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

  About to turn away, she spotted a small photograph, curled at the edges, a little cracked, almost hidden. It was a snapshot of a boy, about ten years old and unmistakably Daniel. He was grinning at a little girl who had to be two or three years younger and who was gazing up at him with total adoration.

  Was this Katy?

  Her hair was an explosion of fair curls and Rose could see why Daniel might have thought she might be this little girl.

  Her own hair had darkened as she got older, but the curls had tormented her throughout her teens. She'd been so desperate for sleek straight hair like her little sister that, once, she'd cut it all off as close to the roots as she could, hoping that it would grow back like Lisa's. Her mother had hugged her, understanding what had driven her to such a desperate act, but her father had turned away, unable to look at her.

  At uni, she'd had it straightened, but no amount of conditioner could ever achieve the desired result and since then she'd left it to do its own thing.

  She took the photograph out into the sun for a better look, but it was too faded for her to tell if the likeness was more than the hair.

  Rose replaced it, taking care to leave it exactly where she had found it. She hesitated about leaving the hut open, but decided that, placid as he was, Nigel was sufficient deterrent to anyone hellbent on mischief and, having topped up his water bowl, she left him in charge.

  Ten minutes later, having collected her van from the car park, she was at Queen Charlotte House.

  "Are you Flo? I know I'm too early for my room," she apologised, "but I had a close encounter with the sea and was hoping there might be somewhere I could change. Daniel Black said to tell you that I'm a friend," she added, hopefully.

  "Did he?" The tall elegant woman who'd responded to the reception bell gave her a professional smile. "I'm Florence Black, Miss Redmayne. Daniel is my son."

  "Oh." She flushed with embarrassment. "His pager went off and he didn't have time to explain."

  His mother sighed and looked out of the window at the bay, lost for a moment.

  "It's really calm," Rose said. "I'm sure he'll be OK."

  "I know, but you can't help worrying. People do such stupid things." She shook her head, dismissing the thought and said, "Redmayne? I don't know the name but you seem very familiar. Have you stayed here before?"

  Rose swallowed. "This is my first visit to the town, Mrs Black. Maybe you've visited Maybridge?" she suggested. "Or bought something I've upcycled? My business is on Facebook and Instagram."

  "Is that how you met Daniel?" she asked. "On the Internet?"

  Rose relaxed. This wasn't going to be another "Katy" moment. Florence Black was just a mother making sure her boy wasn't getting into bad company on a dating app.

  "Actually we met this morning when he yelled at me for chasing after a toy that had blown into the water. It's how I got wet."

  "Then we must certainly do something about that." Her face softened into the smile that her son had inherited. "Your room is ready. Just sign the book and leave a note of your car registration number, then you can go up." That done, she swiped Rose's credit card and then handed over her key. "It's number two, on the first floor. Breakfast is from seven until nine-thirty. If you need it earlier, just let someone know and we can organise it."

  "Thank you. I've only booked for tonight—I wasn't sure about my plans. Would it be possible to extend that, until I find somewhere to rent locally?"

  "You're going to stay in Little Piddling?"

  "Just for the summer. I'm buying one of the beach huts," she explained. "It needs some work."

  Mrs Black frowned. "The pink one next to Daniel's?"

  "Yes."

  "It's in a bit of a state."

  "I know, but it has my name on it," Rose said. "It would be rude not to."

  Mrs Black looked as if she was about say something, but instead glanced at her computer screen. "I can let you have the room until the end of the week, Miss Redmayne, but after that I'm fully booked."

  "It's Rose," she said, "and I'm sure that will do it. Thank you, Mrs Black."

  "Call me Flo. Everyone does. Including, apparently, my son."

  Chapter Five

  Rose shook out her damp crops and top and hung them over the towel rail to dry. Then, having showered off a surprising amount of sand, she slipped into a dress and returned to Kettlesing and Flint.

  "Miss Redmayne." Arthur Kettlesing greeted her with enthusiasm. "How did you find the beach hut?"

  "I walked across the beach, Arthur, and there it was, tucked between Forget-Me-Not and Dan's Den."

  He grinned. "That's a relief. I was afraid it might have blown away in last week's storms."

  "But not bothered enough to go and check? It's sound enough, but you might be less relieved to hear that it was not locked. I found a damp bathing suit inside, which suggests that someone has been using it. Maybe someone else to whom you loaned the key?"

  He frowned, shook his head. "There hasn't been anyone else."

  "Maybe Mr Flint?"

  "James would have mentioned it."

  She shrugged. "Then it's a mystery, but perhaps it would be advisable to get the lock changed?"

  "I'll see to it. I'm sorry it wasn't suitable."

  Rose sat down. "I didn't say that. Do you have the historic paperwork on the hut? A list of previous owners?" she asked.

  "I imagine it'll be in the file."

  He fetched it, watching with a thoughtful frown as she went through it, making a note of names and addresses.

  The only possible Rosa had to be Rosalind Jarvis who had bought the hut in 1946, just after the war. Rose Mary Graham (nee Jarvis) had taken possession in 1961—not a sale but a transfer of ownership from mother to daughter. Was she Nanna Rose?

  And then her heart began to pound as she saw the next transfer was to Juliet Rosemary Graham in 1988.

  Was this the Jules who'd written the postcard to her father? Katy's mother. The dates were right, but the Jules in the hut was a lot nearer Rose's own age. Possibly younger.

  "As you can see, Miss Redmayne, everything is quite in order."

  "There's nothing wrong with the paperwork," she agreed. "How long have your family lived here, Arthur?"

  "In Little Piddling? Forever," he replied, with every evidence of satisfaction.

  "So maybe you know the Graham family who bought the hut just after the war? Or Jarvis?"

  He shook his head. "I don't recall anyone at school with either of those names. I could ask my mother, or you might find something in the Piddling Post archives. It's just a free news-sheet these days, mostly adverts, but it used to report on anything that happened here. You'll find the office tucked away in the maze of little streets behind Brewery Square."

  "Thanks. I'll check it out."

  "So, the beach hut?" he prompted. "Are you thinking of making an offer?"

  "It is going to need a thorough cleaning and then repainting, inside and out," she said. "The floor requires sanding and resealing and the cupboards are in a shocking state. One of the doors fell off in my hand," she added. "It narrowly missed my foot."

  "I did mention that the condition was reflected in the price," he reminded her, refusing to be suckered by a near miss.

  "Even so, I think your owner is being a touch optimistic." She offered a rough estimate of the costs involved in putting the hut into a usable condition.

  "Is this for a client, Miss Redmayne?" he asked. "I checked out your website. It's very impressive."

  She smiled. "Thank you, Arthur. Why don't you call me Rose?" She preferred to keep business contacts on a more formal footing, but an estate agent was a good contact, and Arthur Kettlesing wasn't quite as soft as he would have her believe. "This isn't a commission for a client," she said. "It's for me."

  "Oh, well... I'm sure the present owners would be open to a reasonable offer."

  She made one, he winced convincingly and then made a counter-offer. Rose split the difference and he shrugged. "It's wo
rth a try."

  He made the call and, twenty minutes later, the legal work was under way.

  "May I keep the key?" she asked. "I'd like to make a start on cleaning it up."

  "No problem. It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Rose. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

  "Actually, yes. Since I'll be staying in Little Piddling, I'm going to need somewhere to live. And space that I can use as a workshop. A lock-up garage would do. Do you have anything suitable on your books?"

  He looked doubtful. "It's all short-term holiday lets from Easter onwards, but I'll check around and see what I can find. In the meantime, I'll get that lock changed for you."

  "I'll see to it. Is there a DIY shop in town?"

  "There's Jackson's. It's not one of those big out-of-town places," he warned, "but the service is personal, and they'll get you anything you need within 24 hours. It's on the other side of Brewery Square. Turn left..." He pulled a face. "As I said, it's a bit of a maze, but anyone will direct you."

  "Is it next to an old-fashioned sweet shop?" she asked. "The kind that still sells sweets out of a jar?"

  "Well, yes," he said, beaming. "Well done on finding your way around so quickly."

  Except that she hadn't "found her way around". She hadn't been anywhere but the car park or the prom. She must have seen it on the town website...

  "Did I mention that I'd checked out your website?" Arthur said as he walked her to the door.

  "What? Oh, yes, you did."

  "I'm not sure if you'll be taking on commissions while you're working on the beach hut, but I do know someone who could use your expertise. Would it be in order to mention your name?"

  "Yes. Thank you, Arthur."

  Jackson's had a narrow frontage, but it stretched a long way back and stocked pretty much anything she might need.

  Rose chose a lock and some cleaning materials and, having introduced herself to the manager, she produced her VAT number and opened a trader's account.

  That done, and for no reason that made sense, she went into the sweetshop and bought 100 grams of ginger liquorice. Feeling oddly unsettled by the experience, she found a very modern mini-supermarket and bought a six-pack of bottled water before collecting her overalls and toolbox from her van.

  Nigel was no longer taking up most of the space in front of Daniel's hut and the door was shut.

  She quelled the little jag of disappointment.

  And anxiety.

  She'd left Rosa's hut unlocked, giving her intruder the chance to leave. Common sense suggested that Rose should have told Arthur what she'd seen and insisted he deal with it before she went ahead with the purchase. Unfortunately, nothing that had happened since she found the postcard had made common or any other kind of sense.

  How had she known where to find Jackson's? Why had she bought sweets that she didn't like? And why, as she walked through the town, had she known what would be around the corner? Whose name would be on the statue on the prom?

  And then there was the B&B.

  She'd told Daniel that she'd checked it out, chosen it for its closeness to the beach huts, the car park. But that wasn't true. She'd clicked "book" the moment the name popped up as if she knew...

  The weirdness was piling up, which was why she would have welcomed Daniel's reassuring presence in the hut next door. Someone who would come running if she screamed...

  She gave herself a mental backbone-stiffening, don't-be-silly pep talk. She had never screamed in her life. Apart from the scream that had woken her from a nightmare and brought her racing down here.

  She took a deep breath and pushed the door, but the only thing to greet her was a swirl of dust and the faintest stirring of cobwebs where she'd disturbed the air.

  The hut was empty.

  The breath escaped a little shakily, but relief was touched with dissatisfaction.

  There were so many unanswered questions rattling around in her head. Jules had known so much about the people who had owned the hut. Knew her father...

  Except that couldn't be right.

  She was far too young to have sent that postcard. To be Katy's mother. But there had been a child who'd collected shells and worn that swimsuit. Where was she?

  Telling herself to forget it, just be grateful that Jules had taken the opportunity to make herself scarce, Rose closed the door.

  In the dim light from a skylight above the sleeping loft, she slipped off her dress, climbed into her overalls and wrapped one of the muslin cloths she kept in her toolbox around her hair, tying it in a little knot at the front, like a nineteen-forties housewife.

  That done, she tackled the door first. She used the handle of a hammer to prop up the dropped end, then tightened the screws in the hinges. Once it was hanging properly, she oiled them and then replaced the lock.

  Satisfied that it would now be secure against anyone but a squatter armed with a crowbar, she put her bag and toolbox in the broom cupboard and moved what little furniture there was outside.

  With the floor clear, she pulled on her Marigolds and set to work with the long-handled broom, sweeping down the cobwebs so that she could get to the sleeping loft without being enveloped in soft stickiness. She'd need the stepladder to reach into the corners and do a thorough job, but it was clean enough and she brushed the floor clear of sand and dead flies.

  The air was full of dust and she stood outside, slaking her thirst while it cleared, conscious of curious glances from other hut dwellers. There were a couple of nods, but no rush to welcome her to their midst. Maybe they were waiting to see whether she'd stick, or disappear after a month or two, like the previous owners.

  She smiled back, then returned to the job, clutching a dustpan and brush as she climbed the stepladder.

  Jules, sitting on a mattress that was covered with an old striped blanket, was painting her toenails. "You've been a long time," she said. "Have you been to see Nanna Rose?"

  "What? No! Why are you still here, Jules?"

  "You need to go and see her. And when you come back, you can bring me an ice cream from the kiosk on the corner." She looked up. "The espresso coffee flavour. In a cone, not a tub."

  "I'm not going anywhere," Rose said. "You have to leave. Now."

  "I can't do that."

  "Why? Are you homeless?" Jules didn't look as if she slept on the streets. Was she hiding from someone? "Do you need a shelter?" Rose asked. She could probably find a number online. Or Flo might be able to help...

  Jules frowned, apparently struggling with the question. "A shelter?"

  "Come on, Jules. You're obviously in trouble and I'll help if I can. Where do you live?"

  She concentrated on getting the nail polish smooth before she said, "I live here."

  "No..." Rose took a breath. "You can't live in a beach hut. It's not allowed."

  Jules rolled her eyes, returned to the business of painting her toenails. "I don't see why not? It's warm and dry."

  "There's no running water or electricity," Rose said, a little desperately. "And the nearest loo is on the promenade."

  "The convenient conveniences."

  "Oh, for heaven's sake. If you don't leave right now, I'm going to have to call someone."

  "Call Nanna Rose. She is so lonely."

  Rose sighed and was halfway down the ladder when a thought struck her. She went back up a step. "How did you get up here without disturbing the cobwebs?"

  Jules, who'd started on a second coat, didn't look up. "Don't forget the ice cream. You'll find some money in my purse."

  Rose sighed. The last thing she wanted to do was call social services, but the woman was clearly in need of help.

  Maybe, if she bought her an ice cream, Jules would open up, say what she was really doing here.

  Rose opened up a couple of wooden fold-up chairs that she'd moved outside and wiped off the dust. Then she stripped off her rubber gloves and tugged off the muslin hair net.

  "OK. I'm going for the ice cream now," she called up. "Is th
ere anything else you want?"

  Some proper food might be a good idea.

  There was no answer, which was new. Rose shrugged, took her bag from the broom cupboard and went back to the mini-supermarket for a sandwich and fruit, then headed for the ice cream kiosk.

  It wasn't your usual mass-produced stuff. The ice cream was artisan produce from a local dairy and the flavours were luscious. She bought the espresso flavour for Jules and chose salted caramel for herself.

  "I've got your ice cream, Jules," she called up. "You're going to have to come down if you want it."

  There was no reply, but there was no way Rose was taking it up to her. The whole point was to entice her down and out into the sun.

  She licked her own ice, which was already beginning to melt and then, after a minute or two called, "Jules!"

  "I'm tired."

  "Nobody is ever too tired for ice cream. Come on, it's melting."

  She finished her own ice and licked her fingers where the other had begun to trickle over them, practically swooning at the dark, coffee taste that stirred something on the edge of her memory...

  "Jules?"

  This time there was no answer and with a sigh, Rose climbed up. "If you don't hurry up, I'll eat it."

  "You always wanted mine," Jules said, stretching out on the mattress and pulling the blanket around her. "You can bring me an almond croissant from Queenies in the morning."

  "Jules..." And this time, when she didn't answer, Rose whispered, "Mama... I've brought you some food. A sandwich, fruit."

  "I'm tired. I'm going to sleep now, Katy. Don't disturb me, there's a good girl."

  Rose finished the espresso ice, puzzled, concerned and full of sympathy for this woman who seemed to be suffering from some kind of mental breakdown. Unsure how to help.

  If Jules was still in residence tomorrow, Rose would ask Daniel for help, but for now, Jules appeared to feel safe in the hut.

  Before Rose left, she took up a bottle of water, the sandwich and fruit and she put the sweets she'd bought close to Jules' hand.

  Then she took in the stray bits of furniture, the broken cupboard door. And in case Jules wanted to leave, or slip out to use the convenient conveniences, she left a key on the worksurface.