When he made the reservation Dave thought it was ridiculous that they couldn’t book into the B&B until 4.00pm. Surely, they couldn’t be that busy in October. It always used to be 12 noon. Back then they would get registered and then go for fish and chips. Not that first time though. Not on their honeymoon, when he carried Brenda over the threshold and they didn’t emerge from their room until much later. That was 52 years ago today, when he was as fit as a bull. He couldn’t manage it now.
     He and Brenda have stayed at the B&B in Rottingdean, many times over the years. It hasn’t changed much. It was painted black and white when they first came. Now it’s painted navy blue and there are deep red chrysanthemums spilling over the path, with the name Bayview burned into a piece of driftwood prominently displayed to the left of the front door.
     Now at 4.00pm on the dot, when Dave walks through the front door, he still expects to see either old Fred or Mary coming down the hall to greet them, though they are long gone. They were a lovely couple. Mary ran the B&B and Fred, who had been a fisherman for all his working life, could often be glimpsed pottering around the house with his feet positioned at 10 to two, as though he was still balancing on a moving deck.
     There was no double glazing then and the rooms had numbers, not fancy names. Dave remembers the old-fashioned porcelain jug and basin decorated with overblown pink roses, that used to stand on the small table in the hall. Now, Neville and Joan Fraser run the B&B, and the table has been replaced with a Reception area. There, on the window sill sits an ugly metal vase. The Frasers have a cat, and on occasions, Dave has seen him squeezed next to the vase, sunning himself.
     Looking up, Neville stands when he sees Dave come through the front door.
     ‘Good afternoon.’ Neville’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
     Walking towards the desk, Dave gives his name. He thinks the proprietor has lost weight since they came last year; he’s never asked, but from Neville’s no-nonsense manner and forthright gaze, he thinks he must have been a military man.
     ‘We’ve managed to save the room you asked for. It’s all ready. Third floor, on the right.’ He waves a bony, pale hand in the direction of the stairs.
     ‘Ah, but of course you know where it is. You’ve stayed with us before,’ he gushes, annoyed with himself for having failed to remember that. Dave bends down to pick up the luggage, then heads for the stairs.
     He’s out of breath by the time he reaches the room. As Dave opens the door, the familiarity of the room envelops him; that same unique smell of age and polish. The double room seems smaller than he remembers, but it may be because the sink that was in the corner has been replaced by a small bathroom. The oak wardrobe is the same; the door still jams every time its opened. The dressing table and chest of drawers match each other but not the wardrobe. The coffee machine is a welcome addition, as is the model ship on the windowsill. Laying the case on the bed, he wanders to the window, stepping back, head on one side, to appraise the scaled down vessel.
     His voice is full of wonder, ‘Of course. It’s HMS Victory. Same as the name on the door. Great ship. We went to see her at the Naval Dockyard at Portsmouth, that time.’
     The light is beginning to fade now as he watches the clouds travel across the bay.
     ‘It’s just the same, Brenda,’ he says from over his shoulder. ‘It’s good to come back for our anniversary, isn’t it?’ Nodding, he answers his own question. ‘We’ve got such happy memories of this place.’
Turning back to the bed he remembers Brenda has been unwell for some time. What she needs is a hot drink after the long journey.
     ‘I’ll make us a cup of tea.’ He fills the kettle, switching it on, eying it suspiciously as it coughs into life.
     ‘Why don’t you freshen up while I unpack?’ he suggests.
     He begins to take the clothes out of the case. He knows she wouldn’t approve of how and where he puts them; and would probably take them all out, tutting under her breath, placing them where she thinks they should go. That’s Brenda. Always one to do things properly. They’ve been together for over half their lifetimes and she has been his rock throughout.
     With gentle fingers he lays out her rose-coloured nightie, smoothing the material, stepping back to admire the satin draping over the patterned beige bedspread. It doesn’t complement the nightie, but never mind. It’s then his stomach lurches at the thought of what he has done.
     Placing his last pair of socks in a drawer, pushing it closed, he hoists the empty suitcase on top of the wardrobe. Perching cautiously on the edge of the bed, waiting for the familiar squeak of protest from the springs, he’s surprised there is none. It can’t be the original mattress.
     ‘D’you remember the springs squeaked so much that first night?’ His eyes crinkle with mischief recalling her embarrassment. Talking to his beloved Brenda brings those precious memories back. Remembering those happy times, it is as though she were there, sharing them with him.
     ‘We dragged the covers off the bed and slept on the floor. It was our little secret, wasn’t it?’
     Stretching over he reaches for the bottle he’d placed by the bedside earlier. Taking a hefty swig, easing back, he lays his large calloused hand on the nightie, taking pleasure from its softness and the warm glow of the whiskey hitting his stomach.
     Half asleep, not bothering to check the time or switch on the bedside lamp, he feels for the bottle again. After a few large gulps, his mind travels back to happier times.

 

                                                                      *               *               *

Unfamiliar sounds wake him with a start. Footsteps are passing outside the room. Sunlight streams through the window casting long shadows on the furniture. Inert, he lays tangled in the bedcovers. His head feels woozy and his throat is so dry it hurts to swallow. He can’t remember getting undressed, or getting into bed. His dreams were so vivid, he has trouble disassociating himself from them. Stretching, he picks up the nightdress which had fallen to the floor. He knows he is alone, but his heart, forever hopeful, has him glancing towards the bathroom, just in case she could be in there. Of course, she isn’t.
     His tired eyes scan the room, pausing at the coffee machine. It’s exactly as it was yesterday, with the little sachets and packets of biscuits propped against it.
     Crawling out of bed, feeling his 74 years, he whispers his daily mantra to Brenda, ‘Good morning, my love.’ His heart aches for her.
     The hum of conversation and the smell of fried bacon has Dave feeling slightly nauseous as he enters the bustle and noise of the Dining Room.
     Most of the tables are occupied, but seeing one family preparing to leave, he makes his way over. They exchange pleasantries as they pass. Feeling conspicuous he wishes he’d picked up one of the free newspapers when he walked in. He sits quietly until the tall waitress comes over.
     ‘Good morning, sir. Tea or coffee?’ He thinks her accent is probably Eastern European, but he doesn’t ask.
     ‘Coffee, please.’
     She has pale eyes and a warm smile. ‘I get for you. Please help yourself from buffet.’ She waves her arm towards the buffet table like an air hostess indicating the escape exits.
     He ambles over, but nothing tempts him. After some deliberation he settles for just toast and coffee.
     Pouring his second cup, he wonders how he will fill his day. He hadn’t given that a thought before he booked. When he was with Brenda, they usually headed to the shops on their first morning. With a sad smile he remembers that’s where she bought the pink nightie.

                                                                      *               *               *

Stepping outside, filling his lungs with fresh air, he heads for the cliff overlooking Rottingdean’s pebble beach, tucked between the groynes and breakwaters so typical of the Sussex coast. He and Brenda liked to walk this path, appreciating the sea air, the view and the vintage beach huts dotted along the white cliffs,
     Feeling lightheaded, he knows he has walked too far. He should have had something more substantial for breakfast. Then panic hits. He hasn’t got his tablets with him. Tablets for angina; for when he feels breathless, like now. That makes his heart race even more. Too late now but, he knows the Anchor pub is not far ahead. It’s a pub they visited often; he would take Brenda there for a surprise, only knowing her she probably guessed, but she never let on.
     Stepping into the pub it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the low-level lighting. Approaching the Bar, he expects to see a familiar face behind it, but the young man with the beard and floppy hair, backlit by bottles and optics reflected in the smoked mirror behind, tells him that the pub is now a gastro pub, under new management.
     Feeling deflated, and with the Bartender waiting patiently for him to make up his mind, Dave hastily scans the chalkboard on the wall, displaying the day’s Specials.
     ‘I’ll have the steak and ale pie, please. And a pint.’
     The Bartender, keen to show off his knowledge, explains the merits of the many beers on offer. Dave really couldn’t care, but he doesn’t want to seem impolite. Finally, he makes his choice, carrying his expensive drink to a table well away from the other diners. While waiting for his pie, he is forced to listen to a group of men, positioned between him and the toilets, all keen to outdo each other, braying and snorting like donkeys. Several of the diners show their obvious displeasure at the noise.
     He wishes he hadn’t bothered to come now.
     The pie is taking its time to arrive and Dave is on his second pint. He knows he shouldn’t be drinking on an empty stomach. Brenda would say something about that. She didn’t like him tipsy. Unbidden thoughts of that dreadful night slither into his conscience. He wasn’t tipsy then so can’t even use that as an excuse.
     It happened a few years ago. Totally out of the blue. The haulage business was doing well and he and Brenda were looking forward to easing back a bit and enjoying the fruits of their labour. She hadn’t been feeling well for a while then, and finally taking Dave’s advice she went to the doctors, who sent her to the hospital for some tests. There, they discovered a large tumour in her back. The news was devastating. They operated on her quickly and it was touch and go. Carol, her sister, travelled from Yorkshire to be by her side, planning to stay until they had a prognosis.
     Dave had dated Carol in the early days but when she found someone with better prospects, she finished with him. It came as no surprise when she announced she was getting married. To a London stockbroker, no less.

                                                                      *               *               *

Carol stayed at Dave and Brenda’s house and was a big help with the cooking, cleaning, and hospital visiting when Dave couldn’t get there. One evening, after dinner, she confided to him that she and Stewart were having marriage problems. Seeing how upset she was, Dave opened a bottle of wine hoping it might help lift her mood. As he was catching the ferry to Holland early the next morning, he didn’t drink. Secretly he was relieved when she finally said a teary goodnight, so he could get to bed.
     This is the point where Dave breaks out in a cold sweat as he remembers, and has difficulty admitting the truth. He was in a deep sleep and didn’t hear her come into the bedroom, or feel her climb into bed beside him, whispering in his ear and stroking his body. In that altered state between sleep and reality, he thought was making love to his wife. Slowly, too slowly, reality hit. By then, he knew in his heart it wasn’t Brenda, but he was so aroused he couldn’t stop. The knowledge that his wife was seriously ill in hospital and that he was in bed with his sister-in-law, didn’t stop him. Though thoroughly ashamed of his actions he needed that release.
     Racked with guilt he’d been unable to sleep. When he crawled from his bed the next morning, Carol was back in the guest bedroom. Neither of them ever mentioned it, both pretending that night had never happened, but Dave would never forgive himself for his betrayal.
     Leaving the Anchor, he walks along the coastal path where the breeze is cooler. The smell of late summer flowers mingling with the tang of salt and seaweed, perfumes the air. He follows the path down to the beach. It’s hard going walking on the loose shingle and he wonders why he has come so far. Making his way to a large rocky outcrop resting against a rotting wooden groyne, he eases his back into the natural curve of the rock. It’s quite comfortable. The tide is coming in fast now, attracting seabirds who streak across the sky like Exocet missiles, swooping and diving for food. Their strident calls drown out the sound of the incoming waves.
     Closing his eyes against the sun’s glare he thinks of Brenda, before his conscience drags him down the black abyss to confront his infidelity with her sister. Moaning in anguish, he breaks out in a cold sweat. Knowing he doesn’t have his pills with him just makes him more anxious. His chest feels tight, he is hyperventilating, as he tries to control his breathing.
     Footsteps are crunching over the pebbles towards him but he doesn’t open his eyes.
     ‘Dave?’ She asks unnecessarily. He senses her shadow standing over him. He is incredibly tired. Even the warmth of the winter sun playing on his eyelids isn’t enough to make him open them; he knows if he does then the dream will vanish and reality will fill the void.
     The pebbles shift as she lowers herself down next to him. It’s his Brenda. He can smell her perfume, Chanel No 5. Instinctively he puts his arms around her, feeling the curve of her body pressing tightly against him.
     ‘I know what you did,’ she whispers, her warm breath tickling his cheek. ‘I know the pain it’s caused you.’ He feels the empty space as she pulls away to look at him.
     ‘Why didn’t you tell me? I would have forgiven you,’ she sounds so sad, he is unable to speak. He hasn’t the words, only tears of shame, and gratitude. He pulls her closer still.

                                                                      *               *               *

Early the next morning Neville Fraser strides into the kitchen of the B&B, his sharp nose twitching like a weasel, at the sight of his wife lowering sausages into a spitting frying pan.
     ‘Try not to burn them this time.’
     Joan’s mouth tightens at his harsh words, but she stays silent.
     Hearing a car door slam outside Neville sprints quickly into the empty dining room to peer out of the window. He is surprised and alarmed to see a police car parked there and a policeman striding past the chrysanthemums to their front door. Knowing this does not look good for business, he rushes to the door, opening it just as Sgt Coppins raises his hand to ring the bell.
     ‘Morning, Sir. Are you the owner of this hotel?’ Neville is taken aback by how young the policeman looks.
     ‘Yes.’ Neville replies cautiously, not feeling the need to correct the policeman’s error in calling Bayview an hotel. Discreetly he looks both ways along the road to see if anyone is witnessing this unfortunate exchange.
     Sgt Coppins offers his identification to the proprietor.
     Neville leans forward, ‘Is anything wrong, Officer?’
     The policeman, aware of Neville’s anxiety and the impact of his policeman’s uniform, stands straighter, taking his time to be the bearer of such important news.
     ‘We believe you may be able to help us, Sir. We just need you to verify some details. A body was found early this morning down on the beach. We think…’
     Neville’s pale eyes widen in shock. ‘A dead body?’ His interest is piqued, remembering his days in service, when he too was proud to wear a uniform.
     ‘Yes, I’m afraid so…We think it was a heart attack, although we can’t be certain at this stage,’ the Policeman coughs, steering the conversation back to safer ground, unwilling to divulge too much information. ‘The gentleman was carrying a room key from this hotel …So would you mind checking the key against your guest list?’
     ‘No, of course not. Come through.’ Holding the door, he leads the Policeman to the Reception area, taking his position behind the desk. ‘What room did you say?’ Neville asks, clearing a space on the desk top for the Register.
     ‘I didn’t, Sir, but I have the key here.’ The policeman produces an evidence bag with a key clearly visible inside. Holding it flat in his hand, the room name is uppermost, and when he turns it over, Bayview can be seen printed on the underside. Sgt Coppins looks directly at Neville, unnerving him. Intrigued, the policeman asks, ‘HMS Victory. Like the ship?’
     Yes. Just our little touch of individuality,’ Neville explains. We decided to name our rooms after famous British ships.’ Reaching under the counter he produces the heavy, maroon bound Guest Book, flicking the pages until they open at the appropriate page, turning the book with a flourish so the policeman can read it. ‘Here you are, Sargeant.’
     The Sgt runs his thick finger down the list of names. ‘I’ve found it.’ He taps the entry, ‘Mr & Mrs Stock.’