr Lamont kept pulling in to allow us to view the glorious views on a lovely fine day. Egg and Flossie gallantly did their best to agree with him and show due appreciation, throwing out such remarks as: “Spiffing, sir!” and: “By Jove, yes! Jolly fine, what?” And even Crumpy came up with: “Quite a jolly view, yes.”

    Dratted Bean’s contribution, as we finally reached a spot on the coast, was: “The sea looks rather cold, tho.”

    At which poor little Bean Minor said in a sort of wail: “Aren’t we going to paddle, then?”

    The others began to look down their noses at him, but good old Mr Lamont said hastily: “Of course we are, me boy! What else are sun, sand and sea for, eh? We’ll find a likely spot.”

    “But, um, Dad,” croaked the Crumpet, “did you bring anything to dry our feet with? I mean, sand between the toes, all that.”

    In reply his parent gave a robust laugh and returned the mysterious answer: “Of course! Christopher always gets sand between the toes, hey?”

    By this time we were out of the car, tho some of us were keeping a nervous eye out for roving solid uniformed types with or without helmets or peaked caps and truncheons and nasty notebooks, as it were. And one idiot was shivering and hugging himself and one of these days if Bean doesn’t watch it, I WILL CLOBBER HIM!

    Bean Minor, looking bewildered at our kind host’s arcane utterance, edged up to my side and hissed: “I say, Sister Bean, who’s Christopher? Not that putrid Banks Minor from School? I don’t think Crumpy even knows him.”

   “‘No,” I said rather quietly. “Je pense qu’il parle d’un poème anglais par le mec qui a écrit les histoires de ce nounours dont a parlé la Tante Beth.”

    “Ah; j’y suis. Elle m’a donné un de ces livres.”

    What? I’d have thought she’d have more sense. “Pas vrai? Tu l’as lu?”

   “Non, c’était con.”

    So much for the classics of English children’s literature. “D’ac,” I agreed peaceably, tho I rather like them, myself. Well especially Ernest Shepard’s illustrations. Miss Stinkerton was raving about the books once—about a hundred years ago she evidently did some sort of higher degree in Eng. Lit. for little kids—and forced some on me when she discovered my shocking ignorance thereof. Her conclusion when I said I’d quite liked the pictures was a sad: “Sometimes I think you have no soul, Melly-sand, dear.”

    To which the only possible reply was: “Anyone who’d been relentlessly called ‘Melly-sand’ ever since they arrived at this abysmal seat of so-called learning would long since have lost anything resembling a soul.” But I nobly refrained. So she forced another thing on me. The Secret Garden. Something every girl should read! Very, very wet. Ugh!

    Assuring Crumpet that he’d packed plenty of towels and bathers in the boot, Mr Lamont encircled his shoulders with the meaty fore appendage and suggested we stroll on the sands. However, just as certain persons were looking dismayed a handy wind gust nigh to blew Bean Minor off his little hind trotters, so the decision was perhaps not here, there’d be bound to be lots more sheltered spots further along, hey?

    Finishing: “Could nip over towards Hastings, it isn’t far, just a short detour, really, the Rolls’ll hardly notice it, and then back to Bexhill—”

    “No! I say!” cried Bean and Crumpy in chorus.

    “Eh? Oh!” Mr L. shook with chuckles. “After we’ve fed the ravening beast, then! Come on, we’ll pop back into the car and head straight for the De La Warr Pavilion’s grub!”

    “I think we’d better sir, actually,” said Egg uneasily, glancing over his shoulder. “I rather think this is a no-parking spot and that looks suspiciously like a—”

    Mr Lamont said a Very Rude Word, followed by the further imprecation: “Meter maid!”

    And we all piled rather quickly into the Rolls.

    And drove off triumphantly, leaving a frustrated solid uniformed figure waving a notebook in our wake.

    Well given the time we’d started we weren’t running too late, no, in fact it was barely past lunchtime when we finally reached our goal.

    And there it was, sparkling in all its gleaming white, refurbished Art Deco glory.

    “Crumbs,” as the Bean noted.

    “Rather jolly, what?” offered the Egg.

    “Dashed up with the play, I’d say, old man,” Flossie managed.

    “Golly. It’s frightfully modernistic,” croaked the Crumpet limply.

    —None of them had actually seen it before, you see. Tho one of us had had the nous to look it up on the Internet, Mr O. doesn’t mind one using the office computer when he isn’t using it for the business.

    Chuckling complacently, Mr Lamont informed us that he’d have to find a parking space, but if all else failed, he’d head for the Something (Hotel, understood) where they knew him quite well and Leonard, the concierge, would see the Rolls was taken care of, and the doorman would grab us a taxi to bring us back here!

    So as there were rather more eaters or, as Flossie noted, possible art viewers, benefit of D., in this charming seaside resort than had been anticipated on a Wednesday, we adjourned to the fleshpots of the Something. Its name was probably emblazoned over its massive portico but as we were firstly in the Roller under its canopy or whatever they call a hotel’s porte-cochère on the south coast of Blighty, and then on the red carpet, I kid you not, adorning its wide, shallow flight of steps, we couldn’t actually see it. No, well Egg later dubbed it “the Splon-deed”, which suited it far better than Flossie’s offering of “the Metropole”, which may have been in period with the spirit of the expedition as he claimed, but which was unanimously voted down as feeble and unworthy of the Hon. Sec. And the excuse that he was stuffed full of a jolly spiffing tea was no excuse.

    Both the impressive doorman in a Ruritanian general’s outfit and Leonard himself seemed thrilled to see Mr L. again, and there were assurances all round that of course, no trouble at all, sir, and would you be requiring the usual suite, sir?

    At which Crumpy said in puzzled tones: “I say, have you been here before, Dad? I’ve never been down here.”

    “Eh? Oh well, run down a few times, yes, why not? Nice spot, and the dinners here are dashed good,” said his parent, not meeting anyone’s eye.

    I don’t know about the others but at this I felt as if the word “BIMBOS” in neon letters ten feet high had lit up over my head. I felt myself blushing like an idiot and hurriedly looked elsewhere, trying to appear airily casual or possibly casually airy.

    “Oh,” said Crumpy dully. “I s’pose I was in rotten School.”

    “Yes, of course y’were, old man!” Mr L. agreed hastily, patting his shoulder. “Never mind, incarceration won’t last forever, and we’re here now, aren’t we?”

    “Of course. For your usual nice day on the beach and lovely tea at the De La Warr P., sir,” Flossie agreed smoothly.

    “That’s right, lad,” he agreed, not meeting his eye. “Er—oh: the suite. No, thanks all the same, Leonard, won’t be needing it today.”

    And with the distribution of huge largesse, we all crammed into a taxi magicked up at the snap of a finger or two by the Ruritanian.

    It wasn’t like a London taxi, it was just a car, so Mr Lamont said I could come on his knee in the front next to the driver and the boys could sort themselves out in the back. My relief at not having to go on Crumpy’s knee was somewhat short-lived. Okay, I recognised resignedly, this was where the boy got it from and give him another year or so and he’d have as many bimbos as his dad. Talk about ever-ready!

    To make matters worse, as we drew up and the driver began telling us loudly it’d be cash, the dratted man said in my ear: “That was very nice, little Mel.” And squeezed me rather more than cosily.

    Oh well, I suppose one should make allowances and as Aunt Beth says they can’t help it. The poor things are at Nature’s mercy.

    … And if I was in France at this precise moment I’d almost undoubtedly be being dragged off forcibly to Tante Élisabeth’s lair, which is far too close to the mouldering Château Lebec, with the threat of un five o’clock to come. As a demonstration of how decent people live. Miniscule petits fours of which one is allowed precisely one, les jeunes filles do not ask, they wait to be served, and a cup of extremely weak tea with lemon. And while I don’t dislike such fare no-one could claim with any vestige of truth that it’s filling, could they?

April 10 Not. The De La Warr Pavilion’s café did us proud. Their famous (apparently) burgers were still on offer tho by our watches it wasn’t lunchtime any more, so even tho Flossie noted that they weren’t in period we voted pretty unanimously for those, only Mr L. abstaining. Decorative but large and ultra-tasty, more than lived up to their rumoured reputation. Just as well. True, we’d had a substantial breakfast, Egg having previously got down to the Patels’ and bought quantities of snarlers, eggs and bacon, plus extra bread in case his mum overlooked that, as had happened in the past, and Mrs O. having also remembered to shop, with the result that the marmalade and honey were now generously replenished and there was oodles of jam, it had been on special. On the other hand, we’d missed elevenses as well as lunch. So three cheers for the De La Warr Pavilion and its café!

    “Ra! Ra! Ra!”

    Several pensioner couples sipping tea genteelly at nearby tables looked round in some surprise, but otherwise nobody reacted much. It was, after all, a seaside resort; they must be used to all sorts.

    As if to prove it, there was a party of brightly-dressed Americans sitting not far from us, also tucking in to burgers, and calling loudly for “ta-may-da ketchup”.

    We were at the replete and happily sighing stage, the stage where one wonders if one could cram in that last puffy cake thing and decides regretfully that that would result in undignified actual bursting, and at which Rabbit’s friends and relations suggest weakly: “Split it?”; and Mr Lamont was just saying hurriedly to leave him out of it, chaps, and the Egg was readying the customary cutting implement, when two determined dames and one relatively hesitant gent from the Americans’ table approached, with beaming smiles and the dreaded Smorr-rrt Phones at the ready.

    “Porr’n me, but can we just ask? Are you making a movie?” –Over-sixty, large, smiling, horribly brightly clad in abstract-patterned blouse, lime-green pedal-pushers, giant three-inch-soled Sneakers. Plus bouffant taffy-coloured hair, and weighed down with an enormously zippered and pouched bulging shoulder-bag.

    “It’s the costooms,” explained her companion. –Over-sixty, large, smiling, horribly brightly clad in floral blouse, shiny fuchsia long pants, giant three-inch-soled Sneakers. Plus bouffant blonde hair and weighed down with an enormously zippered and pouched bulging handbag over one arm. This last in a wincingly not-quite-matching screamingly bright almost-fuchsia.

    The guy bringing up the rear paled in comparison, even tho clad in an immense Hawaiian shirt (royal blue and maroon, touches of white). The rather ordinary if extra-large pale grey cotton trousers did slightly ameliorate its effect, true. Giant three-inch-soled Sneakers and the whole outfit set off by the scarlet zippered kangaroo-pouch over the fat tummy.

    Rising to the occasion and his feet, Flossie removed his boater and bowed. “Of course, madam.”

    Egg set down his knife and also rose, bowed and doffed the old titfer. “It has a jolly old nineteen-twenties theme, as you see.”

    “Gee, Mandy,” said taffy-hair in great excitement, “I wonder if we’ll get to see it? See, we don’t get all the good Briddish shows, especially the costoom shows,” she explained with regret.

    “That is a pity, madam,” replied Egg smoothly. “This will be a television movie, actually, so perhaps you may see it on HBO?”

    “Wow, are you making it in conjunction with HBO?” asked blonde-hair Mandy excitedly, beaming at us. –Either those teeth were false or she’d had something very odd done to them. They looked… pearlized.

    “That is the plan, madam,” Flossie allowed.

    “Tell you what, Mandy,” said the gent, breathing heavily, “we could get Marilu and Ferdinand to record it for us!”

    “Jefferson, hon’, I don’t think you can email a video, can you?” the blonde and pearlized Mandy replied dubiously.

    “Uh—no, well, they can send us a DVD!” he decided brilliantly.

    “See, that’s their daughter and her husband. They live in London,” the taffy-coloured one explained.

    “Yeah, but Sally-Ann, I just realised,” the gent admitted, looking crestfallen, “will their DVDs work with our system?”

    Consternation all round, and involved explanations—make that would-be explanations—in re Numbers, and Yirrup having a different number, it wasn’t the same zone, wasn’t that crazy?

    “It certainly is!” Mr Lamont agreed heartily. “But don’t worry, I’m sure the BBC’s worldwide distribution system will take care of that!”

    Some of us looked at him in a certain frozen horror, at this point: taking the Beeb’s name in vain?

    “Oh, sure!” taffy-haired Sally-Ann realised. “Say, we could go to that real nice store on…” Etcetera.

    “So can you give us some idea of the storyline?” asked blonde and pearlized Mandy eagerly, readying the technological apparatus.

    “We-ell… I suppose it’s not giving any secrets away to tell you that it’s based on the P.G. Wodehouse stories,” replied Egg, looking cautious.

    Flossie’s mouth twitched: their transatlantic audience was now looking blank. “You know: Jeeves and Bertie Wooster,” he murmured.

    “Oh!” they said. “Sure! Jeeves!” And Jefferson added: “Say, I always wished someone would make a real good movie of them stories!”

    The blonde and pearlized one was working the Smorr-rrt Phone like anything. “So what are you-all gonna be?” she asked breathlessly.

    “My esteemed colleague, Mansfield Fullarton-Browne, here,” said Flossie, looking hard at the Bean, “who may be known to you for his luminous portrayal of Romeo at Stratford last year, a great success with the critics tho of course the production itself was severely criticised as insufficiently minimalist, will take the part of Bertie Wooster. Do hop up and make your bow, old Bean,” he urged.

    The Bean duly got to his feet and bowed, what time certain persons wondered frantically Why him?

    We were soon enlightened. “Oh, my! You sure are a good-looking young man!” cooed the blonde and pearlized one. “Dark hair, of course! Just like in the books!”

    Er… had PGW ever breathed so much as a syllable about a single hair on the old Wooster cranium?

    “And who does this young man play?” leered taffy-coloured Sally-Ann, baring the teeth—large, white, but not pearlized, alas—at Egg.

    He bowed again. “My character and those of my friends are amalgams of characters from several of the books, madam. I play Bertie’s nemesis, the sneering Wilfred Fox-Baddeley”—he sneered horribly: his audience duly blenched; “my fair-haired colleague here plays Bertie’s pal, Florian Nightingale, rather an ineffectual type,”—Flossie obligingly drooped deprecatingly, with a limp, disclaiming wave of the hand—”and our esteemed old friend and fellow Thespian—do greet the ladies, Lucius—takes the rôle of a hearty, lumbering, horse-riding Sir Gawain Goodbody, who manages to stumble across Bertie’s path at every inconvenient moment.”

    Rising magnificently to the occasion, the Crumpet stumbled to his feet, doffed the bowler and drawled in the most haw-haw of accents imaginable: “Frightf’leh good to  meetcha, don’tcha know. Yes, well don’t bear old Bertie any malice, y’know. Feeble sort of chap, really, never seen him throw his leg across a decent nag, but harmless, what?”

    Really, one felt like applauding!

    “Oh, abso-bally-lutely,” Flossie agreed. “One can’t bear old Goodbody an actual grudge, y’know, but the fellow manages to be an infernal nuisance all the same. Y’know the sort of thing: one dreads bein’ in the same house party with the chap, because he’s absolutely sure to drop some frightful clanger or other, what?”

    “Aren’t they just dorr-ling!” cried Mandy. “Could you possibly make that face again, hon’?” she asked fervently. “I didn’t catch it.”

    “Ah… Face, madam?” Flossie asked, raising the eyebrows and looking down the nose with a sort of world-weary tolerance.

    “That’s it!” she cried ecstatically, operating on the dashed instrument.

    “And so what part does the liddle boy play?” asked the genial Jefferson, beaming at Bean Minor.

    “Oh, he’s m’cousin, don’tcha know,” said the Bean with superb nonchalance. “Not a Wooster, natch. Other side of the jolly old family. Cecil Smythe-Winterbottom. Give the ladies and gent a nice bow, there’s a good little chap.”

    Valiantly the somewhat pink-cheeked Bean Minor rose to the little hind appendages and bowed. “Cecil Smythe-Winterbottom, absolutely at your service, ladies and gent!” he piped.

    “A-dorr-able!” breathed taffy-coloured Sally-Ann, clasping her hands fervently, the gesture somewhat impeded by the gigantic bulging shoulder-bag.

    “And the liddle girl?” asked the genial Jefferson, beaming at me. “My, you sure look cute, hon’.”

    “She’s me dashed nuisance of a little sister, actually,” drawled Flossie. “Always trailin’ after the lads, y’know, gettin’ in everyone’s way, turnin’ up and upsettin’ old Bertie’s applecart, sort of thing.”

    “Oh, abso-bally-lutely. Does it all the time,” dratted Bean agreed. “Sort of little pest that tells dashed Hermione Battersby-Bull where to find one, y’know, just when one’s thanking one’s lucky stars one’s escaped the noose.”

    I bounced up and pulled off my boater to the ladies, but protested: “I say, Bertie, that’s jolly unfair!”

    “Spot-on, more like,” drawled Flossie. “Sort of dashed little nuisance that y’can’t believe will ever grow up into somethin’ in a pretty frock, what?”

    “I geddit!” beamed blonde pearlized Mandy. “So you’re a liddle tomboy, hon’! Well gee, I guess that’s a fun rôle, huh? And is that your natural hair, hon’?”

    I blinked, rather, but managed to reply: “Yes, madam. I’ve got my mother’s hair, actually. It’s hard to do anything with it, it just springs back.”

    “I sure wish I had natural curls like that,” she sighed. “That’s what they call a real, gen-yew-wine dark blonde, huh? Boy, it sure looks different from streaking… But is that style a real Twenties look? I mean, your BBC shows are just so realistic, aren’t they? Say what you will, there’s nothing like a real solid BBC costoom drama, they’re just so accurate! I got this great costoom book: when we get home I’ll be sure and look up the Roaring Twenties!”

    Er… was there a question in all that?

    Fortunately the Egg came to my rescue and explained, dropping the sneering bit for the nonce: “She’s had it bobbed in a standard Twenties cut for girls with curls, madam, but for the camera of course they flatten the crown, rather: lots of gel and so forth.”

    “Oh, sure! I getcha! And sometimes they wear headbands, too!” she beamed. “Now hon, would you mind taking your brother’s arm, so’s I can get a shot of the two of you?”

    “Come on, Melly-sand Nightingale,” said Flossie on a resigned note, crooking his arm.

    “Um, yeah!” I gasped, jumping slightly. “’Course!” And I got up from the table, took the smirking pest’s arm, and all three of them recorded us digitally for posterity, or until someone erased the pics or the bloody phones died on them.

    After that of course they wanted to know Was the gennelman Jeeves? Eyeing Mr L. with breathless hope.

    He rose, removed the boater, bowed gracefully and said smoothly and deferentially: “Certainly, ladies and gentleman. Allow me to express the hope that you enjoy the production.”

    The which was declared just purr-fect, and the three pieces of space-age technological junk got to work…

    We only escaped their company for the rest of the afternoon because they were doo to join up with a group in Brighton to tour “the real Pavilion” (gulp, fervent hope that none of the staff here could hear them) and had to hurry off to it.

    We all collapsed onto our seats and looked at one another weakly.

    “Well done, all!” said Mr Lamont, his shoulders shaking.

    “I have to return the compliment, sir,” Flossie responded, grinning. “Jeeves to the life. Combining the deferential and the Etonian, so to speak.”

    “Hah, hah,” he returned, obviously very chuffed. “Well, what now? Sea dip? Uh—perhaps it’s too soon after all that food, and I think the beach here’s mostly shingle.”

    “Couldn’t we paddle, tho, sir?” asked Bean Minor wistfully.

    “Well, no harm in that!” His shrewd eyes twinkled. “Unless you older lads are too chicken to venture into the chilly English Channel?”

    That did it and they agreed loftily that as Bean Minor was so keen they might as well paddle.

    “Uh—not you, Crumpet, old son,” his parent remembered belatedly. “We don’t want sand in that damned foot, do we?”

    “What’s wrong with your foot, Crumpy?” I asked.

    “Only a stupid cut. It’s healed, really. It doesn’t hurt any more,” he assured me.

    “That’s good. But how did you do it?”

    “Um, putrid cross-country,” he growled.

    “They make you do that at Marbledown if you don’t play anything Hearty,” the Bean explained in a superior manner. “Thought you knew that?”

    “I don’t think so,” I admitted cautiously. “But don’t you have to wear shoes, Crumpy?”

    He scowled. “The blasted things were giving me blisters so I took them off and there was this rusty old tin…”

    “Matron said,” the Bean reported with relish, “that he was lucky not to get blood poisoning and tetanus and he had to be rushed off to be stuffed full of shots and stitched up.”

    “Yes well, it was ages back and at least that let me off cross-country,” said the unfortunate Crumpet heavily. “And isn’t sea water supposed to be good for cuts and abrasions, sir?”

    Blinking sightly at being thus addressed by his offspring—it was automatic, drummed into them at School when addressing an older gent, he meant nothing by it—Mr L. replied firmly: “I dare say, but sand will get into the merest crevices, y’know, and that cut didn’t look quite healed to me on Sunday, so don’t try to claim it’s miraculously improved since.”

    “Yes, sand in the crevices is not good,” Flossie agreed, looking very prim, tho I couldn’t see why. “One does feel it ought to be once bitten twice shy, Crumpet. Er, actually any sort of stripping off in less than twenty-six degrees or so is kind of contraindicated for me too, I’m afraid: had a dose of pneumonia not so long since when we had that unexpected cold spell, and uh, well, promised Uncle Flossie, actually,” he admitted, making a face.

    —One might well ask why didn’t he promise his parents, but they’re in darkest New Zealand On Her Majesty’s S., Mr Nightingale not having refused the posting because he sees it as a step up from deepest Botswana or such-like, but reported to be sulking like Hell, and Mrs N. totally disgruntled because Wellington, N.Z., is apparently the nadir of the universe as far as decent shopping, good food, drinkable wines, watchable theatre or opera and any sort of intelligent company are concerned. With totally foul weather, ferociously windy and drenchingly wet. Added to which the place has gone all p.c., and so most of the names of the government departments and so forth are in Maori, great for the local populace but unintelligible to the rest of Planet Earth, unfortunately. Also just about the worst schools in the world plus, possibly last but definitely not least, the truly appalling local accent, no way was James being exposed to that! Added to which neither of them has ever taken the slightest interest in him: having one or two offspring at the right sort of school is de rigueur if one wishes to rise in the Diplomatic, but their only real interest in life is Mr N.’s career and the furtherance thereof.

April 12 Not. Continuing: Mr L. thought it might be sensible if those who wanted to paddle wore their bathers, we didn’t want to be sitting round in damp trousers in the car, did we? So he decided to take the suite after all and rang for a taxi to take us back to the hotel. The driver who’d demanded cash when he dropped us off had been clearly working a fiddle, as he’d then given Mr L. his personal card and urged him to ring him when we wanted to be picked up, so it was him that he rang and funnily enough he was available. For the whole afternoon, apparently.

    “I say, Dad, the man’s a bit of a crook, y’know,” said Crumpy uneasily as we went outside to wait for him. “The taxi firm isn’t going to see a penny of the fare.”

    “Free enterprise, me boy!” he replied with his hearty chuckle.

    “Um, ye-es…”

    “What about the meter?” ventured the Bean.

    Mr Lamont gave a shark-like grin. “He doesn’t turn it on, Bean, didn’t you realise?”

    “Um, no. Well I was in the back.”

    “Don’t worry, sir,” said Egg with a sigh. “Flossie and I keep an eye on both of them.”

    “Just as well,” he concluded drily as the taxi drew up and the driver didn’t get out to open the door for him.

    And we piled in and bade farewell to the Thirties ambiance of the De La Warr Pavilion.

    … Gosh.

    The Splon-deed had provided Mr Lamont with a suite, all right. Sitting-room, master bedroom, second bedroom, two bath. Definitely out of period for us. Sort of cross between heavy Victoriana (crimson velvet curtains, giant gold tassels, huge Turkey carpet on the sitting-room’s parquet floor) and twenty-first century lack of taste (palest cream everything in the ensuite bathrooms, including the redundant vaseful of fresh roses, the huge furry towels and the guest soaps shaped as, intriguingly, more roses). Mr Lamont’s bedroom, at which I unfortunately got a good look, as its door was wide open when we entered the suite, featured deep rose-pink velvet curtains, rose-pink elaborately brocaded bedspread, huge rose-pink satin eiderdown rolled up at the end of the Imperial mahogany bed, and a thickly-piled cream and pink carpet over its parquet floor. Everything that could be gold in the entire place was: taps, dressing-table drawer handles, candelabra with pointed electric bulbs in them, you-name-it. Poisonous naked ladies holding up putrid fringed lampshades, that sort of thing.

    I was awarded the second bedroom but it was as bad, so I draw a veil.

    Lucky Crumpy and Flossie of course didn’t need to change so they were spared the worst of Mr L.’s bedroom, but the others tottered out looking dazed.

    “Sister Bean,” croaked Egg, “was yours—?”

    “Same in miniature.”

    “God!”

    That put it really, really well.

    And, having resumed our cream bags, shirts and blazers to be fit for the Splon-deed’s lobby, we tottered downstairs.

    And with only a slight detour to the taxi driver’s brother’s corner shop for a handful of sustaining Mars Bars and such-like (all his own idea, perhaps needless to state), we went down to Bexhill-on-Sea’s beach for a paddle.

    Of course the sea was freezing, but Bean Minor, Bean, Egg and I braved it. And we all four paddled valiantly.

    Mr L. didn’t seem to mind us sitting round damply in the taxi, funnily enough, and Dave, the driver, didn’t object, which made one wonder all the more was it the firm who owned the vehicle, or him?—and so we huddled in towels and piled in, Mr Lamont assuring me with a fruity chuckle that he didn’t mind in the least if his cream bags got a bit damp and besides, the hotel’s towels were pretty thick, weren’t they?

    “Actually,” I admitted, “they’re the thickest, fluffiest towels I’ve ever seen, Mr Lamont. I didn’t know that terrycloth could be that thick.”

    More chuckling, very complacent, this time. “The terrycloth bathrobes they supply—for after showering, y’know—are just as thick: cuddly, really. Of course they walk out the door regularly, but then a hotel has to expect that. You must try one, Mel darling!”

    It sounded jolly good, actually, so I agreed I would.

    However it wasn’t yet time for showers and the swaddling comfort of the Splon-deed and its terrycloth bathrobes, as Dave then announced we’d like to look round the town a bit and he knew of a great swimming-pool, sea water, but very sheltered, with nice springboards as well, not far away at all.

    And so we embarked on a tour of the charming old houses of charming old Bexhill-on-Sea…

    The cunning Crumpet had cunningly saved most of his Mars Bar instead of eating it on the beach, so when, after a plethora of charming old houses, he produced it, there was a sort of mutiny, ganging-up, or anguished outcry from the back seat.

    Immediately Dave offered to take us to a place that did really great ice creams! Sit-down, he assured Mr Lamont kindly, obviously having got his measure in the wake of the amount of largesse he’d now had pressed into his ready hand.

    “Uh—after a dip, eh?” that gent said weakly. “I mean, they had an enormous, uh, combination of lunch and tea, really.”

    The knowledgeable Dave acknowledged that the burgers at the De La Warr Pavilion were great, if a bit poncy. Which described their 21st-century style of pree-sen-tation rather well actually, good for Dave.

    There then arose a certain amount of discussion, dispute or just plain argument, but Mr Lamont settled it by declaring that first we’d find this pool and have a lovely dip—it caught the sun, did it, Dave? Jolly good!—and then we’d go back to the hotel and shower and change—ignoring the loud objections from some—and after that we’d head for the place that did the ices.

    “But I say, will they still be open by then?” croaked the Bean in horror.

    Happily Dave—doubtless having done some rapid mathematical calculations in re comparative distances, times, etcetera in relation to the putative charges to be levied therefor—assured us that of course they would, they stayed open till late during the summer. And we’d be ready for dishes of ice cream after a swim!

    And so we headed for the pool…

    And headed for the pool…

    Well yes, we did make it and a look at the dashboard clock in Dave’s taxi informed me that it hadn’t been more than ten minutes, it only felt like hours. Especially seated where I was. True, that cream towel was really, really thick and fluffy and I’d wound it round me twice, but even so I was quite sure that Mr L. was enjoying himself hugely. Er—so to speak.

    “There now!” he beamed. “It looks like a lovely pool, and it is a sheltered spot, isn’t it?”

    Everyone had to agree, and Crumpet said hopefully couldn’t he go in, Dad, so as it wasn’t sandy and there were still some spare pairs of bathers in the boot permission was given and he dashed into the changing room, beaming.

    Mr Lamont put a beefy arm round Flossie, thus liberating yours truly. “Not you, lad,” he said kindly. “Don’t want to have to answer to your parents for your corpse, y’know!”

    “I don’t think they’d notice, frankly, sir, but Uncle Flossie would be upset,” he admitted.

    Mr L. is not the thin-skinned type, to put it mildly, but at this he was seen to blench.

    “Oh, Lor’,” he muttered.

    Flossie smiled kindly at him. “It’s great being under Uncle Flossie’s wing, sir, don’t worry! He comes down for all the Parents’ Days and so forth. Cricket matches, rowing, that sort of thing. Well I’m hopeless, myself, but he always keeps me company on the sidelines, kind of thing!”

    “I’ve seen him there,” he admitted. “Prizegiving, too?”

    “Not so far,” Flossie replied with a laugh, “because I’ve always kept my head well down, y’see! –It’s invitation only,” he reminded him. “Not enough room in the Hall for everyone.”

    “Oh yes, of course; I went when Lucius won a book in, uh, the Second Form, think it was—ages back. Nice book, they let them choose from a pile of them, apparently. Very decent way to do it, rather than foisting something on the poor kids! –Kim,” he produced arcanely.

    “Of course, yes!” Flossie remembered. “He lent it to me. I enjoyed it.”

    “So did I,” said Mr Lamont simply.

    At which point I forgave him utterly for the knee-sitting thing which after all is only Nature and involuntary, like Aunt Beth says. Her sister, Aunt Ruth, told her she shouldn’t be speaking to the child in those terms but good old Aunt Beth merely replied: “If she’s old enough to ask she’s old enough to know. You always were a prude, Ruth.” –I hadn’t actually asked, but I had broached the subject, fair enough.

    The pool had springboards, all right. Kind of asking for trouble with a crowd of boys, one might have said. Immediately they started JUMPING on them and HURLING themselves UP and SPLASH! into the water, and JUMPING…

    After not very long at all Bean Minor gave up and retired quietly to join me at the shallow end.

    “I say, Sister Bean, your swimming hasn’t improved, has it?” he offered, tho not in a spirit of criticism, more as a factual observation.

    “No, the hearty Miss Jameson has failed utterly with me. I haven’t got the Right Spirit and remarks were passed about too much early French influence. Yours has improved a lot, tho, Bean Minor.”

    “Yes. Hearty Horrocks broke his leg skiing, hah, hah, so Sar’t Treloar had to coach our form instead,” the innocent one piped happily. “He’s a great coach!”

    I goggled at him. This fabled Sar’t Treloar is the terror of the upper forms, according to older if not wiser heads than the Very Small Bean’s. He takes Manly subjects like Shop, and Rifle Brigade (well I did say they’re very Trad. at Marbledown, didn’t I?). “Shop” is Macho-Speak for tinkering with cars’ engines and sawing stuff up and dangerously welding things and Egg, Flossie, Bean and Crumpet are all hopelessly cackhanded at it and wouldn’t know their arse from their elbow let alone a Gasket from a Sump Cap, unquote. And if he lives to be a hundred he will never let Crumpy near a (insert name of hot, dangerous implement) again.

    “So—uh—he’s a good swimmer, is he?” I croaked, barely able to utter. In fact barely able to breathe, tho it wasn’t the pool: I was hanging on to the rail at the precise moment.

    “Gosh, yes! He was in the Olympics!” he breathed reverently.

    “Oh.”

    “Swimming and rifle-shoot!” he added excitedly not to say technically.

    “Oh.”

    “Um, well, it was only the relay team, but they did really, really good and almost beat the Australians!”

    “Oh. Um, did they? That was good, was it?”

    “Of course!” he replied with huge scorn. “The Australians and the Americans almost always win!”

    “I see. Well, good for Sar’t Treloar. Um, just run by me again what he was a sergeant in, would you, Bean Minor?”

    “Honestly! You are hopeless! The SAS!”

    I gulped. Even I had heard of that hopelessly macho crowd of killers. And that was the man they set to coach little boys? Jesus!

    “Yes, um, I see… Bean Minor, wouldn’t you rather give putrid School away and go to live with Grannie and learn ab—”

    He gaped at me in horror. “No! Have you gone bonkers?”

    “—learn about vintages and le vendange and bottling and cellaring and all that stuff,” I ended sadly.

    “I know all that anyway,” he said with a sniff. “Only they wouldn’t believe me at School. I wrote an essay on it because we could choose, you see, and putrid Bug-Eyed Billy said I must’ve cheated and got it out of a book. So I told Bean but he just laughed and said it served me right for being such a twit, so then I told Egg and Flossie but Flossie said it was injudicious of me and what did I expect of a bloody hidebound Old School Tie-ed barracks like Marbledown. But Egg was very angry and he said well it was no use speaking to the Housemaster ’cos of course he’s always on Bug-Eyed Billy’s side, they play putrid backgammon together, and we’d better take it straight to the Beak.”

    I gulped.

    “He’s all right,” the tiny sibling assured me.

    “Is he, Bean Minor, darling?” I croaked.

    “Don’t call me that, for Pete’s sake, it’s soppy!” the child ordered.

    “Well um, what did the Beak say?”

    “Um… I didn’t get all of it, some of it was rather hard English words,” he admitted. “But I could see he was really annoyed with Bug-Eyed Billy! And he said he was glad to see Egg was, um, beginning to grasp what a sense of responsibility was at last. I think it was grasp. And he read it right through and he said it was excellent but I’d better recheck my English spelling and given my age it was definitely an A!” he beamed.

    “Gosh,” I croaked.

    “I said, he’s all right!”

    “Yeah, he sounds it. Um, but after that, Bean Minor, didn’t bloody Bug-Eyed Billy victimise you?”

    “No, he just never spoke to me or looked at me for the rest of the term and then he left!” he beamed. “I wish I’d known he wasn’t going to stay on, ’cos then I wouldn’t’ve cared so much about the essay, really.”

    “Uh… Bean Minor…”

    “Yes?” the innocent one piped.

    “Never mind. –If this wasn’t a public place I’d humiliate you horribly by kissing your innocent curly head.”

    “Huh! I’d like to see you try!” With this he pushed off vigorously from the end of the pool, doubtless in the approved Sar’t Treloar manner, and thrashed away in a distinctly manly if rather untidy and splashy fashion.

April 19 Not. Continuing straight on: Asking myself somewhat dazedly why the blazes this was the first I’d heard of all this, I edged round to the nice shallow flight of steps which adorned the shallow end of this very sensible pool and got out. And went round to the putrid springboards, where Crumpy and Bean were still JUMPING and SPLASHING but Egg had given it away.

    “Hey, Egg…”

    “What, Sister Bean? Like some coaching?”

    “No thanks, I enjoy my ineptitude.” I sat down beside him. “Um, thanks awfully for supporting Bean Minor over his bloody essay on the arts of le vendange, la viticulture and associated topics.”

    “Think nothing of it,” he said mildly.

    “No, well, you faced up to the Beak, he said.”

    Egg smiled slightly. “He’s only a chap, Sister Bean. Not a two-headed monster or even a dragon. Very fair-minded fellow.”

    “No, well, thanks anyway, St George,” I said with a sigh.

    “Any time. I—uh—gave Bean a flea in his ear afterwards, between you and me and the gatepost,” he murmured.

    “Really? Great! He is hopeless.”

    “Mm, well, your dad’s not much chop, is he?”

    “No. –I see what you mean. Your dad’s really great!”

    “Not bad, no,” he agreed, smiling. “I’m just bloody lucky.” He eyed the pool, in which assorted idiots of both sexes were rioting around madly. “Do you think it might be possible to do some lengths in that?”

    “Not really.”

    “Never mind, I’ll give it a go!” He stood up and dived in neatly. And thrashed away splashing a lot less than Bean Minor had.

    After a while Mr Lamont came up to encourage me to “hop” onto a springboard that was now only occupied by one girl of about my own age.

    Yes, well, when your kind host who’s taken a whole day off the City to give his son’s pals a lovely day by the seaside urges you to do something it’d be rude to refuse, wouldn’t it?

    So I got onto the dashed springboard and sat down sideways like the other girl was.

    After quite some time she said sourly: “Do you want to fling yourself off this thing?”

    “No thanks, I don’t fancy it, really.”

    “Good.”

    We sat there, not diving in.

    After quite some more time she asked cautiously. “Are you a day-tripper?”

    “Yes. You?”

    “No. Staying in a foul boarding-house. Mum likes it. She thinks the seaside’s healthy. And Aunty Jean’s paying for it so we hadda come with her.”

    “I get it.”

    Pause. “What’s your name?”

    “Mel,” I replied prudently. “What’s yours?”

    “Carrie-Ann. Gruesome, eh? Mum got it out of a dumb ole pop song.”

    “Mine’s actually Mélisande ’cos my grandmother’s French,” I admitted.

    “That’s bad,” she acknowledged. Pause. “Where do you go to school?”

    “Putrid Merrifield. You?”

    “Our local comprehensive. It’s putrid too.” Pause. “What form are you in?”

    Glumly I admitted that I’d be in the putrid Sixth next term.

    “Me too,” she revealed sourly. “Ole Ma Richardson reckons I could get a scholarship if I try.”

    “Will you try?”

    “Dunno. Is it worth it?”

    I thought about it. “You’d have to go for the sort that pays for everything for it to be worth it. Unless your Aunty Jean’d cough up for stuff like books. And clothes, I s’pose.”

    “Yeah.”

    Silence.

    “Well I might,” she allowed grudgingly.

    “You can’t lose by it. It’s only one putrid year, after all.”

    “Good thinking,” she approved.

    We sat there, not diving in.

    “That’s it, Mel, dear!” Mr Lamont approved as I chose a dish of strawberry ice cream. “I do like to see a little girl with something pink!”

    I turned predictably puce, what time certain blasted boys choked on their giant helpings of banana splits or sundaes.

    Showered and changed back into our Junior Drones gear, we had been happily driven by Dave to “The Parfait Ice Cream Parlour: Ices, Sundaes, Banana Splits, Floats”. The percipient Bean had noted as we crammed into a booth with very, very large menus that they didn’t actually seem to serve parfaits but everyone ignored him.

    These huge menus offered a giant listing of “Ices, Sundaes, Banana Splits, Floats”, each category having a very large number of choices under it. All highly different, e.g. “Banana Split Neapolitan: with 2 scoop vanilla, 1 scoop strawberry, chocolate sauce, sprinkles, Parfait Ice Cream Parlour wafer” as opposed to: “Banana Split au Berry: with 2 scoop vanilla, 1 scoop strawberry, berry sauce, sprinkles, Parfait Ice Cream Parlour wafer.”

    The one the Bean chose, by contrast, was: “Banana Split au Chocolate: with 2 scoop vanilla, 1 scoop chocolate, chocolate sauce, sprinkles, Parfait Ice Cream Parlour wafer.” However, excitingly his wafer was brown, not yellow! He claimed it had chocolate in it but Bean Minor betted it only had a bit of cocoa, so Mr Lamont asked the lady at the counter (Dave’s sister, fancy that), if we could possibly have an extra choc wafer or two—twitching a banknote in his fingers—and the chocolate expert was able to verify that yes, the brown wafers contained a scanty portion of cocoa. So we all tasted a bit and had to admit he was right.

    Further analysis of the menu by the earnest Crumpet revealed that in spite of its giant list the place only had four flavours of ice cream in toto: vanilla, strawberry, chocolate, and caramel, the last-named mysteriously not being offered in any of the splits.

    So Mr Lamont hopped up and bought four dishes of two-scoop caramel, and shared it out it carefully amongst those who fancied it.

    It went, according to the Egg, so amazingly well with banana that it was very odd, nay extraordinary, that they hadn’t included it in a split.

    And the Bean had to admit it was jolly good with a bit of chocolate sauce, too.

    We stared at one another in perplexity.

    Finally the Egg said with determination: “I’ll ask them.” So he got up and went over to the counter.

    We could hear the reply quite clearly: a blank: “No-one’s ever asked for a caramel banana split.”

    “They wouldn’t have,” said Flossie faintly. “It’s not on the menu.”

    Somehow this struck a chord and we all collapsed in gales of laughter…

    And what with a second round—Er, not banana splits, lads, that might be a bit much: just dishes of a couple of scoops, eh?—our sojourn in the environs of Bexhill-on-Sea was rounded off nicely.

    Having been safely delivered by Dave to the hotel, with grinning thanks to Mr Lamont, God only knows how much he paid him all up, we used the luxurious cream facilities, made quite sure that small persons hadn’t left any items behind—Where are your socks, Bean Minor?—and piled back into the Lamontly vehicle.

    And so the charming old houses of charming old Bexhill-on-Sea were left behind and the Rolls purred on along the coast and then turned for home…

    Pretty much a perfect day, really. As things go, here on Planet Earth.

Next chapter:

https://theeggandfriends-anovel.blogspot.com/2025/12/chapter-of-accidents.html