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Sinful Sundae

Sandy Haven, a sleepy, run-down resort favoured by reclusive folk and by struggling young couples looking for a cheap holiday where their children might play in safety, and a place preferred by Arthur who sought quietude in order he might indulge himself of some tender delicacies to be found there.

As always, he was staying in the same decrepit green caravan tucked away in a corner of the dilapidated site atop the low cliffs overlooking the beach, one that suited his requirements perfectly.

Late morning of a hot day in his sixty-first year he spread his travel rug in the centre of the same sandy island amidst the same tide-washed barnacle encrusted rocks as he had done every summer holiday for longer than he could remember, and smoothed-out the folds carefully. His chosen bit of Haven was in a sheltered spot beneath a dangling, rusty sign high on the sandstone face declaring ‘Beware Of Falling Rocks’ and was set well back and overlooking the main part of the beach. Not many ventured that way because of the ever-present danger, and because the area was a repository of wind and tide, an ideal place for Arthur ’s activities.

Humming tunelessly, he removed a well-worn bath towel from his well-used grey-canvas haversack and rolled it up tightly, then laid it exactly mid-point along one edge of the rug. He unslung a battered, leather binocular case from his shoulder and positioned it precisely on the corner of the rug to the left of the towel, then buckled the sack and set it down attentively on the adjacent corner, ensuring no part sagged onto the sand. Perching himself on the edge of a rock he rolled his chinos to the knee exposing his veined calves, then removed his sandals and red socks, and stuffed the socks into his pockets. He clapped the sandals together and with the sand hot on his feet he stationed them on the remaining corners pointing seaward, meticulously, so that neither toe projected beyond the edge of the rug. He stood back and contemplated his handiwork and made a small grunt of approval.

He fully unbuttoned his multi-coloured summer shirt, pulled it open and allowed a passing zephyr tickle his sweaty torso. Removing his wire-framed spectacles he interchanged them with his Ray Bans peeping from his shirt pocket. He donned the sunglasses theatrically in the manner of a well-practised poseur, and not at all like a staid primary school teacher of thirty-five years, the latter twelve as the barely competent head of a failing village school. He adjusted the red baseball cap covering his bald pate at a jaunty angle in a little gesture of release, a cocking a snook at a convention which had governed his adult life until five-thirty the previous afternoon. Standing legs apart, arms akimbo and feeling master of all he surveyed he breathed deeply of the seaweed-and-sewage tainted briny air, and it had never smelled so good.

He sat down on the edge of the rug and rubbed the sand from his feet. Moving slowly so as not to ruck the thin material he lay down and rested his head on the rolled towel, then moulded himself sensually into the sand with a bee-like wriggle of his fat body. Knitting his hands atop his distended belly he closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling of the sub-sand cool on his sticky back. The sighing of lapping waves, the calling of gulls and the distant sound of children playing stirred dormant memories of past pleasures. He sighed contentedly in anticipation of some exciting spotting during the weeks ahead.

The July sun was unusually hot and the cliffs a perfect sun-trap, a soporiferous

combination which quickly had its effect. The tension eased in his shoulders, memories faded, sleep took its course and the air soughed softly from his sagging mouth.

He awoke startled by the loud screeching of a seagull flapping a few feet above his face. He pushed himself up onto one elbow and cursed the bird. It flew away complaining raucously.

He became aware of an ice-cream van parked some twenty yards distant set-back against the cliff. He shook his head and did a double-take for it was the first time in his recollection an ice-cream van had appeared on the beach. It seemed to waver drunkenly in the hellish heat. Along the topside of the van was painted the garish legend ‘B’Bub’s Fruit Sundaes – they’re truly wicked’ and below the serving hatch through which was visible the shadowy figure of the vendor was ‘Try our Sinful Sundae – a treat to die for.’ There was no queue forming to partake of the sublime offerings. Not a single customer. Arthur was not pleased.

“Oh, God no!”

For him, one of the main attractions of Sandy Haven was that commercialisation had yet to reach it, mainly because it was accessible only by Shanks ’ pony along a steep, narrow pathway at the sloping end of the cliffs. He could only surmise an access road had been installed since his last visit, one he had yet to discover, and one by which all manner of undesirables might gain ingress.

Again, he shook his head and cast his eye along the beach fearful there might be other invading abominations which would forever ruin the perfect peace. To his relief the beach was as it always had been, virtually deserted save for a few families dotted hither and thither doing what it is families do together by the sea, an elderly couple strolling hand-in-hand, and a trio of children in their bathing costumes running along the water ’s edge shrieking excitedly. He followed their progress for a few seconds until they disappeared behind a thrusting tentacle of black rock.

The heat was a physical thing feeding of his energy, sucking out the air he breathed and he was suddenly overcome of a lethargy which took possession of him body and soul.

He was awoken as if by an electric shock and was immediately hit by an almost tangible wall of heat. A dog howled along the beach. He glanced at his ancient Timex. It had stopped at eleven thirty. He tapped the glass, but to no avail. He vowed to treat himself to a new one at the first opportunity.

The ice-cream van was still there. The vendor seemed to be looking in his direction. To be looking directly at him. As always when sweet temptation offered, Arthur succumbed. He clambered to his feet unusually unencumbered by his huge bulk. He felt incredibly rejuvenated and liberated of his cares and woes. He walked towards the van light-limbed and light-headed and heedless of the burning sand against his bare soles. On his final approach a sand-devil sprang from nowhere and whipped viciously against his exposed skin causing him neither pain nor discomfort. The devil died as suddenly as it had arisen and he found himself standing in front of the serving hatch in an area of sand unmarked by footprint or tyre track.

As he shook himself down the hatch slid open and a tall, goatee bearded, red-faced man wearing a white coat and butcher ’s hat and wrap-around sunglasses peered out. His pouting lips and cherubic features belied his coarse, dry voice.

“Come inside quickly sir, before it starts up again.”

The man opened the nearside door and ushered Arthur in, the seat having been removed to facilitate entry. Arthur stepped in and through to the serving area. He sat on the single bar stool fixed to the floor. The vendor closed the door and the serving hatch.

“Are you alright sir?”

“Yes, I’m fine thanks. Never felt better.”

The man smiled genially.

.”In that case sir, with what can I tempt you?’

“Let me see. What’s the best you have?”

“If it’s the best you’re after then it’s got to be our Sinful Sundae. Like no other sundae you’ll have ever tasted, a never-ending medley of mood-changing delight, a cornucopia of ….”

Arthur quickly interjected.

“Ok! Then that’s what I’ll have. A Sinful Sundae … please.”

Arthur smiled and caressed his hanging belly in anticipation of the treat.

The man removed a large sundae from the ice-tub.

“This is one I made earlier.” He handed the ice-cream and spoon to Arthur in his white-gloved hands.

Arthur took the proffered sundae, excavated a generous portion, licked his thin lips then shovelled the confection into his mouth.

“Oh, my goodness. Fruitatious.”

“We do our best to please Arthur. We do our best to please.”

Arthur took another spoonful then paused and looked at the vendor suspiciously.

“But … but how do you know my …” He paused to pop the generous dollop into his mouth.

“You were saying, Arthur?”

Arthur looked at the vendor vacantly then shrugged his shoulders and continued eating.

“I bet you were thinking your holiday was ruined by my arrival. But my Sinful Sundae will have already dispelled such thoughts. Am I right Arthur? ”

Arthur didn’t look as though he entertained thoughts of any kind.

“But I’m not here simply to give you the pleasure of eating my ice-cream. I’m here for another reason. The thing is Arthur; I’m here to take you in. To take you away for good.”

Arthur’s eyes glazed over as he swallowed another mouthful of ice-cream.

“You know, it’s a cruel business I’m in. When some poor souls realise what’s happening I have to drag them away kicking and screaming. Very unseemly. I find it better that I play to their weaknesses. Bring them along willingly so to speak. More dignified that way, though a tad less enjoyable. Everyone has a weakness or two, don ’t you think Arthur. I discovered one of yours is for ice-cream. Fruit sundaes in particular. So, I thought - ice-cream seller! Neat eh! I knew I could easily ensnare you when there was an ice-cream in the offing. Your greed was the device, the ice-cream the lure. ”

Arthur looked at him benignly as might a ruminant chewing its cud.

“And then … and then there’s your other weakness, the one that got me interested in you in the first place … something far darker. One that brings you to Sandy Haven every year to do some stalking. Preying on the gullible. You know what I mean Arthur … when you become… how can I put this delicately … when you become a despoiler of innocence.”

Arthur paused eating and looked as if something indistinct in the distance had caught his attention, then he nodded and giggled as though recalling a pleasant memory.

“I’ve kept tabs on you for some years now and once or twice got tantalisingly close to bringing you in. But you wouldn ’t know anything about that would you Arthur. Too busy living your respectable little life whilst getting up to no good. ”

Arthur wasn’t listening, preferring instead to give his full attention to the ice-cream. He spooned another portion of the mind-altering mixture and gobbled it up.

“Out of this world … heavenly.”

The vendor looked at him sharply.

“Heavenly, Arthur. Heavenly! Enough of this charade, I’ve got bigger fish to fry. It’s time we were gone.”

Arthur nodded absently.

The van trembled then rose slowly and soundlessly above the sand. It gained height smoothly, turned and accelerated rapidly over the beach. Arthur glanced out of the side window as he took another symmetrical scoop of the ice-cream.

“That man … that man on the rug …it’s…”

“Yes, Arthur it is. But I think it better that you concentrate on eating your Sinful Sundae. Don ’t you?”

Arthur ate greedily as the van sped towards the horizon before it plunged through the infernal gateway at meteoric speed. Inside the plummeting fireball Arthur ’s harvested soul first tasted of the ceaseless torment of eternal hellfire.

A Strawberry in Winter

Geoffrey loved his rabbit. He loved to stroke her soft, white hair and tickle her hairy nose and behind her long velvet ears with his giant hands. He loved to ruffle her coat with his huge chin and savour the pungent fragrance of musty hay. He loved to trace the sleek undulations of her perfect form with his long, clubbed fingers and be in awe of her beauty.

In turn she would lie contentedly in his lap, her unblinking pink eyes never leaving him and never hinting that she found his loving attentions of any consequence.

In the run-up to Christmas he was reclining feet-up in the garden room enjoying with her the fleeting bursts of tepid winter sun, when a familiar voice caught his attention. He placed the rabbit on the floor then hurried excited into the adjoining small kitchen.

He had risen at cock-crow in anticipation of this mid-morning visitor and, as he expected, his diminutive elderly neighbour was there talking to his mother. He rushed forward in grinning greeting.

“Mr. Dougeeee!” His booming voice bounced around the yellow painted walls.

It was of little use that Dougy Trainer braced himself for the impact of the seven foot, bony juggernaut of joy for, as always, Geoffrey easily swept him off his feet and held him aloft in a winding embrace.

“Geoffrey, put Dougy down. At once!”

Never one to disobey his mother Geoffrey released his hold and Dougy dropped to the floor pale-faced and gasping for air.

“That boy doesn’t know his own strength. Are you okay?” Connie smoothed Dougy’s rumpled coat, her care-worn face wrinkled in concern.

“Oh, I’m fine. A bit breathy of late, but no fault of Geoffrey’s.”

“More like a broken down old cuddy I’d say. How many times do I have to tell you? Go.. see .. the doctor!”

Dougy’s watery eyes twinkled.

“If I was in need of nagging I’d have gone and got married. I’ll soon be right as rain.”

Connie scowled and slapped him playfully on the shoulder.

“You’re just a pig headed so-and-so Dougy Trainer!

Dougy had been her friend and neighbour for forty-five years, and since her husband had walked out on her on the day of Geoffrey ’s fifth birthday, never to return, he had been the one she would call upon in time of need. She often mused how she would have coped without him.

“See bunny rabbits now?” Geoffrey was anxious to be gone.

“No Geoffrey, not until you’re dressed. First you need to put your boots on.”

“Dougy do!” Geoffrey loved Dougy almost as much as he loved his mother and hung on his every word.

“No Geoffrey, you put them on while Dougy has a cup of tea. I’ve already warmed them for you.”

Geoffrey’s slack lips quivered.

“Tuck them away. Forest rangers don’t do that. Isn’t that right Dougy.”

Dougy nodded his head solemnly.

“Not in my forest they don’t.”

Geoffrey frowned annoyed, then petulantly collected his boots from beside the Aga and removed himself to the garden room hangdog.

A retired forest worker, Dougy liked to keep his hand in odd-jobbing at weekends tidying up loose ends in preparation for the Monday shift. Sometimes he would take Geoffrey along to give Connie a break and Geoffrey a few hours out of the house. Geoffrey was more of a hindrance than a help, but sometimes his colossal strength did come in useful for some of the more arduous tasks which were, of late, too much of a challenge for Dougy. Given a job, Geoffrey could be trusted for a half hour or so to get on with it before he became bored, usually working without close supervision and without him wandering off. He would be distracted on the odd occasion he spied a rabbit when he would become fully engrossed in watching its comings and goings to the detriment of the job in hand.

Dougy picked up the new rucksack lying on the chair by the door.

“This lunch and his change of clothes?”

Since the time Geoffrey had come home plastered in mud through playing in the sodden ruts left by the foresters tractors, Connie had made sure he always took a full change of clothes on their trips in case of further mishap.

“Yes. Yours are beef. Is that okay?”

Dougy nodded whilst weighing the bag in his hand.

“As usual you’ve packed enough for a small army.”

“Well, he’s still a growing boy.”

Dougy returned her wry smile then placed the sack back on the chair.

They heard Geoffrey’s approach, his size eighteen boots loud on the laminate floor. He re-entered the kitchen, Velcro straps flapping, smiling inanely.

“Oh, Geoffrey what are you like. Come here.”

Connie picked up the rucksack, sat Geoffrey on the chair, plonked the bag in his lap and fastened his ‘animal tracker’ boots. Geoffrey was distracted by the colourful images of the Telly Tubbies stamped on his sack and, fat tongue protruding, he fingered each in turn whilst she worked. Then, on his mother ’s word, he placed the sack on the floor, rose from the chair and stood compliantly whilst she finished dressing him for the cold outdoors.

She looked tiny next to her giant son, who, since childhood measles had left him with the mind of a three year old, had required continuous care for the whole of his forty two years. As though God had decreed that was too small a cross for her to bear, in his mid-twenties Geoffrey was diagnosed to be suffering from acromegaly a disease resulting in excessive height and overgrowth of bone in the head, face and extremities.

Dougy watched from his seat at the table as his thin, grey-haired friend, now in her mid-sixties cajoled and manipulated Geoffrey through the well practised routine, and again he marvelled how, though she was condemned to providing lifelong care for her handicapped son, she did so without complaint and always with selfless dedication.

The mid-morning start meant Geoffrey did not have to endure the catcalls and name calling of children playing, all of whom would run scared if he approached to join in their games. Nevertheless, he paused nervously at the threshold and peeped out of the doorway to check the coast was clear.

Dougy was waiting for him on the front path.

“It’s all right Geoffrey, they’re all at school.”

Re-assured, Geoffrey kissed his mother on the lips then hurried along the path, his huge, red-gloved hands dangling limply on crooked arms, his massive red-hatted head protruding turtle-like from the neck of his zippered coat.

Connie was unworried Geoffrey was visiting the forest, for she knew he would be returned home safely at the end of the day: unlike each time he attended the day centre when she fretted constantly he might come to harm, knowing how accident prone he seemed to be in their care.

She watched attentively as Geoffrey shoe-horned his large frame into the passenger seat of the small car whilst Dougy cleared the overnight dusting of snow from the windscreen. She was at the gate waving as they pulled away, but Geoffrey was hidden from view in a billowing cloud of exhaust fumes from the decrepit engine.

The route was one they’d travelled together many times and Geoffrey, as usual, sat hunched and silent rocking to and fro, his knees pressed hard against the dashboard. As they entered the forest it began to snow and he twitched and fidgeted excitedly. When the car finally came to a stop, he extricated himself calamitously from the passenger seat, picked himself up and ran drunkenly amidst the lazy flakes kicking snow and shouting gleefully at the trees, occasionally pausing to catch the sound of his voice echoing amongst the snow-covered boughs.

Geoffrey loved the protective cloak of the forest’s secret silence, and he loved helping Dougy in his work there. His task for the day was to stack some logs and then help Dougy cut and bind a few Christmas trees. Dougy showed him how to pile the logs, a job which was perfectly suited to Geoffrey ’s prodigious strength, then left him to it while he went to stoke up the stove in the foresters ’ hut fifty yards distant where they would eat lunch. It took him little more than fifteen minutes to get the fire going, after which he went to check on Geoffrey ’s progress.

He found him sitting on the stump of a long-felled pine breathing hard, stripped to his vest, soaking wet and steaming. Every young tree in a wide area was denuded of snow and Geoffrey ’s giant footprints criss-crossed amongst them. He was crouched in a protective cuddle as though he were concealing something. He turned as Dougy drew close and held out his massive hands in offering.

There was a small, furry animal cupped in his red palms, its head grotesquely swollen with disease. Geoffrey looked at Dougy questioningly, his simian brows furrowed in concern and guilt.

Dougy gently took the dead kitten from him and placed the warm body on the ground. A spot of blood from its mouth stained the snow. Immediately Geoffrey ’s face turned to panic and he reached out as though to pick it up.

Dougy was quick to intervene.

“Let’s leave it here shall we? Mummy rabbit will come soon and take it back home.”

The mention of mummy rabbit seemed to do the trick and Geoffrey grinned sheepishly in acquiescence.

“Now, let’s get you out of those wet clothes before you catch your death.”

Dougy took hold of Geoffrey’s huge gloved paw and led him quickly away making a mental note to collect his scattered clothing later.

They made an incongruous pair as they headed through the snow: Geoffrey semi-naked, towering and plodding, every few steps turning and waving childlike in the direction of the dead animal; and Dougy small, hunched and muffled, head down determinedly leading his lumpish charge towards the snow-covered hut.

They knocked the snow from their boots before they entered the warming cabin, Dougy pale and drawn, Geoffrey still pink with exertion.

“Now, you get out of those wet clothes and we’ll get you into some dry ones.”

Geoffrey began undressing in front of the stove. This was the first time he had undressed for anyone other than his mother or the doctor, and he stripped back turned to Dougy.

Whilst he laboured with his task, Dougy threw a few more logs on the stove then fetched Geoffrey ’s dry garments from the back of a nearby chair where they’d been warming.

“Come on, let’s get you into these befo….” His voice trailed away.

Geoffrey was now facing him grinning gap-toothed, his pendulous arms flapping like branches in the wind, his Peter Rabbit underpants sparing his blushes. A red blemish burned hotly on his breast, a strawberry mark like the one on Dougy ’s own chest, like the one carried down the generations by every male member of the Trainer line.

Dougy stared at him open-mouthed and his mind raced back four decades and more, to a time when Connie ’s life was in turmoil, to a night of which neither had since spoken when, to his shame, he took advantage when her defences were down. His palms began to sweat and the clothes fell from his shaking hands.

A familiar ache started deep in his chest and spread rapidly into his neck and arms. He reached out towards Geoffrey and tried to speak, but the crushing pain robbed him of breath. His eyes clouded, his legs buckled and he crumpled lifeless to the floor.

Geoffrey stood helplessly by, his arms fallen limply at his sides like the wings of a bird shot dead in soaring, exhilarant flight.

“Mr. Dougeeee….!”