A day (at the beach) in the life of a grandfather…
The request always comes on one of those summer days that a grandfather loves—the air-conditioner humming softly, cricket in full flight on the telly, and the head laid back on the chair.
Enter the beautiful apparition of a daughter-in-law as welcome as the witches of Macbeth.
And with that most terrible of announcements: “The children want a picnic at the beach.”
Do they Indeed, the dear little souls. You should have noticed, Gramps. They’ve been hanging around with their buckets and spades and towels and thongs for hours
There is no escape. Everything has been thought of: the cordial splashing in its plastic container; the egg and cucumber sandwiches already oozing behind their wrappers; the plastic tablecloth, that poor mockery of etiquette; the rug and towels; the pocket-money sticky with lolly lust
And that most terrible of second announcements: “I’ll run you to the station because the children want to go by train.”
Why is it that children want to go by train to the beach?
One finds no esoteric excitement in the old steel bowels of a Red Hen for the Supertrain never seems to stop when it’s needed.
So I go because my wife spreads before me the awful alternatives—the rake and spade.
We reach the beach after some perilous moments; people trying to open sliding doors; loud remarks about other passengers (“Look, that funny lady has chins right down her neck”)
On arrival the children, one of each sex, Immediately disappear into the doubtful interiors of railway comfort stations while I hang around outside, drawing suspicious looks from other users.
But soon the sea front, the jetty shade, burdens deposited.
The children strip; it’s a race against indecency, thrusting small wriggling legs into costumes and then the awful smearing of sun lotions, ribbons of it geysering into the air, anointing seagulls and passing dogs.
Then the children are away, bucketing to the beach.
So why not settle down, with Harold Robbins and a cucumber sandwich? Lullaby yourself to the roaring transistor on the next rug.
But wait, there’s war at the water’s edge, assault and battery in the seaweed.
“We broke his castle because he wouldn’t let us play,” say the children, indicating ruined battlements and the howling defender.
“Are these yours?” asks an angry young woman with aggressive freckles.
“They are offspring of offspring of mine,” I say.
“Cut the carping, whale guts, and mind your brats, OK?” says this vision of motherhood.
“Go sand yourself, spotty siren, I hiss.
I join my militants and potter around with seaweed.
“You don’t put seaweed there, stupid,” says the younger child, “that’s the bedroom
I notice the sun is high and I look with terrible longing at tranquil fishermen high on the jetty above me, gods in a Valhalla of languid lines and uncomplicated lunch.
“Charmain is doing a wee,” says my older charge.
“Look, I’m making bubbles,” she says while other small children gather around, for they are all interested in tidal movements of the body.
Somehow I get them back to the rug, to the cucumber sandwiches and boiled eggs, one of which is secured by a smart dog which carries it off, tosses it scornfully in the air, sits in a puddle of water and then returns to shake sand over me in a paroxysm of canine displeasure.
We slog on through crunchy cucumber and sandy sausage roll, the children sitting on the tablecloth while I balance distribution on my lap, making the meal less than desirable under the Food and Drug Act.
The dog returns and my attempts to remove it results in its showing its whole dental range. I trade snarl for snarl and it retires to the nearest beach cricket, taking up its position at silly point.
High on the jetty, some relaxed devil has caught another fish and with never a glance at those beached and badgered and sea-affronted souls below.
Things follow with nightmare rapidity: the runny ice cream; the sunburn cream going rancid; the disastrous bathing; the rescue of Charmain from a crab at the expense of sports trousers. And isn’t rescuing a maiden in distress sport at its noblest?
“He’s wet his pants,” the maiden tells interested observers.
There’s not much more to relate except, of course, the lost thong. This thong is the most precious possession, beautifully and exquisitely made and personalised to the last strap; the piece de resistance of the supermart where it was bought with due attention to colour and toe-clasping torque. And now, gone, gone. So I look
“You lost something, mate?” asks a young man, an Adelaide Adonis and tidal tyro, threatening me with a faint whiff of exotic anti-perspirant.
And so homeward.
Have you ever carried a one- thonged greasy child with wet bathers oozing through her sunsuit; with the picnic bag, tickets and rug, and a terrible sense of grievance and deprivation?
Have you endured the humiliation of seeing other passengers shift seats to avoid this rancid and gritty crew?
Oh yes, we reached home safely. I can, however, tell you from a usually reliable grandfatherly source… it’s going to be a thong, hot summer!
Max Fatchen