A tall tale
Over the past few weeks, posters had begun appearing on lamp-posts and boarded shopfronts, each pasted at a slightly different angle.
The council promised an innovative new event for the bank holiday weekend:
“Spring Fayre — A Revival of Traditional Edwardian Seaside Charm!”
The clip-art parasol, sepia filter, and ambitious choice of three fonts made the whole thing look as if a time-travelling travel agent had abandoned the project halfway through. Still, Emma said the fresh air and company would do us good, and Murphy, having heard the word town, planted himself by the front door until we gave in. We decided to walk down.
On the green a maypole leaned like a listing mast, ribbons already tangled by the on-shore wind. A rope-splicing demonstration sat wedged between a vape kiosk and a vegan taco van. A man in a straw boater spoke into a PA that crackled like frying bacon, welcoming everyone to our “authentic Edwardian attractions” moments before introducing a bubble-tea stall. Nobody seemed entirely sure what the Edwardians had actually done for fun, but the Rotary Club had erected a coconut shy, and someone had unearthed a Punch-and-Judy booth and issued the puppets sunglasses.
Jack materialised beside us holding a reusable cup of cider, his cheeks the same colour as the bunting.
“Authentic Edwardian sunshine, this,” he said, squinting at a gull making off with an unattended doughnut.
Ronnie, having been press-ganged into helping with the barbecue, passed by carrying three paper plates of sausages, grease blowing sideways in the breeze. Maya manned an organic-honey stand for a local permaculture co-operative, defending the jars from sand-grit while a child attempted to pay with a conker. Tommo was there too, in a town jacket that had probably last seen use on a visit to his son in Exeter. He was carrying a tray of under-iced fairy cakes for the “heritage tea tent.”
Murphy immediately attempted to insinuate himself among a knot of children with melting ice creams. Emma reeled him back with the firm, cheerful tone she reserves for public scenarios in which he behaves like a canine pickpocket.
I bought a pint of bland lager and joined Jack and Tommo at a picnic bench. Emma wandered off to examine enamel jugs repurposed as planters, Murphy strutting alongside carrying half a stolen bun. The PA introduced the Sea-View Heritage Steppers, then corrected itself to the Greensticks Border Morris once someone passed the announcer a handwritten note.
The dancers clattered into view: black rag jackets, soot-smudged faces, barely in time with a fiddle that fought the wind. Bells jangled and the bottle caps sewn to their shins rattled gamely. Children pointed; a terrier joined in. It was, in its way, charming.
Jack was midway through a story about a delivery gone sideways at a construction site — something to do with a plate compactor, three pallets of tiles, and a foreman who couldn’t tell left from level — when he stopped. His cup hovered halfway up. His gaze shifted over my shoulder.
“Hold on —
that bloke,” he said quietly.
“The tall one. Last year, at the Red Lion when the Morris dancers kicked off.”
I turned. Saw nothing remarkable.
Just people moving between tents: a man shepherding twins, a woman adjusting a sunhat, two lads sharing chips. A brief interruption in the light near the marquees, perhaps, or someone stepping behind a stall. Hard to say.
“Forget it,” Jack murmured, trying for a grin. “Mixing people up.”
Tommo, angling his fairy cake away from the wind, overheard.
“Morris man? Tall fella? Like, really tall?” he said. “Sounds like old Pete — used to hedge-lay down our lower fields. Haven’t seen him since… well, before Dad passed, I reckon.”
Jack frowned. “No, can’t have been. This bloke was here last year.”
Tommo shrugged. “Could’ve been. People come back this time of year.” He bit the fairy cake and shed a drift of powdered sugar across his jacket.
Before the moment settled, a gust slapped the maypole. Ribbons whipped; children shrieked; one ribbon wrapped itself around a folding chair, which toppled neatly into a pile of stale cucumber sandwiches. The PA died mid-announcement and returned at half volume with something suspiciously 1980s. A loose triangle of bunting detached itself and made a slow, looping descent onto a mobility scooter. The day righted itself by sheer momentum.
Emma reappeared with a tray of pints and an elderflower spritz. “You three look like you’re planning a coup,” she said. “Here — hydration.”
Later, we made a slow circuit of the stalls. Murphy secured the abandoned end of someone’s sausage and looked unbearably pleased. Emma found postcard prints she liked for the shop wall. Jack drifted off to join Kim and Thomas.
Near the craft tent two older women were discussing last year’s festivities.
“Wasn’t there a tall lad danced last year?”
“No, dear, that was ages ago.”
“I’m sure he was local.”
“I thought he moved away.”
“Or died?”
“Oh, who can remember.”
Their uncertainty folded neatly into the rest of the afternoon’s muddle.
Towards six the stalls sagged, the maypole leaned further seaward, and gulls quarrelled over chips. Emma chatted with Maya about the merits of upcycled shelf brackets. Ronnie smuggled the last sausages to his van. Jack and family vanished behind the barbecue smoke, him still glancing down the lane as though trying to place something just out of memory.
We headed back across the green and made our way along the promenade.
Past the slipway Murphy paused, ears pricked toward the gap between two shuttered kiosks. For a moment something there seemed to shift — a brief interruption of light or movement — and then the breeze pushed stray ribbons across the gap and whatever I’d thought I’d seen was just wind teasing plastic.
We carried on.
Bank-holiday warmth, spilled cider, a faint ache of accordion looping over the green; chatter thinning as families peeled away into side streets.
At the sea front’s end the tide had left the shingle dark and glistening. We turned inland, past closed cafés and chalkboards still advertising morning specials. The houses grew quieter, windows brightening one by one. Murphy trotted ahead, stopping only to check we were following.
By the time we reached our road the town had folded itself back into evening: bunting stirring on distant railings, the smell of barbecues lingering somewhere inland. Nothing unusual. Nothing that needed chasing down.
We let ourselves in and closed the door on the last of the light.