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

  "And neither of them mean anything to the modern generation," murmured Fran, as she and Libby followed their young guide inside.

  The Old Barge was all small table lamps and carefully restored beams. A naval theme had been subtly introduced, but without going overboard. "Although it would have been more in keeping to have had some Canal Art," mused Libby.

  "What's Canal Art?" asked Estella.

  "Tell you when we've sat down," said Libby, as a little waitress in traditional black and white approached them. "Yes, hello. We have a booking. Sarjeant."

  They were seated at a small table in a window overlooking what Libby still thought of as a ditch; the ubiquitous small table lamp stood right in the centre, on a pristine rose-pink tablecloth. They were presented with large mock-leather-covered menus and offered drinks.

  "Bit pretentious," muttered Libby. "Think we'll try somewhere else tomorrow."

  Estella grinned. "It is, isn't it? Dumaine's is a lot better."

  "What's Dumaine's?" asked Fran.

  "Wine bar in the town. On the corner of Brewery Square. That's an old family, too. So come on, what's Canal Art?"

  Libby explained about the beautiful hand painting with which the canal dwellers decorated their boats and tinware.

  "Oh—I've seen that. Like the fairground rides?"

  "Same background." Libby sighed. "As an Old Barge Inn, that would have been more appropriate."

  "He's not looking for appropriate," said Fran. "He's aiming for gastro-pub status, possibly with a Michelin star."

  "He's not going to get it with this menu," said Libby, scanning the careful calligraphy inside the faux-leather cover. "I wonder just how local 'Locally-sourced charcuterie' really is."

  "Wild boar salami," murmured Fran. "Or possibly a nice farm-bred Large White."

  The waitress arrived with their drinks and asked if they were ready to order.

  "What would you recommend?" asked Libby.

  The waitress looked confused.

  "What's the special?" asked Fran.

  The waitress's face cleared. "Oh, the sea bream."

  They all chose the sea bream.

  "We're probably being very unkind," said Libby. "I've no doubt this place—and Mr Strange—are well intentioned. So come on, Estella. Spill the beans."

  "First of all," said Fran, "did the police call back?"

  "No. Do you think they will?"

  "I expect so." Fran nodded slowly. "Carry on, then."

  "Well." The girl sat back in her chair and twirled her wineglass between her fingers. "This was really mum's idea."

  "What—the whole thing?" Fran was startled.

  "She wasn't close to Granny Joan, you see. She was dad's mum, but mum was often away working, so I used to come here."

  "So you should know a lot of the people here, after all?" said Fran.

  "Some, but Granny—well, she kept herself to herself."

  "You said they weren't married, Granny Joan and Grandpa Clive?" said Libby. "So they got together when she was a land girl and Clive was—what? The son of the house?" Libby nodded to herself. "Not unusual. Exactly the same as my own mother-in-law. So they ran away together?"

  Estella heaved a sigh. "I suppose so. She never talked about it much. I don't think they were very happy." She took a large gulp of wine. "Eventually Granny Joan came back with my dad in tow. Grandpa Clive's mother wanted to keep the farm in the family, despite the fact that Dad was an illegitimate son." She sighed. "Doesn't that sound ridiculous today? Half the children in Britain would be 'illegitimate' if we still believed that."

  "So was everybody pleased about that?" asked Fran.

  Estella made a face. "What do you think? Half the town wanted to—oh, I don't know—"

  "Run her out of town?" suggested Libby. "I bet. And in a backwater like this, it would be even worse than in a big city."

  "Anyway, that's the background," said Estella.

  "But why do you think all this has something to do with the murder?" asked Fran. "Is there a connection with Satis House?"

  Estella looked uncomfortable. "Granny Joan once said it was good that I'd taken to the beach hut, because it needed exorcising. I thought it might have been where she and Grandpa Clive used to meet."

  "That's not a reason to suspect murder." Libby frowned at the younger girl. "There's something else that you're not telling us."

  The sea bream arrived and discussion was postponed while it was sampled and pronounced satisfactory. Then Fran spoke.

  "You said Joan was young. She must have been very young; practically a child."

  Estella looked up sharply. "Yes, she was young, but she was independent. Granny Joan volunteered as soon as there was a call for the Land Army. She always said she wanted to do her bit. They grew up quickly in those days."

  "They did." Libby smiled kindly. "Don't worry—we aren't criticising. So how did they actually meet, Joan and the son of the house? She wouldn't have been living in the house, would she?"

  Estella shook her head. "The Land Army girls lived in a sort of dormitory in one of the barns. My great-grandmother had it demolished later. And I don't know how Granny Joan and my grandfather actually got together in the first place." She frowned. "Granny Joan was a bit mysterious about it. I always assumed they used to meet at the beach hut, because of what she said. But she let me play down there whenever I wanted to."

  Libby was frowning too. "When she met Grandpa Clive, the beach would have been protected, wouldn't it?"

  "Protected?"

  "Oh, yes." Fran nodded. "Barbed wire, and possibly even tank traps."

  "So how did she get down there in the first place?" said Libby.

  By now Estella was looking thoroughly bewildered. "Barbed...?"

  "Oh, you must know," said Libby. "You can't live here and not know."

  "During the war years, the beaches all round Britain were protected in case of German invasion," Fran explained. "Big coils of barbed wire, and dragon's teeth tank traps, as well as the straightforward stone bollards."

  Estella brightened. "Oh, of course. Barbed wire and stuff. I remember now. And I know there was some kind of lookout hut at the top of the point..."

  "Where's that?" asked Libby.

  "The headland at the end of the bay. Piddling Point. It's all boarded up now. But I didn't know about the beach."

  "Did you really not know?" asked Libby, marvelling. Local history was life-blood to her. "People weren't allowed to go on to the beaches, either, which is why I wonder how Granny Joan got down to the beach hut."

  Estella pushed her plate away. "Oh, I wish she was still here and I could ask her. Perhaps that was why she was a bit mysterious about it?"

  "Could be," said Libby. "Do you know much about Grandpa Clive? What he did in the war, for instance?"

  "I don't know." Estella frowned again. "I thought he would have been called up or something. Wouldn't he?"

  "Conscripted," said Fran. "Yes, unless he was in a protected occupation."

  "Farming," said Libby suddenly. "That was a protected occupation. I wonder why he didn't marry her?"

  Estella looked surprised. "She never said. I suppose I assumed it was the old class thing."

  "But his mother actually asked Joan back after Clive's father died," Libby pointed out.

  "Yes." Estella's frown deepened. "That is odd, isn't it?"

  "You said she needed help on the farm," Fran reminded her. "And she got her grandson, too. I wonder what her husband died of?"

  "I don't know," said Estella. She hit the table with a fist. "This is so frustrating!"

  "It would be on the death certificate," said Libby. "You could get a copy."

  Estella looked rather daunted.

  "And it gets us no nearer the body," said Fran.

  Libby sent her a sidelong look. "Oh, I don't know..."

  "Ladies!" A hearty voice spoke behind Libby's back and made them all jump. "Estella, my dear. Friends of yours? Won't you introduce me?"

  "Mr Stra
nge." Estella smiled rather unwillingly. "Mrs Sarjeant and Mrs Wolfe. Libby, Fran, this is Mr Strange, who owns Manor Farm. And this place, of course."

  The man standing behind them inclined his head with a smile. "My dear Estella, you own Manor Farm—I merely lease the land for my park homes." He turned to Libby and Fran. "Have you seen them?"

  "Yes, we're staying in one," said Libby.

  Arthur Strange's eyes widened and he opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Estella said hurriedly, "In the annex. They're my guests. Friends of my mother."

  "Ah." Arthur Strange's florid face lost its watchful look. "And what do you think? Quite luxurious, aren't they?"

  Libby opened her mouth, but Fran forestalled her. "Indeed. Who do you find buys them? Mainly retired people?"

  "We've limited the site to the over-55s," said Strange, taking the unoccupied chair uninvited. "We sometimes have difficulty with the holiday rentals, but..."

  "Most people get round it by bringing the grandparents along if they want to bring children," said Estella with a grin. "The children love it here, and of course we aren't far from the beach."

  "No," said Strange, not looking thrilled. "So what brings you to our part of the world, then?"

  Estella looked outraged at this question, but Libby got in first. "Oh, so you're a native, are you? Little Piddling born and bred?"

  Strange gave her a curious look. "Not quite. I only lived here as a child. Very interesting area."

  "Yes. Quite a lot of wartime activity round here, wasn't there?" said Libby innocently.

  He looked at her sharply. "Oh—n-not that much," he said, standing up clumsily. "Well, I shall leave you to enjoy your—er—" he looked down at their almost empty plates "—er—yes. Good evening, ladies."

  He turned and made his way between tables to the back of the room.

  "Well," said Estella. "What was that all about? What did you do to him, Libby?"

  Libby grinned. "Shot in the dark. If he's here for some other reason than business, it might just date back to the war years. Looks as though that might be the right guess, doesn't it?"

  Fran sighed. "You love stirring, Mrs S, don't you? You might be wrong."

  "From that reaction? Well, even if it isn't the war, I struck a chord, didn't I?"

  Estella shook her head.

  "Don't try and understand," said Fran. "Now does anyone want any dessert? Coffee?"

  They saw no more of Arthur Strange until they left, when Fran noticed him watching them from a small sitting room on the left of the main door.

  "Much as I hate to admit it," she said, "you were right, Lib. He's down here for a reason other than business."

  "And I think it's to do with Manor Farm and the war," said Libby. "Bet you."

  "Honestly, I don't see how...?" Estella gazed at them in bewilderment.

  "Can we go and have a look around the beach hut tomorrow?" said Libby.

  "Yes, of course, but there's nothing to see there. Do you want me to come with you?"

  "No, you're all right," said Libby. "We'll go and have a rootle, then we'll wander up to the town and have lunch at that wine bar… What was it called?"

  "Dumaine's. OK, if you're sure." Estella was reluctant. "Do you think you're going to be able to help at all?"

  "No idea," said Fran cheerfully. "But we'll do our best. I doubt very much if we'll find out anything about our victim, to be honest. Though it will be really interesting to know whether the police have identified him yet."

  Chapter Four

  Estella disappeared down the glassed-in tunnel to the main house and Libby went to dig out the half-bottle of whisky she had packed with her luggage.

  "What's she scared of?" she said, waving it at Fran, who shook her head. "Why ask us to ferret things out and then act scared that we might actually find something?"

  "I think it's simply what she said earlier," said Fran, going to fill the kettle. "She didn't realise it would be so difficult, remember? She thought we would just come and ask questions. She wants to know, but she doesn't want the rest of the world to know."

  "Really? She's that naive?" Libby topped up her whisky with water and collapsed into an armchair.

  "She's never been involved with anything like this before. Most people haven't," said Fran. "Why are we going to look around the beach hut?"

  "Oh, just an odd idea I had." Libby stared into space. "Where was it we heard about the Special Duties groups?"

  "Oh, those secret cells during the war… Was it something to do with tunnels?"

  "Maybe. Anyway, a lot of the people in them were farmers, weren't they? People in protected occupations."

  "And especially near the south and south-east coasts," murmured Fran. "Do you think there's a secret tunnel from the beach hut?"

  "Maybe not that, but perhaps a secret wireless station. Lots of the women manned those."

  Fran looked at her friend wide-eyed. "Good heavens, Lib. And you think Grandma Joan could be a secret operator and Grandpa Clive a member of the unit?"

  "They were usually kept secret from one another, weren't they? But one or the other, perhaps."

  They were quiet for a moment, Fran sipping tea and Libby sipping whisky.

  "Have you called Guy?" Libby asked.

  "No need. He texted me. He knew that I would stay, even though I didn't," Fran said ruefully. "Husbands."

  Libby laughed. "Ben said he'd put money on it, too," she said affectionately. "He won't be surprised when I call him and ask him to go round and feed Sidney tomorrow."

  Estella had thoughtfully left bread and eggs as well as milk, coffee and teabags in the kitchen, so in the morning, after boiled eggs, toast and tea, they set off to find their hostess, who was discovered sitting mournfully at her own kitchen table, being stared at by a large, fluffy tortoiseshell cat.

  "Who's this?" said Libby, making a beeline for the cat, who flicked a haughty tail and disappeared.

  "That was Queenie," said Estella, pulling herself together. "Coffee?"

  "Just had tea, thank you," said Fran. "Any word from the police?"

  Estella shook her head. "Do you still want the key?"

  "Key? Oh—to Satis House. Yes, please." Libby sat down at the large pine table and gave it a friendly pat. "We've got one of these at the Manor."

  Estella looked startled. Fran laughed.

  "Libby's mother-in-law lives at the Manor in Steeple Martin. That's a farm, too, more or less. Libby's partner runs it."

  "When he can spare the time," sighed Libby.

  "Er—oh," said Estella.

  "He's very busy with his brewery and hop garden, as well as his new Brewery Tap," explained Libby. And feeding my cat, she thought, warmed.

  "Oh! We've got one of those, too," said Estella, brightening up. "On Brewery Square, where Dumaine's is."

  "So you've got a brewery, too?"

  "Yes, Bascombe's. I don't know much about beer," said Estella apologetically.

  "Don't worry about it." Fran smiled. "We'll just take the key and leave you to get on."

  "Keys," said Estella, taking a set off a board on the wall. "You have to use both at the same time and turn them in opposite directions. You can walk, by the way. Just follow the path along the old river bed. It branches to the left to get to the hut."

  "Thanks," said Libby. "We'll see you later."

  The morning was what people called fresh—not exactly hot, but not cold, and enlivened by a salt-laden breeze. The built-up bank that ran beside the river bed flattened out the nearer they got to the coast until, by the time they reached the path down to Satis House, it wasn't there at all.

  "Must have flooded badly down here," said Fran. "Perhaps that's why Satis House is on stilts."

  "Not very tall stilts," said Libby. "You can only just get underneath it. Which is why I don't think there's a tunnel here."

  They climbed down to the level of the beach hut.

  "It's quite lonely, isn't it?" said Libby, looking round at the deserted beach.


  "I guess this path turns into the promenade further down," said Fran, turning round to get a better view. "More beach huts down there."

  "We'll go and have a look after we've had a look in here," said Libby, fishing out the keys Estella had given them and inserting them into the complicated locks. The door creaked open and she stepped inside.

  "Smells musty," said Fran, wrinkling her nose. "I didn't notice that yesterday."

  The walls were clad halfway up with tongue-and-groove panelling, although it looked to Libby's eyes rather the worse for wear. "Looks as if it was thrown up later than the hut," she muttered.

  "Probably to help insulate, or protect from damp," suggested Fran, prising one plank a little way away from the wall. "Look, it's on thick battens. Quite a space between the panel and the outer wall. It's a bit of a fortress for a beach hut."

  "Don't do that!" said Libby. "You'll have the whole lot off."

  "No—look." Fran sounded excited. She turned to Libby. "I think you were right."

  "Right? About what?"

  Fran pointed. "Wiring."

  Sure enough, tucked down behind the panelling was some old, fabric-covered electric wiring.

  The two women looked at one another.

  "What do we do now?" asked Fran.

  "See how far it goes," said Libby.

  Very carefully, they pulled more of the panelling away, until they had traced the wiring all the way round one wall to where it had been roughly cut, or torn off.

  "Wireless station," said Libby.

  "Do you think we could find out?" Fran sat back on her heels.

  Libby used one of the armchairs to help haul herself to her feet. "There's a website. I'm sure we looked it up when we were over on the Isle of Wight. Don't you remember? They might be able to help. A lot of stuff is no longer secret now it's over 70 years—or 75—or whatever it is."

  "What's it called?" Fran pulled out her smartphone.

  Libby looked at it dubiously. "I can't find things out on that thing."

  Fran grinned. "I can. What's the website called?"

  "Special Duties Branch, as far as I can remember."

  They sat in the two armchairs, Fran scrolling away on her screen and Libby staring through the open door to the sea throwing itself at the pebble and sand beach.