A short walk from the house is a three-mile-long pebble-and-shingle beach. At the far end of the beach, sheltered by a cliff, is a nudist section. Britain has two kinds of nudist beach. There are the official, designated nudist beaches, and there are nudist beaches that have become so by tradition. Ours is the latter. Therefore it has no signs warning of nudists ahead or demarcating the line between the nudists and the “textiles” part. The unwritten rule, however, is that one can be nude anywhere beyond a pair of rusting fishing-boat winches.
The beach is served by a small car park. Beside the entrance is a square concrete plinth. A car-park attendant’s hut was once situated here, though that genial and popular man died long ago and was replaced by an automatic ticket machine. But every time I walk down the hill to the beach and pass this crumbling concrete square, I affectionately recall this hut and the car-park attendant who once stood outside it, issuing tickets and chatting affably to his regulars. I do so because the car-park attendant was my father, and because it was a job that brought him happiness.
As his car park was patronised by nudists, he chose, in a spirit of irony, to wear the full council uniform
He was a humorous man, my father. Because his car park was patronised by nudists, he chose, in a spirit of irony, to wear the full council uniform of peaked cap, black trousers, white shirt, tie and epaulettes. He was a great hit with them. They sent him cards at Christmas. But one night, someone set fire to his hut. By morning it had been reduced to a neat rectangle of ashes and a charred padlock and clasp. My father sat all day on a chair within the charred remains of his hut, hinting darkly at militant nudism offended by the elaborateness of his uniform.
Last month my grandson and I went down to the beach and spent an afternoon on the clothed section. As we passed the plinth, I once again saw my father standing by his hut, watching us go by with that ironical look he had.
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His car park was full, and the beach was as crowded as Brighton’s on a bank holiday. We made our pitch among the partially clothed family groups. From where we sat, we could see the nut-brown nudists shimmering in the heat haze at the far end of the beach.
We were sitting there, my grandson and I, building a tiny slate house with slate furniture, to which we invited slate people for tea, when a naked, middle-aged man appeared before us. He strutted arrogantly and militantly among the family groups, flapping his willy at us, with apparently no purpose other than to express disdain for our nonsensical addiction to clothing. Was he, perhaps, an evangelical nudist? An agent provocateur from beyond the winches? Whatever he was, we were having none of him. I am not without sin, but I cast the first stone. Whereupon he was pelted with a shower of pebbles that came from all over the family area, well-aimed some of them, which didn’t half make him jump.