Summer at 23 the Strand Page 7

  ‘He’s going to be an engineer,’ she said.

  ‘I should hope so,’ Jack said. ‘Or I’m a rotten role model.’

  And could you take on the role of mother, if…?

  Cally knew the answer to that – yes, he could.

  Like all small children when they saw a big, empty space, Noah and Riley wanted to run into it. The paths in the zoo were wide and, at this time of year, not as crowded as they would be in the summer holidays with more children about.

  ‘When do we lose the ability to be so uninhibited?’ Jack asked. ‘Look at them!’

  Noah and Riley were tearing around on their sturdy little legs, their blond curls blown every which way by the light breeze and their frantic activity. They were both squealing with delight, making car noises. Cally wished she could rush off in the sort of gay abandon Noah and Riley were achieving. Perhaps the lump would go if it knew she didn’t care about it, that she wasn’t going to let it get her.

  ‘Bang, bang,’ Riley said. He had found a stick from somewhere and was pointing it at Noah. ‘I deaded you.’

  Dead.

  Cally’s blood ran cold at Riley’s innocent choice of word in a game all children played, however much she might not like them playing it.

  ‘How happy they are,’ Jack said.

  And they were. Cally took her phone from her bag and began taking photos. Lots of photos to go with those she’d already taken on this holiday. More memories. If…

  ‘It’s going to cost an arm and a leg getting that lot developed,’ Jack laughed.

  Cally still loved to hold a photograph in her hand, rather than look at it on a screen, which was the norm these days. Already she had about six large albums full of photographs of the boys.

  ‘Some things are priceless,’ she said softly.

  Jack linked his arm through Cally’s.

  ‘Like you. You’re priceless to me, sweetheart.’

  Cally leaned in to him, full of sadness for what might yet turn out to be, yet full of love as well. It was all too much to bear, and the tears began to fall.

  So, there in the zoo, with the boys running around, shouting their heads off, cheeks pink with exertion, Cally told Jack, their arms leaning on the wooden rail of the pen where strikingly beautiful zebra were nibbling grass.

  ‘I’ve found a lump.’

  ‘Where?’ Jack asked, putting an arm around Cally’s shoulder.

  ‘In my left breast.’

  ‘When? When did you find it?’

  ‘Two weeks ago? Three?’

  ‘Why didn’t you say?’ Jack sounded concerned rather than cross that she hadn’t mentioned such a serious worry.

  ‘I don’t know now. I should have. But I thought I might have been imagining it. That, maybe, I’d twisted a muscle or something and that it would unkink itself if I ignored it. At first I kept finding it with my fingers all the time. I couldn’t stop myself searching for info on the internet either.’

  ‘So, that’s what you were looking at?’

  ‘Yes, mostly. I found a chat site for cancer sufferers where they share their stories. Someone on there – a man called Tony – got in touch. I didn’t know men could get breast cancer.’

  ‘So, the email you were so keen for me not to see was from him?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have minded you seeing it, but I hadn’t told you and I didn’t want you jumping to conclusions.’

  ‘Oh, Cally. You’ve been shouldering this on your own. And I must confess I did begin to wonder if, you know, another man had come into your life. I hated myself for even thinking it, and I didn’t know how to handle it. So I thought it might be best if we got right away from our usual environment, and the computer, and just went back to being us.’

  ‘We’re always going to be “us”,’ Cally said. ‘And I’m really sorry now I told a chat site before telling you. Tony was one of many men on there – those who have, or have had, cancer, and those widowed by it. Tony said he wished he hadn’t told people when he did. He said he wished now he’d had all the correct information and a prognosis under his belt before he did, because people can have a lot of crackpot theories.’

  ‘This Tony is right there. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, sweetheart,’ Jack said. He pulled Cally closer. ‘We’re both guilty of not telling one another what fears we had in our minds, I think. I ought not to have booked this holiday without giving you the chance to say whether you wanted to come or not.’

  ‘I’m glad you did now,’ Cally said. ‘Or I’d still be searching cancer sites, and reading other people’s often very sad and scary stories night after night, and instead it’s been lovely sitting on the deck while the boys sleep, watching the moon cast its avenue of light on the water, and hearing the soft shush of the waves. It didn’t make the lump go away but it didn’t make it worse either, and for that short while I was able to forget.’

  ‘Sometimes the simplest things are the best.’

  ‘But I’m frightened, Jack,’ Cally said.

  ‘And I’m frightened with you. I can’t pretend anything else at this moment. But we must hang on to the fact that no one’s told you the lump is cancer yet. But if it is you need more than one soldier to fight a battle. And I’ll be right beside you. So, my next question – do you want to go back home right now and get the ball rolling, as it were, or…?’

  ‘No! Really, no. There will be fewer chances as the boys get older to holiday in school time like this. We’ll stay.’

  ‘And holiday like we’ve never holidayed before.’ Jack drew Cally towards him and kissed her cheek.

  ‘We will. And the weather seems to be on our side at the moment. And when I get back I want to cut back on work. Maybe just two days a week. I know Mum loves having them but the time with them is so short, isn’t it? Can we afford for me to only work two days?’

  ‘Yes, and yes,’ Jack said. And there were tears in his eyes as he said it.

  ‘Show me, Cally,’ Jack said.

  They were lying in bed, both fresh from the shower, both naked. Cally was on her back, and Jack was lying on his side looking at her.

  Cally took Jack’s hand and guided his fingers to the lump.

  ‘It’s not very big,’ she said.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ Jack asked, his fingers gently probing.

  ‘No.’

  With Jack’s fingers caressing her, Cally felt a shiver of something. Desire? Yes, that’s what it was, desire.

  ‘Oh, I think I’ve found it. About the size of half a pea?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jack slid his other arm underneath Cally’s neck, and then pulled her towards him. He rocked her gently, back and forth, back and forth, kissing her hair, kissing her forehead.

  ‘I can’t find words,’ he said.

  ‘How about “Let’s make love”, Cally said. ‘Get some good old endorphins running through me. They’re supposed to be healing.’

  ‘You sure? I mean…’

  ‘Sure,’ Cally said, silencing him with a kiss.

  ‘Windsurfing?’ Jack laughed. ‘In May? This is the UK, you know!’

  ‘I know. The windsurf school hires out wetsuits. Life jackets. I really, really want to have a go.’

  Cally pointed to a windsurfer whipping along parallel to the beach. A small wave was breaking behind him, and a smaller one in front. The sail was a fabulous shade of magenta. No, amethyst. The same shade as the stone on the necklace Cally had found waiting for her at 23 The Strand. It seemed almost like an omen. A good omen.

  So Cally walked to where the windsurfing school was set up at the far end of the beach.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I’m a total novice at this but I’d really love to have a go.’

  ‘Hi. Great. We can do that. I’m Elisabeth – with an s not a z,’ the girl laughed.

  ‘I’m Cally, with a y not an ie and not short for anything.’

  Elisabeth helped Cally into a wetsuit and secured a life-support.

  ‘Be careful,’ Cally said as Elisabeth
tugged on the straps. ‘I hurt a little bit.’

  Which wasn’t true. Cally had no pain around the area she had found the lump.

  ‘Oh, you’ll forget all that when you’re out there,’ Elisabeth laughed. ‘You’ll have the sun on your face – along with a lot of water, I expect! – and you’ll be concentrating so hard on standing upright that anything that’s bothering you in life will just fade away into insignificance.’

  I hope so, Cally thought but didn’t say.

  But so it proved. Cally found standing on a moving board with the force of a constantly shifting sea beneath her easier than she ever imagined it would be. Whole minutes went by when she didn’t think about the lump. Elisabeth encouraged her to go further and further each time. Cally was zipping along now and she could see Jack and the children on the beach. Jack was kneeling down scooping buckets of sand to make a pit of some sort for the boys to play in.

  ‘Hey!’ she shouted, but the breeze and her own speed whipped the word away.

  But Jack must have sensed her because he looked up. He waved. And then he blew her a kiss. And in that moment there were no other people in the world, and nothing else mattered except their love. She’d been stupid to keep such a massive worry to herself, and silly beyond belief to think she had to cope on her own. Life was for living, and that was just what she was going to do.

  Dear new occupant,

  I was left a gift by the previous occupant and this is my gift to you – Welsh cakes made by my sons and me. My husband was chief taster and he says they are ‘Ace!’ I hope you will enjoy them with a cup of tea, sitting on the deck perhaps. I arrived here a worried woman, but this place has smoothed out my worries and I’m going home with a more positive outlook. Whatever your reasons for coming here I wish you a happy time. If you feel like leaving something for the next occupant of 23 The Strand, please do – but it’s by no means obligatory.

  Cally – and Jack, Noah and Riley too.

  Chapter Three

  EARLY JUNE

  Arthur

  ‘Mum!’ a child’s voice said. ‘Is that man in the chalet next door Father Christmas on holiday?’

  A boy or a girl? Arthur couldn’t tell. Children’s voices were all the same when they were little and this voice sounded as though it belonged to a little person. Certainly an uninhibited one, Arthur decided.

  ‘Shush. Come away.’

  ‘He is! He is!’ the child persisted.

  ‘I said shush!’ the child’s mother snapped, and the child began to cry.

  Oh dear. Arthur didn’t like to think he was responsible for a child’s tears.

  He fingered his long white beard, which was almost resting on his chest these days. His hair could do with a cut as well – it was nearly on his shoulders, and if it wasn’t for the fact it curled at the ends, it would have been. No wonder the child thought he looked like Father Christmas. And then there was the size of him. He’d put on at least a stone now his beloved Judith was no longer here to check his diet, to make sure he ate more greens than potatoes. Fewer pies. Arthur had lived on pies since becoming a widower.

  Ought he to be eating these Welsh cakes the previous occupant had made for him? What a strange thing to do – leave a present for someone you’ve not met and are hardly likely to. But the cakes were welcome. They brought a lump to Arthur’s throat actually. He missed Judith like one might miss a limb, but her cooking he didn’t miss – cooking and Judith had never gone together. But goodness, what would he give now for a slice of her burnt toast, a poached egg with the yolk like a rubber bullet on top? And the little note with the Welsh cakes – so personal. That had brought a lump to his throat as well. Already he was thinking what he might leave for the next occupant, whoever she or he might be.

  Twelve Welsh cakes. There were ten left on the plate now. He would never eat them all and they might be stale by the morning.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Arthur called out to the young mother of the child – a boy in bright-red shorts and a T-shirt with a dinosaur on it, he noticed – at 22 The Strand who had mistaken him for Father Christmas, ‘would you and your little boy like some of these Welsh cakes? I’ll never eat them all.’

  ‘I’m not little!’ the boy said, folding his arms across his skinny little body.

  Goodness, Arthur thought, that lad could do with a bit of filling up.

  ‘Your very fine boy, then,’ Arthur said. ‘Would he like some?’

  ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘Mum! It doesn’t say in my Father Christmas book that Father Christmas eats wish cakes.’

  ‘Welsh cakes,’ his mother corrected him. And then she leaned in and whispered, ‘And he’s not Father Christmas.’

  But she hadn’t whispered quietly enough. Arthur had always had razor-sharp hearing. A radar, Judith had always called it.

  Arthur decided to take the cakes to the little family at 22 The Strand anyway. He walked carefully down the steps and along the prom. He stood at the bottom of the steps of the chalet next door, the plate with the cakes held out before him.

  ‘Father Christmas is one of life’s great mysteries. I don’t know that anyone knows exactly what he eats, or when,’ Arthur said, tapping the side of his nose. He had reached the bottom of the wooden steps that led up to the chalet next to his and the boy, sitting on one of the deckchairs, was looking down at him, eyes wide with wonder, his mouth open in a perfect ‘O’.

  The young woman smiled.

  ‘Indeed not,’ she said. ‘Hello. I’m Hannah.’

  ‘Arthur.’

  ‘Arthur?’ the little boy said. ‘It doesn’t say in my Father Christmas book that Father Christmas is called Arthur, Mum.’

  ‘Ah, well,’ Arthur said. ‘I only let special people call me Arthur.’

  And that much was true. He was only ever Arthur to his family, and his old school friend, David, with whom he had always kept in touch and exchanged Christmas cards. Arthur and Judith had never encouraged familiarity with neighbours by using Christian names. Mr and Mrs Arthur Beddoes had always had a very nice ring to it and that’s the way he wanted it to stay. Except now there was only a Mr Arthur Beddoes. And his memories of Judith, of course. Arthur swallowed back tears. Grown men weren’t supposed to cry – well, his generation weren’t, although it seemed fine for today’s young men to share their feelings and their world was probably a better place because of it. Sometimes – and especially since Judith’s death – Arthur wished he knew someone well enough to be able to share his feelings, someone who might not be embarrassed or not know what to do if he shed a tear at a song that had been special to him and Judith, or a beautiful sunset he could no longer share the wonder of with his wife.

  ‘Then I’m very pleased to meet you, Arthur,’ Hannah said. ‘It’s always good to get on with neighbours even if it will only be for a short time. And this bundle of trouble is Archie.’ She ruffled her son’s hair.

  ‘Ah. Archibald,’ Arthur said. ‘A very fine name indeed. My father was called Archibald.’

  ‘I’m not bald!’ Archie said. Again that little sulk and this time he drew his feet up onto the chair and hugged his knees. ‘Bald means no hair and I’ve got lots and lots.’

  ‘Indeed you have,’ Arthur agreed, although personally he thought the boy would look a lot smarter with a short back and sides.

  ‘And I’m just Archie. And I’m six.’

  ‘And I don’t suppose you’re a bundle of trouble either, Archie,’ Arthur said. He beamed at Archie’s mum. ‘All little boys have to find their feet in life. It takes some longer than others, that’s all.’

  Goodness, what was he saying? Arthur and Judith had never been blessed with children, so what on earth was he thinking insinuating that this very young woman didn’t understand her small son? He should just hand over the cakes and go back to 23 The Strand and mind his own business, shouldn’t he?

  ‘The cakes,’ Arthur said. ‘Do please help me out with them or I’ll never get in the sleigh come Christmas and Rudolph will have
something to say about that.’

  Arthur gave a little shiver. What was all this stuff coming out of his mouth? Ought he to be keeping alive the fantasy of Father Christmas that young Archie obviously still believed in?

  ‘He is! He is!’ Archie yelled. ‘He’s on holiday like us, Mum.’ The delight on his face at the thought that Arthur might indeed be Father Christmas on holiday shone out of his chocolate-button eyes, but he hugged his knees even tighter, as though he wasn’t quite as confident about the idea as his words implied.

  Archie’s mum raised her eyebrows at Arthur.

  ‘Sorry…’ Arthur began, but Hannah held up a hand to stop him.

  ‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘We’ll keep your secret, Arthur. Won’t we, Archie?’

  Hannah tapped the side of her nose and smiled at Arthur. Archie nodded like crazy. He unclasped his hands from his knees.

  ‘Yes!’ Archie said, punching the air. ‘When I go back to school they’ll never believe… Oh…’ His little face lost its delighted grin. ‘I won’t be able to tell them, will I?’

  Arthur shook his head in what he hoped was a grave and serious sort of way.

  ‘Then I won’t,’ Archie said. He did a little nose-tapping of his own and Arthur thought he saw tears glistening Hannah’s eyes.

  He likes the responsibility of this, doesn’t he? Arthur thought. And there’s a lot going on here, isn’t there? Why wasn’t Archie in school? It wasn’t half-term yet. He’d taken great pains to choose a time when the beach and chalets wouldn’t be overrun with children. Not that Arthur didn’t like children, but this holiday – his first alone without his beloved Judith – was meant to be, he hoped, a quiet time, a time of reflection and remembrance. And then he could move on with life, couldn’t he?

  ‘Bring the plate back tomorrow, young Archie,’ Arthur said. ‘I must go. I need to check my reindeer are being well cared for.’

  ‘Reindeer!’ he heard Archie say as he walked back to 23 The Strand.