The Great Western Beach by Emma Smith

Author:Emma Smith
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: A Memoir of a Cornish Childhood between the Wars
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 2008-05-19T23:00:00+00:00

III

Grosvenor House

Since old Mrs Oliver, the retired governess, has been replaced by a proper teacher, the walk my sister Pam and I take every day to school – for school is how we like to think of our lessons with Miss Howard – is much more colourful and interesting than once it was. To reach Mrs Oliver’s little house we used to set forth in an out-of-town direction. Now the direction has been reversed, leading us down into the narrow twisting street that is Newquay’s main shopping centre, its veritable heart.

There’s a hint of adventure about the route which we now follow on our way to school. We are seeing the shopping quarter as we have never seen it previously, at an hour when it belongs entirely to the commercial fraternity: before, as it were, the curtain rises. It is the hour when shopkeepers are getting ready for their day’s custom, pulling up blinds or shutters, laying out boxes of fruit and vegetables. The fishmonger stands in a clean white apron, hooking strings of dead upside-down hares and rabbits round his doorway. The butcher, and the stationer who sells newspapers, and the haberdashery assistants – all are engaged in preparing for the day ahead. Presently their customers will start to arrive: in a trickle at first, but soon in a steadily increasing stream, until so many of them are jostling together that some people, if they are to make any progress, have to step off the pavements into the road, where vans and lorries, toot-tooting, and the occasional horse and cart, negotiate with difficulty a slow passage through the general congestion.

This will be the scene that meets our eyes later on, a scene utterly transformed, in which we too shall be engulfed when returning from school. But for now – going to school – the air we breathe is fresh and invigorating, and the atmosphere, while remaining tranquil, is quietly businesslike. The shopkeepers, intent on setting out their merchandise to its best advantage before the hubbub of buying and selling begins, turn their heads to nod and smile at us. We pick a way past them with care, trying not to impede their activity. Pam and I feel a small glow of pride, convinced that their nods and smiles are an indication of us having been accepted as honorary members of an early morning society of tradespeople.

Wishing to avoid the uneasiness of finding ourselves in a possible danger zone at the foot of the hill on which, halfway up, the Boys’ Council School is threateningly positioned, we take the precautionary measure, when we have reached a point opposite to the Midland Bank, of crossing over. The Bank isn’t yet open, but we know that our father, who leaves home before we do, is already at work inside, an invisible presence. We hurry on, past the Bank, and past Timothy White’s the Ironmonger, with its tempting and quite unironmongerly pavement display of beach balls and flowery cretonne sun hats. Much as we should like to dally, lingering is out of the question.

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