Longings and Chips

I remember

Those heady Friday nights.  After Girl Guides,

When my friend, Shell, who led the Oak Patrol,

And I, her seconder,

Had helped The Little Ones

Work on their badges,

We had one joyful hour, all to ourselves,

Before our strict curfew.

I recall the chill, salt spume upon our cheeks,

While wind-whipped, white-crested breakers

Rolled heavily ashore, and angrily

Out-roared the winter gales.

Six penn’orth each of chips,

Wrapped in a greaseproof screw,

Were heaven in a bite:

The brief resistance of the deep-fried coat,

Then soft and hot potato,

Salt-sharp and tart with vinegar,

Melting along the tongue,

Repelled the raw and penetrating damp.

Laughing, we’d dash between the waves

Which burst across the prom

Lashing our feet,

Though sea stains on our navy gabardines

Would mean all hell to pay

When we got home.

To fan this risk,

The stars which lit our path,

Would cock a snook and disappear

Behind swift-racing clouds,

Leaving us darkly guessing at the tide.

On those rough nights,

We longed to see

Our second favourite heart throb.

(Elvis was first but sadly, he

Was local only in our secret dreams.)

We yearned for Fred – or sometimes Rich – imagined

How we’d meet and talk, hold hands perhaps,

Or even, kiss.

They never came.

What self-respecting boy

Would venture out in bitter wind and storm

To date two giggly school-girls,

Clad in wet macs, knee-socks and laced up brogues?

No matter.  The next day

We’d struggle with the household chores

And errands, Virgil, quadratics,

The mysterious working of a dynamo

And other impositions, deemed to be

Good for our young souls.

But for that single hour, on Friday nights,

We were as free and wild and loud

As the sea that raged around us.

  

© Gill Dunstan

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