Beach Hut Surprise: Escape to Little Piddling this summer — six feel-good beach reads to make you smile, or even laugh out loud

by Libertà Books

  "Here we are. You were right." Fran scrolled up a bit further. "There were actual branches—civilian observers and secret wireless networks."

  "And you should be able to look it up on a map," said Libby. "I think they were called Out Stations."

  "It's just a list," said Fran, peering at the screen. "You can't always get the right place. They aren't all live links. There's one that says Beach Lane Out Station in the right area. Do you think that could be it?"

  "Might be. Wouldn't hurt to poke around a bit more." Libby looked round the bare walls of the hut. "Up there, see? Looks as though something like an electricity meter's been pulled off the wall. And there's what looks like an old Bakelite switch."

  "And that's unusual, isn't it? Most beach huts haven't got mains electricity. And there's no sign of a generator." Fran put her phone back in her pocket and stood up. "I don't think there's going to be anything more to find here, though. It's been cleaned out—at the end of the war, I would guess."

  "Oh, I wish there was someone still alive we could talk to," said Libby with a sigh.

  "I doubt if anyone would tell us anything," said Fran. "There was something on that website that said civilian operators and observers never spoke to each other, even up to when they died."

  Outside, Libby turned and looked up towards Piddling Point. They could see little but a shape and a tangle of vegetation. "That's where Estella said the lookout post was. Isn't it a bit odd to have a lookout post and an Out Station so close to each other?"

  "Perhaps they simply felt they couldn't have a secret wireless station in the lookout post," said Fran. "Although they would have to have had wireless, too, wouldn't they?"

  "And we still don't know what this place had to do with our murder victim," mused Libby, as they turned away from Satis House to walk towards the town.

  They followed a boardwalk where the coastal scrub met the sand and finally came to the row of beach huts.

  "Very individual," said Fran. "All got names."

  "Forget-me-Not," said Libby. "And Rosa's Retreat."

  Further along, "And look! Rassendyll. So Satis House isn't that unusual."

  "There are some newer ones, though. They haven't got names." Fran turned and looked seawards. "I like the look of the pier. Do you suppose that's a theatre at the end?"

  "Looks like it," said Libby. "Nice little place, isn't it?"

  "It is. I wish we had a pier in Nethergate."

  "You've got the jetty. No room for anything else. Look—that probably leads to the square." Libby pointed to a side road between the shops that lined the promenade.

  They made their way past the huts, across the promenade and past the fish and chip shop on the corner, and finally came to the square.

  "Is this it?" said Libby, stopping by the building on the corner.

  "Dumaine's, yes." Fran peered through the doorway. "Is it open?"

  "Yes, ducks," said a voice behind them. "Bit early, though."

  They turned to see an elderly woman who looked as though she had stepped fully formed out of a 1940s photograph, crossover pinny and all.

  "Too early for lunch?" asked Libby.

  "Yeah. Better off down there." The woman jerked a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the fish and chip shop. "They'll give you a drink, though."

  "Were you just going in?" asked Fran. "Will you have a drink with us?"

  Libby raised her eyebrows but said nothing.

  The woman stuffed her hands into the pockets of her pinny and shrugged. "Don't mind if I do."

  Libby pushed open the door and held it for Fran and their new friend to go inside. Fran winked as she passed.

  Settled at a table where they could look out over the square, Libby went to the bar to order drinks.

  "That'll be a stout for Lil, then," said the barman with a smile.

  "Will it?" Libby looked over at the table where Fran was speaking animatedly. "OK. And a white wine, please, and a half of lager."

  "Bascombe's lager?"

  "Do you recommend it?" asked Libby dubiously.

  "I prefer this one," whispered the barman, tapping a pump. "Don't tell anyone."

  "Ah." Libby nodded wisely. "OK, half of that one, then."

  She looked over at the table. "Stout all right, Lil?" she called, and received a nod and a grin in reply.

  "Do you come here often?" she asked as she set the drinks on the table.

  "Yeah." Lil picked up her glass and raised it in Libby's direction. "They know me."

  "Lived here a long time?" asked Fran.

  Lil smiled knowingly and took a healthy swig of stout.

  "You know everyone, then?" said Libby.

  "Know who you are."

  Libby and Fran looked at each other in surprise.

  "But we only arrived yesterday," said Fran.

  "Met that Estella. Gone up that Manor place."

  This time, Libby's mouth dropped open and Fran drew in a sharp breath. Lil grinned smugly down into her stout.

  Libby was first to recover. "Do you mean Manor Farm?"

  "Used to be."

  "But it still is," said Fran.

  "Not a farm, is it?"

  "Well, no..." Libby conceded.

  "Caravan park."

  "Why do you say that?" asked Fran.

  "You know. That's what they are, ain't they?" Lil sat back in her chair and cocked her head on one side.

  "They're a bit more than that," said Libby.

  Lil snorted.

  "You can live in them," put in Fran.

  "Nasty piece of work." Lil gazed out of the window.

  "Who?"

  "Him at the pub."

  "Oh, Arthur Strange," said Libby.

  Fran was frowning. "Who is he, Lil?"

  "Bad lot."

  "I'm going to have to look him up," said Fran. She turned to Lil. "And how do you know so much about it?"

  Lil shrugged. "Know why you're here."

  Libby bit down on increasing frustration. "That doesn't answer the question."

  Lil stood up. "You come down to help Estella. That's good. Stop 'em ganging up on her." She pushed in her chair and went to the door.

  "Who's ganging up?" Libby got to her feet.

  "Ought to know." And Lil was gone.

  Chapter Five

  Libby sank down again. "Well! What on earth was that all about?"

  Fran was gazing into space. "I think we've been taken for a ride," she said slowly.

  "What do you mean?" said Libby indignantly.

  Fran was quiet for a moment.

  "Do you remember what you said when we first arrived?"

  "No." Libby scowled at her glass.

  "You said, 'I don't believe in this place.' Why did you say that?"

  "Well... The stupid name for a start."

  "That's real enough," said Fran. "Unlikely, but real. And what did you say then?"

  "Er..." Libby cast around in her memory. "Something about how we'd been hauled down here?"

  "Exactly. Cora asked us down here to help her daughter and, if necessary, investigate something. Only we weren't told what."

  "So what are you saying? Your mate Cora is doing a number on us both?"

  Fran leant forward, elbows on the table. "Not just us. Frankly, I don't think Estella ever wanted us here."

  Libby frowned. "She's a bit shifty about answering our questions, I agree. But then she seemed really anxious we should stay. Told us she'd made up rooms for us and everything. I had the feeling she was scared."

  "Ye-es," allowed Fran. "Me too. She certainly didn't want us to go home last night. Actually, I've had this very bad feeling right from the start that Estella really needs us. But she doesn't seem to think so."

  Libby thought about that. "She does seem to blow hot and cold," she agreed. "Do you think maybe what she really wanted was her own mother?"

  "You mean get Gorgeous Cora to come and hold her hand while she talks to the police?" Fran hooted. "Not a chance. It could well get into the
media."

  "So? There's no such thing as bad publicity, remember."

  "Huh. Professionally, Cora's been clinging on to her early thirties for the last fifteen years. She can't afford to break out a grown-up daughter now."

  "Ah," said Libby, understanding. "I see. Of course. So if I'm right, Estella asked Cora to come. Only Cora chickened out and sent us instead. Poor Estella."

  Fran nodded. "And told Estella we were expert investigators. Which has made her jumpy as a cat."

  "Yes, it has, hasn't it?" Libby pondered. "Do you think that she's lied to us? At times she seemed downright shifty, now I come to think about it."

  Fran looked unhappy. "And what did Lil mean, about people ganging up on Estella? Who? Why?"

  Libby peered out of the window of the wine bar at the empty square. There was no sign of Lil. "Lil was a bit unbelievable herself, if you ask me."

  "Putting on an act." Fran nodded.

  "And dressed for it."

  They sat in silence for a few moments gazing out at the square. On the opposite side from the wine bar was The Brewery Tap, a little more down-at-heel than Dumaine's.

  Then Libby sighed. "Shall we see if they've started serving lunches yet?"

  "I'm not really hungry yet," said Fran. "It's not that long since breakfast."

  "I just thought," said Libby, turning an innocent face towards her friend, "we ought to ask the barman about Lil. After all, he seemed to know her..."

  Fran grinned. "Do we want to burst her bubble this soon? Let me talk to Cora first."

  "Shall we explore a bit more of the town, then? What did Estella say…? Jubilee Gardens?"

  "Come on then." Fran stood up. "Let's go and be tourists."

  They emerged into the square and made their way back to the promenade.

  "The beach huts have stopped," said Libby. "I suppose we go along the other way."

  The Prom was lined with small shops and a couple more food outlets, while between them were the entrances to what were obviously flats up above. A reasonably-sized car park was situated next to where the main road led away towards the town.

  "And these are the Jubilee Gardens," said Fran, coming to a halt before a riot of municipal planting, "and Sir Copson's statue."

  "And that's Councillor Whats'isname's stone." Libby wandered over to look at it. She stared at the uninspiring stone erection for a moment, then swung round.

  "The war," she said. "What could we find out online?"

  Fran stopped admiring the planting and joined her. "The war here, you mean?"

  "Of course. Or is there a museum, do you think?"

  "I'll have a look." Fran moved over to a bench and took out her phone.

  Libby fidgeted.

  "Not much," said Fran after a moment. "It doesn't say anything about the Auxiliary Units or beach defences."

  "I haven't noticed any tank traps or pill boxes round here," said Libby, going to peer over Fran's shoulder.

  "Not the easiest place for tanks to land," said Fran.

  "Good place for secret landings or launchings, though." Libby perched next to Fran and looked out thoughtfully over the sea. "Is that why Satis House was set up as an Out Station, do you think?"

  "Possibly." Fran put her phone away. "But whether it was or not, that doesn't explain why someone was murdered, or why Arthur Strange is sniffing around."

  "To be fair," said Libby, who often wasn't, "we've only got our own suspicions about Strange, haven't we? He could just be a crafty businessman, with an eye to the main chance. There was Manor Farm, run down and idle, the land going to waste. All he did was come along and turn a profit from it."

  "Hmm." Fran stared at the Councillor's stone. Then she turned to look at Libby. "Did Estella go on her own to look at the body? Do you remember?"

  Libby shook her head. "She didn't say. But it obviously upset her."

  "Yes," said Fran slowly. "I think she went on her own."

  "So?"

  Fran leaned forward eagerly. "Well, think about it. If you had to go and identify a body, would you go on your own? No, you wouldn't. You'd phone a friend. Ben or me or…loads of people."

  "Who was Estella going to phone? Arthur Strange?"

  "Exactly." Fran was triumphant. "She hasn't mentioned a single friend. Except for the police, nobody's called her while we've been here. I'm starting to wonder if Estella's got any friends."

  "Someone told her the gossip about it being a murder investigation," Libby pointed out.

  "Do you think that was a friend?"

  Libby remembered the girl's panic. "No. No I suppose not."

  "Well, then. I think we need to make Estella tell us exactly what is going on." Fran jumped up.

  Libby followed, more slowly. "That includes Arthur Strange. I don't like the sound of that mysterious arrangement she has with him."

  "You're right." Fran snapped her fingers. "With all the work Estella is putting into that caravan park, she ought to be a partner, or at least earning a salary."

  "And it was another one of the things she didn't want to talk about," concluded Libby, pleased. "I got distracted last time. This time I'm jolly well going to ask her."

  They started to walk back the way they had come. It was a gorgeous day, with a fine crop of daisies in the meadow.

  "You know I still have that feeling that this all dates back to the war," said Fran, as they crossed over an old-fashioned stile on the last leg of the path towards the Manor.

  Libby sighed. She knew there was no point in asking why.

  Anyway, Fran was pursuing her own thoughts. "It seems to start with Estella's Granny Joan who came here as a land girl."

  "But," said Libby, "the family connection starts farther back. When Joan arrived, the Hope family already lived at Manor Farm. Gentlemen farmers. Remember that gloomy old Victorian hall?"

  "Quite grand, though," said Fran absently. "And the 'gentleman farmer' thought Land Girl Joan wasn't good enough for his precious son. So he ran Joan off and Grandpa Clive went with her. Pair of illicit lovers, shacking up somewhere…"

  "London probably," said Libby, caught up in the drama of it. "Of course, they'd need to have had their ration books. But you can always hide in a big city like London if you want to."

  "Maybe they didn't have to. No sign that his old man wanted Grandpa Clive back," said Fran crisply. "The mother didn't invite them home until the old man died." She stopped dead.

  "What?" asked Libby, stopping so abruptly she narrowly avoided a cowpat.

  "Gentleman farmer. Fairly grand house. Clive's mother wants an heir..."

  "Yes?"

  "So what happened to the money?" demanded Fran. "You don't care about an heir if the farm is bankrupt and the house is falling down. Something happened. I want to know what. And the first thing I want to know is when Old Man Hope died."

  They turned to start walking back to Manor Farm and Libby stopped.

  "Look," she said. "Up there—is that Arthur Strange?"

  Outlined on the skyline stood a lone figure.

  "Is he watching us?" said Fran.

  "Certainly facing this way." As they watched, the figure turned and disappeared from view. "Well, it needn't be suspicious, I suppose."

  They walked back along the dry riverbed in silence. When they arrived at the annex, Libby went to put on the kettle while Fran pulled out her phone and settled down to search for death certificates.

  Chapter Six

  Knowing that Fran was deeply absorbed, Libby made tea for both of them and put Fran's mug within recovery distance. From time to time Fran made little "Aha" noises, which sounded promising. Eventually she sat back and stretched.

  "Success?" asked Libby.

  "I've found Estella's Dad and Grandpa Clive. I can't find a marriage certificate. But Clive is down as the father and Granny Joan is named as 'Joan Mary Hope' on Richard's birth certificate."

  "Is that legal, using the name if she wasn't married to him?" said Libby, surprised.

  Fran shrugged.
"Who knows?" She thought a bit. "Wonder if Clive knew she put him down as the father? I suppose Joan could have changed her name by deed poll. For the moment, I'm assuming it doesn't matter." She looked hopeful. "Any more tea before I start looking for Old Man Hope?"

  Libby retreated to the kettle and returned with two mugs. She put them on the coffee table and sat down on one of the sofas.

  Fran looked up from her notes. "Oh, lovely. And tonight, we can walk down and have fish and chips, if you don't mind having fish two nights running."

  "Great. I'll be ready for it. It looks as if you've found a lot," said Libby.

  "Fairly easy, so far," murmured Fran. "There were rather a lot of Richard Hopes, but finding Clive was a piece of cake. And Old Man Hope was Frederick Ethelred. I bet there aren't a lot of them about." And she started tapping her phone again.

  "Blimey. Wonder where that came from," said Libby.

  But Fran was getting used to the website now and her fingers fairly flew. "Here he is. Frederick Ethelred. Birth certificate: born 28th June 1880. Gosh. His father is down as Land Agent of Primly Court. Definitely a Gentleman Farmer."

  "I think I saw a signpost to that on the road in," said Libby.

  But Fran wasn't listening. "Ah, here we are. Died 10th September 1941." She looked up. "So Joan and Clive were gone by then. I think that may be important."

  "Another feeling?"

  "The same one really," said Fran ruefully. She sipped her tea. "You know—I think I'll phone Cora. She'll want to know that Estella is OK. Or she's going to, anyway," she added with a grin. She picked up her phone and scrolled to find the number, pressed the link and gave Libby a decisive nod while she listened.

  "Hello? Cora? Yes, hi—it's me, Fran... Well, we're here in Little Piddling, but we don't know what's going on... No, Estella doesn't seem to know, either. I think you gave her rather a false impression... No, she's not telling us much. Did you know Joan well? No? So you can't tell us anything about the family? Oh—" her eyes widened as she looked across at Libby "—did he? Really? Well! Yes, I'll certainly ask her. Well, thanks, Cora. Yes, I'll keep in touch." She ended the call. "That was interesting."

  "What?" Libby was on tenterhooks.

  "Richard hardly ever talked about Grandpa Clive. Made it sound as if he was a real bad boy. Cora said Richard was oversensitive about being illegitimate. She thought it was funny."