Eden Gained And Lost (July 12)

Fylde, Lancashire; tree paved streets resembling a London suburb, but situated by the Irish Sea, not the Thames.  

Fylde, Lancashire: a place of memories  
 
Friday 17 August 2012  
 
I arrive after a long train journey that includes a wait at Preston. I think the Government have banned smoking in public places, but I definitely detected cigarette smoke while I waited for my connecting train and I moved away from the source of the smell, keen to avoid triggers.  
 
I step off the train, into a tiny station that has only one rail track. Out in the town, I strain for echoes of childhood. For the bucket and spade shop I vaguely recall and the sand dunes and the unmistakable scent of seaside cafes serving egg and chips. Instead, an overcast sky greets me, along with rows of unfamiliar buildings and the promise of rain.  
 
My hosts arrive. After stopping at a cafe for a quick cup of tea or coffee, we hurry through drizzle, sheltering under trees when the rain develops into a downpour. I look around, shifting position to avoid getting wet.  
 
When I was a child, I went to a party on this street. A celebration in one of the buildings close to where we are standing now.  The Synagogue. Something happened, though, and the head of the clan got angry.  
 
The clan. Most of them have gone. Died. Broken off contact. Whatever. These streets, so full of life and joy then, seem to lack character or meaning now.  
 
 
Most of the guests had already arrived when we went in. They were seated in the hall, the male congregants dressed in white robes and hats while a man with a black hat on recited prayers from the Bima in the centre. My grandmother and mother went to sit in the women's section. My grandfather, my father, my brothers and I joined my uncle and his young son.  
 
Fuming, face darkening under his hat, my grandfather kept looking around the synagogue. One of the relatives hadn't arrived yet. Granddad got up and shuffled out of the main hall in wait of the latecomers.    
 
'You're late,' he chimed in his thick accent when they appeared at the synagogue entrance. They took a step back when they saw him. 'It is not good,' he went on, tapping his watch. 'No, it is not good.'    
 
His anger exploded. A tirade based on years of brewing conflict and family secrets. Granddad's temper that I supposedly inherited as well.  
 
 
 
***  
I check in at the hotel and have a shower before heading out to the shore where I take photos in a fresh downpour and look at the Model Railway. Later, I meet my hosts for dinner.  
 
Back at the hotel, I update my facebook page:Fri 17 August 22.39: walk along shore path, plus photoshoot in the rain, Welcome to the world of lancashire.  
 
As usual, I take too much Nicorette and feel sick, dizzy and shaky, and I have to lie down for a while.  
 
 
***  
 
Saturday 18 Aug 2012  
 
Muggy weather, heavy and oppressive. After a quick coffee in town, I spend most of the morning at the hotel, suffering with stomach cramp - a result of the body struggling to cope without cigarettes.  
 
After lunch, my host and I take a walk through the town, stopping outside the home of a family friend who has since died. More than two decades earlier, we attended a big celebration in this bungalow. The family used to have a piano and I loved running my fingers along the keys and pretending I could play.  
 
I was a little boy then, at primary school, and I sampled the day of the celebration with the naive excitement of a child, especially when the family friend’s boiler nearly exploded and we had to drive into Blackpool in a crowded car, doing our best to rescue valuable items belonging to the family.  
 
Yes, it all happened so long ago, and that vibrant lady and her husband are no longer alive. Instead, I see an empty bungalow, its soul ripped out after circumstances turned sour for everyone involved. I want to go home.  
 
 
Granddad had played the violin, apparently, and had wanted to be a scientist  something the Russian or Lithuanian governments wouldn't have allowed. As a young man, he'd been tall and good looking  a hero of sorts  but he'd diminished in size over the years and he was now a small and terrifying man, although he was always kind to me.  
 
On the morning of the Barmitzvah, the grown ups made small talk in the dining room, trying to ignore the tension in the air, Grandma continuing to chuckle away at intermittent intervals.  
 
Most of the relatives would join us at the synagogue in the neighbouring town. There was a long history of family strife and unhappiness across the extended family that Grandma loved to observe  Also, a number of long standing rifts had yet to be resolved between my grandfather and several of the children of his eight siblings, all but one of the siblings deceased by then.    
 
The seven of us piled in the car, Grandma sitting in the passenger seat while my mother drove, Granddad squeezed in with my father and the rest of us on the back seat. It was a hot, summer day with tourists hurrying towards the promenade and the gift shops on the front.  
 
We took the coastal route to the town in Fylde, pulling up a street or two away from the small synagogue to avoid being seen in a car on the Sabbath, even though everyone knew that everyone else had driven there for the boy's Barmitzvah.  
 
 
***  
Facebook posting; 18 aug chips and peas from traditional lancashire chip shop, near coast, bottle of wine and sweets.  
***  
 
Sunday 19 Aug 2012  
 
I return to London the following afternoon, drained and exhausted, but at least I have haven’t smoked. Nor will I for the next seven years (and hopefully longer).