The Beach Hut Read online

  Inside it was as snug and well equipped as a gypsy caravan. Two sets of bunk beds - Robert and Elsie would have to go toe-to-toe, because there were five of them altogether, with Mum and Dad and Jane having one each. Dear little cupboards and a Calor gas stove. Deckchairs were neatly stacked in one corner. There was a shelf, with hooks to hang cups, and rails to hang wet towels. A perfect little home from home. They were to stay there all summer, with their father travelling down at weekends.

  It wasn’t long before they couldn’t remember life without it. The water was their natural habitat. They spent most of the spring, all of the summer and some of the autumn diving in and out of the waves, scrambling over the rocks and bounding over the dunes, armed with fishing nets, buckets, spades, sandwiches. Now they would have somewhere to store all their treasures, somewhere to huddle if it rained, somewhere to dry themselves off and hang their wet towels. And their mother could sit inside all day, doing whatever it was she did - fussing, organising, cooking, writing letters.

  Three years on, however, and the eldest Lowe, Jane, was not so enamoured. Where once she would have pounded along the beach, her pale yellow hair streaming behind her, now she was bored absolutely rigid. A summer spent on the beach with her tiresome younger siblings? She might as well be dead. She sat in one of the striped deckchairs, flicking idly through magazines, knowing full well that if she actually got up and joined in she would feel far, far better, but something inside refused to let her and so she remained stationary, day after day, with the stubbornness of an adolescent.

  She could still be in London, having fun. Maybe most people had gone home for the summer vac, but not all. It wouldn’t be bloody dead, like this place. She thought longingly of the smoky little clubs and cosy pubs where she’d been spending her evenings. Of course, she wasn’t supposed to leave the college at night, but she and Sandra had found a way of getting out and getting back in again without being noticed. And it wasn’t why her parents were forking out all that money. They wanted her to come out with tip-top typing and shorthand skills so she could have a career. How very enlightened of them. Jane didn’t want a career. She wanted a good time.

  Typically, she had spent seven months at Miss Grimshire’s before she had discovered the real delights of London nightlife. And the final two months, before she left with her certificate (merit and 140 words per minute, despite burning the candle at both ends), had passed in a flash and suddenly she was back in Everdene, leaving her new self behind, a party-loving creature who wasn’t yet fully formed. She wanted bright lights and action and clothes and music and laughter . . .

  Finding herself in this total backwater with no hope of any social life whatsoever had plunged her into gloom. Well, there was a social life, but it involved rounders on the beach or burnt sausages - not drinking brandy and ginger in a tiny club with music throbbing through your body.

  And so she was sulking. Her mother was not best pleased. Her mother was incensed. She wouldn’t stop banging on about her daughter’s new-found lassitude. Prue Lowe didn’t believe in sulking, or lolling, or dozing, or festering - all the things Jane felt inclined to do. Prue was an up-and-at-it sort of person, a doer, an organiser, and she never knew when to leave well alone.

  ‘You can’t just sit in that deckchair moping all holidays, ’ she chided her eldest daughter. ‘Go and get some exercise. Have a walk along the beach.’

  Jane just rolled her eyes and went back to her magazine. She’d read it four times already, but the chances of getting anything up to date in the general shop in Everdene were pretty remote. She was all right if she wanted knitting patterns and foolproof recipes for a sausage plait, but not if she wanted to know what she should be wearing this autumn.

  Not that she had any money to buy the clothes she salivated over.

  The closest she got to having fun was sitting with Roy Mason in the kiosk where he sold ice cream, listening to the radio. She made him turn it up when one of her favourites came on. She tried to get him to dance, but he jumped away from her as if he’d been branded whenever she touched him. Boys in London didn’t jump away from her, far from it. Maybe she just wasn’t Roy’s type? He seemed very keen on Marie, whose mother ran the café at the end of the promenade. Marie worked in there too, and sometimes she came down to the beach with a bacon sandwich for Roy, and Jane made herself scarce. Two’s company, after all.

  The third time Marie had found Jane with Roy, she cornered Jane in the post office.

  ‘You keep away from him,’ she warned, an accusatory finger pointing in Jane’s face.

  ‘Hey,’ replied Jane, holding up her hands to indicate her innocence. ‘We’ve only been talking.’

  Marie shot her a look of pure venom. Jane kept away from Roy after that, not because she was afraid of Marie, but because she didn’t want to cause trouble for Roy. He was nice. He was far too good-looking for Marie, with his dark hair and brown skin and kind eyes. He didn’t know he was good-looking. You could tell that by the way he carried himself. Not cocky and arrogant like some of the boys she’d met, who thought they were God’s gift when they weren’t, far from it. Maybe the city did that to you, made you more confident than you should be. It had certainly made her more confident.

  As the days dragged on, Jane could tell her mother was running out of patience. Prue wasn’t tolerant of people who didn’t fit into her idea of how things should be. Jane was spoiling her fantasy of a happy seaside family holiday. She clearly expected her daughter to be gungho, and take part in the same activities as her younger brother and sister. If Prue had her way Jane would be scrambling over the rocks in her Start-rite sandals, squealing every time she spotted a crab, tucking with gusto into the selection of sandwiches Prue provided for lunch - fish-paste, egg or Marmite.

  Jane certainly didn’t begrudge her siblings the experience, but it didn’t mean she wanted to take part. And it wasn’t as if she wanted to sit here, full of torpor, her very being crying out for something, anything to happen, though she didn’t know quite what. It was the slowest agony, and she wasn’t entirely sure of the cure, but she was pretty sure she wasn’t going to find it on Everdene beach. She couldn’t explain it to her mother, who obviously expected her to stay the same age for ever. Carefree, childlike, innocent.

  It was ironic, therefore, that Prue organised the very thing that made sure Jane would never be innocent again.

  It was a Thursday morning, and by eleven o’clock the sun was burning bright in the sky. Jane was uncomfortably hot, and was taking refuge in the cool shade of the hut. She was contemplating walking into the village and calling Sandra from the telephone box, to find out if she was having as dull and miserable a time as she was. Maybe she could ask her to come and stay? They wouldn’t be able to get up to much, but at least they could gossip and giggle together. Debate the merits of the boys they had met. She’d ask her mother if she could invite her - Sandra could come down by train, Daddy wouldn’t mind motoring over to the station to collect her . . .

  ‘Darling!’

  Jane started, her eyes flying open. She’d been on the verge of drifting off. Her mother was standing over her.

  ‘You will not believe what I’ve arranged!’

  She had a smile on her face Jane knew of old. A mixture of self-satisfaction and determination, which meant Prue was pleased with whatever she had done, and whoever she had done it on behalf of had jolly well better be pleased as well. Jane’s heart sank. If it was golf lessons, she would absolutely refuse. Her mother had been muttering about organising something for her at the club. Jane thought she would rather die.

  ‘I’ve got you a job.’

  Jane stared at her. This wasn’t what she’d expected.

  ‘There was a card pinned up in the post office. Competent typist wanted.’

  Jane breathed out slowly. It could have been worse. Much, much worse.

  Her mother was still looking excited. There must be more. She leaned forward.

  ‘Terence Shaw,’ she pronounced. />
  Jane gazed at her, quite blank.

  ‘Terence Shaw!’ repeated her mother. ‘The novelist!’

  Jane frowned and shook her head.

  ‘I’ve never heard of him.’

  Prue gave a little tut of impatience and Jane felt aggrieved. Her mother was no great intellectual - Jane couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her reading a book - so why the scorn?

  ‘You must have. He’s . . . infamous. Sells bucket-loads of books, apparently. Rich as Croesus. Which is why he can afford one of those . . .’

  Prue waved her hand vaguely towards the houses further down the beach, on the top of the cliff. There were only half a dozen of them, built in the nineteen thirties, sprawling Art Deco houses with flat roofs and curved fronts, set in their own grounds. They each had a Great Gatsby smugness, with their spectacular views and private tennis courts.

  ‘He wants someone to type his latest novel. Six hours a day.’ Prue paused dramatically before divulging the next nugget of information. ‘Six pounds a week!’

  Jane sat up. Now she was definitely interested! Six pounds a week? Her mind raced back to the magazines she’d been perusing - what would she be able to afford if she was earning that kind of money?

  ‘He’d like you to start this afternoon. Two o’clock.’ Her mother was ushering her up out of her seat. ‘Come on, come on - you need to get yourself tidied up. You can’t start a job looking like that, with your hair all over the place.’

  ‘But he hasn’t even met me yet,’ Jane protested, getting up nevertheless. ‘How does he know he wants me?’

  ‘Darling, I told him you’d been trained by Miss Grimshire. And that you’d got a distinction—’

  ‘Merit. I only got a merit,’ Jane corrected her. Her mother was prone to exaggeration.

  Prue flapped away her objection.

  ‘He’s hardly going to be spoilt for choice for typists down here. He seemed quite happy. In fact, he said as long as you were quiet and kept yourself to yourself . . .’

  Jane was already at the sink, washing the dust and sand from her hands and face, doing rapid calculations. By the end of the summer she should have over thirty pounds left to take up to London when she went to look for a job. There certainly wasn’t going to be anything to spend it on down here. Thirty pounds! What heaven, what bliss!

  Half an hour later, with her mother’s grudging approval as to her appearance, she walked halfway down the beach, and then took the steep path up through the dunes that led to the back road which served the houses where Mr Shaw lived. The marram grass slapped at her legs as she walked, and the sand insinuated its way into her sandals. She took them off and emptied them out before she walked up the drive. She wondered what he would be like to work for. She imagined a little old man with spectacles and a woolly jumper, a little bit absent-minded, but essentially quite kind. She would have to bring him tea, which he would forget to drink. And eventually she would tidy his office for him, thereby transforming his life, and he would be awfully grateful. Miss Grimshire talked a lot about how to manage your employer. It was best if you went about organising them without them noticing you were doing it. An efficient secretary could make her own and her boss’s life so much easier, if she knew the little tricks.

  She had arrived at the front door. There wasn’t a bell that she could see, so she rapped her knuckles as hard as she could on the wood. There was no answer, so she tried again.

  And again.

  Jane reckoned that after three knocks either there was nobody in or the person inside didn’t want to answer, and so she turned to go, relieved but at the same time not entirely thrilled at the prospect of going to sit on the beach again for another day. At least a tedious typing job would have given her money—

  The door was jerked open.

  ‘What?’ came a bark.

  Jane turned to see a wild-haired, bare torso-ed man. He was over six foot and as brown as a berry, wearing a pair of baggy khaki shorts, nothing on his feet. He had dark curls that were swept back off his face, and eyes that looked as if they had been burnt into his face with a branding iron - dark, deep-set.

  He didn’t look pleased to see her. She felt tempted just to run and avoid any sort of confrontation, but he could probably catch up with her in two strides.

  ‘Hello,’ said Jane brightly. ‘I’m Jane Lowe.’

  He looked at her with annoyance.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your typist?’ She corrected herself. ‘The typist.’ She wasn’t his typist, exclusively. ‘My mother spoke to you.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ He still looked annoyed, but he stood to one side to let her in.

  ‘Were you not expecting me?’

  He gave a small sigh of annoyance and made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Jane felt as if she was a huge inconvenience, like someone who had come to read the meter. She followed him into the house, through a cool dark hallway and into the living room.

  She had seen the house so often from the outside. They walked past it whenever they went to the best rock pools at the far end of the beach - it loomed rather menacingly over the sands, the signs at the bottom of the garden warning ‘Private Property - Keep Out’ in red letters. It was strange, now being inside. The living room was vast, the floor made from polished wood, and the entire wall overlooking the sea was made of windows. She was used to seeing the sea from the hut, of course, but from here the view seemed even more spectacular, winking and glittering for miles.

  ‘Whatever you do, please don’t say what a wonderful view,’ he warned her. ‘It’s been said once or twice before.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to,’ she retorted. ‘I see it every day. I’m sick of the sight of it, if you must know.’

  He looked at her, and she thought she detected the hint of a smile on his rather cruel lips.

  There was a large desk in front of the windows, smothered in paper and books. And empty mugs and glasses, as well as a bottle of brandy. An ashtray overflowed with cigarettes, some half-smoked, perched on an open dictionary. Jane itched to whisk the mess away and make everything tidy, but somehow she didn’t think Mr Shaw would take to interference kindly, just yet. Miss Grimshire had explained that it often took time to lick an employer into shape. She suspected Mr Shaw would take longer than most.

  ‘I was going to wait till I went back to London to have it typed up,’ Mr Shaw was explaining, ‘but my editor wants the manuscript sooner than I thought. Are you fast?’

  Jane nodded.

  ‘And accurate?’

  Again, she nodded.

  ‘Good.’ He scooped up a bundle of papers. ‘Follow me.’

  She followed him obediently out of the room, disappointed that she wouldn’t be working in there. Instead, he led her up the staircase and down a corridor into what had been a bedroom but was now a study. Apart from one small window that looked over the front of the house, the walls were lined with more books than Jane had ever seen outside a library. There was a small table with a typewriter and a stack of fresh paper.

  ‘I’ve put you here because I can’t stand any noise. Keep the door shut. If you want a drink or something to eat, just help yourself from the kitchen, but don’t bother me.’

  He dropped the papers on the desk and gave her a nod.

  ‘Ten till four, I told your mother. I can’t have anyone in the house for longer than that. The important thing is not to interrupt me. On pain of death.’

  He looked at her, his eyes boring into her. She managed a smile.

  ‘Of course not.’

  He gave a curt nod and left the room.

  Jane raised her eyebrows. He certainly wasn’t what she had expected. Much, much younger than the crusty old Mr Shaw she had imagined, probably in his mid-thirties, she thought. And incredibly rude. In fact, she suspected he might have been a tiny bit drunk - she thought she had caught the smell of brandy as he left. Well, she would certainly do her best to keep out of his way. She didn’
t need to be spoken to like that by anyone.

  She sat down tentatively at her new desk. It wobbled slightly. She looked at the pages of manuscript he had given her. Black slanted writing swirled over the paper in an indecipherable tangle, interspersed with angry crossings-out and arrows and asterisks.

  Halesowen, she read, was the sort of town that made you want to slit your wrists. Unless you had the misfortune to be born there, in which case you didn’t know any better. But if by some cruel twist of fate you ended up there, having enjoyed the pleasure of some other part of our sceptr’d isle, eventually you would start to look longingly at the blue road map on the inside of your arm, wondering just how much it was going to hurt.

  On a stifling summer’s evening, Anita Palmer was asking herself just that.

  Jane made a face. Where on earth was Halesowen, she wondered? And was that where he was from? He had a slight accent, a twang she couldn’t place, but then Jane wasn’t strong on accents - most of the people she came into contact with spoke just as she did, unless they were staff.

  She shrugged, and put a piece of paper into the typewriter, turned it until it was exactly so, then carefully began to type.

  An hour later she felt filled with frustration and a slight sense of panic. His hieroglyphics were so hard to decipher, it had taken her this long to type a single page, and even then by the time she had reached the end she realised she had left out a line. She gave a little cry of annoyance and crumpled the paper in her hand, then inserted a fresh piece, starting again at the beginning. She felt slightly panicky. At this rate she would never get to the end.

  Before she knew it, it was four o’clock. She had managed to produce three pages of typing. She wasn’t sure what to do, whether to leave without saying goodbye, or to tell him she was going.