The sky broke over the ocean like a fresco: the only fresco Kate had ever seen. It was also the only ocean, aside from pictures in her schoolbooks. Yet they were aged, from the time of her father’s war: this sight could never. Everything was fresh and new and exciting in a way she’d never felt in Nottingham.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” said Julie, the red ribbons in her hair flying like the streamers of a kite.
“Yes,” whispered Kate, smelling the sea for the first time in her life.
“Oh lets go!” cried Julie, throwing her arms in the air before letting them fall to her head.
Kate’s face was unmoved. She was struggling to find a way to express her joy. For a moment, she thought she might cry.
Julie wouldn’t wait, however. Before Kate replied, she was striding down the road towards the bay. Her socks had fallen right to her ankles like the ones in American magazines, but Julie didn’t stop to pull them up. Kate stood for a moment and watched her friend, and finally laughed.
“Wait for me!” she shouted, running to catch up. She felt the sea breeze whip her locks. In the corner of her eye, hundreds of tiny people sparkled on the sand. They all looked so colourful.
Kate caught up with Julie, arriving at a terraced garden. Stone steps wound down to the seafront under old black lampposts and cypress trees. In the bright summer sun, the glimmering sea ahead, Kate thought this must be Eden.
Julie grabbed her arm and pointed. “Look!” she hissed, “There’s horse-rides—oh we have to Kate, we have to!”
A shiver ran up Kate’s spine. She’d never ridden a horse. The great shire that had pulled her father’s cart terrified her as a girl.
“Are you sure?”
But Julie was already hopping down the steps. Her palms sweaty, Kate had no choice but to follow.
* * *
She gasped as the wind hit her. In December, the North Sea was as thick and grey as London smog. Great white rollers broke over the empty seafront; storms glared from the horizon. It was not the Scarborough Kate remembered.
“Phew,” shouted Harry, her husband. “What a day!”
Kate said nothing but faked a smile. She never thought she’d return.
“Shall we head down then?” asked Harry, grinning. He had a good face, Kate thought. It was one of the first things she’d noticed about him when he asked her to dance. Sometimes, she thought she saw Julie in it: that same, wide-eyed smile.
“Can we wait for a moment?” asked Kate, just audible over the wind.
“Wait for what?” replied Harry, still smiling.
Kate flattened her lips. She’d never told him about Julie. She hadn’t thought Scarborough would remind her. It was just one memory among many.
“Just for me to catch my breath,” said Kate, “That’s all.”
Harry stared at her until his smile faded, then shrugged and went to lean on the railings overlooking the bay. Kate stood still, her eyes drifting left and right.
“Have you been here before?” shouted Harry over the wind.
“Yes!” Kate cried. “A long time ago.” She paused, then added, “I was with my friend, Julie.”
Harry nodded. His red scarf whipped in the wind. Yes, he had such a handsome face, just like her friend’s.
Suddenly, Kate laughed: “It was the first time I’d went horse-riding.”
“Horse-riding?”
“Yes,” she smiled. “Julie’s idea. She’d ridden before, but I fell off in the sand.”
Harry grinned, though not meanly. He was never mean to Kate. “Were you OK?” he shouted.
“Oh yes. Perfectly fine. It was the first time I’d felt sand, too.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I thought it was wonderful. Thousands of golden grains. So many you couldn’t count them all.”
Harry turned and faced his wife. “Where’s Julie now?” he asked, smiling.
Kate did not look at her husband but stared right through him, towards the raging tides.
“She died.”
* * *
The gardens looked pristine. New shrubs grew beside the path, though the trees remained the same. Through autumns, winters, springs, and summers, they’d not changed since Kate was fifteen.
Nor had the sea, through storm and sunshine. Today it was sunny, and Kate was smiling. She felt the sun much more these days.
“S’that it?” shouted the little boy.
“No Billy, not that one,” replied his father. The man turned to Kate, who was dawdling as she watched the waves. “You alright mum?”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she said, her eyes catching the toddler ahead of them. “He’s just like you were.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes,” Kate nodded, the thin curls bobbing on her head, “And your father.”
Kate’s son smiled but did not meet her eye. It was still difficult to talk about dad.
From ahead came a cry: “Found it!”
Kate and her son arrived to find Billy clambering onto a wooden bench. It sat facing the railings overlooking the bay.
“Well done,” said Billy’s father, lifting him onto the seat. His son stared up at him, wide-eyed, smiling with triumph. “Can you read what it says?” asked his father, pointing to the metal plaque on the bench’s top-rail.
“Ummm… Ha… Ha-ree. Harry!”
“That’s right,” said Kate, sitting beside her grandson. She leaned back gently, as though into a friend. The old woman spoke clearly, from memory, towards the sea: “Harry Miller. 1930 to 1987. A thousand golden grains.”
Kate’s son did not follow her gaze but kept his eyes on Billy. The little boy stood up and glared at his father. “Ice cream,” he said, then dismounted the bench.
Billy’s father grinned and grabbed his son’s hand before he could run away. “I think this one needs feeding,” he said. “Did you want to come along mum?”
“No, no,” Kate shook her head, smiling. “I’ll just wait here for a moment. I’ll catch you up.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh yes,” Kate replied, her eyes not leaving the calm ocean. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”
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