The Blackpool Highflyer

'Well how do you like Blackpool?' I said.

'So far,' she said, 'I've only seen the railway station.'

I caught up her hand and we pushed our way out of the station and into the blinding light of day. And you had never seen a day so fulclass="underline" tribes of excursionists going both ways on the Prom (they should have had an 'up' and 'down' as on the railways) with the trams trying to nudge their way through, and thousands more folk sitting on the sand, where all places were taken, although there were gangways left for the ice-cream carts.

The sea was doing all in its power to entertain: glittering and sending in pretty big waves, which came as a bonus on a day with hardly any wind. But the teams of Pierrots and Harlequins and the wandering ventriloquists were in competition with it.

I looked to the left and the right. Which way to go? What to show the wife first? I saw a woman's face coming towards me in the crowd. It was a smiling face under a bonnet, a normal Blackpool face. But when the face saw mine, the smile was checked. It was Mary-Ann Roberts. I hated her bonnet, I hated the way she had kept some of her prettiness, for that seemed to give importance to the question of whether she was smiling or not.

I hated most particularly the way she never did anything unexpected, like walking up to me and saying: You were not to know about the treatment of concussion cases. You are an engine man after all, and not a doctor. As I looked at her, she looked away.

I had brought her to Blackpool so that she could kill my enjoyment of the day.

We were now bang under the Tower, with the wife controlling events. We both looked at the top of it for a while, where the glass and iron palace was balanced. It was a marvellous sight, but I could only think of the stone on the line. We looked down and around, at the Ferris wheel over near the Winter Gardens, which was like a giant rosette. Then it was back to staring at the crowds, which went on for ever, like the sea. These people had all aimed for the bull's-eye, and they had all hit the bull's-eye. There was no point in thinking about the future or the past, this was the moment, and it just had to be carried on.

'What do you reckon?' I asked the wife. She answered slowly: There's to be a free tea at the Tower in three hours' time, but first I want to take a turn on the flying machine.'

'Which one?' I said. 'I expect there's hundreds.'

'The Sir Hiram Maxim Flying Machines at the Pleasure Beach,' said the wife. 'I've read of them in the library. They're at Sand Hill.'

'That's south,' I said.

So we began going that way along the Prom. I kept looking over at the beach. I knew how things went with the Pierrot shows. Each one was like a little dream while it was happening, with perfect dainty people dancing to guitars. Then the Pierrots would come down from their little stands to start collecting the pennies, and the magic was gone. You'd be sorry for having watched, because it made you feel bad to pay them, and you felt a sight worse if you didn't. I looked beyond the crowds to the bathing machines wobbling down towards the water. There were teams of boys to control them and they were taking ten down at once, all in a line like a little landslide.

As we moved along the Prom we kept nearly colliding with people who wanted our money: the flowersellers, booksellers, quack doctors, all trying to stop you in your tracks by shouting at you.

As we walked, some amusements won out as the ones you really noticed, whether from numbers of sandwich men or quantities of posters, or through just being noticeable: the Royal Rumanian Band was on the North Pier all summer. You couldn't avoid knowing of that. And Beecham's Pills were to be had everywhere.

Presently, the machine came into view, high above the heads of the crowd: a wide-turning wheel, with the flying boats hanging from wires. As we watched, the wheel increased its speed and the flying boats flew further out and – which was the great thing – higher too. Every now and then there was a little snort of smoke from the centre of the wheel, but the thing was really almost silent, and turned like a weather vane or a windmill, all natural; and there was something of sailing about it too. Silent speed.

'It's beautiful,' I said to the wife, 'but aren't ladies in the family way supposed to avoid violent amusements?'

'Nothing violent about it,' said the wife, without looking at me.

So we joined the back of the queue. It was all sandy and dusty round about, like America. You were hard put to say where the beach ended. There was a carousel nearby bigger than the common run. It went anti-clockwise, which was the American way. I'd read of that somewhere. There were plenty of Yankees in Blackpool. Well, it was open house to all sorts.

There were several other rides on the go: a bicycle railway, a switchback, and over in the distance a waterfall coming down from a man-made mountain. A sign stood high up above the crowd: 'the water caves of the world', and hard by it was a giant banner: 'read the daily despatch'.

Maxim's Flying Machine was looked after by big fellows in sailor suits, and when we were towards the front of the queue one of them stepped up and asked if we'd ridden on it before. 'You must not on any account try to stand up in the flying boat,' said the fellow. 'And you are to take off your hats.'

There was a notice about how this was all in aid of Sir Hiram Maxim and his attempt to fly a measured mile by powered flight, in a heaver-than-air craft, not a steerable balloon. There was a photograph of a real flying machine, and a photograph of a mile – well, a biggish field at any rate.

It was sixpence for the two of us. We climbed aboard our boat and the wheel started to turn. There was hurdy-gurdy music coming from somewhere, and I thought it was for the flying machine, but then another tune started up, far louder, and this was the one. It was a melody I'd heard before somewhere, but completely changed.

'This fellow Maxim must be out of his senses!' I shouted to the wife as we started to climb.

'Isn't it just wonderful!' she shouted back, and it was.

I liked it best when we were right out over the sea, when an extra bit of breeze would push you that bit higher and you felt you could float on for ever.

The boats gradually tipped, and at the highest point we were quite sideways – and silent, for there was nothing at all to be said.

When we climbed off, the wife, setting her hat back on her head, said: 'I feel just like I don't know what.'

We walked away from the machine hand in hand, and the wife said: 'That's set me up just nicely, that has, but I've done Blackpool now.'

We bought some treacle toffee, and it ought to have been the perfect day. Instead, I was suddenly furious that I could not bring before my mind's eye the face of the wrecker. Damn you, I thought, whoever you are.

'Why don't we go along to St Anne's,' I said, 'the next place along?'

'Where Mr Robinson lives?'

'That's it,' I said. I wanted to see that fellow again, though it would be hard to bring about. 'It's a nice run out there,' I said. 'I think they have a gas tram that takes you.'

But the gas tram I'd heard about was gone, long since removed from service. The ticket clerk at the Blackpool Southern Terminus, which was just a step from the Pleasure Beach, said passengers riding on it had found themselves not able to breathe on windless days. The tram to Lytham – which was the one that stopped at St Anne's – was electric now, like all the other Blackpool ones.

The ticket clerk shouted this to me, and he must have spent his whole life shouting, because that's how things went on around the Blackpool trams in the season. There was a fearful scramble to get on them, and the bells as they came up might have been the bells of a boxing match. It was not quite so much of a scramble for the Lytham tram, though. Lytham and St Anne's were quieter resorts, and quieter types went out to them. We climbed onto the top deck when the tram came in. The steps were very high; they went up in a corkscrew, and 'hovis' was written very big on every one. The electric wires hung from what looked like ordinary lamp-posts that had grown arms.