Better Not!
Our pale yellow Triumph Herald was loaded with tin sand pails, a windbreak, deck chairs, towels, Mum’s freshly cut sandwiches and glass bottles full of tap water. It was 5 a.m.
Dad loved car trips that began in the dark. Me too. I was eight years old. My younger brothers, still in their pajamas and wrapped in blankets, snoozed beside me. While the world slept we were in action. The thud of the boot (trunk) being closed. A quiet question, “Did you lock up?” The car’s tires rubbing the driveway goodbye. We crept out onto our avenue and were o.
It was the 1960s. Jetting and cruising were unknown to families like mine. Holidays were a drive to the seaside for a day on the sand and a stick of Blackpool Rock candy. I don’t remember seeing the sea, just endless compressed sand carpeted with towels. The familiar Blackpool Tower watched over the bustling street and its queue of decorated lamp posts. The toilets were coin-operated, each stall door with a unit axed near the handle for those who needed to “spend a penny.”
In the afternoon, we visited an arcade; I had a penny to spend on whichever game I wished. I drifted to a quiet corner and stood before the sedate, ignored machine labelled “Fortune Teller.” Behind me were the sounds of lever pulls and releases, whistles, bells and eagerness. I read the instructions. Think of your wish. Insert your coin. Receive your answer.
“I wish that everyone in the world can go to heaven.”
I slid my coin into the slot. There was a pause. Ding, a small white card emerged. I read, “Your wish will come true next week!”
Vivienne Mathers, Dundas, Ont.