Read the full write-up by Literary Editor, Tom Gatti in The Observer here, and find the book that inspired the competition, Having a Wonderful Time, over on the Redstone Press website.
For the attention of Nona VI, Chief Archivist
Reference: 6582/61
Collection: 503/Pre-DE British South Coast
Title: Photographic card depicting “Broadstairs Beach, 1993” [DE–55]
Archivist: Tressa II
Archive Date: 30/12/DE+81
Exhibit found during excavation of the 33rd Quadrant, District B67. An elderly male stands near the shoreline, while children play in the background. Image lends weight to the theory of a population-level social structure supporting those too young or too old (or otherwise unable) to perform manual labour [cross-reference collections 8/“Family Unit” and 276/“Welfare System”].
A flimsy-looking structure appears to dispense a variety of garish produce [food?]. Note reference to consumption of ‘dogs’, contradicting the supposition that, pre-Delta Event, canines served as domestic companions, only becoming a staple part of the human food supply following the DE+9 Europa Famine [cross-reference collection 65/“Pets”].
Exhibit also supports the belief that, pre-DE, coastal zones were areas of relaxation and leisure. The sea looks non-phosphorescent and – though unconfirmed in this image – could allegedly be swum in prior to its toxification and the disruption of vital thermohaline currents [cross-reference collection 678: “Historic Maritime Activities”].
In the foreground, low, flat sand forms a traversable “beach”; presumably possible due to (i) subdued tidal patterns and (ii) far fewer severe meteorological events. The sky is photo-transparent and calm, further evidencing a lack of atmospheric extremes.
N – We would have liked it here. Wish I could try candy floss with you. Tx
– Jules Lane
Dear Barbara
This is her, the woman Arthur still refers to as “that harlequin blanket woman”.
I found this postcard in a flea market yesterday while Arthur was visiting the cathedral. Arthur thinks it was produced to publicise her novel. Yes, that novel, the one people thought was based on us. How could it be? We weren’t running a brothel under the disguise of a seaside boarding house. I still find that suggestion distasteful.
I don’t think Arthur has ever got over it. He still has nightmares about the summer of 1973 when she stayed in room 12. I kept asking her not to smoke in bed, not to leave her knickers on the floor. We weren’t used to women like her. Women usually came to Shoreham with husbands and large suitcases. She came alone, with attitude and a harlequin blanket.
Six months later we saw her on TV talking about her bestselling novel. They said it steamed with sex and filthy late-night parties. I refused to read it and so did Arthur. She made him feel very uncomfortable, the way she said “lightly poached eggs” at breakfast, the way she pouted on TV and acted all flirtatious. And you know what Arthur is like. He thinks sex is only for horses.
Finding this postcard brought it all back but I suppose, in a funny sort of way, she did us a favour in the end. We were fully booked every summer until we retired.
Your loving sister
Mary
– Liz Gwinnell
Father built a shutter fast enough to stop a bird’s wings at the top of its stroke. Birds, however, did not take instruction. I did.
The gap was five feet, give or take. Boys from the hotel cleared it for pennies. I had cleared it barefoot, carrying our dog. I had never done so over and over, for pa who kept saying: once more, Ash, the light has moved.
The first plate fogged. The second he did not explain. On the third I landed badly and kept quiet about my ankle. On the fourth a wind rose up the gorge and he kept me on the far rock for thirty minutes, shouting I looked like a boy falling, not a man leaping.
There was a fifth. A sixth. A seventh which he lost to a cloud, and an eighth, to a boy from the hotel walking into the frame.
On the ninth he shouted my name, and I knew he had it.
He sold that photograph ten thousand times. It hung in the parlour until he died. It hangs there still and I am in it, a bird stopped at the top of its stroke.
– Dieter Rogiers
Well done all!