The Beach
by John McGroarty
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: Beware strangers bearing gifts – especially on a Spanish beach.
_____________________________________________________________________
“Who was it?” said Ronnie.
“My Uncle Patrick,” said Sandra shaking her head.
“What? What does he want?”
Sandra shook her head again.
“One of his mad fits, I don’t know,” she said.
“Does he know we’re here, like, in Spain on holiday?”
“Aye, he said he had a dream and we were to take care, ach, you know what he’s like,” she said.
She turned to Kenzie and Malcolm.
“Come on you two, hurry up!” she shouted.
“Jesus,” muttered Ronnie.
They walked on in silence towards the beach.
“I just can’t deal with your Uncle, why can’t he leave us in peace? Why? Eh? Why?” Ronnie was starting to rant.
Sandra looked off into the distance. Her eyes and ears glazed over. After him there would be no other.
“You know he activates my neurosis, and remember that Bill, who’s almost a psychiatrist he’s read that much, says that I have to stay back from people like your Uncle Patrick, you know, he destabilises me.”
At that moment Ronnie was interrupted by a voice.
“Are you English?” said a little man standing in front of a selection of beach accessories. He moved towards Ronnie.
“Are you English I am asking,” he said more emphatically.
“For God’s sake,” said Ronnie, “this is turning into some kind of slapstick comedy.”
The little man gave Ronnie a strange look. He was trying to place “slapstick” in his vocabulary. He threw up his hands.
“Are you English?” he insisted.
“No, I’m not,” said Ronnie defiantly, “I’m Scottish.”
“Ah, you are very funny, sir,” said the man.
“Look, what do you want? I’m on holiday you know,” said Ronnie.
“Yes and that is why I want to save you from a potential danger,” said the man mysteriously.
Ronnie looked at Sandra and then back at the man.
“Are you in cahoots with Patrick Mulligan?” said Ronnie narrowing his eyes.
“Cahoots?” said the man.
“Your skin, mister, is in danger, not in cahoots, here,” he said.
Ronnie tried to walk away but the little man got between him and the beach.
“It is no joke,” said the man, “look up there. The sun. It will fry your English bodies. But I have the solution.”
Ronnie squinted at the sun for a few seconds. Then he squinted at the man.
Sandra’s mobile rang again. She moved off to the side.
“It is two quarters of twelve,” said the man, “the cenit, you will scold. Burn. Fry. Melt!!”
Ronnie stopped. He breathed out heavily. Kenzie and Malcolm were screaming, jumping up and down.
“Ah, my feet, dad, they’re burning,” screamed Kenzie.
Malcolm was just wailing “ah,ah,ah ……”
“Put your sandals on,” called Ronnie, trying not to lose it.
The children sprinted back up onto the pavement and sat down.
The man sucked in his cheeks and nodded.
“I have the answer,” he said, “a beautiful beach umbrella, a parasol!”
He snapped his fingers and grabbed Ronnie’s arm.
Off to the side Ronnie could hear his wife talking on the phone.
She smiled ruefully.
“He’s been reading the Apocalypse again. He insists on speaking to you,” she sighed. She held out the phone.
Ronnie huffed a little and took the phone.
“Patrick?” he said.
“Ronald, Ronald, listen, beware the sun, beware the water, beware the silver dragon, the beast of the sea, the debt that is still to be paid.”
“Dad, my bum is burning,” cried Malcolm.
“Well, bloody stand up!” shouted Ronnie.
“The beast of the sea, the sun, the debt that is still to be paid.”
Ronnie handed the phone back to Sandra. He turned to the man.
“What is it you want to sell me?” he said a little aggressively.
“Sell?” said the man. “No, mister, I want to give you this beautiful parasol to protect your lovely English skin.”
The man rummaged around in a box and then pulled out a beach umbrella. He opened it.
“Please, children!” he beckoned to Malcolm and Kenzie. They scuttled under the shelter.
“Does your bum burn now?” he asked Malcolm.
The children started to do the please dad buy it routine.
“It’s not for sale,” said the man, “but I will give you it for free. In fact I will come and help you to set it up properly.”
Ronnie felt humble and a little helpless.
“Okay,” he said finally, “let’s go.”
They marched across the sand in silence. Like mute crabs rushing to the sea.
“Why does your Uncle Patrick have to phone to remind me about the mortgage when we’re on holiday?” said Ronnie after a while.
Sandra was concentrating on being happy.
“Beware the debt that still must be paid, Jesus,” Ronnie kicked the sand.
“Oh, yes,” said the man a little viciously, “the debt should be paid. Must be paid! Wasn’t it Aristotles who said that that was the highest sign of culture?”
Ronnie wasn’t sure about that.
They had reached the edge of the sea but the man continued to the very lip of the water.
“You must put your towels here,” he said, “the Spanish will come and plant themselves in front if not, and shout and shout. And shout!”
He started to dig a hole. Ronnie sat down on the sand.
The man looked around and then stuck the parasol in. He looked at the town and then at the sea. Mumbled under his breath a little.
“This is the correct angle,” he finally said. He wiped a little perspiration from his forehead with a hankie.
Ronnie tried to force some money into his hand but the man shook his head.
“No, no, I do this only out of kindness,” he said.
He withdrew, plodding his way across the beach back to his stall on the promenade.
Ronnie watched him for a while and then got his towel out and lay himself down under the parasol. Off in the water, he saw his wife and kids splashing and screeching. He tried to put Uncle Patrick and the mortgage out of his mind. He flicked through a magazine for a few minutes. Ach, you only live once. He sprang up and tied his trunks up tight. Waved to Sandra. He could hear calls of dad, dad, come on, dad. He waded into the water. It was colder than he expected. He dived in and swam up to the kids. They splished and splashed and lived and laughed and Ronnie forgot about everything. He karate chopped water into the children’s faces. He picked them up and tossed them a few yards into the blue Mediterranean. Sploosh.
“Ronnie,” said Sandra, standing still for a minute, “what’s happening up there?” She was pointing up onto the beach. Ronnie fought the children off and focused on the beach. A crowd had gathered round the figure of a man. Lots of voices were chattering excitedly in Spanish. Ronnie waded his way out of the sea and up onto the beach. The lifeguard was speaking into his radio. Ronnie approached the group. There was an old man lying flat on his back. A sun umbrella was sticking out of his chest. He was dead. A parasol. The wind had caught a parasol and it had spliced into the old man. A parasol. His parasol. Jesus Christ. He started to move backwards silently away from the crowd.
He waved to Sandra a little desperately.
“Sandra,” he mouthed, “come on.”
He turned and he saw that some old flabby Spanish women were pointing at him. The life guard and a group of four or five men approached him. Off in the distance he saw a police car arrive.
“It was the wind,” stammered Ronnie, “in fact it’s not even my parasol, I didn’t even put it in the sand.”
The men grabbed him.
“No, no,” cried Ronnie, “there was this old man, a young, a younger old man, he put it there.”
The young life guard was speaking in English.
“No sir, you had a steel tip parasol on the beach. It is contra regulation 4572.1959, negligence, man, manslaughter.”
“But, it’s not mine, not mine, no, no,” Ronnie was shaking his head vigorously.
The flabby old Spanish women were now screaming at him. The air was as blue as the sky with Spanish expletives.
Then Ronnie saw him. The beach accessories guy. He broke away from the group and ran up to him. He was bent over the old man.
“Tell them,” said Ronnie, “tell them, about the sun thing, tell them.”
The man was crying. He looked up at Ronnie.
He shook his head. The lifeguard spoke to him in Spanish and then turned to Ronnie.
“This is Don Casas junior,” said the lifeguard, “and you have killed his father, señor.”
The police took hold of Ronnie.
“But,” began Ronnie and then fell silent. Silence and guilt took hold of the beach. Took hold of the sky. Of the deep blue Mediterranean. Of the Sun.
“Do you know how old Señor Casas was?” said the lifeguard.
Ronnie shook his head.
“A hundred and three. And he was the richest man in this town. In this part of Spain. And healthy, as healthy as a young baby dog, he could have lived more, perhaps twenty years, could have been the oldest man in Spain,” the life guard wagged his finger at Ronnie.
The police put handcuffs on him and started to march him across the sand.
The beach accessory man sniffed loudly, stood up and spat at Ronnie’s feet as he passed. He then began to wail, “Oh, papa, oh papa ……”
Sandra’s mobile rang again.
“Beware the wind, beware the blue sky, beware the beast of the earth,” said Uncle Patrick Mulligan.
Swearwords: None.
Description: Beware strangers bearing gifts – especially on a Spanish beach.
_____________________________________________________________________
“Who was it?” said Ronnie.
“My Uncle Patrick,” said Sandra shaking her head.
“What? What does he want?”
Sandra shook her head again.
“One of his mad fits, I don’t know,” she said.
“Does he know we’re here, like, in Spain on holiday?”
“Aye, he said he had a dream and we were to take care, ach, you know what he’s like,” she said.
She turned to Kenzie and Malcolm.
“Come on you two, hurry up!” she shouted.
“Jesus,” muttered Ronnie.
They walked on in silence towards the beach.
“I just can’t deal with your Uncle, why can’t he leave us in peace? Why? Eh? Why?” Ronnie was starting to rant.
Sandra looked off into the distance. Her eyes and ears glazed over. After him there would be no other.
“You know he activates my neurosis, and remember that Bill, who’s almost a psychiatrist he’s read that much, says that I have to stay back from people like your Uncle Patrick, you know, he destabilises me.”
At that moment Ronnie was interrupted by a voice.
“Are you English?” said a little man standing in front of a selection of beach accessories. He moved towards Ronnie.
“Are you English I am asking,” he said more emphatically.
“For God’s sake,” said Ronnie, “this is turning into some kind of slapstick comedy.”
The little man gave Ronnie a strange look. He was trying to place “slapstick” in his vocabulary. He threw up his hands.
“Are you English?” he insisted.
“No, I’m not,” said Ronnie defiantly, “I’m Scottish.”
“Ah, you are very funny, sir,” said the man.
“Look, what do you want? I’m on holiday you know,” said Ronnie.
“Yes and that is why I want to save you from a potential danger,” said the man mysteriously.
Ronnie looked at Sandra and then back at the man.
“Are you in cahoots with Patrick Mulligan?” said Ronnie narrowing his eyes.
“Cahoots?” said the man.
“Your skin, mister, is in danger, not in cahoots, here,” he said.
Ronnie tried to walk away but the little man got between him and the beach.
“It is no joke,” said the man, “look up there. The sun. It will fry your English bodies. But I have the solution.”
Ronnie squinted at the sun for a few seconds. Then he squinted at the man.
Sandra’s mobile rang again. She moved off to the side.
“It is two quarters of twelve,” said the man, “the cenit, you will scold. Burn. Fry. Melt!!”
Ronnie stopped. He breathed out heavily. Kenzie and Malcolm were screaming, jumping up and down.
“Ah, my feet, dad, they’re burning,” screamed Kenzie.
Malcolm was just wailing “ah,ah,ah ……”
“Put your sandals on,” called Ronnie, trying not to lose it.
The children sprinted back up onto the pavement and sat down.
The man sucked in his cheeks and nodded.
“I have the answer,” he said, “a beautiful beach umbrella, a parasol!”
He snapped his fingers and grabbed Ronnie’s arm.
Off to the side Ronnie could hear his wife talking on the phone.
She smiled ruefully.
“He’s been reading the Apocalypse again. He insists on speaking to you,” she sighed. She held out the phone.
Ronnie huffed a little and took the phone.
“Patrick?” he said.
“Ronald, Ronald, listen, beware the sun, beware the water, beware the silver dragon, the beast of the sea, the debt that is still to be paid.”
“Dad, my bum is burning,” cried Malcolm.
“Well, bloody stand up!” shouted Ronnie.
“The beast of the sea, the sun, the debt that is still to be paid.”
Ronnie handed the phone back to Sandra. He turned to the man.
“What is it you want to sell me?” he said a little aggressively.
“Sell?” said the man. “No, mister, I want to give you this beautiful parasol to protect your lovely English skin.”
The man rummaged around in a box and then pulled out a beach umbrella. He opened it.
“Please, children!” he beckoned to Malcolm and Kenzie. They scuttled under the shelter.
“Does your bum burn now?” he asked Malcolm.
The children started to do the please dad buy it routine.
“It’s not for sale,” said the man, “but I will give you it for free. In fact I will come and help you to set it up properly.”
Ronnie felt humble and a little helpless.
“Okay,” he said finally, “let’s go.”
They marched across the sand in silence. Like mute crabs rushing to the sea.
“Why does your Uncle Patrick have to phone to remind me about the mortgage when we’re on holiday?” said Ronnie after a while.
Sandra was concentrating on being happy.
“Beware the debt that still must be paid, Jesus,” Ronnie kicked the sand.
“Oh, yes,” said the man a little viciously, “the debt should be paid. Must be paid! Wasn’t it Aristotles who said that that was the highest sign of culture?”
Ronnie wasn’t sure about that.
They had reached the edge of the sea but the man continued to the very lip of the water.
“You must put your towels here,” he said, “the Spanish will come and plant themselves in front if not, and shout and shout. And shout!”
He started to dig a hole. Ronnie sat down on the sand.
The man looked around and then stuck the parasol in. He looked at the town and then at the sea. Mumbled under his breath a little.
“This is the correct angle,” he finally said. He wiped a little perspiration from his forehead with a hankie.
Ronnie tried to force some money into his hand but the man shook his head.
“No, no, I do this only out of kindness,” he said.
He withdrew, plodding his way across the beach back to his stall on the promenade.
Ronnie watched him for a while and then got his towel out and lay himself down under the parasol. Off in the water, he saw his wife and kids splashing and screeching. He tried to put Uncle Patrick and the mortgage out of his mind. He flicked through a magazine for a few minutes. Ach, you only live once. He sprang up and tied his trunks up tight. Waved to Sandra. He could hear calls of dad, dad, come on, dad. He waded into the water. It was colder than he expected. He dived in and swam up to the kids. They splished and splashed and lived and laughed and Ronnie forgot about everything. He karate chopped water into the children’s faces. He picked them up and tossed them a few yards into the blue Mediterranean. Sploosh.
“Ronnie,” said Sandra, standing still for a minute, “what’s happening up there?” She was pointing up onto the beach. Ronnie fought the children off and focused on the beach. A crowd had gathered round the figure of a man. Lots of voices were chattering excitedly in Spanish. Ronnie waded his way out of the sea and up onto the beach. The lifeguard was speaking into his radio. Ronnie approached the group. There was an old man lying flat on his back. A sun umbrella was sticking out of his chest. He was dead. A parasol. The wind had caught a parasol and it had spliced into the old man. A parasol. His parasol. Jesus Christ. He started to move backwards silently away from the crowd.
He waved to Sandra a little desperately.
“Sandra,” he mouthed, “come on.”
He turned and he saw that some old flabby Spanish women were pointing at him. The life guard and a group of four or five men approached him. Off in the distance he saw a police car arrive.
“It was the wind,” stammered Ronnie, “in fact it’s not even my parasol, I didn’t even put it in the sand.”
The men grabbed him.
“No, no,” cried Ronnie, “there was this old man, a young, a younger old man, he put it there.”
The young life guard was speaking in English.
“No sir, you had a steel tip parasol on the beach. It is contra regulation 4572.1959, negligence, man, manslaughter.”
“But, it’s not mine, not mine, no, no,” Ronnie was shaking his head vigorously.
The flabby old Spanish women were now screaming at him. The air was as blue as the sky with Spanish expletives.
Then Ronnie saw him. The beach accessories guy. He broke away from the group and ran up to him. He was bent over the old man.
“Tell them,” said Ronnie, “tell them, about the sun thing, tell them.”
The man was crying. He looked up at Ronnie.
He shook his head. The lifeguard spoke to him in Spanish and then turned to Ronnie.
“This is Don Casas junior,” said the lifeguard, “and you have killed his father, señor.”
The police took hold of Ronnie.
“But,” began Ronnie and then fell silent. Silence and guilt took hold of the beach. Took hold of the sky. Of the deep blue Mediterranean. Of the Sun.
“Do you know how old Señor Casas was?” said the lifeguard.
Ronnie shook his head.
“A hundred and three. And he was the richest man in this town. In this part of Spain. And healthy, as healthy as a young baby dog, he could have lived more, perhaps twenty years, could have been the oldest man in Spain,” the life guard wagged his finger at Ronnie.
The police put handcuffs on him and started to march him across the sand.
The beach accessory man sniffed loudly, stood up and spat at Ronnie’s feet as he passed. He then began to wail, “Oh, papa, oh papa ……”
Sandra’s mobile rang again.
“Beware the wind, beware the blue sky, beware the beast of the earth,” said Uncle Patrick Mulligan.