Saltdean By The Sea – Back to England for a visit

Shabby chic is how I would describe the place we stayed at in Brighton England. The place was recommended by my niece who works in the travel industry. According to Google shabby chic means: ‘a style of decoration that uses furniture and other objects that look old and used, not modern and new.’ Personally, I think the objects in this hotel were old, not looking old. The hotel was called an ‘artist residency’ instead of a hotel, trendy I presume? It was a terrace house. The entrance was an old door with chipped paint. Upon entry, I noticed that the floor and staircase had been stripped of carpet, minus the landing on the second floor, which possessed a dirty torn blue carpet, shabby chic.  The very worn, scruffy exposed floorboards, stairs and railings were not painted. They were chipped, rusty, and broken. That was, I assume, the style. I was not sure if the black mold in the bathroom was part of the style or just old fashion neglect. 

     We were a late weekend booking, and the hotel was full minus the attic. We were given that room to stay in. Fortunately, there was an elevator that Peter and I squeezed into and prayed that our time in life was not up as the elevator squeaked and slowly climbed to the fifth floor, leaving us the final narrow stairs to climb. We entered the attic room. It was the smallest room we had ever stayed in. The bed was a couple of feet from the door, there was no space to move or unpack.  If Peter or I wanted to cross from the bed to the bathroom one of us would have to sit still to allow the other to pass. I entered the bathroom and immediately arrived at the toilet. There was just about enough room for me to turn around and place my arse on the pot. 

     Regardless of the shabbiness of the accommodations, the staff was wonderful. As I sat in the lounge looking at the grey channel water and the dark clouds regrouping for the next downpour, a young northern English girl, who was the front desk clerk, barmaid and waitress came up to me:
“Alright, love. Nice cuppa? Nasty weather outside. But you will feel warm after your cuppa” I wanted to be adopted by her immediately and be served a cuppa tea with biscuits every day for the rest of my life. 

     I had forgotten how awful the British weather can be. It is not a surprise the British constantly speak about the weather. Tomorrow the weather report stated it would not rain until 1 pm, therefore I planned to get up early and make my pilgrimage to the town and house I spent six years of my life living in during my teenage years. The place I call my childhood home. Since my parents passed away and the home was sold, I had not been back for 15 years. 

     Shortly after checking in, I wandered around the Brighton Lanes. Thin pedestrian streets full of antique jewelry shops and restaurants. My favorite lanes are the North Lanes. As a teenager, I would go there on a Saturday morning and rummage through the antiques searching for tiny Victorian bottles to add to my collection. Most of the antique shops had now become nick-knack shops.

     As l stood in a nick knack shop, I began to recall the experience of wandering around the Lanes as a teenager. l suddenly felt my youthful self surge inside me. I felt the innocence of loving what l was doing. The power of innocence. My feelings had not been trodden, burst, criticized, or judged by others. I felt light, playful, happy, and young. 

     The next day I woke up early, nudged Peter. 

“Let’s go. There is blue sky, it will start raining at 1.” 

He groaned. We dressed, put on our winter coats, and took a taxi to the village of Rottingdean. I had lived in Saltdean next door to Rottingdean. Rottingdean was where us teenagers hung out. As I got out of the taxi and looked around at the village, I suddenly experienced this odd feeling that because I had left, the village should have left. Cease to exist. Evaporated. Like a scene in a movie. But instead, it was still here. It looked exactly like it did when I was fifteen. 

     I walked slowly down the high street and stopped outside the local bakery. My first boyfriend and first love had been the son of the village baker. Bobby was his name. I then walked to the village pub on the pond. Above the pub was a room called the Loft, a place where us teenagers could socialize in the evening. Across the street from the pub, the red telephone box was still there. After last orders at the pub, I would walk across the street to the telephone box and phone my dad to let him know I was ready for him to pick me up.  

      I wanted to stand at the phone box and wait for my father to pick me up. Adult life was challenging. Having my heart broken by the son of a baker seemed very simple, sweet, and easy. I saw a sign at a coffee shop in Brighton the day before which summed up my adult experience:

‘Coffee – because being an adult is hard.’

     I walked back down the high street and onto the cliffs. I walked towards my home. 

On these cliffs, my grandmother had walked her dog daily.  I had walked with my mother when we went into Rottingdean for a cup of tea. I paused and looked out to the stony beach; the tide was out. When the tide was out my daughters came down to the beach with my mother and I and searched for cockles. We would take the cockles home, boil them, and eat them with vinegar and white bread and butter. 

     Below the cliffs, I had often walked along the promenade next to the beach with my mother. I was what my father was not for my mother; walking partner, tennis partner, gossip partner, educated partner, the person she could speak to about all his shortcomings. 

     She was so sweet and loving how could I be angry with her? How could I tell her I wanted to be with friends, I wanted to fit in, not walk along the seafront with my mother? But she is so nice, so sweet, I could not say those things. 

     Now she is gone. Gone. All frustration, desire, and anger can only be fed by my memory. My parents are dead. The house has been sold. I am looking at a film set from a scene of my life. 

     I walked past the Saltdean Lido. The Lido only opened for the brief British summer the rest of the year it was closed. Rusty railings, chipped paint and filthy brown water sat isolated ten months of the year. I noticed that finally they were cleaning the pool and painting the exterior. Maybe it will look better this year. A cleaner place for the children to run around, shivering with cold, sipping Coke and munching on salt n vinegar chips, because the calendar says it is August. 

      I continued to walk through the park. Nothing appears to have changed. Tennis courts, playground, and small golf course. I ascended the hill towards the street that was “first on the left”, a sentence I had said so often to taxi drivers when I lived there and later visited my parents. 

“First on the left, Greenbank Avenue.” It meant nothing to the taxi driver. But for me, that street was the center of my world. My family home, my adolescent world. 

     I stood still at the beginning of the street. I returned to my past. Mum and Dad are here. They are standing outside their home waving at Peter and I as we come up the street. But they are not. They have turned to dust.

     I walk down the street. I arrive. I stand outside the house. The house has been remodeled. The garage door and front door are no longer red. They have been replaced with glossy white modern doors.  My mother’s rose bush is gone. The crack on the driveway had been paved over. I peeked down the side of the house hoping to see the garden, instead, I noticed a massive extension added to the back of the house. 

     I slip back into myself. I am no longer the teenager in the movie set. I am now an observer of a time long gone. This is no longer the house I grew up in, only the location of my past. I step out of the movie, squeeze Peter’s hand, and say:

“Let’s go. I want to walk back to Brighton along the sea promenade before it rains again.”

And it did.