The Beach Hut

by Veronica Henry

  Florence grabbed his hand excitedly.

  ‘They’ve made up their minds. Look, they’re heading for us.’

  They watched as the judges walked slowly towards them, holding the victor’s flag.

  ‘It could still be the bloke next door,’ said Harry. ‘It’s between him and us.’

  ‘He won’t win. No way,’ Florence assured him, and she was right.

  As Marky Burns plunged the flagpole into the turret of their castle, a thunderous applause struck up, accompanied by cheers and whistles. Harry turned to Florence, ready to give her a congratulatory hug, but she already had her arms around Marky’s neck. The cameras were going crazy, the news crew were zooming in. She was whispering in his ear; he had his hands on her ribs, just under her breasts.

  Harry turned away, a bitter taste in his mouth. And as he looked over, he saw the man from the neighbouring plot look disconsolately down at his castle. Only for a moment, but it was enough to make Harry feel a twinge of guilt. By rights, this man should have won. It was clear it was a close-run thing between the two of them, but Florence had managed to tip the balance in her favour by using her wiles. He felt rather ill. A woman came over to the man, taking him by the hand like a small child. Presumably it was his mother; presumably the man was a bit simple. It was wrong. What Florence had done was wrong.

  The next moment he found himself knocked flying as Florence hugged him tight.

  ‘We won, Harry!’ He could feel her heart beating through the thinness of his T-shirt. ‘I couldn’t have done it without you.’

  She kissed him on the mouth, and in that moment, all his misgivings floated away. So what if she’d flirted with the judge? That was life, wasn’t it? He felt a wonderful warmth zing through his veins and his head go light as she pulled him forward by the hand to face the cameras.

  ‘This is Harry,’ she told them. ‘We’ve been friends for absolutely years. And I couldn’t have done it without him.’

  He wanted to take her to the room straight away. He told her he had a surprise, but she wouldn’t have it.

  ‘Everyone’s piling up to the Ship,’ she told him. ‘And there’s going to be free booze.’

  By everyone, it was clear she meant Marky Burns and his entourage. And the free booze didn’t seem to extend to Harry. Just Florence, who was drinking Smirnoff Ice as if it was going out of fashion. And holding court to her newly captive audience. Harry stuck it out until he could bear it no longer. Until he saw Marky pin Florence to the wall, one of his long legs in between hers, his hip pushed suggestively up against her pelvis. She was looking up at him, laughing, curling her long hair round her fingers.

  She was nothing but a star-fucker. If you could call Marky Burns a star. Which Harry didn’t. He was a has-been from a second-rate boy-band. If he’d been an international superstar, Harry might have understood Florence’s embarrassingly sycophantic behaviour, but he was hard pushed even to remember the name of the band Marky had been in.

  The problem was it didn’t make him want her any less.

  The room suddenly seemed to close in on him. Too much sun, too much booze. He pushed his way outside, gasping for fresh air. The sound of the bar receded behind him as the door shut. He felt a breeze on his face and thought of the little blue bedroom, waiting, puzzled, the champagne going flat, the roses wilting, the chocolates melting.

  He was still holding his bottle of Smirnoff Ice. In a fit of rage, he threw it against the stone wall that separated the front of the pub from the road. As it shattered into pieces he felt shock. He’d never done anything like that in his life. It went against everything, his upbringing, his moral code. Part of him told him to go inside and find a broom to sweep it up before someone was hurt, but he was too drunk. Too drunk and too afraid that if he went back inside he might go and punch Marky Burns right in the middle of his face.

  He had to go home. He headed for the beach. Every time the door of the pub opened, he heard music and laughter, taunting him. He imagined Florence kissing Marky Burns. He should be kissing her, right now.

  He reached the door of the hut. His grandmother was still up, watching television on the tiny portable. He stumbled in.

  ‘Darling, are you OK?’ She looked up, concerned.

  ‘Too much sun,’ he mumbled.

  She stood up. ‘Let me get you some water . . .’

  ‘I’m fine. I just need . . . bed.’

  He pushed past her, knowing he was being rude. But if he didn’t, he would either be sick, or cry, or both. He flopped into his bunk, just managing to kick off his shoes, and pulled the covers over his head. He was going to feel like death in the morning.

  Death didn’t come close. He wasn’t sure which hurt more, his head or his heart. Being out in the sun all afternoon always gave him sunstroke, he should have remembered that. He rolled over and went back to sleep.

  At eleven o’clock, he woke to find his grandmother placing a cool hand on his forehead. She was holding a large glass of water in the other.

  ‘Darling, I’m not going to ask too much. But you were in a bit of a state last night.’

  She held out two tablets and the water. He sat up and swallowed them gratefully, hoping against hope that he hadn’t said anything awful to upset her.

  ‘I wasn’t . . . rude, was I?’

  Jane laughed. ‘No. Not at all.’ She looked at him shrewdly. ‘Florence?’

  He just shut his eyes and groaned in reply.

  ‘Tell me to mind my own business, if you want to. But on the other hand, if you want a shoulder to cry on.’

  She was so amazing, his grandmother. She always understood just what you were feeling, and knew just what to say.

  ‘I didn’t realise it could be so hard,’ he told her. ‘And the weird thing is, I don’t even like her that much. I mean, she’s a show-off. And shallow. And totally me me me. I can see that.’

  ‘Anyone can see that,’ replied Jane, then told herself Harry wouldn’t want her to judge Florence, just his state of mind. ‘But she’s a very attractive girl. I can understand why you’ve fallen for her. Totally.’

  Harry finished his water and lay back on his pillow.

  ‘Thanks, Gran,’ he managed, and shut his eyes. His head was pounding. ‘I don’t know what to do. Suddenly it’s as if . . . she’s the only thing that matters in my life. How can that be? I mean, I barely know her. Not this Florence, anyway. It’s crazy . . .’

  ‘That’s love for you,’ Jane told him. ‘Irrational. Obsessional. Uncontrollable. Destructive.’

  Harry opened his eyes again. He looked at his grandmother with interest. She was speaking from the heart. And with an uncharacteristic bitterness.

  ‘You’re not talking about Grandpa, are you?’ he asked. ‘You’re not talking about what he did to you?’

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I’m not. What he did was despicable, but it hasn’t hurt me inside. I was long beyond that by the time he died.’

  She reached out and took his hand.

  ‘I want to tell you a story, Harry. About something that happened to me when I was about your age. Because I don’t want you to go through what I went through. I don’t want you to waste more than a minute of your precious life on someone who doesn’t matter. You are worth so much more than that.’

  And so she told him the story she had never shared with anyone before. The story of a young girl and an older man, and a relationship that was never meant to be. And how she had spent her life longing for what might have been, never allowing herself to be happy with someone else, making the wrong choice and probably making other people unhappy into the bargain. If Graham hadn’t made her happy perhaps it was because deep down he knew he was second best, and no one likes being second best.

  ‘I know it’s not going to make it any easier right this second,’ Jane finished, ‘but think of this as a cautionary tale. No matter how wonderful you might think Florence is now, no matter how happy you think she might make you, don’t let her rule your life.’


  Harry managed to sit up.

  ‘That’s such a terrible story,’ he said, stricken. ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘Well, of course you didn’t, darling. By the time you came along, I was the world’s leading expert at pretending I was happy. And to tell you the truth, I was happy by then. I don’t know that I was a terribly good mother, but being a grandmother is wonderful. You children have all brought me more joy than anyone deserves, so altogether I’m very lucky.’

  She bent down and hugged him.

  ‘Listen, lecture over. You don’t want to listen to an old woman banging on. If I were you I’d go back to sleep. I’ll make you some lunch when you wake up.’ She gave him a quick kiss. ‘Sleep tight. But think about what I’ve told you.’

  Harry watched her go from his bunk. He was in awe. What an amazing story. He’d always admired his grandmother, but he never knew she was harbouring such a torrid secret. He felt desperately sad that she had been so unhappy all her life. And as he drifted off to sleep, he realised that the only way he could make her tragedy less . . . well, tragic, was by learning from her mistake.

  Fuck Florence, he thought, then laughed ruefully. He hadn’t had the pleasure.

  Jane went back into the living area and sat down in her pale green Lloyd Loom chair. It was agonising, seeing someone you love in pain, knowing there was nothing you could do to take it away. She would gladly have taken his suffering for herself. She knew only too well the gnawing feeling Harry would have inside him, how he would be torturing himself with the possibility that things might change, one moment filled with optimism then the next plunged into gloom. But of course she couldn’t. He had to suffer himself. She reminded herself that it was the ability to hurt like this that makes us human, that he would come back stronger in the long run.

  She sighed, and reached down for her handbag. The letter had arrived three days before, forwarded from her solicitor to the post office in Everdene. She had recognised the writing on the cream bonded envelope immediately - how could she not, after all those hours of deciphering his assertive scrawl? Even half a century on her heart had leapt into her mouth at the sight of it. How often had she dreamt of a letter from him, a letter begging for forgiveness, a letter declaring he couldn’t live without her? Of course it had never come.

  She smoothed out the paper again. She’d already read it a dozen times.

  My dear Jane

  Thank you so much for returning Exorcising Demons to me. I don’t know what finally prompted you to do so, and I certainly didn’t deserve to have it back.

  I admired your actions that day more than I can tell you. When I saw the flyleaf on the stove, my feelings were so mixed - total horror, of course, but an absolute thrill that you had such spirit and had executed such a just punishment. I longed to run after you, steal you away from your family, make you mine for ever more, but it wouldn’t have been right. You were so young, so bright - you didn’t deserve a life sentence with the selfish, self-indulgent monster I had become, and I got much worse, I can tell you. Although sometimes I wonder if you would have mellowed me, been my salvation in some way. I don’t think so - the rot had well and truly set in by the time I met you.

  Time and again over the years I was tempted to pick up my pen and write to you. I always searched the streets of London when I was out, hoping for a glimpse of your beautiful, laughing face, perhaps in a café or disappearing into the Tube. When I walked past shop windows I would pick out dresses for you, when I went to a restaurant I would imagine what you would choose to eat if you were with me. The longing never left me, not really. I told myself that if fate ever did deliver you to me again, then we were meant to be, and I would claim you back. But fate never did.

  Part of me was tempted to throw the manuscript on the fire as you had, but as you know I am a coward, a man who has never had the strength of his own convictions. My publishers, needless to say, are delighted. They had long given up hope of getting something lucid out of me in my old age. You may have read in the press that they are rushing out a special edition for the autumn - unbelievably there are legions of people out there eager to lap up whatever I care to write.

  I know the story of where the manuscript has been and how it was returned to me would have the press salivating, but I have a shred of decency left in me and wouldn’t wish to exploit you any more than I already have. So it shall remain my secret - our secret.

  Thank you again, my dear Jane. You are, and always were, a far better person than me, and I hope you found the happiness I imagined for us with someone else.

  Terence

  She put down the letter. Tears stung her eyelids, and she wept again, quietly, for the girl who had wasted her life, for the true love she had never found. She stuffed the letter back in the envelope and put it in her handbag, astonished that the pain could have lasted so many years, could still eviscerate her. She didn’t know whether the fact he had longed for her all that time made it better or worse. Of course, it could have been written for effect - Terence Shaw was more than capable of spinning a pretty tale, dropping empty words onto a page to salve his conscience, recasting himself as the hero of the tale.

  Oh well, she decided. At least she had been able to share the experience with her grandson, and perhaps spare him the same pain she had suffered. Although she suspected not. Words of wisdom were all very well, but they couldn’t force you to make your head rule your heart. Love, no matter which way it came upon you, was usually painful in the end.

  There was a knock on the door. Hastily she brushed what was left of her tears away. She could see through the glass that it was Roy, and she hurried to answer.

  He looked a little bashful.

  ‘I’ve got more sea bass than I know what to do with,’ he told her. ‘My freezer’s full to bursting. I wondered . . . if you would like to help me out?’ He paused, then gave a shy smile. ‘Come for supper, I mean.’

  Jane couldn’t help looking surprised. She and Roy had always been friends, but it had never been any more than sharing a cup of coffee. She felt a rush of pleasure at his invitation.

  ‘I’d love to.’

  ‘Tonight? Eight o’clockish?’

  ‘Fantastic.’

  He raised a hand in a salute of farewell and made his way back up the beach. Jane watched him disappear into the crowds, past the ice-cream kiosk - the very same one Roy used to work in. If she cast her mind back, she could smell the sweet vanilla, feel the warmth of the sun, hear the tunes on the wireless. She felt as if she could step back into yesterday.

  What if she’d kissed him in the kiosk, like she had known he wanted her to, in between customers? What if the kiss had been as sweet as the ice cream they were selling, making her heart pound? He would have inoculated her against Terence Shaw. She would have shown no interest in her employer. She would have been eager to finish her day’s work and rush back to her new-found love. A sweet, innocent, rite-of-passage love, a relationship that was entirely appropriate.

  Of course, it would never have come to anything. Even then, Jane had wanted more than Roy would have had to offer, and would have left him at the end of the summer. But at least she would have emerged unscathed, bright-eyed and optimistic after a summer romance. Not bruised and damaged, internally scarred.

  She sat back down on her chair. She felt incredibly weary. Burrowing about in the past was draining.

  She woke to find Harry shaking her shoulder anxiously.

  ‘Gran? Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine. I’m fine-I must have just dropped off.’ She looked up at the clock on the wall. It was a quarter past four.

  ‘I’m going for supper with Roy.’

  Harry looked at her, grinning, one of his dark eyebrows raised.

  ‘Yeah?’

  Jane walked over to the sink to pour herself a glass of water. She could feel her cheeks flushing slightly.

  ‘So what are you going to wear on your hot date?’

  ‘It’s not a hot date,’ she protested. ‘He’s o
verrun with sea bass.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Harry was enjoying teasing her. ‘He could have just put it in the freezer.’

  ‘His freezer’s full.’

  ‘Of course it is.’ He came and put an arm round her shoulder, squeezed her. She loved that he wasn’t afraid to show affection, her wonderful grandson. ‘You’ll have a great time. Roy’s a dude.’

  Dude was the ultimate accolade in Harry’s world.

  Jane reached up, brushed the dark hair out of his eyes. If the course of her life had been different, she would never have known this wonderful boy. She wouldn’t have swapped him for the earth, moon and stars.

  ‘You OK?’ she asked gently.

  ‘I will be,’ he told her. ‘Time the great healer and all that.’

  They hugged, and she looked at the clock. Did she have time to go into town and get something new to wear for this evening? Nothing spectacular, but maybe a new sweater. Or some earrings. She felt a tiny tingle in her tummy and laughed. Pre-date nerves at her age? How ridiculous . . .

  Later that evening, Harry stood in the doorway of the hut with a restorative can of Coke. He forced himself not to look to see if Florence was around. Instead, he watched his grandmother make her way up the beach. She had looked wonderful tonight, with a white fitted T-shirt and cropped jeans and her sequinned flip-flops, a dark blue linen cardigan slung round her shoulders. Her eyes were smiling, properly smiling, for the first time this holiday. And although he was empty inside, Harry felt a little shoot of hope. She had been brimming with sparkle and optimism, and if she could feel that, after everything she had been through, and everything she had told him, well, maybe, just maybe, so could he. Not yet, not today, but one day. Maybe soon.