Short Story: Brief Thoughts on a Hovercraft and a Cup of Tea

by Edith Critchley

The hovercraft's been running since 1965. When looking at its website, because It seemed as if it would harbour the bizarre and quiet local history I enjoy, I found it was originally invented as a novelty for the south coast. Like the ferris wheel on the pier that is now static or some sort of technological pantomime. Its journeys now, however, are an everyday affair.

As if to highlight the point a man sits in the window seat adjacent to me wearing a black authoritative suit and a superior upturn to his nose. The sort of thing a commuter wears. He looks like he owns various colognes with names he doesn't understand.

I think it could be the conflict of his demeanor and outfit with the mottled, slightly green backdrop of the window which concerns me at first. But, I start to suspect it's actually his recent youth clashing with his collar at the scruff of his neck. Disjointing. I wonder if someone is looking for him, if he should even be out alone. A run-away with lego in their well ironed pockets.

It’s contagious. I sit politely still, thinking about how matted my hair looks and what I can say that's the most impressive. In a game I haven't really been told the rules too.

The plastic material of the seat sticks to my shoulders slightly, even though it's only mildly warm. Sticks to my mind too, tacky like chewing on the bottom of everyone's shoes that people try unsuccessfully to pick off. Stubborn and a little awkward, but minty tasting at least.

The groupchat of people hoping to go to the same uni as me lights up my phone again. I ignore it in the repeated and misguided hope these people may never materialize in front of me. They're far too spritely, excited. They like comparing bookmarks and it gives me that feeling you get just before a migraine. 

I can't help but feel quite distressed at the pace this hovercraft moves. So quick I feel like we could escape and in some star wars esque move end up in the space between seconds on a watch face. 

Shooting capsules of the stuff the stars are clocked in that burns your skin eventually. The children I knew grow blurrier and blurrier, melting like candle wax in the far of future.

My nan stands on the other side when I get off. She's wearing a velvet cardigan. I've been told I look like her, we've got the same penchant for big earrings and unfortunate taste in men. My friends seem to be inheriting a lot from their own family too, mainly watches ironically.  At an age of family heirlooms heavily hanging on necks. You can feel it in the tension of your shoulders. 

The cup of tea she buys me is weak and watery; from the island my life looks small and slow. Assembled. Unpacked. Observed and picturesque. I can smell the wet concrete that's so exciting from here. 

In some greater schemes of things, this is the last time I'm going to be at this exact angle and distance and place from it forever. Unless I retrace my steps completely on day but something about that feels wrong and futile.