If only it could always be like this  by S J Butler 

 

Wet then dry I’m wrapped in a large beach towel still shivering for good effect, teeth chattering away like an approaching freight train. Grandad pats my shoulders and back as I do a kind of toe-to-toe dance to get warm, whilst Mum pours hot sweet tea from a thermos flask. One slurp and I’m revived.  

‘Good swimmer,’ remarks Grandad proudly, letting me sit in his deckchair.  

‘Hungry as well, I bet,’ says Mum passing around cucumber sandwiches.  

The soft swish of the waves on the shoreline sings like a lullaby. I struggle to keep my eyes open as I take a bite; the sun almost kissing the side of my face, the sounds of summer ringing out: a rounders bat hitting a ball, children whooping; gulls shrieking high above; a football being kicked and a mother calling out to her child to not go far.  

‘There’s a kite,’ points out Grandad as I look expectantly to the never-ending sky where a red, green, and yellow piece of flapping canvas rises and then ceremoniously dips and hurtles towards the white sand, only to dramatically lift again before impact and head towards the glistening sea. The smell of suntan lotion; chips; coffee and candy floss drifts on the gentle breeze; a child with a tin bucket taps its top with a spade, her father lifting it to reveal a castle. Mum plops a sailor’s hat on my head (the one I’d admired at the shop earlier). ‘Ahoy there!’ shouts Grandad as I salute him and take another swig of golden nectar.   

A transistor radio in the distance plays Let it be by The Beatles. I try to sing along but  I don’t know the words – but I’m touched by their meaning, making me happy then sad. Feeling an overwhelming love for my mother, I scrunch up like a tired kitten on the blanket beside her, resting my head on a sun-drenched lap. If only I could purr! 

‘Love you Mum,’ I say nestling in close as she ruffles my hair, then rhythmically stroking my blushing cheek in soothing circles. 

‘You too,’ she says, her sing-song voice as if wrapping me up safely in pink, fluffy, cotton wool. 

Grandad calls me a ‘silly sausage.’  

I poke my tongue out and go to scramble away as Grandad pretends to give chase. Overcome by an uncontrollable fit of the giggles, I dive theatrically to the sand holding my tiny belly as I cry tears of pure ecstasy – the ever-present freedom of childhood leading me by the hand to the gates of euphoric innocence. Suddenly, I have an impulse to shout – to say something daft and dance like a fool. An electric energy like I’d never known before or since engulfs me. 

‘I’m a silly sausage! I’m a silly sausage!’ I chant and then change it to ‘Grandad’s a silly sausage!’ 

Like the flick of a switch, the sun is temporarily shielded by an AWOL cloud. A sandpiper swoops down as if given the signal to do so. Ignoring all around it pecks away at a shell, until a bouncing beach ball lands close by and the delicate bird takes to the bluest of skies and Mum lets out a long-contented sigh. 

‘The ball’s a stupid sausage!’ I laugh kicking it towards the sea as it’s lifted by an errant gust of wind, which hurtles it back, bobbing like a balloon towards the mainland. 

If only it could always be like this: wouldn’t that be a thing?