The summer the flamingos came Kerry rode the bus, the child inside her curled tight like a whelk. It was 1975. Pegwell Bay came into sight: the Hoverport. A chorus arose, women out of their seats, skin and cotton, nylon, tweed, shoulders.
‘Bleeding heck!’
‘What are they, storks or summat?’
‘Herons, ain’t they?’
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