Roy shook his head in disbelief.
‘I know,’ Jane laughed shakily. ‘You couldn’t make it up, as they say. Anyway, I’m going to try not to let it spoil the party. The Last Party.’
She leant her head back against the headrest. Why did those three words sound so melancholy? It wouldn’t be the last party, either, just the last one that she would organise. She was sure the other beach-hut owners would carry on the tradition. Everyone looked forward to it - it was the highlight of the summer. Always held on the Saturday night of the August bank holiday, it started at three o’clock in the afternoon and had been known to carry on until three the next morning. It had been instigated by Jane’s mother, and when Jane came back as Mrs Milton she reinstated it. Entry was by a bottle of champagne per head and a contribution to the food - either salad to accompany the pig roast or a pudding. The dress code was ‘Black Tie or Beach Beautiful’, with the older generation opting for the former and the young the latter, though there had been a fashion of late for the options to be mixed, with men turning up in dinner jackets and surfing shorts. This tongue-in-cheek interpretation pretty much summed up the tone of the affair, which inevitably ended in girls in ball gowns being chucked into the sea amidst much shrieking and laughter.
‘I’ve arranged to borrow the trestle tables again from the village hall.’ Roy decided he would stick to talking about arrangements. It seemed safer. ‘I’ll drive them down first thing Saturday morning so you can set up. Then drop the beer barrels over just after lunchtime - we don’t want them getting too hot in the sun. The pig roast bloke will be there about then too.’
‘Fantastic.’ Jane laid a hand on his arm. ‘Where would I be without you?’
Roy didn’t reply. It wasn’t the sort of question that required an answer.
Ten minutes later he drove onto the forecourt of the station and pulled up outside the ticket office. Jane jumped out, and stuck her head back in through the door to say goodbye.
‘You’re an absolute star.’
‘Give me a call when you get on the train home. I’ll come and pick you up.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course.’
She smiled her thanks at him and slammed the door shut. He watched as she walked towards the entrance, her head held high, and he wondered what was really going through her mind. He sighed.
Even now, half a lifetime later, the longing was still there.
Roy had woken up on the morning of the first Everdene beach party with butterflies.
He hadn’t had butterflies for years, not even on Christmas Eve or his birthday. He was eighteen now, and he supposed that after the age of thirteen or fourteen you grew out of it, that nothing excited you so much once you were firmly on the trail to adulthood, but his stomach that morning belied that assumption. His mum was frying bacon in the kitchen, and the smell made him feel quite nauseous.
Why did he feel like this? He told himself he was being stupid, behaving like a girl. But in the back of his mind, he couldn’t forget Jane flinging her arms round his neck in delight the afternoon before, when her mother had said, ‘I hope you’re coming to the party, Roy? You can’t miss it after all your hard work.’
‘You must come!’ Jane had insisted. ‘It’s going to be such fun. Say you will.’
He’d been shocked to be invited. He thought he was just Mrs Lowe’s dogsbody. The party had been a much smaller event in those days - there had only been twelve beach huts altogether - but Prue was still flapping, getting as many people embroiled as possible, because that was her way, and she’d homed in on Roy as a willing slave.
Roy had spent the week running around obeying her elaborate instructions, even though he was pretty certain he wasn’t going to get paid for the privilege. But he didn’t mind, because it meant he could be near to Jane, and wouldn’t need to think up excuses to speak to her. All summer he hadn’t been able to get her out of his head. Every song that came on the radio reminded him of her. ‘Summer Holiday’ by Cliff Richard, which never failed to make him smile. ‘She Loves You’ by The Beatles - well, he could dream, couldn’t he? Although actually he didn’t know why he was even giving it a thought. She was totally out of his reach and besides, wasn’t he already spoken for? But nothing ever stopped a teenage boy from fantasising. And fantasise he did, all day and all night. He thought about her yellow hair, and how it might feel between his fingers. He thought about her golden skin, those laughing eyes. He thought about kissing her, and it made his heart feel as if it might explode, burst right out of his chest. He thought about her slightly husky, posh voice, clipped and impatient, and the preposterous things she sometimes said - always followed by that laugh that made him tingle from head to toe.
Marie never made him tingle, or made his heart feel like exploding. He liked her, a lot. But he wasn’t enthralled by her. Nothing about her made him wonder. He didn’t lie awake dreaming of simply holding her in his arms. He’d kissed Marie. Done more than kissed her, though he hadn’t gone all the way yet. He’d touched her breasts, which were pleasingly round and soft. He’d touched her between her legs, and she’d looked at him, thrilled and horrified, before pushing his hand away and murmuring ‘Not yet’. And being a chivalrous sort of boy, he’d obliged. It wouldn’t be long before he’d be allowed to do it again, because she hadn’t pushed him away that quickly, and he could tell by the way she’d taken a sharp breath in that she’d liked it. They’d been going together for nearly a year, and she didn’t deserve his treacherous daydreams. She’d be horribly upset if she knew that Jane was the one who occupied his waking hours. And his sleeping ones. Although he thought she suspected something. She’d been very stroppy whenever she found Jane in the ice-cream kiosk with him.
He hated seeing them together. It highlighted the difference in them too much. Marie was buxom, a proper Devon maid, with dark hair. Pretty, but you only had to look at her mother to see which way she would go. She was blunt, straightforward. She didn’t take any messing about. Roy could tell that by the way she treated her customers - she soon gave them short shrift if they became difficult. And he knew everything about Marie that there was to know. They were both born in the village, they’d been to the same schools - she couldn’t possibly have a secret from him. He knew what she wanted from life: to carry on working in her parents’ café, get married, probably to him, and have a couple of children. Why would she do anything else?
Jane, by contrast, was slender, elegant, exotic, fascinating. She told him about another world that was out there - he listened, rapt, to her tales of London. Of the music that spilled from cafés and clubs night and day, of the famous people she’d glimpsed, of the shops filled with wondrous clothes and the buzz, the continual buzz.
‘Nothing like boring old Everdene. There’s always something going on.’
Roy wanted to protest. He was never bored in Everdene. As far as he was concerned there was always something to do, something to look at, but he had to admit that the city did sound exciting. Different, anyway. Whether he’d ever be able to experience it was another matter. Probably not. For a start, he wouldn’t have a clue how to get there, or what to do when he arrived. And he’d be bound to stick out like a sore thumb-a country bumpkin. He imagined himself the target of thieves and pickpockets, fleeced, like Oliver Twist.
‘You should come up one day.’ She looked at him with a mischievous little smile. ‘I could show you the sights. Take you to a night club.’ She reached up and fingered his shirt. ‘We’d have to take you shopping first. But I think we could transform you.’
Roy could feel himself blushing as she glanced him up and down and nodded approvingly. What did she have in mind, he wondered?
She was just toying with him, he told himself that morning, as he pulled on his scruffy clothes. Mrs Lowe had a list of tasks as long as his arm. He should have time to come home before the party and have a bath, put on something smart. Or at least clean - he didn’t really have anything that smart. He was a Devon boy, an outside
boy, whose family didn’t even go to church. Why would he have anything smart? He didn’t have time to go into Bamford and get something, either. If Mrs Lowe had invited him earlier in the week, he might have had a chance . . .
His mum handed him a bacon sandwich as he went into the kitchen.
‘No, thanks,’ he told her, and she looked at him, frowning.
‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing. I’m just not hungry. I’ll have a cup of tea, though.’
She pursed her lips.
‘Don’t you go getting any ideas from that lot,’ she told him.
‘Don’t be daft, Mum.’
She handed him a cup of tea, dark brown and steaming hot. He spooned two sugars in.
‘Is Marie going to the party?’ His mother always came straight to the point.
Roy stirred his tea.
‘No. And they’ve only asked me so I can run round after them. Not because they want me there.’
‘As long as you realise that.’
Roy smiled to himself. He was never going to have any delusions of grandeur as long as his mother was around. But he did feel bad about Marie. He’d told her about being invited, because Roy suspected it was better to be honest on the surface, especially if you were harbouring dishonest thoughts. She hadn’t been happy, but there would have been merry hell to pay if she’d found out afterwards.
‘And that Jane Lowe isn’t half as good as she thinks she is.’
Was he going red? He felt hot at the mention of her name. He buried his face in his cup so he could blame the steam from the tea.
‘And there’s been rumours,’ his mother told him.
‘What sort of rumours?’
‘About her and that writer.’
Roy shrugged. ‘There’s always rumours in Everdene,’ he replied. He put down his cup. ‘I’m off now, Mum. OK?’
He gave her a kiss on the cheek and she responded with a nod. She wasn’t overly affectionate, his mother. But she cared about him, he knew she did. That was a warning shot she’d just given him, and he knew she was right to fire it. But he didn’t care if he got hurt. That’s how bad he’d got it.
Jane’s train arrived at Paddington just after half past nine. She hurried along the platform to the small arcade of shops at the back of the station, and went into Monsoon. There was a summer sale on, and her heart sank - the racks were crammed. There was too much to choose from. This was insane, she thought. Panic-buying an outfit for the funeral of a man she’d had a silly affair with nearly fifty years ago? Why was she even going? Maybe she’d forget it. Maybe she’d just take a taxi over to the Wallace Collection, spend the morning browsing the Rembrandts and the Fragonards and the Canalettos and go into their wonderful café for a slice of coffee cake . . .
‘Can I help you?’
She turned to the assistant with a smile.
‘I need a dress. For a funeral. Something plainish - it doesn’t have to be black. Sorry, I know it’s a bit of a macabre request ...’
The girl didn’t seem fazed.
‘We get all sorts of people coming in here in a panic,’ she assured her. ‘It’s what you get for being in a train station. We’ve got a nice dress in navy silk,’ she went on, assessing Jane for her size with expert eyes. ‘I’ll see if we’ve got a twelve.’
Jane looked half-heartedly through the jewellery whilst the girl went off to see what she could find. She was going to go to the funeral. Of course she was. Apart from anything, she wanted to say goodbye to the man who had played such an important part in shaping her life, even though he didn’t know it. She sighed. Even now, she could remember how she used to feel every morning as she climbed the dunes up to his house. The thrill, the frisson, the heavenly bliss as he opened the door and she looked into those eyes.
She imagined those eyes now, shut for ever. Terence in his coffin. Something terrible welled up inside her, and for a moment she thought she was going to faint.
‘Are you all right?’ The assistant was standing next to her, a selection of dresses in one hand.
‘Yes, yes - I’m fine. Thank you.’ Jane gathered herself together. ‘Is there somewhere I can try these on?’
As she followed the girl to the changing room, she made a mental checklist. She needed to go to Boots, for tissues and Bach’s Rescue Remedy, and paracetamol for the stress headache that was bound to kick in later. She wondered if there would be time for Norman to take her for a swift gin and tonic before the funeral.
The party, of course, was a huge success. How could it not be, in such a glorious setting, on an afternoon in late August, with the sun shining at the perfect temperature? With children and dogs scampering happily, endless supplies of sausages cooked on an open fire, plenty to drink, everyone feeling relaxed and lazy and the real world seeming millions of miles away. Friendships that had begun tentatively over the summer as the beach-hut owners got to know each other became cemented as the huge vat of fruit punch gradually emptied. Roy was surprised he was enjoying himself as much as he was. He had thought he would feel out of place, and might be treated liked the hired help, but not a bit of it. He was quickly recruited to play French cricket, where he proved to be a formidable batsman, gaining instant respect from the men and admiration from the girls - he couldn’t help noticing a small gaggle of them giving him sly glances, then looking away, then giggling with each other. He wasn’t interested in any of them, of course - they were only about fourteen - but it went some way towards boosting his confidence. Roy knew he was considered good-looking, with his dark eyes and hair and burnished skin from working outdoors, but he wasn’t cocky about it. He’d always been . . . well, not shy, but reserved. He wasn’t a great talker. He was an observer. And a doer. He was getting admiring glances from the older women as well, he noticed as the afternoon wore on. After much deliberation, he had decided to wear a pair of white cricket trousers and an Aertex shirt, but eventually he took off his top, showing his tanned and well-defined torso.
Jane ran a finger teasingly down his sternum.
‘Look at you,’ she said, and he looked down at her finger, where she held it just at the bottom of his ribcage for a moment. Then he looked up and held her gaze. She blushed, her lips curled up in a tiny, secretive smile, and she turned away.
Roy was left standing, unsure what this meant. He took in a deep breath to calm his racing pulse, then went to find a cool drink. It was all too much. The heat. The beer. The anticipation. He wasn’t sure what Jane was thinking at all. She’d paid him plenty of attention. She sat and ate her food with him. She’d poured too much salad cream onto her plate, and insisted on scooping some up and giving it to him, even though he didn’t much care for it. And she’d brought him a beer while he was playing French cricket. And now this . . . intimate gesture. He thought she might be a bit drunk. He’d seen her fill her glass up several times from the punch bowl, and he knew it was strong. He’d seen Prue Lowe chuck a whole bottle of brandy in.
Yet although she’d paid him plenty of attention, she’d spoken to other blokes too. Roy hated the feeling he had inside when he saw her doing it, even though she was probably just being polite. They were mostly her neighbours on the beach, after all. But he couldn’t help the burning sensation in his chest. Jealousy, he supposed.
Probably the same feeling Marie had when she found him with Jane.
Every now and then, he watched her drift away from the crowds, lost in thought, clearly in another world, and he wondered what was on her mind.
By seven o’clock, the younger children had all been bunged in the scout tent which had been erected as their den. They burrowed down with their blankets and pillows, giggling and kicking and whispering. Someone had brought down a portable record player and plugged it into The Shack’s electricity supply. A rangy boy sat in the doorway and played a selection of the latest 45s from the hit parade whilst everyone danced. Jane grabbed Roy’s hand.
‘Come on.’
At first, Roy really wasn’t sure. He’d only ever dan
ced with Marie in public before, whenever someone local had a party or a wedding. And not the way people seemed to be dancing here - wild gesticulating and hip-wiggling. He felt horribly self-conscious. He stood in front of her, shuffling slightly awkwardly from side to side, not wanting to draw attention to himself, as she shimmied in front of him.
‘Hey, you,’ she poked him playfully in the stomach. ‘Relax a bit.’
As the tempo of the music increased, he did. It got into your bloodstream, somehow. Plus nobody seemed to care what anyone else was doing. He grinned. It was madness - all these slightly tipsy people on the beach, dancing as if their lives depended upon it. The lanky boy put on another record. As the opening riffs sounded, Jane jumped up and down with excitement.
‘Have you heard this?’ she gasped. ‘It’s brilliant.’
It was ‘You Really Got Me’, by The Kinks. With its grinding guitar and manic drumbeat, it had everyone going, waving their arms in the air and singing along to the chorus. Over and over again it was played, and as Roy listened, it filled him with bravado, made him believe that he really was capable of getting the girl he wanted. He moved in closer to her, and she grabbed both of his hands, holding them high as she twisted her hips in time to the music. He imitated her movements. Gradually she inched in closer until they were touching.
‘Girl, you really got me going . . .’
As the sun started to fall and the light dimmed, Prue lit candles and lanterns, and the tempo of the music dropped. Jane moved in even closer, put her hands on his shoulders, pressed herself up against him. He could barely breathe, certainly couldn’t speak, as he gently put his hands on her waist. He felt as if he was touching the most precious china; felt slightly self-conscious of his work-roughened hands, but she didn’t seem to mind. His throat tightened as she snuggled into him, and the most extraordinary feeling rose up inside him. It wasn’t just lust, although that was raging inside him, there was no doubt about that. It was the incredible sensation that his wildest dream had just come true.
The Beach Hut Page 25
