A Date In Blackpool

A ROMANTIC SHORT STORY BY ALISON WASSELL

Our first date had been a disaster. Would this one be much better?

“Because the train journey is part of the experience,” Robert shouts from the kitchen when I ask why we’re not using the car.

I’m not allowed in there because he’s busy preparing something that he says is part of my surprise.

“At least tell me if I’m suitably dressed,” I say when he finally emerges.

He’s clutching a Bag For Life, the contents of which are concealed by my second-best tablecloth.

He looks at my shoes, which perfectly match my new summer dress.

“Maybe something a bit flatter and sturdier,” he says. “You might want to bring an anorak, too. There’s rain forecast this afternoon.”

At least, I reflect, he’s learned something since the time he expected me to climb Snowdon in a pair of wedge-heeled sandals.

I decide to change into trousers and walking boots, just to be on the safe side.

Dark clouds loom as we make our way to the train station. I fear the rain won’t hold off until this afternoon.

“Maybe we should wait for a nicer day,” I suggest, and Robert looks horrified.

“No! It has to be today,” he says. “The rain will add to the authenticity of it.”

It all sounds a bit ominous.

I stop walking, fold my arms and give my husband my sternest look.

“I’m not moving another step until you tell me where we’re going.”

He starts to laugh, then realises that I’m serious.

Setting down his bag on the pavement, he holds up his hands in surrender.

“OK. You’ll guess once you see which train we’re catching anyway.”

He does a pretend drum roll before the reveal.

“Today, Nancy Prentice, you and I are going to recreate our first date.”

I’m stunned into silence.

Robert suddenly looks nervous.

“Nance? Please say something.”

I take a deep breath.

“Our first date?” I repeat. “As in that dreadful trip to Blackpool that almost ended our relationship before it had begun?”

He looks deflated. I wish I could take back my words. The last thing I want to do is hurt his feelings.

“I thought we could have another go at it,” he says. “Get it right this time.”

I ask what on earth has put this idea into his head.

“It was exactly fifty years today,” he informs me, as though it should be obvious.

Robert never forgets a significant date – and not just birthdays and wedding anniversaries.

He knows when we got engaged, when each of my three pregnancies was confirmed, the day I passed my driving test, and the day we got the keys to our first house.

His amazing memory sometimes drives me mad, but it’s also one of the things I love about him.

“The train leaves in five minutes,” he says.

I take his hand and we jog towards the station.

Thank goodness I changed out of those heels.

As it turns out, we needn’t have hurried, as the train is running late, exactly as it was 50 years ago.

We waited on the platform, two shy, fresh-faced eighteen-year-olds, desperate to think of things to say to each other.

Robert had been doing his research, though.

To fill the awkward silence, he bombarded me with facts about the seaside town we were about to visit.

I must have been paying attention because I can still recall some of them.

“Isn’t this the part where you tell me that Blackpool gets its name from a drainage channel?” I ask.

He is saying that clearly he doesn’t need to, when the heavens open.

Our anoraks save us from the worst of it, but we’re still pretty soggy.

History really is repeating itself.

Back in 1974, I’d never have worn anything as sensible as an anorak.

I was a bit of a hippy in those days, or at least I wanted to be.

I wasn’t best pleased, in my floaty maxi dress and hand-crocheted cardigan, to find myself resembling a drowned rat before we reached our destination.

Robert didn’t help by pointing out that my hair had gone all frizzy.

He knows better than to say that now.

“Well, that trip to the hairdresser was a waste of time,” I say it for him.

We’re both chuckling as the train finally pulls on to the platform.

It’s already crowded and, although we manage to find seats, we can’t sit together.

I end up opposite a pair of teenagers who have clearly just had a massive row.

The girl stares out of the window, blinking back tears, while the boy tries to coax her out of her unhappiness with silly jokes.

I wish I could squeeze her arm and tell her to give him a chance, but I suspect she wouldn’t welcome my interference.

She catches me looking. I give her a tentative smile that she doesn’t return.

“Those two remind me of us, back in the day,” I tell Robert, linking my arm through his when we are reunited on the platform.

We watch the young girl marching away and the boy running to keep up with her.

“They’ll sort it out if they’re meant for each other,” he says.

His attention turns, as usual, to his stomach.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. How do you fancy a picnic on the beach?”

Amazingly, the bad weather doesn’t seem to have followed us.

As we leave the station, this sounds like a reasonable suggestion until I remember that day, half a century ago, that we first shared a meal.

“You haven’t recreated the menu, have you?” I ask.

Robert taps the side of his nose and tells me to wait and see.

There’s a bit of a breeze, but Robert spreads the tablecloth on the sand and we anchor it down with my handbag.

He proudly takes two cool bags out of his Bag For Life and presents me with one.

“Enjoy,” he says.

I slowly unzip the bag, anticipating white bread Spam sandwiches and a slightly bruised apple, which is what his mother packed for us, 50 years ago.

It would have been fine, had I not decided I was a vegetarian the week before.

I was living mainly on cheese omelettes and lentil soup but had neglected to inform Robert.

He looked hurt when all I did was nibble on the apple as he tucked in.

“Are you watching your weight?” he asked.

I glared at him.

“Are you saying I’m fat?” I was still damp and miserable. The day was not going well.

I should have more faith in my husband these days.

I’m still a vegetarian.

Inside my bag I find a delicious salad containing all the things I love to eat – olives, cherry tomatoes, feta cheese, all in a home-made dressing.

He has even remembered to provide a fork.

For dessert there are mixed berries with yoghurt.

I’m impressed and am about to tell him so, when a gust of wind sprinkles my salad with sand, rendering it completely inedible.

“Everything’s ruined,” Robert says, but I assure him that it isn’t.

“It’s enough for me that you’ve made such an effort,” I say, kissing him on the cheek before plunging my fork into his lunch.

I think I know what’s coming, once we finish eating, so I linger over my berries and yoghurt.

But I can’t put off the dreaded moment forever.

“It’s fine if you don’t want to,” Robert says.

But I do want to, more than anything.

“Let’s do it,” I say.

I set off determinedly, but once we’re standing at the foot of the Blackpool Tower my resolve starts to waiver.

I have only ever had two real fears in life – lifts and heights.

Last time we were here, I was too embarrassed to admit to either of them and told Robert I thought going up the tower was a boring “touristy” thing to do.

With his usual logic, he pointed out that we were, in fact, tourists.

I called him a supercilious know-it-all and stormed off – our first ever row.

I ended up catching an early train home on my own.

Hopefully we won’t repeat that bit of the day.

“We don’t have to go up to the top. There are plenty of other things to do.”

He’s right, but I’ve been promising myself for decades that one day I’d do this, and now seems as good a time as any.

“Distract me with some of your fun facts,” I say when we’re in the lift.

He obliges.

I already know most of them, such as that it was inspired by the Eiffel Tower.

“It’s 518 feet and nine inches tall, and is designed to sway gently in strong winds,” Robert reels off.

“Those last two things aren’t helping,” I tell him, and he squeezes my hand.

“Nearly there,” he whispers.

Before I realise it, we’ve arrived.

Yes, I’ve done it!

I’m feeling proud of myself until Robert observes that it would be a shame to come all the way up here and not open my eyes to admire the views.

“I’m imagining them,” I say. “That’s enough.”

Eventually, though, I manage it.

The views are spectacular – the whole of Blackpool and beyond, and people like dolls going about their business.

“Ready to go down now?” Robert asks.

I shake my head and head for the spiral staircase that will take me right to the top.

I don’t stay long, and I don’t go close to the edge, but I make it.

“Take a photo of me? The children will never believe it otherwise,” I say.

“I never doubted you for a minute.”

As a reward, Robert treats me to an ice-cream, and we stroll along the promenade.

We find a bench and sit people-watching.

I’m half hoping to see the young couple from earlier.

“I hope they’ve kissed and made up,” I say.

We’re quiet for a moment, both of us lost in thought.

“What made you agree to a second date, after you’d had such a rotten time?” Robert asks at last.

I don’t have to think about my answer.

“I realised you wouldn’t stop pestering me until I did. Besides, I knew you were the one for me.”

He’s about to say something romantic when the predicted heavy rain finally finds us and we’re soaked for the second time.

It doesn’t matter one single bit.

“Thank you for a perfect day,” I tell him.

Then I suggest that our next outing should be to a theme park, where he can attempt to overcome his lifelong fear of rollercoasters.

“It’s a deal,” he says with a grin.

Arm in arm, we squelch back to the station.

And there they are, the boy and girl, waiting on the platform, gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes.

It really has been a perfect day.

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