A Day at the Beach Hut

by Veronica Henry

  To the Cadhay Crew

  For never-ending support and laughter and love of food and words

  Daniel, Heidi, Helen, Katy, Lexi, Lucy, Marcia, Matt, Pam A, Pam L, Sue and Vicky

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Introduction

  Breakfast

  The early bird

  Breakfast recipes

  An early morning swim

  Picnic Food

  I’ve seen that face before

  Picnic recipes

  Treats and Snacks

  The deadline

  Retreat recipes

  Ten classic beach reads

  A Birthday Banquet

  A fair exchange

  Birthday banquet recipes

  A beach hut party top twenty

  Seafood Suppers

  Catch of the day

  Seafood supper recipes

  Family Favourites

  Behind the façade

  Family favourite recipes

  The ten best beach hut board games

  A Romantic Dinner For Two

  As the sun goes down

  Recipes for a romantic dinner for two

  The top ten beach movies

  Nightcap

  A difficult choice

  Top ten favourite ice creams

  Stargazing

  Acknowledgements

  Credits

  Also by Veronica Henry

  Copyright

  INTRODUCTION

  Just over ten years ago, I was driving down the long and winding hill that leads from the lighthouse where I’d just walked my dog, Zelda. It was sometime after Easter but before the May bank holiday – when you’re a writer, the days and weeks and months merge into one, punctuated only by deadlines and publications, so dates are always a bit of a blur.

  The sun was shining, my window was down and the Eagles were telling me they’d got a peaceful, easy feeling – and so had I. To my right, the sea sparkled and the waves flirted with the rocks and there were a few silly clouds scudding about as if imitating the sheep scattered below. And then I rounded the corner and I could see the curve of the beach in front of me, pink sand glittering, and my heart skipped a beat.

  For there they were. A band of workmen had sneaked in over the past few days with their diggers and trucks and tools, shifting the sands to build a sturdy bank. And on that bank was a line of beach huts, newly painted and gleaming red, yellow, blue and green, each one with a girl’s name stencilled over the door – Jemima, Rosemary, Gertrude, Edith …

  And this little row of seventy huts told me more than anything that summer was on its way; more than the citric swathes of gorse on the hills, the frothy heads of cow parsley in the hedges, the persistently loud and inconsiderate dawn chorus that woke me each morning.

  With the huts’ arrival the rest of the village stretched its arms and came to life: the surfboards were propped up on the pavements, the chip shop took delivery of tons of potatoes, the freezers were filled with ice creams, the pasties put in to bake.

  As I looked down on the huts from my vantage point, I had one of those lightbulb moments.

  An idea floated into my mind on the sea breeze: a novel that was effectively a series of short stories, each one set in a different beach hut with different characters but who were all joined together by the location …

  I emailed my publisher.

  ‘Stop what you’re doing and write it now,’ she commanded.

  Less than a year later The Beach Hut was published. Now I’ve written four novels and a Quick Reads novella set in the same fictional location – Everdene – and I’ve had hundreds of letters and messages and emails from people all saying the same thing: how much they long for a beach hut of their own.

  Like a caravan or a shed on an allotment, a beach hut is somewhere one can simply be. They are reminiscent of Thermos flasks full of cocoa, Tupperware boxes crammed with sandwiches, of doing jigsaw puzzles while the rain thrums on the roof. Rock pools, sandcastles and 99 ice creams.

  After a horribly difficult year in 2020 and now into 2021, we have all been craving comfort and security, somewhere safe and familiar yet also offering an escape from everyday life, somewhere we can relax with family or friends or a lover. The call of the sea has never been stronger, and there has been a return to the simpler things in life, a need to tune in to nature and the elements. And, of course, the joy of eating together has become more important: something we no longer take for granted but instead treasure.

  And so I’ve decided to return to my fictional beach huts once again, but this time I’ve put a little spin on it. There’s a fresh catch of stories, taking you from dawn till dusk on a summer’s day on Everdene Sands, each accompanied by my favourite recipes.

  Because for me one of the pleasures of time spent at the beach is the food, whether it’s the perfect egg sandwich oozing mayonnaise, a wrap of scalding-hot chips eaten on the harbour wall, fuggy with vinegar, or the day’s catch thrown onto the barbecue. Sea air sharpens the appetite and the simplest things become a feast. Over the years I have conjured up hundreds of meals for my family and friends, from fat sausages stuffed into a floury roll to a lavish seafood birthday banquet. These recipes are the mainstays of beach hut life: hearty breakfasts to sustain a day’s surfing, easily transportable picnic food and simple suppers to restore flagging energy at the end of the day.

  This little book will transport you straight to the dunes, the marram grass slapping at your legs, your picnic basket filled with delicious treats. Or take you down to the harbour to watch the boats come in and land the day’s haul, gulls swooping overhead, eyes beady with greed. Or settle you down to watch a pinky-orange sun fall behind the horizon, turning the sea to molten copper.

  I hope you enjoy your day at the beach hut.

  Veronica

  Breakfast

  The Early Bird

  ‘If you’re not up to it this year, honestly don’t worry,’ her daughter-in-law said a week before they were due to arrive, and Elspeth’s heart had leapt into her mouth. Was this Melanie’s way of saying the children didn’t want to come? Elspeth quite understood why they wouldn’t. At seventeen, fifteen and thirteen, why would three teenagers want to spend a week cooped up by the sea with their grandmother? They had far more interesting things to do in the streets of London, she was sure. Friends to meet, shops to go to, computer games to play. There was no wi-fi at the beach hut. Not even a telly. None of the mod cons that sustained the young.

  She certainly didn’t want them to feel obliged to spend time with her.

  ‘If they’ve got other things on, I quite understand.’

  ‘No! They’re dying to come,’ Melanie assured her. ‘But not if it’s too much for you. I mean, it’s very soon …’

  ‘It’s not too much at all.’ Elspeth didn’t want to reveal how much she was longing to see them. She’d had enough of her own company. People had been wonderful, but after the initial flurry that always comes after a bereavement, the phone calls and visits had slowed to a trickle. And now that she had decamped to Everdene for the summer, there was no one to call in. The neighbours in the huts around her had gradually changed over the years. It wasn’t the old set. There was hardly anyone her age here. Barely anyone she knew.

  ‘Well, you make sure they pull their weight,’ Melanie was saying. ‘If you’re absolutely sure, I’ll bring them down this Saturday.’

  ‘Wonderful.’ The relief was honey-sweet. She didn’t know what she would have done if they hadn’t come. The disappointment would have been overwhelming, though she would never have let on. Stoic to the end, was Elspeth. She never complained. No one liked a whinger. Just get on with it, was her motto, and it
had served her well.

  And now, here they all were: Harry, Edward and Meg, crammed like sardines into the hut. They’d arrived late last night in an adolescent whirl of headphones, sunglasses, trainers and rucksacks, smelling of hair gel and sweet perfume. They didn’t seem to mind the mismatched arrangement of bunks and camp beds and put-you-ups. They’d brought their own duvets and pillows and were snuggled up, still fast asleep. Elspeth was always awake at dawn, and she loved lying in her bed, feeling their presence as the sun came up.

  ‘You’ll be lucky to see them before lunchtime,’ Melanie had warned when she’d dropped them, rolling her eyes.

  Elspeth didn’t mind how long they slept. She was grateful for the sound of their breathing, the beating of their hearts. Some of the blood pumping round their bodies was hers, and that felt comforting. And some was Harry’s, too, which made him feel a little nearer … Her husband Harry, who their oldest grandchild had been named after. Would she ever get used to losing him?

  They’d had fish and chips last night, because that was the tradition. They always had them on the first night and the last night. The scent of cod and vinegar still lingered, mixed in with the salty air from outside as she opened the door. It looked set to be a beautiful day: still chilly, with the kind of snappy breeze that set washing dancing on the line, the sun still uncertain, but promising to gain in confidence as the day went on.

  She would head out for provisions. She knew from experience there was no point in stocking up in advance. She had to shop every day, for the three of them would eat every scrap available; as much as she bought, they would devour. She went over to her oldest grandchild, fast asleep under a duvet covered in a smattering of dinosaurs left over from childhood. She tapped him on the arm.

  Harry’s eyes flew open and he half rose up, looking at her in alarm. His russet hair was dishevelled, his skin milk-pale that would soon turn gold after a week. His shoulders were broad now, his brows thicker, his voice deep. Elspeth’s heart twisted with love for her grandson, the spit of the grandfather he was named for. He had read a poem at the funeral and Elspeth had never been so proud.

  ‘I’m popping to the farm shop for breakfast things,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll be about an hour.’

  He nodded, his eyelids drooping almost immediately as he fell back onto his pillow. He was asleep again straight away, and she wondered if he would remember her message. It didn’t much matter. They wouldn’t panic if they found her gone. They weren’t panicky children. They were at home here. There was tea, and milk, and a box of cornflakes if they were really starving.

  She pulled on her shorts and a t-shirt and her walking boots, looking critically at her legs, speckled and lumpy; mapped with ugly veins. Once they had been smooth, the colour of butterscotch, and she had shown them off under the white seersucker tennis dress she had made herself, a dark-haired girl with laughing eyes who had won the singles trophy for three summers in a row at school.

  And the tennis had stood her in good stead. She’d met Harry during her first summer at university, playing opposite him at mixed doubles. She couldn’t take her eyes off his lean, rangy body; the hair that fell over his eyes; the gold of his skin. His backhand was formidable but she hit it back every time, with equal force, to get his attention. And it worked …

  She rummaged among the coats and waterproofs on the coat hook for her rucksack. It was far easier to carry things on her back, she had learned. Of course, the easiest thing to do would have been to walk up past the rest of the beach huts to the village and go to the mini market, but if grief had taught her anything it was to do things the hard way. It made time pass much more quickly. And she needed the walk. It had become her medicine, the steep climb that made her legs ache and her heart pound.

  So instead she turned left and walked to the far end of the line of huts on Everdene Sands, then up the dunes. It was always hard to get purchase as the sand made you slip downwards, but she had perfected her method, stepping in other people’s footprints until she reached the dirt track at the top. She crossed it and found the path in the bramble hedge that led up the hill overlooking the beach. Over the other side of that hill was another path that led down to Berrydown Farm, where pints of foaming, creamy milk, freshly churned butter, thick slices of bacon and fat brown eggs would be waiting.

  She climbed over carpets of thyme and eyebright, studded with yolk-yellow bee orchids, and pushed through the bracken, its sharp scent reminding her of childhood. Butterflies darted before her on the path almost as if leading the way, too quick to identify – flashes of white and red and brown and palest blue, always just out of reach.

  At the top of the hill was a bench, and she stopped for a rest, closing her eyes. She breathed in and tried to count all the different sounds of birdsong she could hear, tuning her ear. It took concentration, but she thought she could define at least six. A chirrup, a chatter, a two-tone whistle; the coo of a wood pigeon, the keening of a gull overhead. Of all the noise, when she opened her eyes, she could only see two of the perpetrators: a stonechat fluttering across the gorse, and a stout bullfinch sitting on a branch of hawthorn.

  She could see for miles across the ocean from here, around the spit of land to the left as far as the point further around the bay, not visible from the beach hut. Darker shapes lurked under the surface of the water – Harry convinced the children when they were smaller that they were the shadows of giant sharks. Elspeth told him off for scaring them but they loved believing him, or pretending to. She smiled at the memory. He was a terrible tease.

  It truly was God’s own country. Not that she had much faith in God any more. Somehow, when she needed him most, he had become elusive. Had she not believed enough when she was younger? Was that her punishment?

  She stood up to push on, a quarter of a mile still to go. Perhaps she should have brought one of the grandchildren with her, but she didn’t want to wake them. This was their holiday. Their downtime after a summer term of exams and sports days and prize-givings. They needed time to rest, unwind, grow. As far as she was concerned, they could do what they liked during the week they were with her.

  She knew it might be the last time she would have all three of them here. Harry would be leaving school next summer and would probably be off on a gap year. The others might not want to come without him. They would grow out of the beach hut, and her, gradually, peeling off to do their own thing – a summer job, a stay with a friend abroad – and of course that was only right and proper.

  Nothing stayed the same. Elspeth knew that. And maybe it was best to keep ahead of the game. Change things before change was forced upon her. She thought of the letter that had been slid under the door two days ago. Typed on headed paper, it was to the point.

  Hello. We are writing to you in case you might consider selling your beach hut. We have a young family of three boys, and it has long been a dream of ours to have a hut on Everdene Sands so we can spend the summer by the sea – two of the boys are very keen surfers and the third is mad on bodyboarding and won’t be too far behind! We have funds available and could complete very quickly. We would love and cherish it as much as you have, as we understand how important it must be to you. Please get in touch if you are interested. With love from the Elphick Family.

  Underneath was a mobile number, and a photo of three blond-haired boys in swimming trunks and wetsuits, smiling widely.

  As soon as she read it, Elspeth was tempted. Rumours of beach hut prices abounded every summer, and the thought of the big cash injection she would get was very enticing. Harry had left her comfortable, but there wasn’t much room for large purchases. The house would need maintaining. At some point she would need a new car. And the beach hut itself was badly in need of some care and attention: the roof felt was flapping, the steps were rotting and needed replacing.

  Perhaps it was time for someone else to have it. And then she could put the money to better use. She could put some of it aside for the grandchildren to use as a deposit to buy their own h
ouse, in time. There was no way they’d be able to get onto the property ladder otherwise. Selling the beach hut would give them each a decent lump sum. Somehow, that made her feel better. You had to move with the times and your needs.

  Although it would be painful. It was the beach hut that had brought her and Harry together, after all. For a moment, her mind wandered back to a summer day more than fifty years ago. A group of young university friends, carefree, the whole of their lives in front of them. It could almost be yesterday, she thought. For a moment, she wondered what had become of the others: Dickon and Octavia and Juliet. They’d lost touch. Of course they had. But that day had cemented her future with Harry.

  If this was going to be her last summer here, she would cherish this week. Use the time to get to know each of them individually, and give them as much of her wisdom as she could, so they would feel they could talk to her if they needed to. Things might not stay the same, she thought, but she could try to be a constant. That was the role of a grandparent, to never change.

  She headed down the hill to the farm shop. She remembered when it was a tumbledown shed that sold a few potatoes and some purple sprouting broccoli. Now it was a huge rustic barn bursting with produce: ripe soft-rind cheeses, charcuterie, baked goods. More of a delicatessen. She loved the ritual of coming here. She piled her basket high with everything they might need for the day. A crusty loaf, butter, bananas, Greek yoghurt. Eggs and bacon.

  When she got back to the hut, she was astonished to find all three of them up. Not dressed – they were still in t-shirts and jogging bottoms, and Meg was in a fleecy onesie with rabbit ears – but they were all fizzing with the excitement they’d been full of when they were little. It gladdened her heart.

  ‘We’re making you breakfast,’ said Meg, taking the basket off her. ‘Go and sit down.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Elspeth. ‘Well, that’s very kind.’

  She sat in her battered old armchair, settling into its familiar lumps, realising that the strenuous walk had taken more out of her than she realised. Edward brought her over a mug of dark brown tea, and she watched as the three of them bickered and teased each other, pulling out saucepans and bowls, rummaging through her purchases, using every utensil in the tiny kitchen. Harry had built it for her over forty years ago out of bits of old wood he’d kept in the garage. She’d painted it pale blue, and there were still runs on the front of the doors where the gloss had dripped, and most of the handles had fallen off. How many eggs had she boiled on that tiny stove? How many tins of soup or baked beans had she heated up? Hundreds and hundreds.