Desmond Dekker, his wife Margaret
and niece Charlotte liked to get their tops off and crispen their skins down
Lowestoft way. Big ships and little ships vied for attention on the horizon but
Desmond liked to watch Margaret’s flattened torpedo breasts pointing towards
his niece’s surfboard back. Her young skin was firm yet supple and Desmond
thought if he was a killer whale he might mistake his niece for a seal and eat
her.
A seagull
hovered above and Desmond Dekker imagined himself a miniature Israelite carried
away to the Holy Land on the back of silken wings.
‘What
you looking at?’ Margaret asked Desmond.
‘Your
breasts, my darling,’ replied Desmond.
‘Good
reply but what are you thinking about?’
‘Das
Boot,’ replied Desmond, and the sun tipped a little on its axis and the sky
went all of a sudden very dark.
