‘Not often. A couple of times, I think. They never seemed happy, though, even then, and a day out always seemed to end in them having rows and me crying. Then later, they always seemed to be too busy – and we never had proper holidays or anything. Just weekends with friends of theirs who lived in the country. Why? Did yours?’
‘When Dad was alive, yes.’ Jix, with Bee on his shoulders, headed back towards the people carrier. ‘But he died when I was five, and that’s when Mum started to lose her grip on things. Her agoraphobia got so bad soon after that that we never went anywhere much.’
April smiled, understanding. ‘So this, today, is as much an adventure for us as it is for Cair Paravel, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah. Probably more so. It just seems so sad, doesn’t it? People of our age have probably been jetting off on package holidays all their lives, but we’ve hardly ever seen the sea, even in England.’
‘I’ll let you into a secret, then. I’ve never been abroad. Never even been on a plane.’
‘Nor me,’ Jix sighed.
April pulled open the door of the Toyota. Daff was happily engrossed in a word-search puzzle, and listening to Radio 2. She smiled. ‘Going to get into your bathers, then? Take Bee in for a paddle?’
‘Definitely.’ April nodded. ‘And we’ll take Cairey with us; there doesn’t seem to be any restriction about dogs on the beach. Oh, Daff, it’s such a pity you can’t come as well.’
‘I might later.’ Daff nodded towards the windscreen’s view. ‘It looks lovely down there. Maybe if I closed my eyes I could make it. Once I’d done the steps, I’d probably be fine just sitting on the beach.’
Jix gave his mother a hug. ‘Done deal! We’ll go and test the water – and then come back for you.’
It took them two bundling journeys to get everything they needed from the people carrier on to the beach, with both Beatrice-Eugenie and Cair Paravel working themselves up into a frenzy of excitement, and Jix and April pausing every few steps to gather up dropped buckets and towels and flip-flops, and to admire the view.
April, clutching Bee’s hand tightly, felt overwhelmed with happiness, watching her daughter’s chubby legs reach down, so steadily, one step at a time, her eyes fastened as if hypnotised on the constant rush and fall of the sea. She, of course, had the easy part. Jix, who was carrying the bulkiest items, also had to contend with Cair Paravel’s sudden joyous discovery of low-flying sea gulls.
The sand was pale and smooth, and April, plumping Bee down, kneeled in the coolness and sifted the multicoloured grains through her fingers. Bee laughed out loud, kicking her bare feet into the sand, beating her palms on the beach, entranced by so many new sensations. April, overwhelmed with love, let the tears trickle down her nose, then quickly forced herself to arrange the towels, open Cair Paravel’s water bottle, unpack the swimsuits, and generally pull herself together.
‘Cossie time, then!’ Jix buried Bee’s feet. ‘And I’ll race you into the sea!’
Constantly telling Bee to stand still, and that she mustn’t go near the water on her own, and yes they’d all build sand castles in a minute, April wondered fleetingly if she’d be brave enough to bare her body. Oh, to be Bee’s age, she thought, as she tugged her squirming daughter out of her shorts and T-shirt, and pulled on the rather pretty and slightly too small second-hand swimsuit. At Bee’s age, changing on the beach, however crowded, wasn’t a problem: for April, the prospect of wriggling out of the denim dress and her bra and knickers and trying to squeeze into the shiny violet bikini which Naz in the charity shop had assured her would fit like a glove, was a very different matter.
Maybe, she thought, looking back at the cliff top, she should go and change in the public loos. Maybe she’d have to dump the dual responsibilities of daughter and dog on to Jix yet again while she retained a modicum of decency.
Jix had managed to tether the quivering greyhound to an impaled spade, and despite the fact that several other families had clambered down the steps and were setting up camp quite close to them, had shed scarves, bangles, and the tie-dye vest with reckless abandon, and was unzipping his jeans.
‘God!’ April squinted up at him. ‘You’re not skinny-dipping, are you?’
‘You wish,’ Jix grinned. ‘Nah. I’ve come fully equipped.’ He held up a pair of frayed denim cut-offs in one hand and a huge bath towel in the other. Wrapping the towel round his waist, he wriggled and contorted his body until his jeans were round his ankles. Removing the towel he grinned again. ‘Voilà! It’s all down to dexterity and practice, you see.’
April blinked. If she’d imagined Jix’s body at all – which she hadn’t, of course – she’d have put money on it being pale, emaciated and weedy. She’d have lost her own bet. The slender, well-muscled torso and the long lean legs that had been hidden beneath the hippie facade came as a complete surprise.
She stopped staring and smiled at him, feeling almost shy. ‘Do you know, I was just thinking, I must be the only woman in Bixford who doesn’t know what you look like without your clothes on.’
‘Your loss.’ He poked out his tongue. ‘Now it’s your turn. If you don’t get undressed soon your daughter is going to burst with impatience. Do you want me to hold your towel? I promise I won’t look.’
‘And pigs might . . .’ April retorted, grabbing the largest towel. ‘Just shut your eyes – Oh, sod it! You made it look so easy.’ She wrestled with the towel and various zips and buttons for a few more minutes, then sighed crossly. ‘We ought to have one of those beach huts up there; then I could change in privacy.’
And we will, she thought, gripping the towel with her teeth and shimmying her body in the hope that her dress would slide to the floor. When Noah comes back, and I bring him down here, we’ll have one of those – maybe the peach one, or that bright red one, or the duck-egg blue . . .
‘April, you’re making a right dog’s breakfast of that,’ Jix interrupted the thoughts. ‘Here. I’ll hold the towel.’
‘Oh, God – OK
Wriggling, highly self-conscious, April tussled with the age-old dilemma of removing one set of bra and pants and getting into another without turning into Gypsy Rose Lee, and all with Jix only inches away. Feeling suddenly very vulnerable, she turned her head to look back up the cliff. The beach huts were opening up their doors now as holidaymakers arrived. People in shorts, encouraged by the heat of the morning, were unpacking cool boxes and shaking out towels and bathing costumes on the wooden slatted verandas.
Concentrating hard on fastening the bikini top under the towel, April noticed the girl dressed sombrely in baggy black, sitting slumped alone outside the prettiest hut – all apricot and red and cream – her dark hair dangling down hiding her face, her shoulders hunched up. April sighed. Poor thing. Probably had a row with her boyfriend or something. What a pity. Being miserable on her holiday – and in such a beautiful place.
‘OK?’ Jix jiggled the towel. ‘Decent?’
‘What? Oh yes, I think so.’ April moved away from the towel with extreme caution. The violet bikini was very snug, but she hoped it covered all the bits it should.
Jix whistled appreciatively. ‘When we go back to Bixford you are going to have to wear that on the debt-collecting round! I know certain people who’d pay well over the odds for a glimpse of you in that!’
Grinning, she punched him. ‘Get off! Is Cairey safe there?’
Jix wiggled the spade. ‘As houses. He’s got water and a biscuit. He’ll be fine.’
Cair Paravel, sprawled on all the towels with his biscuit trapped between his front paws, gave a docile thump of his tail.
‘Good boy.’ April kissed the top of his head. ‘You stay on guard. We won’t be long.’
The sea, after the scorching summer, was warm as it swirled round their ankles. Bee, shrieking with delight, leaped over the rippling waves, as April and Jix, each holding a hand, swung her up and over the foaming shoreline.
‘We ought to get a Lilo from that cafe place up there,’ Jix said
. ‘I always wanted one when I was a kid but we could never afford it. And you,’ he eyed her, ‘really should christen that bikini.’
As Beatrice-Eugenie sat down and screamed with excitement as the sea eddied round her legs, Jix tumbled April into the shallow warmth of the water.
‘Bastard . . .’ she spluttered happily, splashing him back.
‘Oy! You! You got a bloody greyhound?’
They both looked at the wizened man in the Aston Villa replica shirt who was standing on the water’s edge, gesticulating fiercely.
‘Yes, but he’s tied up.’
The claret and blue arm jabbed angrily up the beach. ‘Not any more, he ain’t. The bugger’s just eaten my Cornetto!’
With a sigh, April scrambled to her feet. Holding on to her bikini and following the ice-creamless man, she side-stepped dozens of family groups before locating Cair Paravel. He was digging happily in the sand, his tail whizzing like a propeller.
She grabbed his collar and he looked up and smiled at her, the remains of wafer and chocolate decorating his muzzle.
‘How much do I owe you?’
The football shirt shrugged. ‘A couple of quid should do it.’
‘I’ll just go and get my purse.’ April tugged Cairey away from his excavations. ‘And if you come to the greyhound stadium tonight you could put something on him and possibly win a lot more than the cost of an ice cream.
‘On him?’ The football shirt looked horrified. ‘He ain’t even trained proper! Don’t you go getting your hopes up on him, gel. He’s not a proper racer – he’s out of control. He won’t be winning nothing, you mark my words.’
Chapter Sixteen
For Sebastian, August Bank Holiday Monday had so far been a very surreal experience.
It hadn’t just been arriving at the Ampney Crucis greyhound stadium and thinking that he must have inadvertently stepped back into a time warp: it had started long before that. Possibly halfway through the morning, when he and Brittany, emerging after a heavy night, intent on dodging the paparazzi outside her West London flat, had discovered that someone had wheel-clamped the Daimler.
‘We’ll take yours,’ Brittany had said, flashing smiles at the photographers and writing a cheque for a Frobisher minion to bail out the car later. ‘I can sleep all the way down there, then.’
And she’d done just that, Sebastian mused, now sitting in the bar of the strangest pub he’d ever encountered, listening to the umpteenth rendition of ‘Mr Tambourine Man’, and watching through the window as the tourists soaked up the scorching afternoon sun.
They’d whizzed down to Ampney Crucis in the Mercedes, with no traffic problems at all on the motorway, and Brittany in her brief sundress, which must have cost about a thousand pounds a square inch, had curled like a Siamese cat beside him, and slept soundly.
Once they’d arrived, Brittany’s razor-sharp business brain had kicked in immediately, and she’d suggested that, as their meeting with the Ampney Crucis Greyhound Stadium board members wasn’t until six o’clock, just prior to the evening’s racing, they should do a bit of private reconnoitring. This was when the second feeling of disbelief had started to emerge. Ampney Crucis Greyhound Stadium was like something out of an old Peter Sellers film: totally deserted, with no sound but the constant shush of the sea in the background, with birds and butterflies swooping overhead, and the sun spiralling from the crumbling white railings and tumbledown stands.
Sebastian had expected Brittany to hoot with laughter and suggest they made a quick getaway. There was no way on earth, even though the stadium was apparently due for a face-lift, that the Frobisher empire would want to stage their flagship race meeting in a place like this.
‘It’s rather sweet,’ Brittany had said, scuffing at tufts of fern growing through the shingle at the edge of the track. ‘Don’t you think?’
Sebastian had shaken his head. Sweet it may be, but it would never be able to cater for the creme de la creme of the dog world, and the punters, plus the spivs and touts and celeb hangers on, all of whom would follow the Frobisher Platinum Trophy like Eric Cantona’s seagulls. As far as he could see, there was no bar, no restaurant apart from the closed-up hot-dog van, and no Tote facilities. The only bookmakers’ pitches on offer were three piles of pallets beneath three striped umbrellas, all with well-worn name boards in curlicued writing.
Benny Clegg, Roger Foster, and Allan Lovelock. They sounded – and no doubt looked – like the Three Stooges. He’d laughed softly to himself, wishing his parents could be here to see this. He could imagine Oliver comparing this place with the Gillespie Stadium with all the air of an outraged Derby horse contemplating an Epsom challenge from a Thelwell pony. And Martina – well, Martina would simply never believe it.
‘Shall we just go home?’ he’d suggested. ‘Now. Before it gets any more embarrassing.’
‘No, of course not. I’ve seen much worse than this.’ Brittany had looked around. ‘Well, not much worse, actually, and probably not as decrepit, but it’s got – well – you’ve got to admit, the place has got something.’
‘Woodworm, dry rot, and impending bankruptcy?’
She’d smiled at him. ‘I know, Seb, darling, how desperate you and your parents are for the Frobisher Platinum to be staged in Bixford – and believe me, you’re up there with the best of them – but don’t forget the GRA are very keen to make the dog racing image a friendly, family-outing affair. Places like this have a certain kudos, you know.’
‘But you can’t seriously be considering – ’
‘What I’m considering is meeting the people here, as arranged, and discussing their refurbishment plans and their tender. They have as much right as anyone else to my time. That’s all. Now, I’ve got some stuff to do on the laptop and a million calls to make. You don’t mind if we park the Merc somewhere quiet and I turn it into a mobile office, do you?’
Sebastian had shaken his head. ‘No, of course not. I’m sure I’ll find something to amuse myself.’
‘I’m sure you will. Have a drink, something to eat, paddle in the sea, watch Punch and Judy . . .’ She’d curled herself round him and gently nibbled his lower lip. ‘Just don’t be late back, Sebby. It’s important that we get to the stadium on time.’
And so, Sebastian thought, draining his glass of beer, that was it. They’d parked the car on the cliff top, and he’d left Brittany plugged into her mobile phone and her computer. Arranging to meet her back at the stadium at six o’clock, he wandered off to take in the sights of Ampney Crucis.
They hadn’t taken very long. The village itself was incredibly beautiful, very quiet, and totally unspoiled. But it didn’t offer much by way of entertainment for someone alone who knew no one. Once he’d stared at the beach, investigated the Crow’s Nest Caff and the fish-and-chip shop, and had two pints of some really rather good local beer in the quaint Crumpled Horn, he felt he’d exhausted the possibilities. He looked at his watch. God – it wasn’t even two o’clock. What the hell was he supposed to do with the rest of the afternoon?
Deciding that he couldn’t cope with another pint – it was curiously strong – or yet another plaintive rendition of ‘Mr Tambourine Man’ – he already knew that he’d be humming the chorus for the rest of the day – he stepped outside into the sunshine.
It was gloriously warm and the beach below him was packed, brightly coloured bodies plunging in and out of the sea. Sebastian leaned on the railings that were obviously intended to prevent inebriates staggering from the Crumpled Horn and immediately rolling down the cliffs, and sighed. Since childhood he’d holidayed with Oliver and Martina on private islands borrowed from friends in the Caribbean and the Indian Ocean. In adulthood, he’d jetted off to the world’s trendiest vacation destinations. Never once had he had an English seaside holiday.
But these people, with their deck chairs, and their children, all looked far happier with the meagre amenities on offer than his rich and bored companions had done with every delight in the world at their di
sposal. The beach huts were pretty cool too. Like the old-fashioned picture postcards that his grandparents had shown him. It was another world here, away from Bixford and Tacky Towers.
Sebastian fondly watched a young couple with a small child in the distance, running in and out of the water to jump on and off a lurid-coloured Lilo. The girl was slim, with fair hair and a brilliant purple bikini, while the man had long hair and a lean body, and the child ran between them, obviously blissfully happy. There was a dog too, chasing the waves, shaking itself all over them.
They looked like some idyllic family from an Australian soap opera, Sebastian thought, watching them as they scampered back up the beach, carrying the Lilo to where an elderly woman sat huddled in a deckchair with a towel hooded over her head like ET. Was she ill? He hoped not. Illness and death didn’t have a part to play on a beautiful day like this. Sebastian smiled to himself as the woman leaned down with admirable dexterity, and helped herself to something from one of the carrier bags. No infirmity there then, thank goodness. She obviously just had an aversion to the sun.
His eyes moved along the shoreline, taking in other similar families, all happily enjoying the very unEnglish bank holiday temperatures. He envied them their ability to be so carefree. Again, he thought, he ached to be part of a happy, uncomplicated family – like the one he’d watched earlier – with a child and a dog and a mother or grandmother sitting cosily in charge of the picnic bags. They were probably all staying at some B&B that Martina wouldn’t even deign to enter, and eating fish and chips and huge fry-ups and having the best time it was possible to have.
Feeling highly dissatisfied with his smug, comfortable, parentally organised life, Sebastian unpeeled himself from the railings. There were still more than three hours to go until he could join up with Brittany. It really was scorchingly hot. Irritably he wondered why he hadn’t thought about packing swimming trunks and a towel. Possibly because he’d never expected to find clear blue waters and pale clean sand in Ampney Crucis. Of course he could just pop into the Crow’s Nest Caff and buy some beach stuff, but it hardly seemed worth it now.
Nothing to Lose Page 18
