Christmas at the Beach Hut

by Veronica Henry

  He must be about Luke’s age, she thought. She was racking her brain as to who he could be – a friend or relative of Caroline’s? Or maybe Caroline had rented out the hut without telling Lizzy – because why would she tell her? Her invitation to use the hut was longstanding. Lizzy had never taken her up on it until now, but perhaps she should have double-checked.

  ‘Mrs Openshaw didn’t say there were guests arriving,’ the boy said, looking wary.

  ‘I haven’t booked it. Not officially,’ said Lizzy. ‘Caroline said if I wanted to use it over Christmas, I could.’

  The boy gave a wide smile. ‘She said the same to me.’

  ‘That’s Caroline,’ said Lizzy. ‘Generous to a fault.’

  The boy nodded his head towards the inside.

  ‘You better come in. Quick. It’s freezing.’

  Lizzy hesitated. ‘I’ve got nowhere else to go,’ she admitted. ‘And I’ve got no petrol. I’m Lizzy, by the way. I was at school with Caroline.’

  ‘I’m Harley,’ said Harley. ‘I’m the caretaker. I look after quite a few of the huts.’

  ‘We used to come here every summer. I haven’t been here for …’ She tried to work it out. ‘More than twenty years.’ She laughed. ‘I go and stay with her in Dubai instead. Much warmer.’

  She walked in past him, and he shut the door behind her.

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ said Lizzy.

  Lizzy looked around the hut. She hardly recognised it. When they were kids, it had been like a glorified shed, with camp beds and a primus stove, an ancient sink and an even more ancient loo. Now it looked like an Instagrammer’s dream, a cosy refuge done out in cream and dusty grey-blue.

  ‘Caroline told me she’d done it up, but this is like something out of a magazine.’ She must have spent more on this hut than Lizzy and Simon had ever spent on Pepperpot Cottage. ‘It used to be really scruffy. There was a big old smelly sofa and a rickety table and nothing worked. This is amazing.’

  ‘This is my favourite hut,’ said Harley. ‘Some of them are even more done up. This one still feels homely.’

  Lizzy took in the fluffy cushions and the thick rugs and the blue-and-white-striped linen blinds where once there had been hideous orange and yellow flowery curtains. She saw there was a cable-knit blanket stretched over the sofa: Harley must have been curled up underneath it when she disturbed him.

  ‘Are you staying here tonight, then?’

  ‘I was going to. I had a bit of a falling-out at home.’

  ‘You and me both,’ laughed Lizzy. ‘Though, actually, I left before the falling-out.’

  Her face fell slightly, as if she was remembering why she was here.

  ‘Same.’

  They looked at each other for a moment, both feeling awkward about the situation.

  Harley cleared his throat. ‘I was hoping Mrs Openshaw wouldn’t mind. I knew they weren’t coming for Christmas and I just thought …’ He looked incredibly nervous. ‘I didn’t have anywhere else to go.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Lizzy. ‘I don’t think Caroline would mind one bit.’

  ‘The beds are all made up. I got everything ready for them when I thought they were still coming. There’s the double bed up on the platform or the bunks.’ He indicated the sofa. ‘I thought it was a bit cheeky to use a bed so I was just going to crash on the settee.’ He moved towards the kitchen. ‘I hadn’t got as far as getting the fresh supplies in. There’s no milk, I’m afraid. But I think there’s beer in the fridge? Leftover from last time they were here?’

  He looked at her, anxious to make her feel welcome.

  ‘I’m fine. I stopped on the motorway for a coffee.’ Suddenly Lizzy longed to lie down and close her eyes. ‘To be honest, I just want to go to sleep.’

  ‘If you don’t want me here, I can go.’

  Lizzy looked at the boy, nervous energy and anxiety rolling off him. Yet underlying that was a peace and a calm. He moved with a grace most young men of his age didn’t have: she thought for a moment of Luke’s lanky frame, all elbows and knees.

  ‘But you don’t have anywhere to go.’

  ‘No. But you’ve got more right to be here than I have.’

  ‘Not really. And it’s far too late for either of us to find somewhere else.’ She smiled at him. ‘It’s quite funny, really. I think Caroline would be tickled pink, the two of us ending up here. Waifs and strays in her beach hut.’

  Harley still looked doubtful. He obviously felt as if he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t, yet Lizzy trusted him and believed his story.

  ‘Look,’ she said. ‘Let’s both crash here for tonight and take a view in the morning.’

  Harley nodded. ‘I’ll put some more logs in the wood-burner. I didn’t want to use up too many just for me, but you need to warm up.’ He walked across the room and pulled open the glass door of the sleek wood-burning stove tucked away in the corner. A gorgeous scent of woodsmoke filled the hut as Harley tugged a couple of logs from the neat stack at its side and lobbed them in. ‘It should heat up pretty quickly.’

  Lizzy felt a wave of tiredness. The long drive and the cold were catching up with her, as well as the emotion of doing something so out of character. It made her uncertain, for a moment – she felt a little tug of homesickness, a momentary longing for Simon.

  She buried it.

  ‘I think I will go to bed, if you don’t mind.’

  Harley pointed at the mezzanine. That hadn’t been there in her day – Caroline must have got a clever carpenter to put in a platform with a little ladder.

  ‘That’s the biggest bed – it’s comfier than it looks up there. And you can pull the curtain across.’

  ‘If you’re sure?’

  She got changed in the bathroom and did her teeth. Once there had been a grotty old loo and sink and a rather makeshift shower behind a plastic curtain – you had to be careful not to let the water leak everywhere and there was always a lot of mopping up to do afterwards. Not that there was any incentive to stay in there long as the water was always lukewarm. Now, the walls and floor were covered in glittering silver and grey mosaic tiles, and the rain-forest shower was behind a thick glass screen. It was still snug in there, but now it was slick and luxurious and everything worked.

  She paused at the bottom of the ladder up to the mezzanine, feeling a bit self-conscious in her pyjamas.

  ‘I’ve locked the door,’ said Harley. ‘Not that there’s anyone around at the moment.’

  She smiled. ‘Night,’ she said, and tried not to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. She could sense he was a good kid. You could always tell a lot by the way a child looked at you, and Harley had met her eye not with a brazen confidence but a quiet honesty.

  She crawled into the bed and pulled the duvet over her. The sheets were stone-washed linen, the pillows ridiculously soft. Everything smelled of lavender. She was in a cocoon and nothing would induce her to leave it. Tomorrow she could wake up and think about what she’d run away from, and what she was going to do. But for now, all she wanted to do was sleep.

  11

  Simon flung himself into the back of the taxi with a slight sigh of relief.

  He loved going out in Birmingham. The city had a sophistication to it now that it had never had when he was young. His boss, Colin, had asked him at the last minute to take the younger ones out for a drink as it was their last day in the office.

  ‘I’d have done it once,’ he said, ‘but they wouldn’t want me along any more.’ He’d given Simon a handful of twenties and a pat on the back. Simon understood his role. It was more important than ever to keep staff morale high, as poaching of anyone remotely competent was rife, so Simon knew he couldn’t really say no. He was representing Colin and he would earn brownie points both from his boss and his underlings.

  He’d swept them all off in an excited gaggle to a
cocktail lounge in Edgbaston with glitzy decor and exotic drinks: the atmosphere had been hedonistic and indulgently festive. By eleven o’clock everyone was starting to unravel and Simon wanted to escape before anything went too horribly wrong. No one was snogging anyone they shouldn’t yet, and no one was crying, but inhibition was definitely heading out of the window.

  Not that he was responsible for anyone’s behaviour out of the office, but as second-in-command he couldn’t just ignore it when people stepped out of line right in front of him, so it was better to remove himself from the equation. Out of sight was out of mind. What goes on at Christmas, etc.

  It took him a while to say his goodbyes – the girls were getting particularly amorous and playful and he had to disengage himself from their embraces. Then he put the rest of the money Colin had given him behind the bar for them to carry on drinking and called an Uber, which took ages to arrive. This was probably the busiest night of the year, as pretty much everyone had knocked off work and was in the mood to celebrate.

  He slumped back in his seat, trying to block the odious waft from the scented pine tree dangling from the rear-view mirror. Did cab drivers put them there on purpose to torture their inebriated passengers? Surely they didn’t want them to throw up?

  A cab ride all the way home was a luxury but he’d missed the last train, and he was pretty sure Lizzy wouldn’t mind driving him in to pick up his car the next morning. He’d stopped after three cocktails because he couldn’t hack it these days and he would still feel rough tomorrow. He was a bit cross with himself: he shouldn’t be kicking off the holiday with a hangover, but at least he’d sent his staff off feeling loved and looked after.

  The city was looking its best at gone midnight, the night sky bright and star-studded, as if reflecting the lights that were strung along the streets and inside the windows of the shops and restaurants. He felt a sudden fondness for the city that had given him so much opportunity. He stretched out his legs with a sigh of satisfaction at the thought of nearly two weeks off. He loved his work but he never really switched off. You had to be ahead of everyone else all the time. There was only so much business and you had to fight for your slice of the pie.

  He shut his eyes as the cab sped through the outskirts of the city and eventually into leafy Warwickshire, passing through several small villages before they reached Astley-in-Arden. He loved the little town where they lived. And he loved Pepperpot Cottage, even though it was far too small for them, really.

  Lizzy and Simon had realised when the twins were about six that it simply wasn’t big enough for a family of four. Yes, there were enough bedrooms – four, albeit snug – but only one bathroom, and no dining room, only a living room and just enough room in the kitchen for a table that could seat four comfortably, six less comfortably and eight if four people had a table leg between their own legs. They decided it was time to sell and move somewhere with more space and a larger garden.

  Pepperpot Cottage was snapped up for a good price. But although they scoured the area, increasing their radius in direct proportion to their rising panic, Lizzy and Simon could find nowhere that felt like home. In the end, they had gone for a very swanky new-build five-bed near Stratford with all the mod cons and three bathrooms. ‘Architect-designed’, boasted the particulars, but as Simon pointed out, who else would it have been designed by? A dentist? A lollipop lady?

  The day they were due to exchange, Lizzy had woken up sobbing.

  ‘I can’t do it,’ she wailed. ‘We mustn’t leave Pepperpot. It’s our home.’

  ‘But we’re exchanging today! Completing in two weeks.’

  Tears streaming down her face, she grabbed him by the hand and pulled him out of bed, leading him downstairs to the kitchen, opening the top half of the stable door that led into the garden. Sunlight streamed in, together with the scent of honeysuckle.

  ‘It’s beautiful, our garden,’ she said. ‘That new garden? It’s sterile. There’s nothing in it. A larchlap fence and a lawn.’

  ‘We can soon make it something.’

  ‘But not that. It will never be that.’ She grabbed his hand again and led him into the living room, pointing to the worn oriental rug in front of the inglenook fireplace. ‘Look. That’s where we made them. Hattie and Luke. How can we leave?’

  ‘We can take the Magic Rug of Conception with us,’ joked Simon.

  Lizzy shook her head. ‘I’m not leaving.’

  He stared at her, starting to realise she was serious.

  ‘You’re mad. Everyone will be furious.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Lizzy, crossing her arms. ‘This is my house. My children’s house. It’s where they belong. I’m not moving.’

  Simon groaned. ‘What’s it going to be like? When they’re teenagers? When they have their giant gangly friends back? When we’re all trying to get into the bathroom at the same time?’

  ‘People live in much smaller houses than this.’

  ‘But … the double garage? The integral dishwasher – you clapped when you saw that. The dining room.’ Simon looked shell-shocked. He had totally got his head around the move; he was looking forward to a house which didn’t need constant maintenance, where the wind didn’t whistle through the windows and the lights didn’t trip every five minutes.

  ‘I’m not signing,’ said Lizzy. ‘You need my signature and I’m not signing.’

  ‘You’ve already signed everything. The paperwork’s at the solicitor, ready to go.’

  ‘I’ll phone and stop them. We haven’t exchanged. It’s not too late.’

  ‘You’ve got last-minute nerves, that’s all. It’s a big change.’

  Lizzy shook her head. ‘You’ll have to drag me out of here kicking and screaming. I’m not going.’ She sat down on the sofa firmly, as if she was about to be forcibly evicted. Simon scratched his head. He knew Lizzy well enough to know she wasn’t joking.

  He sighed.

  ‘I’ll call the solicitor, then.’

  Here they still were, over ten years later. And no one cared that there was only one bathroom because they’d sorted out a kind of rota and they’d all learned to be as quick as they could. The house was just off the high street, so it was the place everyone hung out in, coming for drinks before going out for dinner, and back for coffee afterwards. And the kids hung out there too, because it was easy to go back there at lunchtime from school. Simon and Lizzy had an easy-going open-house policy and the best-stuffed freezer in Warwickshire. At any time of the day or night you might find someone pulling a pizza out of the oven or smothering a tray of chips in mozzarella or scooping out balls of ice cream.

  It was a family house, battered and worn around the edges. Anyone buying it would replace the scruffy old pine kitchen and rip out the bathroom with its leaky shower and temperamental toilet. Every now and then Lizzy would get a kitchen brochure and fantasise, but she would push it to one side and say, ‘The thing is, I’m quite happy really. It’s comfortable, and that’s all that matters.’

  Other men were envious of Simon and his undemanding wife. They all seemed to be under pressure with constant plans for refits and renovations and extensions and life-changing new equipment.

  ‘How can anyone spend two thousand pounds on a fridge-freezer?’ one of his friends asked in despair, and Simon couldn’t answer him. He was grateful, though, for Lizzy’s contentment. Not because he would have begrudged them spending the money, not at all, but it must be hard to live with dissatisfaction. Lizzy didn’t want things, generally, and if she did, she got them herself without trying to manipulate him or play some sort of guilt card.

  That was why he loved her so much. Because she only put her foot down about things that were really important to her. Which was why her objection to Cynthia coming for Christmas had unsettled him earlier. It wasn’t like Lizzy to be so vociferous. But she had probably been a bit stressed, and she never liked it when Amanda p
ulled rank – that was probably what was behind it. She’d have calmed down by now, he was sure.

  Simon sneaked up the front path, opened the front door, slipped off his shoes and crept up the stairs. He wasn’t going to wake Lizzy. Neither of the kids were still up either – there were no lights on or music. He looked at his watch and realised it was nearly one. Shit – time must have flown. He’d fully intended to be home by midnight.

  He slipped into the spare room to save Lizzy the horror of his inevitable snoring. It was standard for him and his mates these days to be banished: he was one of the lucky ones who hadn’t been permanently booted out of the marital bed. But he didn’t want to inflict the noise on Lizzy, who rarely complained. Some wives, he knew, were much less forgiving. Two of his friends were forced to wear unsightly anti-snoring contraptions before they were allowed under the duvet. Lucky for him his snoring only reached antisocial levels when he’d had a few. Like tonight.

  He dropped his clothes to the floor, went and had a wee and brushed his teeth as quietly as he could, then clambered into bed.

  TWO DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS

  12

  ‘Road trip!!!!’ sang out Jack, closing the boot of the Saab as carefully as he could. They were only going away for five days, but it was packed tight with everything they needed, and everything they didn’t need as well.

  There was certainly enough food to feed an army. The details had said there was a convenience shop in the village and a supermarket about eight miles away. Jack was not leaving anything to chance. His idea of hell was fishing around in a dilapidated shop freezer for oven chips. So all the food they needed for the next few days was carefully packed up in cool boxes and insulated bags.

  There wasn’t a single sprout or mince pie; not a chipolata or a chestnut. In fact, nothing reminiscent of a traditional Christmas whatsoever. Christmas lunch was going to be a lamb shoulder, cooked long and slow in coffee and treacle and star anise and fennel seeds that would melt down into syrupy spiciness, the tender slices served on a pillow of buttery polenta.