A Seaside Triptych

Beach days through the lens of time. A short story by Sue Sutherland-Wood

I

They’re walking hand in hand at the water’s edge, blurred shapes against the light. It’s so hot that I can smell the coconut sunscreen on my skin as well as the greasiness of an overheated potato chip bag long since discarded. Between the brim of my hat and the warm sand, a letterbox image of the couple appears, she in a floral bikini with a mahogany flap of tummy spilling over the waistband and he, with a heavy chain supported upon a fountain of silvery chest hair that extends down across a tight dome of stomach. They disgust me at once. Don’t they know how old they are? Don’t they get it? Who would let themselves go so desperately and then, what, flaunt it? She leans into him as they pass, a tinkle of laughter at something he says.

In a single glance I note the crinkling vertical lines extending down her breasts like a dried-up riverbed, a complete lack of volume in the bottom of her bikini and veins showing blue in her legs. Thick toenails curve beneath coral polish and her bovine feet are pushed into gold strappy sandals that are way too high for the beach. Her partner slides an arm around her waist and with some imagination I can see that he may have been considered handsome once, in a 1960s ‘Madman’ kind of way.  He senses that I am watching and subtly changes his posture. Shoulders back, chest puffed out. I take off my sunglasses briefly to reward him with the full weight of my stare, narrowed eyes sooty with liner. Leaning up on one elbow I fish a cigarette and lighter from my bag, knowing he is watching and arrange my legs in a way that I know lengthens them even more. It’s amusing to think that I’m controlling his gaze. 

I am fifteen.

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II

His bare back is a perfect inverted triangle. My hands slide easily across his shoulders as I knead the sunscreen in, snowy crescents showing beneath my nails. He arches in pleasure like a cat and calls out a warning to one of our young sons who has ventured too far from the shore. The other boy is in deep concentration and a frayed seagull feather closed in his chubby fist bends slightly with the breeze as I watch him deciding where best to install. How many children have done this very thing throughout time only to completely forget the entire endeavor by the end of the day when the tide gently claws it away?

My husband is on the move now, wading out gradually, dragging his fingers in the water. My heart sings with the pleasure of being here with the three of them. I dislike swimming but I’m more than happy to be here with a book I will not read, listening to the sounds of the beach, and enjoying the heat of the sun on my body. My black swimsuit was expensive, but it fits well and is cut high in the right places. There is a wide pink zipper up the front that lends a sexy deep-sea diver effect – easy access, my husband notes approvingly. I let my mind drift to the thought of icy gin and tonics, a simple, grilled supper and an evening to ourselves that we’ve both been anticipating all day. Meaningful looks have already been exchanged.

“Mum, over here!” my son cries, waving.

I’ve always enjoyed the ritual of seeking out special stones (‘only ones with spots!’ I’m reminded) – but even as an adult, I’m still disappointed that none of them will be as beguiling once my fingers have lifted them from their watery home.

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III

Everything had felt so hopeful in the soft lighting of the changeroom.

“Super cute,” the young sales assistant had said earnestly. She looped blonde hair behind her ear. “It’s totally the one, right?” She circled me a few times feigning genuine interest, patting seams smooth, adjusting straps. I enjoyed the attention, not having been touched by anyone for some time.

But now as I struggle on my own at home against the fierce resistance of “tummy taming” fabric, coaxing and rolling the suit upwards over my body, my thighs escape like newly risen dough. The entire effect is cartoonish. Pathetic. Sad. I hate myself and the sales assistant equally.

Later still, I press some concealer along my legs to try and hide the maroon varicosity that blooms there. In the same bag as my swimsuit, there’s a cover-up that the salesperson also recommended: billowy and white, the soft cotton slips around my shoulders easily like a fairy’s cape. I smudge my eyes quickly with a soft brown pencil and carefully outline my lips trying not to notice the vertical lines. I remind myself that I am on the wrong side of fifty now and should be less critical. Still, here’s that familiar twisting sadness that rises without warning and an omnipresent, creeping panic that reminds me I am alone now. The lipstick clicks shut and falls back into my purse.

Down at the beach, coins of hard light are dancing on the water’s surface at the end of the day. It’s still warm but most people are packing up or have already gone home. I carry my sandals over two fingers and walk along listening to a bird cry in the distance. Three girls pause to watch my progress, tossing their hair back, slim feet encased in dainty sandals, big sunglasses supported on impossibly tiny noses. I feel the clear superiority of their collective stare, hear their braying laughter behind me, a gang of sinister hyaenas driving out an elder who is no longer relevant.

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As well as a lengthy career working for public library systems both in Canada and the UK, Sue Sutherland-Wood has written for many publications in print and online. Her short essays have won national awards. Read more from Sue at her Substack, Everyone Else is Taken.

Sue also wrote The Messenger for Certain Age.

Image:

Beach reflection by Vincentiu Soloman