Connery (Part 1)

Sho it shtarts

And a thousand thousand slimy things

Lived on; and so did I.

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

1.

I met Sean Connery when I was nine years old. It was on the beach and there was no one else there: beneath Hampton Rock near where the sad little 9-hole golf course, worn out by the wind, gave up and the sand dunes began. The Ice Age had dumped Hampton Rock on the shore. A lump of limestone capped with long grass. Small white clouds raced under a tall blue sky and I was sitting at the mouth of the cave that always dripped, looking out at where the tide was coming in over the biscuity sands. I was crying, or trying to cry, and I looked up and a man was standing there.

‘Do you mind if I use your cave?’ the man said. ‘Just for a moment.’

I couldn’t see him properly because my hair was in my face and my eyes were bleary. He waved a cigarette in the air. ‘I need some shelter to light my cigarette.’

I squidged over and nodded and he stepped forward and crouched out of the wind. He clicked a lighter, a flame sprang up doing a little dance, the size of a lady’s fingernail, and cupping his hand, he managed to get the cigarette lit. He puffed on it to make sure the flame held, the smoke wreathed his face like a dissolving beard, and then he straightened up. He was very tall, was balding and had a moustache.

‘You’re Sean Connery,’ I said.

‘I am,’ he said, with an end-of-discussion firmness. He turned and looked out at the tide. ‘It’s coming in fast.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Golf,’ not looking at me, he waved a hand towards the golf course.

I let him smoke. Talking to strangers was forbidden by Charlie the Cartoon Cat but it was Sean Connery, so he was hardly a stranger. I dried my eyes and nose with the cuffs of my jumper, leaving snail trails of snot.

‘Why have you been crying?’

‘My dog died.’

‘Yes?’ he blinked. ‘That’s too bad.’ He kept his hand cupped around the cigarette as he smoked, and plumes of smoke sometimes came out of his nose as if he was a dragon and the inside of his head was on fire. ‘Are you a boy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sorry,’ he chuckled. ‘It’s just with your hair… and the crying, I thought you might be a little girl.’

I rubbed my face with the heel of my hand until I was sure there were no tears. Earlier I had been trying to cry and now that I didn’t want to, I felt like I might burst into tears at any moment. ‘I’m a boy. My name is Samuel.’

‘Well, Sammy,’ – no one called me Sammy – ‘it’s no good moping, is it? That never changed anything. Tears? We have no time for tears.’

He stood for another moment. The wind lifted the strands of hair that he combed over his bald head, waving them like ribbons. He took another drag of his cigarette and then swallowed the smoke. The side of his face had folds. ‘You were upset about your dog, Sammy?’

‘Yes. My dog died.’

‘Name?’

‘Allan.’

‘Your dog’s name was Allan?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was it suicide?’

‘What do you…? No. It wasn’t suicide.’

‘A dog called Allan!’ Connery shook his head. ‘Unbelievable.’

He took three quick drags of his cigarette and then flicked the butt up into the wind and away over the sands. He smoothed his hair down with both hands and took a flat cap from his pocket, unfolded it and settled it firmly on his head. He turned to me and stuck out his hand. I reached out and he grabbed it hard, like he was squeezing some force into me.

‘Sammy, do me a favour.’

‘Yes, Mr. Connery?’

‘Get your hair cut.’

I nodded, aware that my hair was being whipped around my face like a scribble annihilating a bad drawing. He was staring hard into my eyes. I felt he would detect it if I was lying so I decided I would ask mum to take me to the barber and I’d get my hair cut and as soon as I made the internal decision, I was able to say with tearless strength: ‘Okay. I will.’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

He let go of my hand and nodded. ‘Good man.’

He peered behind me into the darkness of the cave and then turned back to the horizon, the sea, the sand and the wind. He waved, but I called to him before he got too far.

‘Mr. Connery! Mr. Connery!’

He only half-turned so he was in profile; his hands thrust deep in his pockets, bending slightly.

‘My dad does a really good impersonation of you,’ I called.

He nodded taking it in and then walked back to me and leaned close, so he didn’t have to raise his voice.

‘Your dad sounds like an asshole,’ Sean Connery said, but it came out ‘shounds like an ash hole’ which was how my dad would do it too.

And then he was gone.