by Pam Weaver
AT HOME BY THE SEA
Pam Weaver
Copyright
Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021
Copyright © Pam Weaver 2021
Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021
Cover photographs © Gordon Crabb/Alison Eldred (woman) and Shutterstock.com (all other images)
Pam Weaver asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008366216
Ebook Edition © July 2021 ISBN: 9780008366223
Version: 2021-05-17
Dedication
The book is dedicated to the memory of
David Procter 1936-2020
A man of great faith who was a wonderful
example and a true friend.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Acknowledgements
Read on for a short story from Pam Weaver …
Keep Reading …
About the Author
By the Same Author
About the Publisher
One
February 25th 1947
Izzie started and sat up in bed. What had woken her up so suddenly? The room was deathly quiet. She strained her ears but all she could hear was the sound of her sister’s rhythmic breathing as it filled the chill night air. As her eyes scanned the darkness, she heard muffled voices coming from her parents’ room across the small landing of their two up, two down cottage. Tossing back the covers, she shivered as she tip-toed towards the door and leaned her head against the wood, her short plaits falling over her shoulders. Her heart sank. They were arguing again and her mother sounded upset. She frowned crossly. Oh, why did he have to come back? Everything had been all right until he’d turned up again.
Everybody in the street had been so excited for them. ‘One of the last of our brave boys to come home,’ Miss Grey, her teacher, had said. ‘You must be so proud of your dad.’
There had been parties and people calling by with their good wishes and gifts. Her mother seemed embarrassed by all the fuss but Izzie had been carried along by the euphoria of it all. The grocer had brought a box of food, the butcher had sent over a lamb chop and a couple of rabbits wrapped up in newspaper. For a week or so, it was a time of plenty, a time of fun and laughter, but as the days went on, it wasn’t fun anymore.
Her father was almost a complete stranger to her. Izzie had been seven when he’d gone to war and her sister was just five. Izzie remembered him coming home on leave for a few days (Linda didn’t) but when he went back they never heard from him at all. It was as if he’d vanished. Her mother said he was a POW but it was ages before Izzie understood what that meant – prisoner-of-war. A few months after he’d gone, they all moved to Worthing. ‘A new start,’ her mother had said, but Izzie had worried that Dad wouldn’t know where they were when he came back from the war.
Izzie and Linda got on with life and it was just fine being the three of them. True, her mother had some funny ways. She didn’t like her playing with some of the kids who lived near the shops, and she wouldn’t let the girls join the Brownies, but apart from that, she and Linda were allowed to do pretty much what they wanted. The neighbours, apart from Mrs Sayers, who was also the Brown Owl, were friendly enough. They all pitched in and helped each other in the difficult times and the street party they’d put on when the war ended had been one of the best in Worthing. Everybody said so.
In her parents’ bedroom, the voices grew louder, but Izzie couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. She wrapped her arms around herself and sighed. It wasn’t fair. Brian Turner said it was the best thing ever when his dad was demobbed in 1946 but when Izzie’s father walked through the door with his suitcase, everything had changed. He was so strict; much more strict than Mummy. She’d lost count of the number of times he’d barked, ‘Do as you’re told,’ and ‘Don’t answer back, young lady,’ when she’d protested about something. Life had been so much more fun when it had just been her and Mum and Linda. They’d all been happy back then.
Her sister was still asleep. They got on quite well. In fact, Izzie owed her very name to Linda. When Linda was two, unable to get her little mouth around her sister’s full name of Isobelle, she had called her big sister Izzie and it stuck.
Over the years, the wood on the bedroom door had warped and it no longer shut tightly, which was why Izzie could hear some of what her parents were saying but when they lowered their voices the sound was too muffled. She didn’t want to miss anything so, praying that the hinges wouldn’t creak and wake Linda, she pulled the door slightly open. The hall was in darkness. The only light came from under her parents’ bedroom door. Izzie glanced back at Linda as she heard her mother’s shrill voice saying, ‘You’re drunk again.’
‘I am not drunk,’ her father protested grumpily. ‘One beer, that’s all I’ve had.’
‘How come you’re so late home then?’
‘What is this?’ he said tetchily. ‘What gives you the right to interrogate me?’
‘Because I know you. You spend all your time in the pub,’ her mother complained. ‘You promised you were going out to get a decent job.’
‘I’m trying, Doris,’ he said. ‘Good God woman, I spent the whole day traipsin
g around Worthing but there’s nothing to be had. I reckon somebody’s put the word about.’ Izzie heard a ‘plink, plink’ as he tossed his cuff links into the little bowl on the dressing table.
It was cold standing barefoot on the linoleum. Izzie rubbed her feet on the backs of her legs to warm them up and shivered.
‘I hope you’re not thinking of going back to your old ways,’ her mother said.
Her father scoffed. ‘Don’t be daft. I’ve learned me lesson.’
‘I can’t go through all that again, Bill.’
‘You won’t have to!’ her father cried. ‘It’s just that I have to start from bloody scratch again, don’t I. You never should have let go of the stall.’
‘I had no choice!’ her mother cried. ‘When you went, you left us high and dry. What were we supposed to live on?’
Her parents’ bed springs creaked and then she heard the ‘thud, thud’ as his boots hit the wooden floor. There was a moment of silence then her mother said, ‘No, Bill.’
‘Come on Doris.’ Her father’s voice was softer now.
‘I don’t want to. All this talk about the old days … it upsets me too much.’
‘Then let me help you forget.’ There was a short period of silence before her mother said ‘Get off me! If I’ve told once, I’ve told you again and again, I can’t. I just can’t.’
Disturbed by the rising voices, Linda rolled over in bed. Izzie pushed the door shut and held her breath but as luck would have it, her younger sister didn’t wake up. Good job. Linda would have sat up and made a great big fuss which would have got them both into trouble. She turned her attention back to what her parents were saying.
‘But you’re my wife!’ Her father sounded agitated. ‘It’s been nearly six years, Doris. How much longer do you expect me to go on waiting?’
‘I don’t know.’ They had been talking in heated whispers but her mother’s voice rose. ‘You don’t seem to understand. All this worry …’
‘For God sake!’ her father shouted. ‘I’ve given you the rent money haven’t I?’
‘Yes, but where did it come from?’
Izzie’s heart was beginning to thud in her chest. She’d heard this conversation before and it usually ended up with her father stomping downstairs to sleep in the sitting room. Tonight it sounded more desperate. She felt a tear sting the back of her eye. This wasn’t the idyllic homecoming her mother had talked about through all those years of the war, when she’d tucked them up at bedtime. ‘When your daddy comes home,’ she’d said with such conviction that Izzie had believed every word, ‘we’ll have such fun. We’ll go for long drives in the country; we’ll pack our bags and go on holiday; we’ll catch the train to London and maybe we’ll see the King himself …’ Well, Dad had been home for two whole months now and they hadn’t ‘done’ any of that, and what was even more alarming, her parents’ arguments were getting worse.
‘Doris, this is tearing me apart.’
‘No!’
Everybody said her father was a decent sort of chap but to Izzie’s way of thinking, her mother seemed a bit wary of him. She wouldn’t let him kiss her and pulled away from him, saying she was busy or she was tired if he tried to hug her. Her father and Linda got on very well but that was because he spoiled her. Everyone said Linda was a lovely looking child whereas Izzie was only ‘nice’. Linda had fair curly hair like Shirley Temple and Mummy gave her a ribbon at the side. Izzie’s hair was mousy brown and hardly had a kink in it let alone a curl so she wore it in plaits with an elastic band on each end. Their father played chase with Linda and he’d push her ever so high on the old tyre swing under the apple tree. At first Izzie was desperate to be included but she never was. ‘Don’t be so rough, Izzie,’ he’d said one day when she’d pushed in front of Linda so that he could tickle her too. ‘You’re nearly thirteen. You’re too old for baby games.’ After that, Izzie decided that she didn’t like him very much.
‘Doris …’ He was coaxing her now. ‘I understand how difficult it’s been but it’s all water under the bridge now. It’s time we got on with our lives.’
‘Got on with our lives!’ she retorted in a hissy whisper. ‘Oh that’s easy enough for you to say. I take it that you haven’t bumped into Brenda Sayers since you came back?’
‘I can’t for the life of me understand why she came to live here,’ her father muttered.
‘Her uncle left her the shop. I already told you that.’
‘Yes, but why come here? She must have known you were just around the corner.’
‘Of course she did!’ her mother exclaimed. ‘She doesn’t want me to forget, does she! The last six years have been an absolute torment for me. You have no idea …’
‘Bloody hell, woman,’ he snapped. ‘Don’t start lecturing me again about life being so hard. What do you know about hardship? You didn’t spend the last six years locked up in a prison.’
‘I may as well have done,’ she hissed. ‘I wish I’d never done it now. I didn’t realise it was so bad. I thought you’d just get a ticking off.’
‘You what?’
A voice right behind Izzie made her jump. ‘What are you doing?’
She spun around. Linda was sitting up in bed and rubbing her eyes.
‘Shh,’ Izzie said crossly, ‘or they’ll hear us.’
On the other side of the door, her father shouted in an angry whisper. ‘What are you telling me, you stupid bitch?’
‘Stay over that side of the bed,’ her mother was saying. ‘Don’t touch me.’
There followed a scuffling sound, and her mother’s voice, shrill again, burst out. ‘No. Bill stop it. Leave me alone.’
‘Then tell me,’ he snarled. ‘What did you do?’
‘Why’s Mummy shouting?’ Linda said in a voice that was far too loud. ‘I want Mummy.’
Izzie closed the door quickly. ‘Oh shut-up, will you?’
‘But what are they doing?’
Izzie scrambled back into her bed and pulled the covers up. ‘Nothing,’ she said tersely. ‘Grown-up stuff. You wouldn’t understand.’
They both lay in the dark in silence listening to the scuffling across the little landing. Izzie didn’t understand herself but it was making her feel scared. At one point they heard a heavy object fall to the floor with a loud thud and Linda cried out in alarm. Izzie thought it might be a book or something but then they heard the sound of the alarm clock drumming against the wooden floorboards.
‘I don’t like it,’ Linda whispered plaintively.
‘That’s because you’re only a baby,’ said Izzie in a superior tone. There was no way she was going to admit to her little sister that she felt just the same. If she and Linda argued and fought the way their mother and father did, they’d have got a smacked bottom.
‘I’m not a baby,’ Linda cried indignantly. ‘I’m eleven next birthday and—’
She was cut off by a terrific bump followed by a masculine howl of pain then their father shouted, ‘You bitch! You bloody bitch.’
Linda took in her breath noisily. Izzie lay perfectly still, eyes wide open, her heart pounding in her chest. The room seemed suddenly very dark and scary. What on earth was going on in there?
It was with some sense of relief when she heard the door of her parents’ room opening, allowing more light in their room, but then someone rushed down the stairs.
‘Who was that?’ Linda whimpered.
‘I don’t know,’ said Izzie, her own voice quavering with fear.
A few moments later, they heard the front door open and then it was slammed shut. Izzie shuddered. Maybe that thud meant that one of them had had a bad fall and the other person was running down the road to the telephone box on the corner to get help. She climbed out of bed cautiously and crept towards the door. Linda made to follow her.
‘Stay there and be quiet,’ Izzie said sternly.
Lifting the latch carefully she allowed the door to open just a little way. Her father was coming out of his bedroom, one hand
on his face. She saw a trickle of blood seeping between his fingers from a cut on his cheek. His face was as white as paper.
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing,’ he said gruffly. He leaned against the wall to steady himself. ‘Go back to bed.’
‘But I heard Mummy going outside.’
‘She’s just gone to the toilet, that’s all.’
Izzie hesitated. She knew that wasn’t true. He was lying. If her mother was going to the lavvy, she’d have gone out through the kitchen. ‘But she went out of the front door,’ Izzie protested.
‘Get back into bed!’ her father bellowed.
Izzie blinked in shocked surprise and promptly shut the bedroom door. The two girls stared at each other through the gloom with worried expressions. A few seconds later, the front door opened again and they heard him calling their mother’s name out in the street. ‘Doris … Doris.’
Miserably, Izzie climbed into bed and lay on her back, still listening. She could feel the tears pricking her eyes and her chin was wobbling. Her mother had run away and it was all his fault. Her heart began to thud again. She hated him. Hated him.
‘Izzie,’ Linda whispered. ‘Where’s Mummy gone?’
‘Shh,’ Izzie said savagely. She heard her sister gulp back a tear and immediately regretted the way she had snapped. ‘They just had a fight, that’s all. Grown-ups do it all the time. She’ll be back in a minute.’
Now that her eyes were accustomed to the lack of light, Izzie stared at the long crack on the ceiling. It was funny how it turned from a friendly spider into an angry octopus depending on the mood she was in. Right now, with her heart banging away in her chest, it seemed as terrifying as the ghostly grey hand she’d seen on the poster outside the Odeon cinema for that horrible looking film – what was it called? I Walked With a Zombie.
The front door closed again. Izzie strained her ears to hear voices but there was only silence. After a few agonising minutes she got out of bed again and opened the bedroom door just a crack to peep out to the landing. Her father was sitting at the bottom of the stairs with his back to her as he leaned forward with his head in his hands. She waited for him to turn around but he didn’t and then, to her shocked surprise, she suddenly realised that he was crying. As quiet as a mouse, she closed the door again and padded back to her bed.