The Beach Hut Next Door

by Veronica Henry

  Mary interrupted, crisp, ‘Well, I hate to break it to you, but you’re not in some kooky Richard Curtis film with a happy ending. You got away lightly, before she got her claws into you and then had a meltdown.’

  Pip grimaced. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yes. It’s never pretty.’ Mary looked at her watch. ‘I need to contact my parents. Get them to track her down. Make sure she’s OK.’ She tilted her chin upwards. ‘I don’t have anything to do with her any more. But it’s not as if I don’t care.’

  ‘No, I’m sure you care. Is there anything I can do?’

  It was in Pip’s nature to be helpful. Mary looked at him steadily, wrong-footed by his apparent concern.

  ‘Just count yourself lucky and get a cab to the station.’

  ‘Of course.’ Pip realized that making himself scarce was the wisest course. This kind of thing didn’t happen to him, ever. He wasn’t sure how to handle it. ‘Um – would you mind if I used the bathroom first?’

  A flicker of irritation passed over Mary’s face. Of course she wanted him gone as quickly as possible. ‘Yes, yes. Hurry up.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Pip scuttled into the tiny bathroom and shut the door. He flipped up the loo seat and began to pee, staring at himself in the shell-encrusted mirror on the wall. The reflection that stared back at him was completely baffled. He didn’t know what to make of the situation at all.

  On the other side of the door, Mary prowled the hut in fury. Bloody Fran. It was typical of her. Toying with people. Playing with them. Not giving a thought to the consequences. Whoever her latest victim was, he seemed sweet – and absolutely not Fran’s usual type. He was genuinely mortified at being caught and couldn’t wait to get away.

  Just like Sven last summer. The memory still made Mary weak with fury.

  The trouble with Fran was she felt she had the right to judge, and that she knew better than everyone else about most things. That she was tuned in to something that no one else was. That she was special. Which wasn’t surprising, given that their parents had always made her feel that way. They had long given up any hope of taming her, or expecting her to follow any conventional path. They veered between benign bemusement and outright amusement at her antics, only occasionally tipping over into genuine concern when Fran went a step too far. But then they didn’t know the half of it. It was Mary who was usually party to the fallout from Fran’s games and escapades and covered up for her. Dramas in pubs and at parties; showdowns and confrontations. Mary was never quite sure why she always felt the need to protect her, but she had a sisterly loyalty she couldn’t ignore. It was exhausting.

  She had once sat her parents down and told them she thought Fran should go to a psychiatrist.

  ‘I think she’s bi-polar,’ she told them. ‘Or manic-depressive. I’ve looked into it. There are patterns to her behaviour. Cycles.’

  They couldn’t see it. Because Fran was beautiful and beguiling and charming, they thought she was ‘spirited’, or ‘eccentric’.

  ‘Frances is her own person,’ her mother always said. As if Mary herself wasn’t, Mary thought, exasperated.

  ‘How can somebody who is perfectly intelligent, but can’t pass an exam, or hold down a job, or a relationship, not have something wrong with them?’ she demanded.

  ‘She’ll settle down eventually,’ her father said.

  ‘Yes, but how many people will get hurt along the way?’ asked Mary.

  They didn’t see the damage Fran did, the havoc she wreaked. The incident with Sven was the first real evidence they’d had, and even then they chose to swallow Frances’ implausible story: that she was saving Mary.

  Sven and Mary met at a Shakespeare summer school she was teaching at just after leaving university. She was besotted; he seemed to be so. They agreed to spend the second half of the summer in England at the beach hut, then head off to Sweden.

  Fran took an instant dislike to Sven, and made her mistrust as clear as a cat, skirting round him with distaste.

  ‘He’s tight,’ she complained to Mary. ‘He never puts his hand in his pocket for anything. He’s taking you for a ride. Why wouldn’t he? The chance of a summer by the seaside in England, all expenses paid?’

  ‘He’s a poor student, like me,’ protested Mary. ‘I’m sure he’ll repay the hospitality once we’re in Sweden.’

  ‘And he’s not interested in anyone but himself,’ Fran went on. ‘He drones on and on and doesn’t ask any questions or interact.’

  ‘He’s shy. And he doesn’t feel his English is that good.’

  ‘Rubbish. He’s fluent. All Swedes are. And he’s lazy. He’d stay in bed all day given half the chance.’

  ‘So what? It’s the holidays!’

  ‘He just lets you get up and do all the skivvying and the shopping while he sits on his arse.’

  Mary ignored her. Yet Fran’s observations began to niggle at her. She did notice Sven holding court while people glazed over slightly. She observed how adept he was at avoiding a round when they went to the Ship Aground for a few drinks. And he never cleared away the breakfast things, or set the table for lunch, or helped wash up.

  Then Fran showed her what she’d found on Facebook. She had trawled religiously through every one of Sven’s friends, and found a girl whose information read ‘In a relationship with Sven Jansson’. And the girl’s Facebook status she had run through Google Translate which effectively read: ‘Only twelve more sleeps until Sven Jansson comes home’.

  ‘Maybe she’s just a friend!’ shouted Mary.

  ‘Maybe you’re just an idiot!’ Fran shouted back.

  ‘Maybe you’re just jealous?’ Sven, for all his possible faults, was blond and tanned and better looking than Mary felt she deserved.

  Fran gave a dismissive snort and slammed the lid of the laptop down as Sven came in.

  ‘Oh, how kind, Sven, you shouldn’t have,’ she said sweetly.

  ‘Shouldn’t have what?’ he asked.

  ‘Exactly.’ She swept out of the hut.

  Mary gave an apologetic shrug.

  ‘What’s the matter with your sister?’ asked Sven.

  ‘We’ve been trying to figure that out for years.’

  Two days later, Mary came back from a shopping trip to find Fran in flagrante delicto on the bottom bunk with Sven.

  ‘Wow,’ gasped Fran. ‘I can see why you put up with him.’

  Mary dropped her shopping and fled.

  Twenty-four hours later, Sven was on a plane back to Sweden and Mary had thrown Fran out of the beach hut.

  ‘I wanted you to see what he was.’ Fran was defiant.

  ‘You wanted him for yourself. You couldn’t bear the fact that I finally had a good-looking boyfriend, and you were jealous.’

  Frances went white. ‘Why doesn’t anyone understand me?’

  ‘Because you’re a fuck-up.’

  ‘Do you really want a boyfriend who is happy to get it on with your sister? He didn’t take much persuading.’

  ‘I don’t want a sister who is happy to let my boyfriend “get it on” with her.’ Mary could hardly bear to say it.

  ‘You don’t get it, do you?’

  ‘I get that you are a crazy, destructive lunatic.’

  ‘I saved you from him. If it hadn’t been me, it would have been someone else. Lots of someone elses, probably. I can’t bear to see you being made to look a fool.’

  ‘You can’t bear to see me happy.’

  Fran stared at her, fists clenched. ‘Why does no one ever understand me?’ Her voice was barely above a whisper.

  Mary put her face up close. ‘I totally understand you. Now get out. Before I kill you.’

  Fran’s face crumpled. There was distress and grief and despair etched in every line. Mary’s face, by contrast, was made of stone. Smooth and expressionless.

  ‘Stop with the stag
e school act,’ she said. ‘You’ve finally been exposed for what you are.’

  ‘And Sven. What about him? What’s he?’

  Mary held her head high. ‘Another victim. Another one of your pawns.’

  Fran pointed at her as she left. ‘You’ll figure it out. You’ll think about it and you’ll realize I’m right and that I was trying to protect you.’

  ‘Fran,’ said Mary. ‘Fuck off.’

  Even now, she could feel Fran’s presence in the hut; a ghostly shadow looking over her shoulder. She could smell her perfume in the air. If she listened hard enough she felt sure she would be able to hear her laughing. She shivered and brushed at her arms, as if to sweep her away.

  Yet a year later on, she had to admit to herself that Fran had been right. She herself had trawled the Facebook photos. Seen pictures of Sven pop up week after week of him with a girl. She couldn’t speak a word of Swedish, but she could see they were deeply in love. The realization had made her doubly sick. Sick that she had been betrayed by Sven, and that she had mistrusted her sister. Yet why had Fran chosen such a cruel way to prove her point?

  Because it was typical of Fran, to prove that she was irresistible. Even though she was proving to Mary Sven was a cheat, she had to prove that he would be powerless if she chose to lure him. It was so, so subtle, Fran’s one-upmanship of Mary. It exhausted her.

  She didn’t know who this latest victim was, or what role he was playing in Fran’s fantasy life, but he was certainly taking a long time in the bathroom.

  It was then she saw the note on the table. Propped up against the blue spotted vase that was empty of flowers. She walked over and picked it up. It was written in brown ink in Fran’s wild and erratic writing – the writing that suited her personality so well; all swirls and dashes and ellipses.

  I knew … I knew as soon as I saw him – just as I knew about Sven. But this one is right for you – I promise. Treasure him …

  F xxxxxx

  Mary took in a breath. The paper shook in her hand as things started falling into place. The unexpected visitor certainly wasn’t the type she would expect Fran to drag back to her cave to devour. He was far too gentle. Too polite. Fran favoured men with tattoos and piercings and attitude. Not rather cuddly teddy bears with lovely smiles and even lovelier manners.

  Pip came out of the bathroom looking rather abashed.

  ‘I’ll shoot off then. Although I’m not even sure where we are. I didn’t take much notice yesterday.’

  ‘Everdene. The nearest train’s at Bamford. You’ll have to get a cab.’ Mary was curt, still trying to process Fran’s letter.

  ‘Right.’ He clapped his hand to his pocket to make sure his wallet was still there. ‘Well – it was very nice to meet you. Despite the circumstances. And I apologize again …’

  He held out his hand. Mary looked at his gentle brown eyes that turned down at the corners, his shy smile, his rumpled curls, and felt her heart give a thump. What if Fran, bloody freak that she was, was right?

  Because really what Mary hadn’t forgiven Fran for was being right about Sven. For being able to see through him in a split second, while Mary had floundered about in his thrall, making a fool of herself, unable to see that she was being used. Of course she hated her sister for her perspicacity. Yet she loved her for it too. It was just that the wounds were taking a long time to heal. Being made to feel a fool is never comfortable.

  This was Fran’s way of saying please forgive me. This was Fran’s way of saying I love you and I will protect you for ever even though you hate me for it.

  She didn’t have time to think about it. In two moments he would be gone. She needed to employ her sister’s impulsivity. And she needed to trust her.

  ‘Listen,’ she managed. ‘Stay and have some breakfast at least. I can do you coffee and eggs and toast.’

  ‘Oh no – I couldn’t put you to any trouble.’ Fran’s gift to her was putting on his jacket, eager to get away.

  ‘It’s not any trouble.’ Mary began unpacking the bag of groceries she’d brought with her and held out a box of eggs. ‘Please. You can’t go off on an empty stomach.’

  ‘Well, that’s very kind.’ Pip looked hesitant.

  ‘Honestly. You won’t be able to get anything at the station and it’s a long way back to London.’

  Their eyes met, and he smiled. ‘OK.’

  He began to help her unpack and carry stuff over to the fridge. ‘Where’s your sister gone, do you think?’

  He looked mystified. Mary wasn’t quite sure how she was supposed to explain. How did you tell someone that they had been picked out as some sort of blind date, as atonement for a wrong that had been done with good intent? He’d run a mile, probably.

  In the end, she decided not to even go there. She just gave a rueful ’who knows’ shrug.

  ‘I’m Pip, by the way,’ he said.

  She smiled. ‘Pip – from Great Expectations?’

  ‘Exactly that.’

  Then Mary noticed the leather patches on his corduroy jacket. Funny, she thought, she didn’t think anyone ever wore those in real life, but somehow, they made her warm to him even more.

  ‘Scrambled or poached?’ she asked.

  ‘Scrambled. Please.’

  ‘Right answer,’ she said. ‘Saturdays are made for scrambled eggs.’

  They smiled at each other, their first agreement on something, and it felt right. And somewhere, who knew where, Mary felt Fran give a little air punch, and she forgave her sister; her crazy sister, who saw the world in a different way from everyone else, but who always saw the important things.

  ELODIE

  ‘Light, airy room available in return for light housekeeping duties. Lady Bellnapp, Kensington 453’

  There was something about the succinctness of the advert that appealed to Elodie. It was straightforward with no euphemisms, and sounded just what she needed. A roof over her head while she took stock.

  Lady Bellnap was direct on the telephone. ‘I don’t want a fuss or anyone getting under my feet. But I want everything done without having to ask twice. Come and see me and I’ll see if I like the cut of your jib. I’ll know immediately.’

  ‘So will I,’ said Elodie, with spirit, and the old girl chuckled.

  Lady Bellnap lived in a garden flat off Kensington High Street. She’d spent her married life in the Far East, with her husband, a military doctor. They’d had no children.

  ‘Darling Bill was bitten by a tsetse fly and that was the end of it,’ Lady Bellnap told her. She had tiny, spindly legs and arms, a stout bosom, a hooked nose and piercing eyes. ‘No role for me out there so I had to come back. Heartbroken, of course. Now I just rattle about playing bridge. Do you like dusting?’

  The flat was crammed with mementoes of the Bellnaps’ life together: enormous stone vases, carved wooden chests, a tiger’s head on a rug, china dragons. There wasn’t a square inch of free space, and the room smelled of sandalwood. Elodie loved it the moment she saw it.

  ‘Not particularly,’ Elodie told her.

  ‘Good. I wouldn’t want to spend any more time than necessary with someone who cared for dusting. I’d be very suspicious. But it needs doing, as you can see. So if you can see your way to taking care of this lot—’ she waved a hand around her artefacts – ‘and perhaps push the Ewbank around, and make sure we don’t run out of milk, then the spare room is a very nice one. You’ll be looking for a proper job, I suppose?’

  ‘Well, yes. Although I’m not sure quite what yet.’

  ‘Well, a girl must do something. There’s more to life than bloody flower arranging.’

  She pulled a face, as if to equate the pastime with something far more nefarious. An image of Lillie tweaking a vase of flowers in the drawing room popped into Elodie’s head. She felt uneasy. As if herein lay a clue. She wasn’t going to dwell on it. That had been
her promise to herself.

  Forwards, not backwards.

  She moved in the next day.

  The arrangement was perfect. Elodie quickly became fond of Lady Bellnap. Despite her forthright manner, and her occasional querulousness if she became tired, she was a source of inspiration, dauntless and full of energy despite her age. They spent a great deal of their time laughing, which was healing for Elodie.

  She didn’t want to rush into gainful employment; she wanted to be sure of finding the right job, now she had a roof over her head. Luckily she had plenty of savings. That was one of the benefits of working for your father and living at home: there’d not been much to spend her wages on, as unlike Lillie she wasn’t much of a clothes person. She didn’t tell Lady Bellnap the truth about why she was there. She just said she’d had a disagreement with her parents and wanted a change. She sensed the old lady suspected there was more to it, but she wasn’t one to pry. And if she told her what had happened, then she would have to discuss it. All she wanted to do was bury the memory.

  The one thing Elodie did find was the shock of everything – the upheaval, the new surroundings and getting used to London when she was used to either the country or the seaside – made her very tired. She couldn’t stop sleeping. And then one lunchtime, when she looked at the tinned peaches and evaporated milk she had prepared for their pudding, she had an overwhelming desire to be sick.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she gasped, and ran from the room.

  When she came back, pale-faced, she apologized again and sat down at the table. Lady Bellnap leaned forward.

  ‘My dear,’ she said. ‘I think you might be having a baby.’

  Elodie saw the kindly wisdom in the old woman’s eyes and felt her heart lurch. Her mind was racing as she thought back to the memories she had tried to suppress as they were too painful, those clandestine encounters between her and Jolyon in the beach hut, their secret hideaway. Once or twice, as the wedding loomed, she thought they might not have been as careful as they should. She hadn’t panicked at the time, because she had thought ‘honeymoon baby. Nobody minds a honeymoon baby’.