Beneath a tired, old Trilby, eyes squeezed shut on his aged face, he sucked the cold, salty, morning mist through his thin, grey beard. Deep laboured breaths broke into a bout of harsh coughing as he questioned his maxim of the last twenty years: the climb to the cliff top is my friend. No bungalow legs for me.
Leaning on his cane, his once main-mast back bent like a spinnaker, he reflected. Most every morning since his retirement, regular as the tides below, he’d marched, strolled, then struggled to the shelter overlooking the bay. He protested to his God, between coughs, how the climb had grown higher and steeper over the autumn of his life.
When the coughing abated, he opened his watering eyes. The familiar dark wooden bench in the shelter beckoned like a traveler’s inn. The flask in the pocket of his heavy coat clunked against his mobile phone, dormant in the inside pocket. He was ready for that hot cup of coffee.
He took two steps and paused: at the end of the bench was a bundle. He blinked, took a cloth from his pocket, wiped the mist from his glasses, blinked again and edged closer.
A patchy frost glistened on a dark green fabric. Moving nearer, he discerned buttons and spiky blonde hair protruding in the shelter’s corner. A set of scarlet painted toenails peeked out from a silver, high-heeled shoe hanging over the edge of the seat. He saw no movement, approached and jostled the body. It wobbled but no more. He felt the foot, the nylon was smooth, soft but cold. Pulling the coat away from her hair, he cringed as he caught a whiff of Tesco’s finest Channel mingled with gin. A young girl’s head emerged. Teenage spots under smudged make-up and fashionable face jewellery spoilt a pretty young countenance.
He felt her neck for a pulse; strong even through his cold, numb fingers. Rocking her shoulders gently, then firmer, brought a groan. Her eyes eased open, emerald green like Elouise’s – memories...
He smiled. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Who the fuck are you?’
National service, football crowds and the youngsters day-tripping to his seaside town meant he was no stranger to profanities. He stepped backed, sighed and replied, ‘My name is Pym. I thought you might be unwell.’
The girl huffed.
Sleepers 2
‘Sod you then.’
He turned away and went to sit at the far end of the bench. Numbed fingers poured his coffee while he watched the girl struggle to right herself.
Silly bitch.
Easing herself to the vertical, she fought to stop the world spinning and her body shivering.
Where am I? What happened last night after the pub? Bleeding so called mates have left me here, fuck ‘em. I can’t even remember leaving the place. And who the hell’s this old geezer? Touched me he did, pervert – God, it’s fucking cold.
She pulled her summer coat over her shoulders and hugged it to her. She wanted to get back to the caravan but didn’t feel up to standing. Not yet.
I’ll be alright. It’s just a hangover. Unless...I usually watch my drinks but I was so out of it last night. Has that prick Jonny slipped me a sweetie? Or...Oh fuck no. She slid her hand down the front of her skirt. Thank Christ.
From the corner of her eye, the man, Pym, replaced the stopper on this flask and blew gently over the cup. He was gazing out over the misty sea but when she gave a shivering groan, his Trilby turned toward her. She looked away but she couldn’t stop shaking.
‘Coffee?’ His croaky voice surprised her.
Her nostrils flared as she turned back to him and saw the proffered, steaming cup. The aroma hit her like a Jägerbomb. She swallowed, nodded and staggered to her feet like a chick from its shell. And with one hand on the back of the bench, she waddled over. ‘Ta.’
She slumped down, not too close to him, took and cradled the drink, then blew and sipped. When he started his raking cough again, she shied further away. Don’t want his germs. He’ll bark his bleeding guts up in a minute.
She belched, caught a whiff of something bad and felt sick. She’d had nights like that before but she’d always got home and spent the day sleeping it off: she was a survivor. ‘God I’m fucking cold,’ she murmured and the world began to sway.
He saw her rocking and grabbed the coffee before it spilled. ‘Look at the state of you.’
The sudden movement forced him to hold back a cough, but only momentarily. When it came, it brought a pain in his chest – not for the first time.
Sleepers 3
He felt wretched but the girl too, was looking frightful. Not sure she’s worth it, but...
He removed his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders, pulling it tight across her chest. He felt his mobile in the pocket and reached inside to retrieve it. She flung him a darting stare as his arm brushed her breast but her eyes rolled up, her head flopped down and she collapsed into his arms.
He rubbed her hands and slapped her face without response. Her breathing had grown shallow and she felt like ice. He called for help until his mind became fuzzy; no one came. He switched on the phone, a gift from his daughter in case of emergency. He’d never used it.
‘I’m getting you an ambulance, if I can work this thing.’
What do I press? Menu? Okay, now what? Contacts? No I don’t want them, I just want... Ah there. With a shivering finger, he touched the nine three, careful times.
Gulls cawed above while a chaffinch alighted the bench searching for crumbs. ’They’re on their way,’ he said at last and the sun squeezed through to bring the day’s first warmth.
He lowered her head into his lap, swaddled his arms around her, breathed his tension away and let his eyes close.
A too familiar whining woke her. Through a half open, bleary eye, red and blue flashes reflected in the shelter’s window and panic gripped her for a second. As her eyes cleared, the mobile in the man’s hand, inches from her nose, appeared. He’s got the ambulance for me.
From her sickening stomach, she groaned, ’They’re here Mister.’ She felt his coat around her and his heavy arm on her shoulder. ’Thanks for the coat.’ Decent geezer after all. She took his hand to move it – it was frozen.
‘Mister... Mister... Wake up, Mister Pym!’