Summer at 23 the Strand Read online

  ‘Thanks, you know, for doing this for Archie. Carl – that’s my husband – was… always took on this role.’

  ‘Maybe, in time,’ Arthur said, ‘you’ll find someone else to take that sort of role.’

  ‘No!’ Hannah said quickly. She dug furiously at the sand, making the moat deeper than it needed to be.

  ‘I’m sorry. I ought not to have said that,’ Arthur said. What a stupid old fool he was. Didn’t he remember the inappropriate things people had said to him after Judith died. ‘Join the bowls club with me,’ his neighbour Bob had said. ‘Fresh air, exercise, lots of lovely single ladies. Nice teas they put on, I can tell you.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Hannah said. ‘Sorry I snapped a bit. It’s all a bit raw.’

  ‘The rawness goes,’ Arthur said, ‘and then you’re left with a sort of graze. Well, that’s how it is for me.’

  Hannah touched his arm, leaving an imprint of a sandy hand on it when she took it away.

  ‘I haven’t said to Archie that his daddy’s in heaven watching over him, or a star twinkling in the night sky, or anything like that, because I don’t believe he is. I was an Army nurse when I met Carl and I know that, sadly, dead really is dead. I’m sorry if saying this isn’t how you see things.’

  It wasn’t how Arthur saw things. He rather liked the notion that Judith was up there, with a smart pair of wings now she was an angel, and that she looked down on him from time to time and sent the thought into his head that he should remember to turn off the gas before going out, and to put out the bins on Mondays or the waste would just pile up.

  ‘Ah, here’s young Archie back with the first bucketful,’ Arthur said, relieved he didn’t have to get into any sort of discussion about an afterlife – or not. ‘But quickly, do I carry on with the Father Christmas, er, story?’

  ‘Please,’ Hannah said. ‘It’s not quite the same thing, is it?’

  No, no it wasn’t. So why then did Arthur feel something touch his cheek, something like Judith’s fingers? He got the very distinct feeling she was amused at the thought of a little boy, sad and missing his daddy, thinking he was Father Christmas on his holidays. Hmm, he’d thought about going into a barber’s when he was in town and asking for a haircut and beard trim. Perhaps not yet though.

  The weather was kind to them all and Hannah and Archie made the most of it in their respective ways. Sometimes Arthur joined the little family, for they were still that – a family. He even went paddling in the sea with Archie, and got splashed in the process. They built sandcastles and forts together, and Arthur told Archie all about the legend of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. Arthur had always loved history, and legend, and it seemed Archie liked hearing about it all too. But he didn’t like to encroach on Hannah and Archie too much. Sometimes Arthur sat on his deck and watched them from a distance, and sometimes he took the bus into Torquay and walked back along the coast road, or sauntered down to the harbour to watch the mackerel-fishing boats come in with holidaymakers delighted with their day’s catch. There was a craft shop on the harbour selling things made by local people. Arthur went in and bought a pottery vase in a deep shade of violet with gold threads running through it because he thought Judith would like it. And it was only when the woman running the shop had wrapped it and taken his money that he realised Judith wasn’t with him any more.

  On the last full day of their holiday, Hannah knocked on Arthur’s door.

  ‘Would you like to join Archie and me on a picnic?’

  ‘A picnic? I’d love to. Where?’

  Goodness, how swift and positive that response had been. Judith had loved picnics. They’d gone on them often and, much to his surprise, Arthur didn’t feel the familiar pang of sadness – like a very wet and heavy Army blanket around his heart – at the memory now Hannah had asked him to go on one.

  ‘Not far,’ she laughed. ‘On the beach. I’ll make some sandwiches. And I looked up Welsh cakes on Google and made some. They were Archie’s idea. They brought us together, didn’t they, those Welsh cakes?’

  ‘They did indeed.’ Arthur wondered for a moment if there was some magic in the air, put there by the previous occupant, much like the magic of Father Christmas for children, but for adults instead. Would he have taken the trouble to get to know Hannah and Archie without those Welsh cakes as the catalyst? Arthur thought not. But goodness, he was jolly glad he had. Sometimes a whole hour had gone by when he hadn’t thought of his beloved Judith but about a troubled – though delightful – little boy who was missing his daddy. Life had to go on for little Archie – and Hannah too – just as it had to go on for him.

  ‘Half an hour?’ Hannah asked.

  ‘Shall I bring wine?’ Arthur asked.

  He’d brought a bottle but hadn’t wanted to open it and drink it on his own. Wine was for sharing.

  ‘Gosh, that would be nice. We could toast the future.’

  So, that’s what they did. After lunch – while Archie dug out a moat for yet another castle, and spent rather a long time fetching buckets of water from the sea’s edge to fill it, lugging them a long way because the tide was out – Arthur told Hannah his plan.

  ‘I’m going to ask at the village school if they need any volunteers. I could listen to the children read. Times are hard, financially, for schools so I thought a bit of free help might be welcome. And I could read to them about history and legends. Young Archie seems to like my stories.’

  ‘He most certainly does. And he’s clutching his secret to him that you’re Father Christmas on holiday like it’s made of glass and might break. He sort of hunches his shoulders up, and places his hands together as though he’s holding something, and grins with glee when he talks about it.’

  ‘I hope the shattering isn’t too painful when he, you know, realises we’ve spun him a tale.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Hannah said. ‘It’s been perfect for him at this time of his life. Thank you.’

  ‘And you? What will you do?’

  ‘Go back to nursing,’ Hannah said. ‘Not just yet though. So, back home tomorrow for both of us. Which for you is where?’

  ‘Gloucestershire,’ Arthur said.

  ‘Ah, not a million miles from us. We’re in Worcestershire.’

  There was an odd sort of expression on Hannah’s face – a sort of mixture of hope and loss, of wishfulness and yet a fear of disappointment – as though she wanted to ask something but was afraid of the response her question would get. So Arthur bit the bullet, so to speak.

  ‘And Bristol has an airport which isn’t a million miles from either of us. And I happen to know, thanks to the ever-reliable Google, that there are flights to Lapland to see the reindeer. You and Archie have helped heal my heart a little, given it little moments of happiness these past two weeks, although I doubt you realise that. I’d like to repay your kindness if I may. Would you accept my gift of the flights for you and Archie to go there next Christmas?’ Arthur realised how very old-fashioned and formal he must sound but he didn’t know how else to put it. Besides, he was rather old-fashioned and formal and he was hardly likely to change now. ‘I also happen to know that visits include seeing Father Christmas and presents. It means I could be unmasked, I’m afraid, but it’s a risk worth taking. What do you think?’

  ‘Really?’ Hannah’s eyes were wide with surprise and delight. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Very serious.’

  ‘Gosh. Archie will love that. But I can only accept on one condition – that you come with us.’

  Now, Arthur hadn’t expected that response. But there was only one answer, wasn’t there?

  ‘I’d be delighted to.’

  Dear next occupant,

  Life, as I’ve discovered on this short break at the delightful 23 The Strand, is full of surprises. I arrived here a saddened, and quite lonely, man but I’m going home with two new people as part of my world and things to look forward to in the future for us all. The occupant before me left a present of Welsh cakes t
o welcome me here. I’m no cook, I’m afraid. I’m not much of a present buyer either. So, what I’ve done is pick some flowers from the cliffs and arranged them in a vase I bought from a craft shop on the harbour, which is well worth a visit while you’re here. I shall leave them outside on the little table on the deck, with this note. I realise that picking wild flowers is frowned on these days, but the cliffs won’t miss this little handful, will they? I wish you the happiest of holidays, whatever form that happiness takes for you.

  Arthur

  Chapter Four

  LATE JUNE

  Lucy

  Lucy lugged her case up the steps of 23 The Strand. It hadn’t said in the brochure that there was no transport along the promenade to the chalets, although she’d seen a service vehicle slowly making its way back to the main road. She’d had to park her car in a car park a good fifteen minutes’ walk away although there had been a designated parking space to go with the chalet, thank goodness. Had she brought too much for a fortnight here? Or not enough? There was a laundrette three hundred yards away in Seaway Road, or so the woman in the information office had told her when she’d picked up the key, but Lucy rather hoped she wouldn’t have to use it. She planned to sit and read in the sunshine, eat out on the deck, swim whenever the fancy took her and the weather permitted. This was England, after all, and while she might be on what was loosely termed the English Riviera, it wasn’t exactly Cannes or Nice with wall-to-wall sunshine that could be more or less guaranteed, so she wasn’t expecting it.

  ‘Oh!’ Lucy said as she stepped onto the deck. What a surprise. Flowers. In a pretty vase, looking so very sweet and fresh. And there was a note.

  Not from Ben, she decided before she’d even picked it up. Rats who pull out of weddings just weeks before the ceremony didn’t send flowers, did they? And if they did they would be a huge bunch of guilt flowers from Sarah Raven, or M&S, or even Waitrose. Ben had sent plenty of those in the three years they’d been together and she ought to have read between the lines instead of going over-the-top in her praise of them, and how wonderful it was he’d sent her flowers. And besides, she hadn’t told him – or anyone else for that matter – exactly where she was. The last thing she’d needed was anyone feeling sorry for her, insisting they come along and share the accommodation, or visit at the very least.

  She read the note. Crikey, but this Arthur – whoever he was – sounded like a throwback to the 1930s or something. Old school. But there was warmth in his words and it had a strange effect on her… as though someone had just wrapped a cashmere throw around her shoulders and given her a hug.

  ‘Thanks, Arthur,’ she said, surprising herself at how thick her throat was with emotion. Lucy had shed copious tears in the first days following Ben’s betrayal, but always alone – in the bathroom if she was in her parents’ house; on a path through the woods, well away from any doggy-walking route – but she’d given herself a stern talking-to and told herself the tears had to stop. Ben simply wasn’t worth all that emotion that left her with sore eyes, a headache and a pain under her ribcage. But she felt like crying now. It seemed such a final step, coming here, and she hoped it would turn out to be a wise decision. ‘First I’ll unpack and then I’ll come and sit with your flowers and have a cup of tea, admire the view.’ A smile crept onto Lucy’s face and it felt good. She hadn’t smiled for weeks now. What with the cancelling of the church and the reception venue, and taking her details off the honeymoon destination, and returning all the wedding presents, and the cheques from those who’d not sent presents in advance, but money, there hadn’t been a single second when she’d felt she should be smiling.

  The chalet was bigger than she’d expected. Quite US Eastern Seaboard in style. The custard-yellow walls gave the whole place a warmth, one Lucy knew she still needed, however much she told herself she was fine, she was sorting this, everything was going to be okay and for the best in the long run.

  But the chalet was light years away from the penthouse suite she and Ben had booked for their honeymoon. In Bali. Well, Ben and Mel – the woman Ben had decided he wanted to spend the rest of his life with instead of Lucy – could get lost in that penthouse suite as far as Lucy was concerned. Ben and Mel weren’t married yet but by the end of this fortnight they would be… on a beach with many of the people who’d said they’d be at Lucy and Ben’s wedding looking on and enjoying the sunshine and wedding breakfast. Funny how you find out who your friends aren’t in a situation like this.

  Lucy had brought a few provisions with her – some butter, some decent coffee and a cafétière for one to make it in, a baguette, honey and teabags. These would see her through until she ventured along the seafront and up to the town. There was a tourist map on the worktop and another brochure of places of interest in the area.

  Lucy made tea and stirred a teaspoonful of honey into it. She wrapped her hands around it, not so much for warmth because it was a very warm day, but for comfort. She stepped out onto the deck.

  ‘Thrift. Sorrel. Hottentot fig. Daisies. Something blue I don’t know the name of. Thank you, Arthur.’ She read the note again. And indeed, it was a pretty vase. Perhaps she’d visit the shop Arthur had suggested would be worth her while. ‘And, seeing as this vase probably isn’t on the inventory, I shall keep it once the flowers have faded.’

  And you really must stop talking to yourself – it’s what old people do, probably what someone this Arthur’s age does. It was you who decided to holiday alone for a fortnight, and you’ll just have to get on with it.

  Sitting down, Lucy placed her tea on the table and picked up the little vase of wild flowers, holding it to her nose. Not a lot of scent, but goodness, how exquisite they were. She swapped the vase of flowers for the tea, and propped her legs up on the spare chair, looking out to sea. A small ferry of some sort was making its way across the bay, passengers leaning over the rail, taking in the view. There was hardly a ripple on the water and the ferry looked, to Lucy, as though it were gliding. Only the throb of the engine told her it wasn’t. And a little gaggle of kayakers close to the shore. Youngsters with, at a guess, a tutor alongside them. Lucy could just make out voices from where she sat. Between her and the water’s edge there were a few groups of people – a mum with two toddlers was helping them dig a pit in the sand, a middle-aged couple stood with their arms around one another looking out to sea, and two young girls in micro-bikinis were running down to the sea, hands linked, leaping over the pebbles, squealing delightedly.

  Lucy waited for sorrow to engulf her. Everyone had someone, and she didn’t. Or self-pity. Sadness at her loss. Or anger even that when she’d been younger she’d often turned down proposals while she forged her career as a graphic designer, giving up all thoughts of motherhood in her pursuit of that. And then, having, at almost forty years old, accepted Ben’s proposal, only to be let down so humiliatingly, here she was, on her own again. Well, it had been humiliating then, but was it now? And sorrow didn’t even come close – all she felt at that moment was a sort of flatness, like Coca Cola left in a glass overnight. She’d put up a shell around herself, hadn’t she? What might it take for the shell to crack? What would happen if, and when, it did?

  ‘But what are you going to do, Luce?’ her best friend, Alison, had asked, with heavy emphasis on the ‘do’. Only Alison was ever allowed to called Lucy, Luce. Lucy and Alison had been friends since primary school and trying to stop Alison calling her Luce now would have been like trying to stop a runaway horse by asking it, politely, to slow down. Ben had called her Luce once – just the once – but she’d asked him not to. He’d just shrugged and said that that was okay as long she never called him Benny!

  ‘Hello! Luce to planet Earth. I asked you a question.’ Alison sounded mock-indignant at being ignored. ‘I repeat – What… are… you… going… to… do?’

  Lucy had been tempted to say she was going to learn to lap dance, or take a course in Finnish or some other hideously difficult language. Go bungee-jumping perhaps. She’d h
ad to stifle down a giggle at the thought because Alison was treading so carefully around her, as though she’d had a particularly close and sad bereavement. But in a way she knew Alison was right – she had to do something. She couldn’t just sit in a chair and feel sorry for herself, could she?

  ‘I’ll think of something.’ Lucy had shrugged. She knew she needed to get away from the city for a couple of weeks at least.

  ‘I know. We’ll see if there’s a late cancellation somewhere. Ibiza. I can take two weeks off, easy peasy. And if the boss doesn’t like it then I’ll find another salon to work in – always work for hairdressers! So, Luce, Ibiza, how about it? We went there once years ago, didn’t we? We—’

  ‘No.’ Lucy had stopped her. Yes, she remembered going to Ibiza with Alison years ago. They’d done nothing but sunbathe and drink, then drink and sunbathe some more, and then have lots of sex with lads they’d just met. They hadn’t even bothered to hire a car and explore the area. Lucy was so over that sort of thing although Alison, bless her, wasn’t. Between then and now Alison had had two weddings and two divorces, and was up for a third if Lucy was reading between the lines correctly. ‘I need to get through this my way, by myself if necessary.’

  ‘Well, you know where to find me if you change your mind. Promise me you won’t turn into a bag lady, or Miss Haversham or something.’

  ‘Neither of those,’ Lucy had laughed. ‘I promise.’

  Alison had given her a brief hug and was gone, not at all put out about having her suggestion rebuffed.

  And then the company Lucy worked for gave the shock news that they were in dire straights financially and were going to have to let staff go. Lucy had been one of them and her redundancy package decent enough that she wouldn’t be desperate for work for a little while.

  And here she was. A quick trawl of the internet had found her 23 The Strand. It was better than she’d thought it would be from the not-very-good photographs on the website. And she had a plan.