before i die Jenny Downham

twenty-two

Four twenty and the sea is grey. So is the sky, although the sky is slightly lighter and not moving so fast. The sea makes me dizzy – something about the never-ending movement and how no one could stop it even if they wanted to.
Its crazy being here, Zoey says. How did I let you persuade me?
Were sitting on a bench on the sea front. The place is practically deserted. Far away across the sand a dog barks at the waves. Its owner is the tiniest dot on the horizon.
I used to come here on holiday every summer, I tell her. Before Mum left. Before I got sick. We used to stay at the Crosskeys Hotel. Every morning wed get up, have breakfast and spend the day on the beach. Every single day for two weeks.
Fun, fun, fun! Zoey says, and she slumps down on the bench and pulls her coat closer across her chest.
We didnt even go up to the hotel for lunch. Dad made sandwiches, and wed buy packets of Angel Delight for pudding. Hed mix it with milk on the beach in a Tupperware dish. The sound of the fork whisking against a bowl was so weird amongst the noise of the seagulls and the waves.
Zoey looks at me long and hard. Did you forget to take some kind of important medication today?
No! I grab her arm, pull her up. Come on, Ill show you the hotel we used to stay in.
We walk along the promenade. Below us, the sand is covered in cuttlefish. Theyre heavy and scarred as if theyve been flung against each other with every tide. I make a joke about picking them up and selling them
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to a pet shop for the budgies, but really its strange. I dont remember that happening when I used to come here.
Maybe its an autumn thing, Zoey says. Or pollution. The whole crazy planets dying. You should think yourself lucky youre getting out of here.
Zoey says she needs to pee, and she goes down the steps onto the beach and crouches there. I cant quite believe shes doing this. Theres hardly anyone about, but usually shed really care about somebody seeing her. Her pee gushes a hole in the sand and disappears, steaming. She looks very primeval as she hitches herself up and makes her way back to me.
We stand for a bit looking at the sea together. It rushes, whitens, retreats.
m glad youre my friend, Zoey, I say, and I take her hand in mine and hold it tight.
We walk along to the harbour. I almost tell her about Adam and the motorbike ride and what happened on the hill, but it feels too difficult, and really I dont want to talk about it. I get lost in remembering this place instead. Everythings so familiar – the souvenir hut with its buckets and spades and racks of postcards, the whitewashed walls of the ice-cream parlour and the giant pink cone glinting outside. Im even able to find the alley near the harbour thats a short cut through to the hotel.
It looks different, I tell her. It used to be bigger. But its the right place?
Yeah.
Great, so can we go back to the car now?
I open the gate, walk up the little path. I wonder if theyll let me look at the room we used to stay in.
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Christ! mutters Zoey, and she plonks herself on the wall to wait.
A middle-aged woman opens the door. She looks kind and fat and is wearing an apron. I dont remember her. Yes?
I tell her that I used to come here as a child, that we had the family room every summer for two weeks.
And are you looking for a room for tonight? she asks.
Which hadnt actually crossed my mind, but suddenly sounds like a wonderful idea. Can we have the same one?
Zoey comes marching up the path behind me, grabs my arm and spins me round. What the hell are you doing?
Booking a room.
I cant stay here, Ive got college tomorrow.
Youve always got college, I tell her. And youve got lots more tomorrows.
I think this sounds rather eloquent and it certainly seems to shut Zoey up. She slouches back to the wall and sits there gazing at the sky.
I turn back to the woman. Sorry about that, I say. I like her. She isnt at all suspicious. Perhaps I look fifty today, and she thinks Zoeys my terrible teenage daughter.
Theres a four-poster bed in there now, she says, but its still en- suite.
Good. Well take it.
We follow her upstairs. Her bottom is huge and sways as she walks. I wonder what it would be like having her for a mother.
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Here we go, she says as she opens the door. Weve completely re- decorated, so it probably looks different.
It does. The four-poster bed dominates the room. Its high and old- fashioned and draped with velvet.
We get lots of honeymooners here, the woman explains.
Fantastic! Zoey snarls.
Its difficult to see the sunny room I used to wake up in every summer. The bunk beds have gone, replaced by a table with a kettle and tea things. The arched window is familiar though, and the same fitted wardrobe lines one wall.
ll leave you to it, the woman says.
Zoey kicks off her shoes and hauls herself onto the bed. This room is seventy pounds a night! she says. Do you actually have any money on you?
I just wanted to look.
Are you insane?
I climb up beside her on the bed. No, but its going to sound stupid out loud.
She props herself up on one elbow and looks at me suspiciously. Try me.
So I tell her about the last summer I ever came here, how Mum and Dad were arguing more than ever. I tell her how at breakfast one morning, Mum wouldnt eat, said she was sick of sausages and tinned tomatoes and that it wouldve been cheaper to go to Benidorm.
Go then, Dad said. Send us a postcard when you get there.
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