Childhood Memories From The Beach

Tom woke with a start, pushed his hat away from his face and looked out through tired eyes. He reached inside his overcoat, brought out a silver flask and took a swig. ‘What’s that?’ I inquired. ‘Cold tea’, he growled leaning into the deckchair.

‘Where’s Eric?’ he asked. 
‘Gone to take some people on the two bob ride.’
He grunted and closed his eyes again. 

I studied him for several moments; it was midsummer 1959 and here I was on the beach in shorts and t-shirt while he was in an overcoat, large hat, woollen trousers and boots. I couldn’t understand how he could wear so many clothes in such sweltering heat. You know, the kind of temperatures you remember as a child of eight, when all summers were hot, which they probably weren’t, and all the winters snowy, which they probably were. He reminded me of an outlaw in the many cowboy films of the time, the one who’d be slumbering outside the saloon before riding out of Dodge City with the posse in hot pursuit. I loved them all, Rawhide, Wagon Train, Laramie, but my absolute favourite was Champion the Wonder Horse; how I’d love to have owned a horse like that, to ride him bareback across the plains of the Wild West, have a gun battle with the baddies and Indians before going home for tea.

As it was I had to settle for the next best thing. Tom and his brother Eric owned several ponies of varying sizes and had a thriving business in the summer providing pony rides on the beach. Eric was more restrained in his attire than his brother, and would wear tweeds, shirt and tie and a flat cap. Curiously, they both had silver flasks filled with cold tea; the more they drank the sleepier they became. It was the queerest tea, and when I asked my mother what sort it could be, thinking perhaps we should get some in to help cure her insomnia, she raised one of her arched eyebrows and went back to the washing up without replying.

Tom and Eric’s idea of good business sense was to recruit as many local children as possible who were mad on horses. They promised that if we worked hard all day leading the ponies up and down the beach, they might (and it was a big might) let us ride one of the ponies back to the stables. Well, I was in there like a shot, along with my sister who was just as daft about horses. Mother would pack us off for the day with tomato sauce sandwiches and a bottle of very diluted orange squash. We would arrive early at the stables to groom the ponies and saddle up. I’d pretend I was the livery hand taking care of the sheriff’s horse after he returned from another gun battle on the high plains. We would lead the ponies out of the stables, across the road and down onto the beach.

Once on the beach, Tom and Eric would settle into their deckchairs, and we would all sit round in a circle. In my mind this was our camp, drinking coffee and eating beans before getting out our blanket roll and bedding down for the night, but keeping a watchful eye out for Big Chief Sitting Bull or Wyatt Earp. The day dreaming would be interrupted when excited children, nagging at their parents, would approach the camp. We would then have to explain the pricing arrangement. Dotted along the beach was a row of brightly painted beach huts. For the brothers this must have been a godsend when setting their prices. To the first yellow hut was threepence, to the fourth blue one, was a tanner, and it was a shilling to the end of the huts. Of course all rides had to be taken on the lead rein, which is where we came in. Depending on how much cold tea either of them had drunk depended on how interested the brothers were in taking the money. At the start of the day they insisted in handling all money, but by mid afternoon they would often be fast asleep having left the camp several times to replenish the cold tea.

It was a mystery to us children as to why they headed in the direction of the Crown and Anchor and not Seaside Café to replenish the cold tea. All monies collected would be dropped into the pocket of Tom’s cavernous coat. We were all very honest, after all there was that promise of a ride back to the stables.

The trouble would start when someone wanted the two bob ride. I used to think people who could afford to spend so much on a pony ride must be very rich indeed. The two bob ride was a mile and back along the beach to the next town. This ride would involve one of the brothers riding with the customer. I would be so envious; how exhilarating galloping on the beach as you escaped marauding Indians. As it was, Tom and Eric must have thought they were pushing their luck to allow young children to be responsible for half a dozen ponies and their riders for two miles. So health and safety was alive and kicking even in the 1950s. It didn’t really matter because the brothers would mount old Shane, who knew how far to go along the beach before turning back, so Tom or Eric could slumber on, even on horseback.

For some reason the brothers would often let me ride Twinkle, the bad tempered Shetland pony, back to the stables. I hated him. What self respecting cowboy would be seen dead on a Shetland pony, it was the ultimate insult. I longed to ride Star, the beautiful fifteen hand chestnut, and everyday through that balmy summer the intensity of longing grew ever stronger. One day towards the end of the summer I couldn’t stand it any longer and I confronted Tom. 

‘Can I ask you something?’ I said nervously. 
‘Aye lass, anything you like’.
‘Well you know that I’ve helped with ponies everyday during the holidays’. 
‘Aye, you’ve bin a good lass’. 
‘Well, do you think I could ride Star back to the stables tonight?’ 

My heart started pounding as Tom looked up from beneath his hat and gave me a hard stare. He curled his lips over the flask, took a swig, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and grinned. The suspense was unbearable as I sifted the sand through my weary feet. Whether he had drunk too much cold tea that day I don’t know, but he started roaring with laughter. 

‘Is that all?’ he laughed. “Thou’s bin a good lass, not like some of ’em wot’s turned up, so fer that, not only can you ride Star, but yer can be t’ leader, how’s that?’ 

I couldn’t believe my ears. Ride Star and be the leader, was there ever such a happy cowboy?

That evening I climbed aboard my handsome steed and led the posse from the battle-field. Along the road the crowds stopped and cheered as we passed by, the sheriff returning, victorious, weary but happy. Yes, the Wild West had finally arrived in Yorkshire.

Louise Graydon’s – Childhood Memories