13
And Ben loved those days. The first few hours spent in the sea and soaking up the sun on some beach, dozing. Breathing in the sounds, the surge, the sand, the seaweed, seagulls, sails, sailboats, sailors' calls, salts, streams, sun, sandwiches, swifts, swallows, suntan, sun oil, sunburn, shadows, shimmerings, shades, sunglasses, sweat, swimmers, sunbathers, seashore, sunshade, sky, surf, sea mists, sun kissed, shallows, sunrays and the seashells.
The furthest beach from the town was favourite because costumes weren't necessary, and being naked in the open is really weird when you come from a city. But the snorkelling there was a little samey, few fish for much sea. Not at all like old Mirtos. Eventually Ben just stopped using his snorkelling gear and instead immersed himself in the dipping and the wandering and counting of the colours in the creatures and the stones. It was always easy and inviting and even though he was by no means a swimmer as such, really he loved being in the water. Maybe it was the womb thing that Freud mumbled on about, the oceanic feeling, or perhaps just easy simple fun. A daring change?
On the evening of his arrangement with Sally, Kevin and Ben invited Leon and Marian to dinner at The Villa where they served something totally inadequate and instantly forgettable whilst listening to some stirring and evocative California Rock. They loved this acoustic country rock and its stand for environmental issues and during the usual, 'Remember so-and-so?', and, 'He's Canadian, isn't he?', and, 'what about Old Man,' from time to time Ben would drift away and wonder what on earth might or might not transpire during the coming date and deep down whether he was taking a chance he might regret. Marian caught his attention when she mentioned she would be going to one of Mr Young's concerts only two days after returning to Amsterdam and somehow she seemed far more interesting.
Then it was time Ben spruced himself up for Sally. He splashed on his Fahrenheit to hide any rancid odours and made his way to Theo's for seven forty-five with an old poem by Roger McGough running through his mind called, Come Close and Sleep Now:
It is afterwards
and you talk on tip toe
happy to be part of the darkness.
Lips becoming limp,
a prelude to tiredness.
Come close and sleep now
for in the morning,
when a policeman,
disguised as the sun
creeps into the room,
and your mother, disguised as the birds,
calls from the trees.
You will put on your dress of guilt
and shoes with broken high ideals
and, refusing coffee,
run
all the way, home