Welcome to my world … The trouble is, Nelson is not sure which is his world any more. Being back in Blackpool is having a disorientating effect. On the one hand, as he said to Sandy, he feels about a hundred years old. The strain of the last couple of years – several murder cases, including two involving children, tensions at home and at work, a serious illness – sometimes he thinks it’s a miracle that he’s still functioning at all. On the other hand, as he passes through the familiar streets – the signs for the waxworks and the tower and the South Shore, the guest houses, their multi-coloured facades and cheerfully corny names (Funky Towers, Youanme, Gracelands) belying the desperation of their appearance – the continual delusional associations with New York (he passes three Broadway Diners in five minutes), the stalls selling barm cakes and chips with curry sauce … he can’t believe that a day has passed since he left the place. It’s as if on every street corner he might bump into his young self. Harry Nelson the gawky schoolboy in his hated grammar-school blazer, the swaggering youth with gelled-back hair, the young policeman fresh from his encounters with Fat Bernie and Sid the Greek. The sight, sound and smell of the town is in his DNA; how can he have stayed away so long?
Since he has been in Blackpool he has been plagued by this Jekyll and Hyde sensation. The place feels like home, everyone is friendlier here and motherly old ladies in shops call him ‘love’. Yet, at the same time, everything has changed. People look poor. They were poor in the old days, he supposed, but they seemed to be having more fun. He remembers Scotland Week, when the factories up north were closed and their inmates streamed down to Blackpool for their annual holiday. Those factory workers must have been poor but, by God, they used to enjoy themselves. Now there is a general sense of depression, even among the star-spangled posters for the Pleasure Beach and lookalike acts at the Grand Theatre. A few years ago there was great talk of regeneration, of building a super casino, Blackpool as the new Las Vegas but, as far as Nelson can see, this has come to nothing. About a third of the shops on the High Street are boarded up, and when he and Michelle wanted to eat out last night their choice was either chips or an American-themed pizza restaurant. He hates to think that he’s become the kind of effete southerner who can’t cope without his daily sushi fix but, all the same, a person can get tired of a carbohydrate-only diet. Jesus, he must be getting old.
On impulse he drives past his turn-off and follows the signs to Bloomfield Road. Since he last attended a football match the place seems to have become one vast car park, a concrete wasteland bordered by rows of terraced houses, all in the primary colours he remembers from childhood (when he first watched Balamory with his daughters he thought of Blackpool). He spots the ‘Donkeys Crossing’ sign that always makes him smile and a new Travelodge that seems to have sprung up next to the stadium. He is looking for the statue of Jimmy Armfield, his father’s hero, which was unveiled a few months ago. He finds it at the corner between the South Stand, the Jimmy Armfield Stand, and the hotel. Jimmy, nine foot tall and raised on a plinth, smiles into the distance, bronze foot on bronze football. Nelson parks by the kerb, gets out and touches the football boot for luck. A proper boot it is too, not one of these flimsy day-glo affairs (or, worse, white) favoured by modern players. You got out at the right time, Nelson tells the statue. You never got to see players paid half a million a week but still miss sitters from the ten-yard box. Your wife was probably just a wife, not a WAG in seven-inch stilettos. You never tweeted or blogged or appeared on I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here. God bless you, Jimmy.
The bronze figure smiles kindly down on him. Nelson gets back into his car and drives back to his mum’s house.
*
Lytham is a pleasant surprise. When Ruth drives along the promenade, the rain has stopped and the sun is sparkling in the puddles. They pass hotels, a lighthouse, a charming town square complete with floral clock, winding streets full of picturesque cottages. ‘Pretty,’ says Kate, who has just woken up. ‘Suburbia by the sea,’ says Cathbad, but he smiles to show that this is a joke.
Number One Beach Row turns out to be the end house in a terrace, white-painted with black eaves. It’s a fisherman’s cottage, situated just behind the coast road, with a tiny garden full of hollyhocks and giant daisies.
Andrea Vickers, a smiling woman with wispy grey hair, greets them at the door.
‘Welcome to Lytham,’ she says.
‘Thanks,’ says Ruth, straightening her aching back and breathing in the salty air. ‘It’s lovely to be here.’
It’s just as charming inside. In fact, it reminds Ruth of a house in a fairy tale. Everything is pretty and faded and slightly the wrong size. The sitting room has a rocking chair and a high-backed sofa covered in roses. In the kitchen, there are even three chairs at the round kitchen table.
Cathbad puts on a deep, growling voice. ‘Who’s been sitting in my chair?’
Andrea turns to Kate, who is staring, wide-eyed. ‘You’ll have to ask your daddy to read you that story.’
‘He’s not …’ begins Ruth but she’s not sure how to go on. It seems unnecessarily intimate to be explaining Kate’s parentage to a woman she has only just met. Across the room Cathbad grins at her. Ruth scowls back.
Upstairs it’s worse. Andrea throws open the door to a charming double with white-painted bed and matching wardrobe. ‘That’s for you two. Kate’s next door. It’s a lovely room for a little girl.’
Ruth smiles tightly but says nothing. The room next door has a pink bed and ballerina wallpaper. She hopes that Cathbad will be very happy there.
Back downstairs, Andrea explains the heating system and extols the attractions of Lytham. ‘There’s the park and the windmill and the lifeboat museum. And if you want adventure, Blackpool’s just up the road.’
Ruth doesn’t want adventure, she is quite certain of that. Lytham suits her – the average age of the inhabitants, as they stroll along the promenade later that evening, seems to be about eighty. The seafront itself feels old-fashioned, almost Victorian, a wide green verge with stuccoed hotels on one side and the sea on the other. Dominating the view is the huge black-and-white windmill. They walk towards it, enjoying the exercise after a day spent cooped up in the car. Kate runs along the grass, chasing the seagulls and Cathbad and Ruth follow at a more leisurely pace, Cathbad occasionally commenting on good energies and the psychic qualities of people who live within sight of the sea.
The windmill is shut, although a sign on the wooden steps announces proudly that it is open for an hour every afternoon. Kate is inclined to have a tantrum about this but Ruth bribes her with an ice cream. They walk back along the beach which is actually more of a marsh, with little streams making their way through waterlogged grass down to the sea. It reminds Ruth of the Saltmarsh. Fishing boats are moored above the tide line and seabirds peck their way across the mud. Across the estuary, they see houses, hills and, in the far distance, mountains.
‘What’s over there?’ asks Ruth.
‘Southport, I think,’ says Cathbad. ‘You can see as far as Wales apparently. That must be where those mountains are.’
Hadn’t Judy said something about Southport? thinks Ruth. She decides not to mention it.
‘I’d expected it to be more built up,’ she says. ‘You know, amusement arcades and piers.’
‘I think that’s what Blackpool’s for,’ Cathbad says. ‘This is nice, though. Peaceful.’
‘Yes,’ says Ruth. ‘That’s just what I want. A really peaceful holiday.’
CHAPTER 10
Lytham is a surprise; Pendle University is a shock. After the beauty of Pendle Forest Ruth was expecting something rather picturesque, but as she follows Clayton Henry’s directions through the back streets of Preston, her confidence starts to falter. She passes grim terraced houses, boarded-up shops, deserted mills and factories. Surely the university can’t be here? Even her own university, often described as the poor relation to the University of East Anglia, has landscaped grounds and an ornamental lake. She drives between Indian supermarkets and Polish bakeries. Preston may be multicultural but none of the cultures seems to be having a very good time. The brilliant saris of the women in the streets contrast with their glum expressions. It’s a cold summer’s day and many of them are wearing anoraks over their saris, heavy boots visible under the bright silk hems. It’s like a metaphor for the dampening effect of British life – or British weather.