1941
Mary’s thick baby blonde hair flies wild in the north Norfolk coast’s autumnal wind. With one hand held tightly in her mother’s, she tries to wrangle her loose hair away from her eyes with her other, before her mother notices her unkemptness.
“Stop fussing, child,” her mother says, tugging at her hand. “Look at what the RAF is building in our village!”
Standing on the side of the cliff-top road, Mary watches the loud rumbling various-sized vehicles drive in and out of a field with a high-wired fence around it.
“It looks like a ball. Are people going to live in it?” Mary asks, a little unsure, having never seen the shape of a building like this in her young years before.
“No, Mary. People are not going to live here. This is going to be a radar station. It will be able to spot German boats and planes. It will help protect our country, child,” her mother says, proudly. Mary looks between her patriotic mother and the futuristic construction happening in their small and quiet village, imagining how this station can see things before human eyes and ears can.
“It looks like a ball,” Mary repeats, acknowledging what she does know and understand.
“Yes, Mary,” her mother says, smiling. “You’re right. It does look like a ball. Like a large golf ball.”
Mary smiles and lets go of her grip on her straggling hair, happy that her mother has agreed with her on something.
“Mary! Where are your hairpins, child? Look at yourself! Come on now, we shall be late for the bus to the market,” her mother says, pulling her away.
2023
Strands of Mary’s fine white hair lightly flitter across her forehead in the north Norfolk coast’s cool Spring breeze. The day’s calm weather allows her ninety-year-old ears to hear the waves lapping up against the cliff edge, just a few metres away from where she sits in her wheelchair. But today, she’s not looking out to the sea she’s loved growing up beside all her life. Instead, she’s watching a crane gradually dismantle a large white structure – a landmark locals have known as the Golf Ball.
Mary watches the construction team strategically and carefully remove another section, as flashes of the last eighty-so years travel through her, giving her a second chance to relive memories – those moments which defined her life here, in this small coastal village.
A loud clatter of metal brings Mary back into the now, causing her to place her hand on her chest. A minute later, she feels a soft texture of warmth across her shoulders. “Let me know when you’re ready to go, Nan,” says her granddaughter Natalie, draping a shawl around her.
“Will do, child. Just a few more minutes,” Mary says, aware her granddaughter is concerned about her health.
“It’s quite a thing, Nan,” Natalie leans down to say, marvelling at the structure before them, which now looks more like a cracked egg, as another piece comes off. Natalie remembers using the Golf Ball to navigate the countryside and coast roads when she was younger and visiting her grandmother. She would know where she was if she ever got lost on a walk on her own. And in a time when advancement in mobile phones was still a distant concept, having the Golf Ball as a fixed point – a guide, was a comfort to her.
“It’s a sad, yet wonderful thing, child,” Mary says. “This radar station – our Golf Ball, used to protect us and our land and now look… We’re protecting it,” she sighs.
Mary brings her hand to her hair, gently tapping any flyaway back in place, before turning in her chair, and looking up at her granddaughter, “We can go now, child. Thank you for bringing me here, Natalie.”
morethanablackcoffeegirl 