Twopence Coloured (Little Thunders)

I.

Shortly before midnight, several years ago, a pretty butunusually foolish girl, for her age (which was nineteen), was walking byherself along the Brighton front.  It wasraining slightly, and the movement of her even strides made little thunderswith her mackintosh, and the rain spat with a kind of sullen suddenness uponher glistening white face and mouth, and she was very full of her quiet selfand her quiet decisions.

 II.

        As Jackie walked along the Brighton front, it became moreand more her own Brighton front, and at last it seemed that there was no onethere at all to share her striding and buoyant possession of it.  At the same time the wind grew higher,bawling violently into Jackie’s ears, and the rain came with it, spittingitself into millions of ardent sharp triangles on the slimy streaming pavingunder the lamps.  And the sea, which alittle while before had been crashing measuredly away (as though it has reallyrather forgotten what is was aimingat, after the nonsensical centuries it had been at the business), suddenlyseemed to awake, and as good as said it had had enough of this tomfoolery, andnow the coast should listen, come what might! And that was what Jackie was wanting really, some sort of challenge likethat, to nerve her and brace her and give her a sense of immediate andimpending battle.  And in the sound andrush of the storm about her, in the unquenched but fearful sputtering of theyellow-green lamps, in the wash and thunder of the war-like and long-preparedcoast (which had taken the sea at its word and also wanted a row), Jackieplanned for herself a very gallant and hand-to-hand and triumphing battle withlife indeed. 

NOTE:  The recent Faber and Faber republication of Patrick Hamilton's third novel, Twopence Coloured (1928) is reason for celebration.  Books -- real books -- should stay in print as real books, i.e. not e-books.  The two sections above, which begin and end the prologue section of Jackie Mortimer's story of wanting to "Go upon the Stage," remind me of my times in the rain in Brighton, of the incessant noisy rain tonight, which brought me downstairs to write this, and of a few other things I can't get off my mind.  Looking for suitable illustrations, I was finally satisfied, but was also constantly reminded that the truest Brighton images I know (apart from my own memories of being pelted with "millions of ardent sharp triangles" of rain like Jackie Mortimer) are those taken by the poet and photographer Tom Raworth, which I highly recommend seeking out.  Raworth captures the essence of a place that visual artists have occasionally rendered vividly, but which often comes off as a static cliche compared to the "real thing."  There is nothing like walking along the Brighton front in the cold hard rain.