SUMMER FRUITS

I arrived in Deal late on a Sunday afternoon in August, long after lights-out it appeared by most of the properties I passed from the station.

Unchartered model ships collected dust behind window panes of old Victorian cottages squat and tall, squeezed up against each other like preserved summer fruits crammed in a jar. 

A Calor Gas blue flickered behind some of the curtains on Duke Street, while tiny front rooms briefly exposed bicycles and ironing-boards, folded prams, dirty plates, an old widow and a fish-tank.

In  Middle Street, a competition seemed to run for some but not all residents in choosing an elaborate house name, a brightly coloured front door and an antique knocker or bell-pull. Here, the have and have nots jostled for my attention from both sides, as if I were a special dignitary visiting for the first time.

Quiet and seemingly deserted, Deal was a sleeping child, except for the hard abrasive sound of little suitcase wheels rolling out of town.





Comments