There is a wall between the sea and the train tracks in Seapoint where Jimmy would sit, every Saturday and Sunday in the summer. The wall faced south-southwest, so if there was sun, it would be warm. It was out of the sea breeze, and the thick granite would hold the heat for a while. Even if the wind was coming from the south or west, the wall would radiate out the heat, unless it had been dark or wet. And it was often dark and wet, even at this time of year. But that wouldn’t bother Jimmy. It was his season, and he would sit there, and only take refuge under a nearby iron bridge when the rain was bad. He had travelled across the city, from the northside to the centre and from there to the southside, taking two buses and walking several kilometres. It took a lot longer than the train, but it was cheaper.
If you passed Jimmy, he would always smile and wave, greet people who greeted him, and make small talk with anyone who wished to do so. He always said, more or less, the same things. He would have had a swim, and the water would be ‘like soup’. If the sun was shining, he would be resting his back against the warm wall, getting a tan on the front of his body, never the back. He wore a pair of blue bathing shorts and had the kind of drawstring duffle bag that you carry on one shoulder. They had been popular ten or more years before. He brought very little with him, aside from his customary brown towel.
If the sun was not shining, he might get up and look around as he chatted, and if he spotted a bit of blue sky, he’d point to it and say that the sun would be back. If there was no visible blue sky, he’s point to a bit of cloud that he would say is ‘thinning out’. And even if no clouds were obviously thinning out, he’d spot a cloud that he’d say was moving, and that the wind was going to clear up the weather soon. Sometimes, you could see rain over the sea, approaching from the east or north. Malahide could be completely obscured, and the rain already falling on most of the city. You could see the dark, flat-bottomed clouds, with faint parallel lines of rain. But Jimmy would always find some sign telling him that the sun would come out. If the day ended gloomy, he’d pack up his duffle bag, throw it over his shoulder, and head off home with a smile and a wave.
Jimmy would be there when our holidays started in June, and he’d be there every weekend until the end of the holidays in August. Whether he was also there in May or September, which was often the best month, I don’t know. But I would almost believe that it would be a sunny day when I walked along the path between the train tracks and the sea wall during the long holidays.
On a Saturday and Sunday in summer, hundreds of people would appear on the seafront. There was the sound of competing portable radios, emitting chart toppers with a tinny, raspy quality, the smell of suntan oil, crisps, soft drinks, whipped ice cream and perhaps even the smell of the sea. But those people were only fair-weather day trippers. Jimmy was there for the season.
About the author
Simeon McCathal creates web content, non-fiction, blogs, flash fiction, epistolary writing, short stories, and creative non-fiction. Loves everyday prose with a lacquer of hindsight and occasional moments of epiphany, themes of hope, joy, human rights, media, and life in developing countries through memoir and diary.
Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)
No comments:
Post a Comment