The Day I Bought an Aston Martin

David Coffield

1969

Friday. It's been a big day. In the morning, largely because it was seriously chucking it, all rain-coated up, we head-downed it to "Peter's Caf" for a "Bar Six" and coffee.

Then I bought the Aston Martin.

Now it's about five in the afternoon and I'm having a bath with Mabel Lucie Atwell. A big bathroom and an unfeasibly large white enamel bath with proper Shanks ceramic-topped taps and a big pull-up contraption to open the plug hole. I'm washing the afternoon's sand out between my toes, bobbing a toy boat up and down at the same time, while Mabel looks on and reminds me to "Please remember, don't forget, never leave the bathroom wet."

I should explain I'm seven, it's 1969, and I'm on holiday in St Andrews with my mum and dad. The first fortnight in August. And for a fortnight every year Mabel watches as I have a bath. The water is nice and deep and hot, the bathroom on the second floor landing. It's shared, so we come back a bit early from the beach to get more time. Bath over, clothes back on, and back to our room. We wait for the gong, while I flick through some Summer Specials ("Beano", "Dandy", "Whizzer and Chips") and eject the baddie round the bedroom from the Aston Martin.

Gong goes. We go.

Down the stairs, past the lounge and the chocolate machine that only ever seems to have Turkish Delight (what is that anyway?) left.

High tea. Friday's is fish. Probably from Anstruther or something. Fish and chips. Posh fish and chips - we get a bit of lemon to squeeze over it. Soup first, fish and chips, then the piece de resistance: the three-tiered cake stand. One per table. Selected cakes from MacArthur's in South Street.

Recap: Buy Aston Martin, West Sands, big bath with Mabel, fish and chips (with lemon) and now a plate load of cakes. Ever wish you could just stay on holiday?

The dining room isn't huge; maybe a dozen tables if that. Miss Kemp is in - always gets Room 1. Moira's got to be about 70, also from Glasgow, but has tremendous energy (golf in the morning, swimming in the afternoon and the shops) and we'll know her for a long time yet.

The hotel: "Crawford House" - it still says that to this day, even though it was turned into flats in the mid seventies. It's opposite the New Picture House in North Street. Family run - Mr and Mrs Kirk and their dogs Rab and Tam - a grey, wooden, name-plated, gate and vennel take you from the street to the lang-rigg, red chuckied, walled garden cum car park. The sun lounge is at the back, the main lounge to the front. Going through that vennel (very carefully) in the car each year signifies arrival, while in and out each day counts down the return to Glasgow.

High tea over, mum and dad briefly natter with the other guests, while a demo from me of the Aston Martin is mandatory; I'm not quite sure I've stuck the numbers on the revolving number plates properly - they look a bit squinty. Then back to our room for jackets. The day's not over by any means. After tea we're off for a ritual game at the Himalayas.

We wander out the back, through the vennel, cross the road, down Murray Park, past the Step Rock (empty after the days events - I imagine witches getting chucked off the cliff), the R&A Clubhouse, and out to the Himalayas. Hire some putters, in the queue, and tonight, Matthew, I'm Tony Jacklin.

Putting over, we retrace our steps back to the hotel. Tide out, sun setting, swallows darting. The Step Rock sand is covered in wet black seaweed; the council tractor will be along first thing to clean it up. Back up Murray Park, past the other guest houses ("Peover House" always makes me laugh), back up the vennel, past the sun lounge, the Turkish Delight, and up to our room. Mrs Kirk always has a glass of orange scoosh and a saucer of biscuits left out for me as a treat.

Washed (again?), jammies on, biscuits eaten, juice swallied until I can read "Duralex" on the bottom of the glass, into bed, moth attracting bed-light to the ON position, and reading, while mum and dad pop down to the lounge. I'll either be sleeping or pretending to be sleeping when they come back in a wee while.

The DB5 is safely parked on the bedside table; 007 at the wheel, the baddie sat next to him, probably by now well aware what his fate is. Many times over.

I plan tomorrow.

We'll waken to pigeons on the roof and yellow-orangey first light through the yellow-orangey curtains. A paper run to the "Good News" shop. Breakfast (with individual cereal boxes, rolls, bacon and eggs, kippers, and all sorts) will follow.

A short rest and then what? Well, the Aston Martin's been bought, so that's taken care of. If sunny, then it'll be the Step Rock, the castle or the cathedral in the morning. If raining, well, shops, coffee, toy shops. Can't lose really.

Then back to the hotel for dinner (lunch if you're posh). So much food.

After dinner (lunch if you're posh), so many choices. West Sands - sail my motor boat, make castles, and hesitantly quarter some unfortunate stranded jellyfish with my spade; while imagining that they each turn into four jellyfish. My mum will probably read or we'll both watch my dad spend the entire afternoon putting up the wind break. If not the West Sands, then off in the car to Crail, Anstruther, Craigtoun Park, Elie, Lochty Railway, all big adventures in themselves but all of them in a fortnight?

Whatever happens tomorrow, one thing is definite. About five o'clock, I'll be back in the bath.

With Mabel.