Published 'The Spotted Rhubarb' 1996

The periphery of the beach still milled with assorted common folk establishing family encampments amid screams of delight and disgust - the striped awnings of windbreaks flapping, the pained yelps of those inept ones erecting deck-chairs, the slap of hands upon sandcastle mounds and naughty bottoms ... but, in the middle, a circle of silent, open-mouthed, swimsuited children squatting and staring up at the narrow perpendicular canvas tent that had been erected. The upper third of its frontage was missing, made to look like the proscenium arch of a theatre.

Amid the gulp of waves, the aura of high-pitched expectation grew, even touching the outskirts of the sunny sands. Men with knotted hankies on their heads and blurred tattoos on the exposed parts of their bodies stood to attention from their holiday duties and peered under hand-shades towards the audience of hunched youngsters. Old ladies ceased prattling about the sandwiches they were about to share out among their broods. They recalled their own childhood when Punch and Judy was all the rage. And, yes, there was the nasal squeak - but, wait, no pointy hat flopping over the edge of the stage - no clatter of crocodile jaws - no stirring of sausages - yet a familiar face appeared.

"That's the way to DOOOO ... it!"

The rubbery lips moved slightly out of kilter to the words. Uncontrollable laughter shattered that spell of terror often preceding such entertainments. However, there was a stifled sob from one old lady who had stopped buttering a fresh supply of sandwiches upon recognising the face as a loved one. Yesterday's drowning victim on this very beach had indeed been pushed up into the empty space of the vertical canvas coffin like a side-show dummy. It was as if corpses naturally squeaked through their noses. Sea-water probably corroded their vocal chords.