Summer at 23 the Strand

by Linda Mitchelmore

  ‘Definitely,’ Stella told him. ‘Especially as I’m going to write a book.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘But you’re not going to start it right now, are you?’

  ‘Why not?’ Stella teased him.

  ‘Because I think my suggestion is better. Bed. Now.’ James began to quicken his pace, dragging a giggling Stella along behind him. ‘I’ll be gentle with you.’

  ‘You’d better be,’ Stella laughed.

  Dear next occupant,

  Two weeks. How fast they go, and yet how slowly at times, which for me was in a delicious and delightful way. Time to read as much as you want, to stare out to sea as much as you want. To be who you want to be, away from the confines of your usual habitat. I’m told it’s something of a tradition to leave a small gift for the next occupant (although it’s not, apparently, obligatory) so I hope you will accept this book as my gift to you. It’s yours to read or give away or donate to a charity shop because I don’t know who you are – male or female – or what your reading habits might be. This time next year my own novel might be on the shelves. Who knows?

  Happy holiday,

  Stella (and her bump!)

  Chapter Seven

  EARLY AUGUST

  Belle, Chloe & Emily

  A book? A bleeding book? Someone called Stella who was pregnant – so it would seem from the letter she’d found on the dining table – had left her a book as a present. How the heck did this Stella woman think Belle would have time to read a book? With two lively – hyper at times if they had too many sweets with E numbers in them – girls in tow, she’d be lucky if she had time to read the instructions on whatever ready meal she was going to put in the microwave, wouldn’t she?

  And really she ought to go into the bedroom bit and get the girls to calm down. They were bouncing about on the bed, being dinosaurs. Veloceraptors or something, so Chloe said. The chalet was detached, but it was only made of wood, and the people in the other chalets probably had their fingers in their ears by now. But she wasn’t going to. Chloe and Emily were excited, that was all, and if she was honest with herself so was Belle, even though she was holidaying alone, without Mark, who had pulled out of their marriage, and his commitments to the children. Chloe had been two and Emily newborn when he’d announced he didn’t love Belle any more.

  ‘It might be best,’ he’d said, ‘if I have minimal contact.’

  ‘Best for whom? You or the girls?’

  Mark had merely shrugged.

  ‘Well? Just so I know.’

  ‘Katie won’t like it if I keep coming round. Besides, she’s got two boys and is expecting…’

  ‘Oh, just go,’ Belle had said. It was obvious now he’d been having sex with Katie for quite some time, although since Emily’s birth there had been very little of that for Belle. ‘Bugger off and play happy families. See if we care!’

  That was two years ago and everyone had been telling Belle it was time she moved on, found a new man, got over it. Ha ha, what did they know? A new man had found her – Aaron, who did maintenance in the block of flats Belle lived in with her girls. Or he was trying to. Belle was doing her best not to give off any signals that she liked him, although she did. There was nothing not to like. Six months ago he’d been taken on as maintenance manager and he was for ever knocking on her door saying stuff like he had half a can of paint left over from working on other flats in the block and was there anything she wanted touching up. Belle always laughed because a comment like that was a bit cheeky, wasn’t it? Aaron never pushed it though. So far Belle had resisted his charity, as funny and charming and handsome as Aaron was. He didn’t take offence and all he said was to let him know if she needed any help. He’d come from a one-parent family himself and knew how hard it had been for his mum.

  Well, one-parent families were the norm, didn’t you know, her sister, Gemma, had told her. But there was nothing normal about having to do everything on your own – the house jobs, the school run, the doctor and the dentist when the girls needed to go, changing light bulbs, sorting blocked drains – in Belle’s opinion. And there was the matter of actually getting round to a divorce. Part of Belle had hoped Mark would come to his senses but she knew now he never would. The thing was, divorces were expensive and she didn’t have much cash to spare. She couldn’t imagine Mark did either seeing as he was supporting his new family, and sending Belle £30 a week for ‘treats for the kids’ as he put it on a note the first time he’d sent it. There’d been no note since. At least he was doing that and Belle was grudgingly grateful because the second the notes arrived in the post she was round at the local Spar putting money on the electric and gas. But she was no fool – even that could stop at any time.

  ‘You could get a DIY divorce,’ Gemma had said. ‘You just ring up the courthouse and ask for the papers to be sent to you. You fill them in and post them back with a cheque for the fee and in no time at all you’re a free woman.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’

  ‘Much cheaper, Belle. If there aren’t any issues over finance, like a house to sell and share the proceeds of, or childcare, then it could all be done and dusted in a couple of months. Mark’s not likely to want regular access to the girls, is he?’

  ‘Is the Pope likely to marry?’ Belle had said.

  Belle was pretty certain there’d be no issues over finance, because their flat was rented. And as for the childcare – well, Mark had proved pretty much that he was just buying his daughters off with the money he sent for ‘treats’ each week. He hadn’t asked to see them since the day he’d left. And he’d not sent cards or presents on their birthdays or at Christmas either.

  ‘Ha ha, very funny. I’ll take that as a “no” then,’ Gemma said. ‘But you don’t have to make a joke of everything, Belle.’

  ‘I bloody do. The girls have had a bit of a shitty start to life and they don’t need me sitting around with a long face all the time, do they?’

  ‘Well, no. But if you’re nervous about it, I’ll come to the courthouse with you to fetch the papers.’

  ‘All right,’ Belle said. Anything to shut her sister up for five minutes. She knew if she didn’t ring up and ask for them Gemma would ring up and ask for them herself and present them to her. So she had them. And she’d filled them in but so far she only had about sixty quid saved towards the cost of it all.

  And now she had been given this holiday, which old Anne Maynard opposite had won in a magazine competition. Old? Belle didn’t know how old Anne was exactly… maybe early seventies. Belle didn’t like to ask, but Anne acted old, used it as an excuse not to do things like go for a walk or spend money on something new she needed – like a kettle that didn’t leak. ‘I don’t know how much use I’d get out of a new kettle at my age. Would it be worth the expense?’ That was what she always said if Belle suggested she needed something that required money being spent on it.

  ‘Are you sure you want us to have this?’ Belle had said when Anne came over with the vouchers she’d won. Belle would rather have had money in lieu of the gift but she couldn’t tell Anne that and she ought not to look gift horses in the mouth, ought she? ‘Aren’t you supposed to go if you’ve won?’

  ‘I don’t want to go. I never did like the seaside, not back then when I had the obligatory fortnight there with my grandparents, and I’m not going to change my opinion of it now. And the prize is transferable. I’ve checked. And anyway, what would I do with a holiday?’ Anne had said. ‘Life’s one long holiday for me now I’m retired, and besides, I want you and the girls to have it. It will be good for them to be by the seaside. You might even find a new man.’

  ‘Not you as well!’ Belle had said.

  ‘And not that maintenance man I see knocking on your door rather a lot these days.’

  ‘Hey! He’s all right is Aaron.’

  ‘Got you! Stood up for him a bit quick there, Belle.’ Anne laughed. She tapped the side of her nose, and winked theatrically.

&n
bsp; ‘I didn’t want him dissed, that’s all,’ Belle said. ‘Besides, things could get complicated if I have another man around. You have no idea what hoops I have to go through to get the benefits I do, which isn’t much.’

  And what’s more, she could have added but didn’t, no doubt Mark would stop sending the money each week if he thought for a second Belle had someone else in her life. At least she could tell the girls with an honest heart, when they were older, that their dad had provided for them in his way. Who knew what they’d think of him when they were old enough to understand what had happened? At least she had that little crumb to offer them. For now.

  Still holding her book gift, Belle realised the noise was getting louder from the other room. She was being a bit of a grump, wasn’t she? She ought to be more grateful that people were concerned for her. Her girls might be noisy and overexcited but they were healthy. She needed to remember that.

  ‘Simmer down, you two,’ Belle called out to them. She hugged the book to her. ‘I might get time to read you, and I might not. But thank you, Stella, whoever you are.’

  ‘How far?’ Belle asked. She’d arrived by train and taken a taxi to 23 The Strand and hadn’t really taken much notice of how far apart things were. The taxi driver had carried her case for her – and charged for it! – from the stopping-off point to the chalet.

  ‘About a mile to a supermarket. Tesco. There’s only the one here. Tiddly. If you want harissa paste or fresh figs, forget it. I think there might be a Lidl but I haven’t found it yet.’

  Belle’s neighbour for the fortnight in Number 24 The Strand had a baby strapped to her chest and a bag of shopping in each hand – the bag of shopping with a French stick poking out of it had been the clue that the young mum had found a supermarket. Belle thought her neighbour, dressed in high-end jeans and a designer top, looked a bit posh to be spending her holiday in a chalet. She sounded posh too.

  ‘I shan’t be needing any fancy stuff,’ Belle said. ‘Fussy eaters both of mine. It’ll be fish fingers and baked beans and crisps for a fortnight.’

  ‘It won’t hurt for a fortnight. I’m still breast-feeding so I’ll need to watch what I eat.’

  ‘Really?’ Belle said.

  ‘Really. I know breast-feeding isn’t so popular these days but, well, it’s there, it’s free and it stops me doing other stuff while I’m doing it.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. I meant I wish I’d looked as good as you so soon after my two were born. Oh, you meant watch what you eat as in eating things that won’t upset the baby, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, that. And thanks for the compliment.’

  Belle’s temporary neighbour gave her a watery smile, and Belle had a hunch that, despite the beautiful exterior and confident manner, the woman was struggling a bit. Been there, done that.

  ‘Yeah, well,’ Belle said. ‘I meant it. I breast-fed mine and, from the benefit of experience, I’d say go easy on the curries.’

  ‘I’ve already discovered the disaster that is second-hand curry! Can I ask? Did you drink?’

  Drink? Did this woman think Belle was some sort of dypso? But yes, there had been the occasional glass of red which helped both Belle and her babies sleep. Especially after Mark left. The shit.

  ‘Apart from the usual, like water and builders’ tea, yes, I have been known to have the odd tipple.’

  ‘Oh good. Your two look like angels standing there so good while we natter, so it can’t have done them much harm.’

  Crikey, they were being especially good, weren’t they, Belle realised now. And after the mayhem of the veloceraptor game, which had gone on way past bedtime the night before, she was glad of it. And you are a scared-as-hell new mum and a bit lonely with it if I’m reading between the lines.

  ‘No, it didn’t. They still get half a glass of red in their nighttime cocoa though.’ Belle waited for the woman’s reaction. She got it.

  ‘You don’t!’ She started to back away.

  ‘No, of course not. Only joking.’

  ‘Well then, Cooper will have to acquire a taste for white wine soon, perhaps, because what’s a holiday without a few drinks. Won’t you, little man?’

  Cooper? Belle had been out with a petrol-head once who lived for his classic Mini Cooper – all chrome wheels, and pared down this and that, and wearing driving gloves, for goodness’ sake, like he was a throwback to the sixties. But the romance never got past a handful of dates. It had been obvious from the get-go she would always come about six places down from his car, his mates who were also into Mini Coopers, his job in a car-sales place, John Denver records, and his mum.

  ‘Hello, Cooper,’ Belle said, reaching out a finger to touch the back of Cooper’s tiny, pudgy fist.

  Sometimes she wished she’d given her girls names that were a bit different – Scarlett, or Venus, or Blaise, or something. Did people get on in life better if their names made others stop and really concentrate on them? Oh well, it was too late now. And besides, she was called Belle and nothing wonderful had happened to her yet because of her name, had it?

  ‘So, you’re saying a drink here and there won’t upset my breast-feeding routine too much?’

  ‘I’m no expert,’ Belle said. ‘But in my inexpert opinion it won’t hurt at all. I’m Belle by the way.’

  ‘Fiona. I’d shake your hand if I had a free one to offer.’ The baby, Cooper, wriggled and grizzled. ‘Time to go. I’ve held you up far too long nattering on. But thanks. Catch you later, Belle. Perhaps, you know, if we have a mutually convenient window of time we could natter some more. Over a coffee. Or wine?’ Another little smile from Fiona but less watery this time.

  God, I sure as hell hope so. Belle jiggled her fingers at Fiona and Cooper in a sort of wave goodbye. I could use a friend.

  Hmm, perhaps things wouldn’t be so bad after all. Perhaps, when she and the girls had settled in a bit, she’d ask Fiona round for a drink.

  ‘Are we nearly there yet?’ Chloe whined.

  ‘Nearly,’ Belle lied. She hoped she was. She’d popped into a café at the bottom of the town to ask directions and the man at the counter had waved his arm in the direction she had to go. Over the railway crossing, up through the pedestrian precinct. Belle could see the barriers going down for the train so there was a way to go yet. And it didn’t help that the pavements were heaving with people and buggies and mobility scooters, with kids totally out of control running in between all of that. She wouldn’t let go of her two for a moment.

  ‘My knees hurt,’ Chloe grumbled. ‘Can I ride in the buggy?’

  ‘Buggy, buggy, buggy,’ Emily shouted.

  ‘Really!’ An elderly man glared at Belle. ‘Such language from one so little.’ He pointed at Emily as though she was something best left in the gutter.

  Oh gawd, he’d thought Emily had said ‘bugger’, hadn’t he?

  ‘Best take yourself off to Specsavers, mate,’ Belle said. ‘They do hearing aids in there. She said “buggy”. That’s the thing she’s sitting in.’

  Belle scooted off, Chloe hanging on the handle of the buggy for dear life. She didn’t wait to hear the man’s response.

  But it was getting even busier here. Even more kids were screaming like banshees – whatever one of those was, but Belle’s mother had always used that phrase and now she did too – here than on the seafront. Why the heck weren’t their parents taking them to the beach? The beach was free for a start and when kids went into town they were always wanting something.

  ‘Mummy, can I have a lolly?’ Chloe said.

  ‘A lolly what?’

  ‘A blue lolly.’

  ‘Oh, you,’ Belle said, risking taking a hand off the buggy handle for a second to ruffle Chloe’s head. ‘You know I was looking for the word “please”, not the colour of the lolly you want!’

  ‘So, can I? Please?’

  Could she spare a pound or so for two ice lollies? Because if Chloe had one then Emily was bound to want one too. Gemma had been like that when she and Belle we
re young. She remembered once when she’d had a cold, a really bad one, and she’d had to have antibiotics because it went to her chest and gave her a bad bout of bronchitis.

  ‘Want one!’ Gemma had screamed as their mother doled a teaspoonful of pink mixture into Belle’s mouth. Their mother had pointed out that you couldn’t have antibiotics unless you really, really needed them and Gemma had yelled the house down, screaming that she didn’t want them, she wanted a cold!

  The memory made Belle smile.

  ‘Okay. But that’s the only one today. No asking for another when we get back to the beach.’

  They joined a queue at a kiosk selling ice cream and lollies by the railway station. A woman with short grey hair was in front of Belle and her family. She had two children with her – a boy of about eight and a girl a couple of years younger. Grandma and grandkids, at a guess. Belle felt a pang of something – regret? sadness? anger? – that Mark’s mother would never stand in a queue with Chloe and Emily, seeing as she’d cut off all ties and sided with her son. No doubt she was playing grandma to Mark’s now-‘melded’ family, as she’d seen it termed in a magazine once. Melded, for goodness’ sake.

  The boy suddenly leaned into the woman, and then slid an arm around the back of her waist, before reaching for her shoulder.

  The woman turned, put an arm around the boy and hugged him closer. Then she kissed the top of his head.

  And just look what she’s missing out on! The little tableau was a mixture of joy and sorrow for Belle to witness. Her own mother was very good at caring for small children but she wasn’t a hugger or a kisser.

  ‘Note to self,’ Belle said, under her breath. ‘Hug and kiss the girls more.’

  ‘You’re squashing me!’ Chloe yelled, squirming in Belle’s arms. ‘And your kisses are all sloppy!’

  Chloe was barefoot, her feet covered in sand and bits of broken shell, and there was a sliver of grass-green seaweed, like lettuce, between her big toe and the one next to it. Her hair was every which way because she wouldn’t stand still long enough for Belle to comb it, and Belle had decided it wasn’t worth the stress of making her. At home, Belle always liked the girls to be well turned out, but here it didn’t matter so much. Did it matter anyway? Didn’t it matter more that the girls knew she loved them?