Short Story
Sunday in Blackpool
Sweeping her long dark hair away from her beautiful, lively face
It was my haven. A small café called Daphne’s in the warren of streets leading off from the promenade in Blackpool. I doubt if I could ever find it again, seeing as all this happened back in the summer of 1977.
I called it a haven because I was comfortable there. Blackpool was a new town to me and to be able find a place where I could sit, read a book, drink a coffee and eat a slice of Black Forest cherry gateau, well it was a sort of joy.
It hardly rained during that summer but one Sunday I was sitting there and the heavens opened and the place suddenly filled with damp miserable people. Day trippers. Or people down for a fortnight of fun. I tried to ignore them as they piled in and some of them even plonked themselves at my table. Without even a ‘do you mind?’
I decided to make a swift exit but I noticed Daphne was looking flustered, which wasn’t like her. I walked over to the counter. I didn’t have to say anything. She just knew I was offering to help. I’d told her once, during one of our brief chats, that I’d worked in a hotel, so she knew I was up to the task.
‘You can come again.’ she said, as she locked the door when the last customer had left. ‘I don’t know what I would have done without you.’
‘Happy to help, Daphne.’ I said.
‘I owe you a drink, young man.’ she said, as she put on her coat.
‘I’ve had enough, thanks.’
‘No. A real drink. A drink drink. Come on. Chop chop.’
We didn’t have to go far, which is just as well, as it was still raining.
‘Is this your local?’ I said, as we stood at the bar.
‘Yes. I like it here. It’s small and out of the way.’
‘A sort of haven?’
‘If you like. I don’t get any trouble here.’
‘Trouble?’
‘You know. Lads. Coming on to me. Trying their luck. I can’t be doing with it.’
I didn’t know what to say so I just nodded like one of those nodding dogs in the back of cars.
‘Now what you having? Oh sorry chuck. I don’t even know your name. How rude of me is that?’
‘Don’t worry, it doesn’t matter. I never said. It’s Brian and I’ll have a pint please.’
We sat facing each other in a small back room in the pub called the snug.
‘Cheers.’ she said, as we chinked our glasses together. My pint of best and her Dubonnet and bitter lemon. ‘You’re a life saver Brian.’
She’d taken her damp coat off and hung it on the back of her chair. Water pooling on the floorboards. I took her all in. She was chatting but it was as if I’d turned off the sound. She was all smiles and gesticulation. Continually sweeping her long dark hair away from her beautiful, lively face. Touching my hand every now and then, for the briefest of moments.
‘Same again?’ I said.
‘Don’t mind if I do.’
We were very snug now. Sitting side by side. Thigh against thigh. My heart was starting to race as I silently drank my beer and she sipped her Dubonnet. She snuggled up to me.
‘This is nice Brian. Very nice. Nicest Sunday I’ve had in a long time.’
‘And me Daphne.’
We had a third round in the pub, during which she gently caressed the inside of my thigh. I followed suit and ran my hand up her skirt before touching, ever so lightly, her knickers. She closed her thighs together, trapping my hand. She smiled and kissed me on the ear.
I walked her back to her flat. We cut down to the prom just by the North Pier. The sun was out again and so were the trippers.
‘Do you fancy a show sometime?’
‘I don’t know. What’s on?
‘Music. Comedy. Take your pick. She pointed to a face on the billboard as she was saying this. ‘He’s very good. Does all those characters. He’s an impresh…..’
‘An impressionist?’
‘That’s it. Like that fellow Monet.’
‘But he wasn’t funny.’
‘We strolled on, laughing, hand in hand before crossing back over the road, narrowly missing a tram. We were a bit drunk.
She owned a flat in an old house. Three floors up. With a sea view.
Daphne got out a bottle of Mateus Rosé from the fridge, poured a couple of glasses and put an LP on the record player. It was the latest album from Fleetwood Mac she told me. Rumours. We held each other close and kissed. The rosé swilled about our mouths.
Then she flopped on the bed.
‘Like what you see?’ she said, pulling up her skirt..
‘Best view in Blackpool.’
She touched herself between the legs. She was silent now apart from a barely audible murmur as she pulled her pale blue knickers to one side and slid two fingers inside her vagina.
We fucked to the sound of a creaking bed, gulls squawking and Fleetwood Mac.
It really was the nicest of Sundays.
Entered into Wicked Wednesday — prompt of Comfort.
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