Penzance
by Tris Kerslake
I knew this town by pubs, where I would sip on tinted cider by the stairs and where my parents talked of all the mundane things. Sylvia’s cancer, whose breast betrayed her, old Sid’s accident and newly plated skull. Pub talk.
The Star was at the top opposite the cafe where a mother ran to save her child from sightless cars. Just up the road from Parker’s where seeds and straw and pets got sold. A fire, and all the puppies died.
And further down, where tourists played pretend, there was The Turk’s Head. They made the best crab sandwiches in all the world and told us we should drink in gardens. They even gave us flowers in a pot and tables with umbrellas.
Of course there was The Pirate’s Hotel where William sketched his doggerel and Arthur sang, joined at the hip in comic opera. It was too grand for me not knowing how to drink the proper class of cider.
And down upon the docks there was a grimmer place whose name I never knew. Old sailors lived there, tottering between the rum and public parks. Aggie Weston used a crucifix to mark the spot of ancient mariners.