By Fiona Kyle
The little shell sat on the mantelpiece where it had been for as long as anyone could remember.
Margery sits in her chair and looks at it.
She bought the shell a lifetime ago on a family holiday in Scarborough – her and Robert and the five children. She had wanted a souvenir to try and protect the memory of the most perfect day of her life. The very word ‘souvenir’ so different and exotic and always linked to magical trips to special places. They found it in a large shop on the front which smelt of sea salt and cigarettes. Susan had bought a stick of pink rock then refused to share it with the others.
She had put the shell, all wrapped up in paper, down in the fish and chip shop while they placed their huge order and nearly left it but the chap behind the counter pointed it out to her. They sat on a bench on the promenade to eat them. Sun beating down, greasy fingers, newspaper, salt, fish, lovely. Seagulls wheeling about above them – that noise they make! So distinctive, every time she heard a seagull since then she is catapulted back to that day, to that bench in Scarborough, surrounded by everyone she loved.
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