"Cheapest single room I have is ten pounds," Mrs. Sneath said. "That's bed and full breakfast."
"Your sign says the rooms start at seven pounds."
"I don't have any left, do I," she said.
"I'll take a ten-pound one."
"With tax that's eleven pounds fifty," she said, writing out the bill, "in advance. Make your check out to M. Sneath. You were well away," she went on, speaking to another woman who was sitting lamely on a bar stool, with a small glass of lager.
"I was drinking gin," this other woman said. Her name was Mrs. Feeley. She was Irish, and though she was speaking with Mrs. Sneath, she kept looking at me in a friendly way and seemed always to be on the verge of asking me where I was from, and then saying that she had wanted to go there her whole life.
"I was on shorts," Mrs. Sneath said. "I thought that band were smashing, and all that food. Gillows did the catering. I stuffed myself with smoked salmon and those bits of ham rolled around the pineapple chunks with the toothpick through them. Rum don't give you a hangover, and I always drink lots of water. Don't gin make you cry?"
"Only sometimes," Mrs. Feeley said.
"I hadn't been to a wedding for ages," Mrs. Sneath said.
"They don't get married as much as they used to. They just seem to live together until they get sick of each other." Mrs. Feeley smiled at me, but she was still addressing Mrs. Sneath. "We had a marvelous wedding, Jerry and me. I was paralytic. They don't do that anymore. It's the pill."
Mrs. Sneath did not reply. She was staring at me and compressing her cigarette in her yellow lips. "You're in nineteen. Top of the stairs, last door on the right. The loo is down the hall. Breakfast's at nine."
"I wanted to be away at eight," I said.
"Bloody crack of dawn," she said.
"I'm walking to Dover," I said.
"Dover's lovely," Mrs. Feeley said in her friendly way. She was fleshy and full of encouragement. She said, "But it used to be much prettier than it is now."
"Breakfast's at nine," Mrs. Sneath said and wrung the sweat from her palms by clutching her filthy shift. She blinked the smoke out of her eyes and gave me an Eskimo squint and said, "If I made exceptions I'd be doing breakfasts all the morning. It's a proper cooked breakfast, see, that's why I'm not cheap."
She handed me a baton—a stick of wood with a key wired to it.
"Nineteen. Top of the stairs."
I walked through Deal that night. It was only a few streets, but they were pleasant streets, and on the Front I could hear the sea lifting the smooth stones on the beach and then draining through them with a swallowing sound. At a dark patch of seafront a girl and boy stopped me. "Hey." I thought they were going to ask me directions. They were each about eighteen years old. The girl said, "Give me forty-five pence, will you?"
I could not imagine why she was asking me for this exact sum, which was about a dollar. I said no.
"It's not much," she said. "It's nothing."
They were neatly dressed and both of them were smoking cigarettes.
"He's a poof," the girl said, and they both laughed.
***
They sat in the dark watching television with still, blue faces. Mrs. Sneath and her husband, Will, and Mrs. Feeley and Jerry, and a deranged-looking drifter, named Yerby, and Mrs. Sneath's father, Charlie Wensum, from Skegness. "Skeggy," he called it. He loved the coast. Mr. Wensum was a man of perhaps seventy-five, though it was hard to say for certain in that dark room. His skin was blue from the television. I had the impression from their silence and the way they sat, with their feet up and squashing cushions, that they did this every night. A sign on the door said TV LOUNGE—RESIDENTS ONLY.
The news was on. I could hear Yerby breathing hard. No one spoke. The screen showed a map of the Falklands, two small rags of land.
Mrs. Sneath said, "What do you think of this Falklands business?"
I said it seemed reasonable to fight for what was yours.
"People say they can't see the point of it," Jerry Feeley said. "Can you see the point of it?"
I said I didn't know anything except that so far it was a war without any casualties, and if it stayed that way it would be easier to reach an agreement with Argentina.
"No casualties he says." This from Yerby.
The news was terrible. An Argentine battleship had been sunk with twelve hundred men aboard. Most of the men were feared drowned. This ship was the General Belgrano and these were the first deaths of the war. This had been announced only a few minutes before I had entered the room.
No one said anything for a while, perhaps out of a fear of saying the wrong thing. What was said in the moments after a tragic announcement was always remembered.
But Mrs. Sneath was agitated. Her voice was guilty and defiant.
"They say they're going to eat the sheep!"
"Who's going to eat the sheep?" I asked.
"The Argies—who else?" she said. "When they run out of food. When they haven't got anything left. That's not fair, eating the sheep. They have no right. The Falklands may belong to Argentina, but they're British sheep!"
"Those poor men." It was Mrs. Feeley, speaking sadly.
Jerry said, "They won't have a chance in that water."
I was sitting on the sofa with Mr. Wensum. His feet were drawn up under him; he was seated cross-legged like an Indian fakir, staring with his blue face at the bad news on the blue television. Without any warning I felt a nudge, a hard poke against my arm, and there was still pressure on my elbow. I looked down quickly and saw that Mr. Wensum had put his foot on my arm. I found this a disgusting thing for him to do.
"I can't see the telly!" he shouted, and showed me his bright false teeth, bluer than his face.
I hated his feet so much, I left the room.
***
There was no one else at breakfast. There were no other guests at the hotel. All the rooms were empty. The people watching television had been family and friends. So Mrs. Sneath had lied to me about the "residents" and not having a cheaper room and having to cook breakfast all morning. She was in the kitchen, smoking and coughing over the frying pan. She said if I stayed another night she might be able to find me a cheaper room.
"Some other time," I said. "I'll be back."
Never, I thought.
"It's up to you," Mrs. Sneath said. "Dover's pricey. We're a lot cheaper here."
Sure you are.
She put my plate of bacon and eggs in front of me and went to another table and smoked and drank her tea and read her Sun. The headline was sunk! It referred to the General Belgrano and the twelve hundred dead men. It was the first of many gloating headlines.
***
Then I was out the door and free, breathing fresh air—it was lovely, walking away in the morning. I closed the door and left for good. Cheerio, they said. Mind how you go. And I was off, taking long strides, glad I didn't have to stay a minute longer. And when I got sick of the slimy salty breakfasts, I just got up and walked out the door before anyone else was awake, and let the cat out, and hurried for the first hundred yards, and then slowed down to a stroll when I realized that I would never have to go back. It was a liberating fantasy of running away from home.
I had no one to wait for, no bus to catch, no tickets to buy, no appointments. And the next time I find out that a hotel is dirty and I don't like the people, I'll leave, I thought; I'll just push on and find a better one. I liked thinking that I was always making progress whenever I walked away. And if I had bad luck, it did not matter, because there was always something better farther up the line: a beach or cliffs or a famous town or woods, and sometimes just the weather was a pleasure, as I went clockwise around the coast.
I was happy, going to places I had never been, that had only been names to me, or descriptions in books that had falsely fixed the place in my imagination. In Rural Rides, William Cobbett had said, "Deal is a most villainous place. It is full of filthy-looking people. Great desolation of abomination has been going on here ... Everything seems upon the perish..." And I had assumed it was like that, the judgment was so strongly expressed. But it was a small mild town, without a seawall or much of a beach, and few trees, and open to the breezes from France. It was raggedly respectable. The boats on shore looked practical—slow, clumsy, and made for one purpose; they had numbers but no names; rusty ironwork: fishing boats. Men still went out every day from this old trampled coast and its crowded houses, and they made a living at the hard work of catching fish.