#jaywick

“I’m to h!gh please don’t look me in my face”

Bad weather in Jaywick

Ray lifts his stick slowly and pokes at the body of a young man asleep under the lee of a boat on the beach. There is no response. Ray is a little unsteady on the wet sand and in the rain and gusts of wind he is finding it hard to walk on his baker’s van accident in Pimlico leg. Joan had always wanted them to retire to Jaywick, she had friends there and it was beside the sea and Ray wasn’t one to argue. He’d only come out on his early morning walk for some Danish bacon and the News of The World and now there was a body. He continued prodding with his stick and the young man sat up suddenly and asked Ray what he wanted. Ray explained that this was no place to sleep especially at this time of year and it was bad weather in Jaywick.

The young man is grateful for Ray’s invitation to drinks at the pub later. He brushes his teeth in the vandalised public toilets and with his little silver camera takes pictures. He walks the deserted streets and photographs the run-down huts with evocative names like ‘Y Worry’, ‘Dun Roamin’, ‘Osocosy’, ‘Rest Awhile’, and ‘Denise n Babs’. Between the rainstorms, when there’s a glimmer of light, he takes photographs and then shelters under the awnings of closed seaside shops when it’s wet, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his old army jacket, the rough horse-hair lining pricking his hands. He has tea in a cafe, all red plastic and wood, the windows steamed over. There is no one else. Joan watches him from a crack in the lace curtains and in her living room her china animals stay silent. Ray goes to buy bread and Brillo pads and he watches the young man down the road from afar. The wind picks up and the rain comes down and it’s bad weather in Jaywick.

The young man can hear the noise even before he has entered the ‘Never Say Die’ public house but as the doors close behind him there is silence. The bar is full of elderly men watching him, mostly smoking, playing dominoes, sitting on crimson velour chairs around tables full of ashtrays. It’s very smoky blue and it stings the young man’s eyes. Ray hobbles over and greets him with foaming beer. The old men gather round and ask the young man questions, leaning closer to hear him better. They buy him beer, he buys them beer. Time passes and then it is dark. The young man worries about sleeping out there in the beach wind and cold under the boat but soon he is invited to stay at Ray and Joan’s home. The two men bend into the wind and rain, in the darkness, the sodium lights glow orange reflecting on the wet ground in the beer light and the bad weather in Jaywick.

Joan, wearing her pink Terylene house coat and purple chiffon scarf greets them as they crowd into the comfortably small hut. They sit on the sofa in front of the orangey fiery fire effect fire and Ray kindly demands bacon sandwiches. Joan toasts Sunblest bread and fries up bacon in a bit of lard. She brings them bottles of Bass beer and they smoke and joke. Ray smokes Players No6 and the young man still has half a pack of St Michel which he bought just across the choppy channel in Belgium. The little party, warm and cosy-cosy in the hut, rises in noise and drunken friendliness until they run out of things to say. The room is full of souvenirs and bric-à-brac which looks on silently. Ray is working himself up to asking something. The beer and pleasant conversation has given him courage and when Joan is out of the room he leans close to the young man. His breath smelling of fags and beer is hot in the young man’s ear and his speech is slightly slurred. Ray asks if he could do him a favour of a personal nature, he’s having a bit of trouble, you know, in the bed department with Joan and could the young man do it for him? Joan returns to the room and starts to wash the dishes, her back to them, unaware, humming. The young man gazes towards her. The bric-à-brac looks on silently. The young man doesn’t want to offend anyone and politely refuses. After a few moments Ray is not offended in any way, standing, smiling he jumps up, snapping his braces and patting Joan’s pink Terylene behind he exclaims defiantly that, well then, he’d just have to do it himself. The young man is relieved, and thinking of the dark beach, makes his bed on the sofa. He looks out of the window at the dancing stormy branches and the rain drops streaking the glass because it’s bad weather in Jaywick.

The young man lies on the uncomfy uncomfortable sofa in the semi-darkness, he’s not very tired. Soon he can hear a rhythmical banging against the wall next to the sofa. In the gloom he sees the pictures on the wall moving and then on the shelf the bric-à-brac begins to dance around to the vibration. The trees form jumping shadows on the wall in orange and the wind whoops and roars. Then there’s the sound of dustbin lids and small dogs barking in the distance. The rain rattles the windows and it’s bad weather in Jaywick.

Later, in the orange glow the bric-à-brac is now still. The young man watches them with interest. On the shelf above the radiogram are a large collection of souvenirs and amongst them are: a model seal made of real seal fur, a goldfish held forever in a block of perspex, a red and blue glass Murano style Bambi frozen in a Bambi pose, a black china Manx cat from the Isle of Man, just one china 101 Dalmatians dalmatian, a shiny Jersey cow from Jersey, a china spaniel, an Amari tea cup, a bowls trophy and a dog completely made from Woodbine packets. They talk happily to each other, quiet at first then louder, about the days of summer, blue on blue skies, sunshine, seagulls, fish and chips, the smell of vinegar, visitors. The young man smiles and agrees, closes his eyes, dreams of better days while outside it’s bad weather in Jaywick.

Ray coughs, takes his tablets at the kitchen sink and puts the kettle on. Soon it starts to sing and then there’s the clink of teaspoons and the pouring. He takes a cup to Joan. He takes a cup to the young man who cradles it in his hands to warm them. Ray wonders if the weather will be any better today and the steam rises from the brew. The young man packs his things into an old rucksack and explains it’s time to leave. Ray says kind and happy words, there is some back slapping. The young man steps out into the rain, he doesn’t look back and walks down the street to the sea wall. Ray stands at the door watching as the hunched figure becomes more and more distant, Joan pulls back the net curtains and watches as he walks away. The young man walks south towards the estuary and Brightlingsea, he passes ‘Las Vegas’, ‘Club Morocco’ and the Martello tower, striding out onto the wild lands. The clouds part and the sun beams down on him warming his soul, the skylarks rise up and chatter above his head. He feels happy and purposeful in the sun. He turns to look back at the town and there the clouded horizon is still dark and black blue with rain and it’s bad weather in Jaywick.

Some time later and far to the north another young man is hitch hiking along the A133. He’s been waiting a while and he’s come a long way but now an old white delivery van is slowing down to pick him up. The driver is a big burly bloke delivering bacon from Colchester and asks the young man, where he is going. The cab is cluttered full of paper work and sweet wrappers, thermos flasks, Playboy magazines and a bunch of plastic flowers. The radio is tuned to BBC Radio One but it’s too noisy to hear it. The young man replies that he’s going to Jaywick. After a while in the noisy cab, travelling east towards the sea, the burly bloke shouts over the roar that he’d better wrap up warm because it looks like it’s bad weather in Jaywick.

The End

Editing: John Coombes, Georgia Rakusen

Bad weather in Jaywick