At Home by the Sea

by Pam Weaver

  *

  A couple of hours later, Raymond Perryman, John Middleton and Paul Dawkins were back at Ray’s auntie’s place. The three of them had decided it was such a nice day they’d bunk off work. As soon as his Auntie Bren had gone to her shop, Ray met the other two boys by the phone box on the corner. First John had pretended to be Paul’s dad as he rang the garage where Paul worked as an apprentice mechanic.

  ‘My lad is proper poorly,’ he’d told the person in the office. ‘In fact, I may have to get the doctor to him.’ Ray and Paul, who were holding the phone box door open, nudged each other and stifled a laugh. There was a pause then John said, ‘I dunno, mate. He’s got pains in his legs. They don’t work proper. I fink it’s his appendix.’ By now, Ray and Paul were helpless with laughter.

  The person at the other end obviously asked another question because after another short pause John said, ‘I dunno. Look mate, I’m late. I’ve got to go to work meself. Just tell the boss my boy’s sick, really sick. He won’t be in today.’ And with that, he hung up.

  Next, Paul rang the railway yard where John worked to say the same thing. Ray didn’t have a job so they didn’t need to ring anybody to make an excuse for him.

  They caught a bus to Worthing, pushing their way in with a crowd and running upstairs. Ray got his penknife out and began changing the sign at the front. By the time he’d finished, Please lower your head said, fleas love your head and John and Paul had a good laugh.

  When the conductor came upstairs they dashed downstairs again before he could ask them for the bus fare and as soon as he followed them back downstairs, they hopped off the bus and walked the rest of the way. They had no money and it promised to be a boring day, but taking a lead from Ray, they mucked about around the town, making a nuisance of themselves. They shouted and whooped all the way down Chapel Road and South Street, bumping people on the pavement and pulling over the chairs outside the Café Bellissimo near the pier. The butcher’s boy also had his delivery bike knocked over, spilling the joints and sausages onto the pavement, and though the boy managed to grab most of it and put it back into the basket on the front of the bicycle, a mangy looking dog grabbed a bag of lamb chops. Somebody tried to get it off him, but the dog wasn’t about to let that happen. Growling fiercely, it disappeared down a nearby twitten with its booty.

  The boys tried a bit of shop lifting in Woolworth’s but some woman, probably the store detective, followed them round so they gave up. When they came out of Woolworth’s they saw somebody’s dog chained to a railing outside and released it. Ray yelled at it and, terrified, the poor animal ran as fast as its legs would carry him, dodging cars, buses and people in its panic to get away. That was good for a laugh until the owner came out of the shop and saw that his mutt was missing. A lot of fist shaking and a threat to call the police meant the three of them had to make themselves scarce.

  Safe again, they wandered along the seafront and spotted John’s bird working in an ice cream kiosk. It was easy enough for Ray to persuade Linda to give them all an ice cream.

  After a while of wandering aimlessly, they saw a woman put her bag down to place her toddler in the pram. While she was strapping her little boy in, Ray bent down and lifted her purse from her open bag. They all ran and ended up in a quiet street at the back of the shops. The purse contained nearly seven pounds which meant they could have a slap up meal at the fish and chip shop before they all went back to Ray’s auntie’s place.

  Ray leaned back on his chair with his feet on the table. They had the back door wide open because they’d been smoking some Senior Service cigarettes they’d bought with some of the money they’d nicked from the purse.

  ‘There’s something I want to show you,’ Ray said suddenly. He disappeared upstairs and they heard him pulling down the loft ladder.

  ‘What’s he up to?’ said John. Their curiosity got the better of them so they waited at the bottom of the ladder, looking up expectantly.

  Ray came back down with something wrapped in a piece of old cloth which he stuffed into his back pocket. They watched him put the loft ladder back then his friends followed him into the kitchen where he laid whatever it was onto the table. Tossing the cover back, he said, ‘Nobody touches it except me.’

  It was the gun.

  John and Paul gasped in surprise. ‘Blimey,’ said Paul. ‘Is it real?’

  ‘’Course it is,’ said Ray with a cocky grin. His friends were glancing nervously at each other. It was rather satisfying to see their reaction.

  ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘Never you mind.’

  ‘Got any ammo?’ John reached out to pick it up.

  ‘’Course I have.’ Quick as a flash, Ray knocked his hand away. ‘I said, nobody touches it ’cept me,’ he snarled and John sprang back.

  ‘What you going to do with it?’ said Paul.

  ‘Rob a bank.’

  His friends laughed.

  ‘I’m serious,’ he said. ‘I want to be something in life. I’m gonna be famous.’

  John raised his eyebrows and gave him a sceptical look. ‘And how are you going to do that?’

  ‘Easy,’ said Ray, picking up the gun. ‘Nobody’s going to argue with this, are they?’

  ‘You wouldn’t really shoot someone, would you?’ Paul asked nervously.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ said Ray. ‘It’s just to scare them.’

  Paul pointed two fingers at John. ‘Give us the money you dirty rat,’ he said, gangster style, and they laughed. After that, they all stared at the gun for a full minute.

  ‘If we rob a bank, we’ll need to make a quick getaway,’ said Paul. ‘How are we going to do that?’

  ‘Which bank?’ said John eventually.

  ‘Doesn’t matter, does it,’ Ray snapped. ‘Anywhere where there’s plenty of dosh.’

  ‘We ought to have a practice run first,’ said John. ‘A bank is a big job.’

  ‘A practice run,’ Paul scoffed.

  ‘No, hang on,’ said Ray. ‘He’s right. We should look for something local. Somewhere where there’s bound to be a safe. Somewhere away from street lights and prying eyes.’

  ‘The emporium,’ said John. ‘Easy as pie to break in there.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Back of the station,’ said John. ‘Black as pitch down there.’

  Ray’s face lit up. ‘They got a safe?’

  John nodded. ‘My chick’s dad runs the place. I’ve seen it.’

  ‘If they know you,’ said Paul, ‘you’ll never get away with it.’

  ‘We will if we plan it,’ said Ray. They heard the front gate squeak. ‘Auntie’s coming back,’ Ray hissed.

  Snatching the gun and its wrapping he dashed from the room and belted upstairs. Seconds later they heard the key turning in the front door. When it opened his auntie came in. She was surprised to see the two boys sitting in her kitchen.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Perryman,’ said Paul.

  ‘Mrs Sayers,’ Brenda corrected. ‘And who are you?’

  They heard the lavatory chain flush and Ray came down the stairs. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Auntie, but my friends had a day off work so we thought we’d meet up.’

  ‘Of course not, dear,’ said Brenda. ‘Your friends are always welcome.’

  ‘We have to go out now, Auntie,’ Ray announced. ‘Paul’s mum wants some shopping.’

  The three of them trooped out of the house and headed towards the sea. Once they were safely out of sight, John said, ‘I hope you don’t mind, Auntie …’ in a perfect imitation of Ray’s virtuous expression and the three of them fell about, helpless with laughter.

  Twenty-Six

  In the middle of the night, Izzie woke up with a brilliant idea. Why not go back to the Worthing Herald offices and see if they had a spare typewriter in their typing pool? She could hardly wait until her lunch time and when it came she hurried back to Warwick Street.

  The same middle-aged woman was on the desk and to Izzie’s surprise, s
he actually recognised her. ‘Come back to look through some more back issues?’ she asked pleasantly.

  Izzie explained her problem and was disappointed to see the woman shake her head. ‘I’m afraid the management don’t keep old typewriters as a rule,’ she said, ‘but I’ll tell you what. There’s an old shop at the end of Clifton Road. It’s a general repair shop but I’m pretty sure I’ve seen a typewriter in the window.’

  Izzie got the address and glanced up at the clock. She had twenty-five minutes before she had to be back at the café. Did she have time to go to Clifton Road? She was desperate to go now because if she waited until she left work, the shop would be shut – everything closed at five-thirty. But even if she ran all the way she couldn’t get there and back in such a short space of time. Frustrated and disappointed, Izzie thanked the receptionist and opened the door. Deep in thought, she bumped into a man who was coming in.

  ‘Beg pardon,’ he said raising his hat. ‘Oh it’s you, Izzie. How are you my dear?’

  It was Mr Shilling. Izzie couldn’t hide her delight to see him as they exchanged niceties. Yes, his wife was well and yes, Mrs Dore still worked for him. He was pleased to hear that Esther was a policewoman at last and eventually he asked Izzie what she was doing.

  ‘At the moment I’m working in the Café Bellissimo,’ she explained, ‘but I want to improve myself so I’m doing a correspondence course in journalism.’

  ‘Good for you,’ he cried. ‘So it looks like my mother’s love of writing has rubbed off on you.’

  ‘I suppose it has,’ Izzie agreed. ‘I enjoyed working for her.’

  Mr Shilling raised his hat. ‘Well, I must get on. I’ve come to place an advertisement for a new gardener and I want it to go in the next edition. Goodbye, my dear, and good luck.’

  Izzie turned to go.

  ‘She’s looking for a typewriter,’ said the receptionist.

  Mr Shilling turned back. ‘A typewriter? Well why don’t you have Mother’s old one?’

  Izzie gasped. ‘Really? Oh could I?’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ he said. ‘It’s just sitting there doing nothing. The Memsab doesn’t care for it, so you have it my dear.’

  Izzie was so excited she could have kissed him.

  ‘Call round for it,’ he said, raising his hat a third time. ‘Any time you like.’

  *

  The last of the summer was proving to be wet. Dark clouds and heavy rain sent the holiday makers packing and the coaches normally so full of day trippers were almost empty. Those who were brave enough to come to the beach begged to go home early because it was cold and wet, and more often than not, the chairs outside the Café Bellissimo were redundant.

  If the people of Worthing thought they had it bad, it was even worse in North Devon. On Saturday August 16th the whole country woke up to hear on the wireless that there had been a terrible disaster. Ninety million tons of water, enough to satisfy the people in the area for one hundred years, had cascaded down the hills towards the sea. The small villages of Lynton and Lynmouth, known as a honeymooner’s paradise, were overwhelmed and the people there had lost absolutely everything.

  The newspapers were full of horrific stories; a postman swept away, the bodies of two unidentified boys being recovered, houses demolished under the weight of the water, and stories of amazing bravery, like that of the motorcyclist who raced through the villages ahead of the wall of water trying to warn people of the danger to come.

  Like many others in the country, the customers of the Café Bellissimo were united in a feeling of helplessness so Mr Semadini turned over the money in his sweet jar to the Mayor’s relief fund which pleased everybody. It also gave them the freedom to share their personal stories of tragedy and heroism from the war.

  ‘Water,’ said one man, ‘is like fire; a good friend but a bad master. I should know. I was on board the HMT Lancastria.’

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ Miss Cheeseman exclaimed, ‘were you really. 1940 wasn’t it?’

  Izzie couldn’t help overhearing their conversation but she didn’t want them to know she was listening so she took her time putting the dirty cups onto her tray.

  The man nodded. ‘They say nearly two thousand men died when that ship went down, but I reckon it was much more than that. There were hundreds of them trapped below deck. They had no chance.’

  ‘How come you were there?’ said a lady customer.

  ‘I was part of the British Expeditionary force,’ said the man, rising to his feet and picking up his trilby. ‘Private Cecil Davison.’ He snapped to attention and saluted.

  ‘Bit different in Devon,’ another man observed. ‘Those people were asleep in their own homes when the water came.’

  ‘I understand that,’ Mr Davison said tetchily, ‘but water is water and I’m telling you when it comes in at that kind of speed, it’s a bugger.’

  The bell on the shop door jangled as he left and as Izzie took the laden tray into the kitchen for Ken to wash up, her mind was buzzing. Most people were discouraged from talking about their war-time experiences. The common consensus of opinion was, ‘let sleeping dogs lie and get on with the rest of your life,’ but it occurred to Izzie that if no-one wrote these things down, they would be lost for ever. Perhaps someone, somewhere, should be writing down these war-time experiences for future generations. Her latest lesson from the correspondence course said she should think of a long-term project she could begin now and work on throughout her career. What did you do in the war? Now that really was an interesting idea.

  ‘You look miles away, Isobelle,’ said Mr Semadini. He was standing in the doorway of his office. Izzie jumped as he spoke and he chuckled.

  ‘Oh,’ she said joining in with him, ‘yes I was, wasn’t I.’

  ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thinking about your next project?’

  Izzie hesitated for a second. Should she ask him if he’d answer some more questions? Dare she ask? ‘Actually, I was wondering …’ she began.

  ‘If I would talk to you again,’ he said, finishing the sentence for her.

  She nodded shyly. It was strange how sometimes they both knew what the other was thinking.

  He patted her arm. ‘I should be delighted, Isobelle. Shall we say next Monday?’

  She nodded quickly and with a smile on her lips, hurried back into the café to wipe down the tables. She could feel her cheeks flame and her hands were shaking. Why, oh why did her heart pound like this every time he spoke to her?

  *

  John, Paul and Ray waited until the streets were deserted. The cinemas were closed and the pubs were empty as they crept along Teville Gate towards Baxter’s Emporium. The bobby on the beat had just gone by so they were reasonably sure that they could do the job and be on their way before he came back.

  Ray hid behind some bins and motioned John to try the door. It was locked. The three lads made their way round the side of the building where Paul noticed the toilet window was slightly open. He was the smallest so they gave him a leg up and he squeezed inside. A couple of minutes later, all three of them were inside.

  ‘Stupid bugger left the key in the back door,’ Paul whispered.

  They found themselves in a place stuffed with all kinds of flotsam and jetsam. With only one torch between them, they decided it was best to stick together. In the office, they found the safe.

  ‘How are we going to get into it?’ John whispered.

  ‘Find me a cushion,’ Ray said to Paul.

  ‘What d’you want a cushion for?’

  ‘Just get it!’

  Paul found one and Ray made the other two hold it over the lock on the safe. John took in his breath noisily as Ray produced the gun from his back pocket and fired. The noise was quite loud but not as loud as it might have been. Feathers filled the air as the ruined cushion fell away and the door of the safe swung open. Ray got down on his knees and began pulling everything out. They were elated to find a silver cigarette case,
a gold charm bracelet, a silver box, some pearl earrings and a couple of watches. There was also a quantity of cash and some papers. The papers were not much good to them but the rest made a pretty good haul. The lads made their way back to the door and Paul bolted it after them before making his own exit through the toilet door. Then they all legged it.

  *

  Izzie asked Roger to come with her to The White Lodge. She was no coward but she didn’t want to face Muriel Shilling alone and she knew from experience that the typewriter was quite heavy. Mr Shilling was a sweetie but there was every likelihood that he would forget to tell his wife that he’d given it to Izzie. If that happened it would be too embarrassing for words. As second projectionist, Roger had a gap after Saturday morning pictures and the first of the afternoon showings so he was happy to oblige. Izzie also took the opportunity to ask him if he would be willing to talk about his job.

  ‘Sure, I’ll do it for you,’ he said, ‘but who is going to want to read it?’

  ‘The rest of the world and his wife when I’ve finished with it,’ said Izzie and he laughed.

  They took the precaution of going around the back and knocked on the kitchen door. Mrs Dore opened it and gave Izzie a very warm welcome. Five minutes later they were sat at the kitchen table eating one of Mrs Dore’s delicious cakes and drinking tea while Izzie caught up with all of her news.

  ‘The Missus was that mad when the police told her old Mrs Shilling had given all of her artefacts away,’ said Mrs Dore. ‘I’m afraid she blames you for that.’

  ‘I don’t know why,’ Izzie said stoutly. ‘I was just a kid. What influence did I have over the old lady?’

  ‘Quite,’ said Mrs Dore. ‘Anyway, between you and me and the gate post, she did all right. The old dear left a lot of money. So what are you doing with yourself these days?’

  Izzie explained about her correspondence course and the problem she had sending her articles to magazines. ‘Mr Shilling said I could have the old typewriter,’ said Izzie. ‘That’s why we’re here.’