How can you have fresh ice-cream? Chrissy asks.
It’s been ten years since we were last here, but the same blue and white van is parked in the same spot in the car park.
Surely that’s just cream.
You couldn’t avoid walking past it if you wanted to get to the beach. I’d hear him sigh.
I always thought it didn’t make sense.
You can have one when we leave, he’d say. You don’t want to get it sandy.
You have fresh peas and frozen peas.
But we’re clean now, Chrissy would moan. We’ll be sandy later.
And ice cream is by definition frozen.
He’d stand in the shallows, staring into the vastness. His faded jeans pulled up over his knees, drinking a can of beer, despite his promise.
So how can it be fresh?
We’d eat the warm cheese sandwiches Mum had packed in Tupperware, and build castles, fit for his princesses.
I suppose it means freshly made, I suggest.
By the time we headed home the van was gone. Next week, he’d promise.
Then it should say, freshly made ice cream.
It was the same every week. The beach was free, ice-cream wasn’t.
He never once bought us one.
We pull up our trouser legs and wade into the cold water, lowering the bucket. His ashes swirl with the sea and the sand, tiny grains amongst a multitude. Chrissy grasps my hand, stifles a sob.
Let’s have an ice-cream, I say.
Lesley Bungay writes novels, short stories, flash fiction and the occasional Haiku. She’s represented by Intersaga Literary Agency Ltd and her debut novel, A Year Without a Summer, will be published Spring 2026 by Barnard Publishing Ltd. You'll find Lesley's Words & Musings on Substack and @LesleyjayneB on Insta/Threads
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