Englishman in Blackpool, Englishwoman Short Story

by Jenny O'Brien

  Englishman

  In

  Blackpool

  By Jenny O’Brien

  Copyright © 2017 by Jenny O’Brien

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons,

  living or dead is entirely co-incidental.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  All Rights reserved

  Books by Jenny O’Brien

  Ideal Girl Trilogy

  Ideal Girl

  Girl Descending

  Unhappy Ever After Girl

  Englishwoman in Trilogy

  Englishwoman in Paris

  Englishwoman in Scotland

  Englishwoman in Manhattan

  For children

  Boy Brainy

  Short Stories

  Rescuing Robert (pre-publication)

  Englishman in Blackpool

  Praise for Jenny O’Brien

  “I absolutely adored this story. It was fun, flirty, romantic, tragic, emotionally heart-breaking at times but also very heart-warming.” Adele for “Kraftireader” book blog.

  “Jenny O”Brien did a great job creating a story that will let you go through all sorts of emotions. You will laugh and be shocked but you will also feel the love.” Anniek for “With love for books” book blog.

  “Another wonderful, romantic cosy read beautifully written with warmth love and tenderness.” Michele Turner.

  “She captures the reader from the first paragraph, engrossing them with her heroine”s journey of love and loss, to the very end.” Susan Godenzi, writer.

  “Absolutely loved every page and didn’t want it to end.” Clare Wakelin, via Goodreads

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to Beverley Ann Hopper, Ian Hopper and Susan Hall – the reason for my thanks will become obvious…

  A huge thanks to Jan, from JCL Dance in Blackpool. Your help and kindness to a dance novice is truly appreciated.

  Dedication

  To Beverley and Ian

  Table of Contents

  Books by Jenny O’Brien

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Blackpool, 1997

  Author’s Message

  Englishwoman in Paris Chapter One

  Blackpool

  1997

  ‘We only have one room left at the back. It doesn't have a sea view but I don't suppose you’ll mind. I wouldn't even have that except for a cancellation this morning. This really isn't the time to be coming to Blackpool on spec you know.’

  ‘The back room is fine Mrs...’

  ‘Hall. But you can call me Susan, everybody does. It does have twin beds but I won't be charging you for the other one. Single gentleman, are you?’

  He smiled to himself at the question: a question he'd been asked many times over the years but it still never ceased to amuse him. He'd be the last to admit he was good looking. He was nudging forty, after all and with his hair starting to show the first tentative signs of grey at the temple, he thought himself distinguished if anything. It appeared women hadn’t noticed the grey or, if they had, it hadn’t stopped them.

  It wasn't that he didn't like women. He did. In fact, he liked all women. But it just so happened that over the years, he'd never managed to find that one special woman. He’d never stopped looking but she was as elusive as a cloud on a summer’s day.

  But, just because he was still a bachelor didn't mean he wanted to be bothered with stray females, not that Mrs Hall could in anyway be deserving of such a title as his eyes scrolled over her neat bobbed hair and sparkling blue eyes, but you could never tell. There was that incident a few months ago when his lordship had discovered a telephone number and a naughty message tucked into the inside pocket of his cashmere topcoat after he’d picked it up from the dry cleaners. He’d glared at him until he spotted it had been addressed to Jeeves, something he’d found incredibly funny for some unknown reason.

  He suddenly realised he had yet to answer her: ‘Oh, it might come in useful as my wife has been delayed, but she plans to join me later.’

  She gave him a sharp glance but, instead of commenting just pushed the red book towards him before handing him a matching red plastic biro. ‘Would you like the full English in the morning?’

  ‘A full English will be fine, Susan. I'll just take my bags up to my room.’

  ‘You do that. No lift I'm afraid. The stairs are around the corner. Enjoy your evening, Mr Hopper. My husband locks the door at midnight.’

  That's good to know, in more ways than one, as he heaved a sigh at the sweetest word of all – husband!

  Finally escaping, he made his way up the stairs, all the time wondering what had made him travel all the way to Blackpool. He could have booked a cheap package holiday on Costa Brava and yet here he was; in a part of the UK he didn't know and all because some woman he hadn't met in years had asked him to help her train the contestants for the next dance festival at The Winter Gardens.

  He was a sucker for a sob story, he thought, plonking his bag on the spare bed before giving his surroundings a cursory glance. It didn’t really matter that the carpet was 1960’s swirly red and brown or that the en-suite was a fine shade of puce pink. It was clean and tidy and that’s all that mattered. Propping the lid open, he removed the neatly folded shirts and trousers before shaking out his tails. He didn’t really know what had possessed him to include his dress suit as his dancing days were well and truly over but, as butler to one of the most distinguished families, he was well versed in preparing for any eventuality.

  ‘Too slow, too slow Margo and Malcolm. Too quick, Penelope and Paddy. Beverley, just perfect. Everyone just look at Beverley and her head position. Joshua, your hand…’

  ‘My hand, Miss Peel?’

  ‘Yes, your hand. In the Ballroom Tango, as you very well know, the man’s fingers stay on his partner’s back.’ Her gaze fixed on his hand until he slid it back up to where it belonged.

  He’d decided to walk off his double egg, sausage and bacon breakfast with a stroll down the promenade before pulling out a scrap of paper from his pocket and following the directions to the Rosebush Dance Studio, not that there were any roses in sight, but dance studios were the same the world over. It wasn’t what they looked like on the outside it was the hard work, dedication and discipline on the inside that ensured the tiny studio tucked behind the bus depot was world renowned for the excellent, record-beating dancers it produced. He’d never doubted that Lavender Peel, his former dancing partner, would be successful but this successful…?

  His gaze shifted from the pretty brunette, partnering Joshua of the wandering hands and back to his friend. He just wondered at her wisdom in asking him to help. He knew it was an emergency, what with Guy falling down the stairs, but it had been a long time, a very long time. Dancing wasn’t like riding a bike and, by the amount of dust he’d had to remove from his shoes, it had been longer than he cared to admit since he’d swirled anyone around the floor. His eyes, like magnets, were drawn again to Joshua’s partner as she continued to struggle with the position of his hand. A real creep if ever there was one, was his final thought before finding himself being launched at by the five foot dynamo that was Lavender Peel.

  ‘Hopper, it’s been so long.’ She jumped into his arms, wrapping her wiry legs around his waist with a laugh before planting a deep kiss against his lips.


  She’d always been flamboyant, or maybe he was getting staid in his old age but, gently easing her back to the ground, he felt a blush score his cheeks, his eyes careful to avoid the gaze of the performers that had stopped to watch, specifically one pair of eyes. It was as if he’d suddenly developed a location beacon in the back of his head. He gave himself a little shake: it was all very peculiar but wherever he looked all he could see was thick chestnut brown hair, yards of it coiled into a neat bun at the nape of her neck.

  ‘Come and meet the team,’ Lavender said, interrupting his thoughts with a tug on his arm. ‘It’s really the Ballroom Tango I’ll be needing you for, the rest is all taken care of,’ she added, clapping her hands to draw the attention of the dancers.

  ‘People, this is Mr Hopper, some of you may have heard of him?’ She smiled at the sight of a few nodding heads. ‘That’s right; the very same Mr Hopper that took the Royal Albert Hall by storm. You’ve seen the viral YouTube video, now here he is in person to help us rock at the Winter Gardens.’ She paused, her attention now on the twelve couples standing apart, all that is except for Joshua who continued to glue himself to his partner’s side.

  Hopper frowned but said nothing. There was an unwritten etiquette in a dance studio and, at the moment Lavender had the floor. ‘We have two days to get our act together, or rather for Hopper to see what you’re made of. At the end of it we’ll meet up and decide which of you are good enough to enter. Your Waltz, Quickstep, Slow Foxtrot and even your Viennese Waltz are all fantastic. I just don’t know what it is about the poor little Tango that’s causing all the problems…’ She clapped her hands again. ‘Right, back to basics and footsteps.’ She turned to him. ‘We break for lunch at noon for an hour. They’re all yours.’

  There’ll all mine – Great, his eyes and his attention studiously avoiding one specific part of the room.

  ‘Right then, as you know my name is Hopper…’ He paused at the sound of a laugh from the back. Wandering through the group that parted in front of him like Moses and the Red Sea he soon found himself standing in front of Joshua.

  ‘Well, you must admit it’s funny?’

  ‘What exactly do you find funny?’

  ‘You a dancer, with a name like Hopper,’ he said, casting his smirk around the room.

  ‘Really? And you are called?’

  ‘Me, I’m called?’

  ‘Your name, or is that such a difficult concept, Mr Me I’m Called? After all, you do seem to have difficulty with other parts of your anatomy.’ His eyes on Joshua’s hands.

  ‘Now hold on a minute…’

  ‘No, you hold on a minute. We’re here to dance. No, we’re here to win. This isn’t the Pleasure Beach. This isn’t Blackpool Tower or the chance to appear on the telly. This is serious stuff. I suggest you start acting like an adult or you leave. The door is over there.’ He swivelled on his heel, his eyes scanning the room. ‘And that goes for the rest of you. You stay here and work, you work until your blisters have blisters and you have no tears left, or you go.’ He stormed to the chair in the corner before sitting down and crossing his legs.

  He didn’t look at them. He couldn’t, even if he’d wanted to. In truth, he wanted to run out of the room and head back to the safety and security of Cosgrave Manor. He’d given up dancing, a career he’d loved because he couldn’t cope with dealing with prats like this Joshua chap. He wasn’t made that way. All he wanted was to be left alone with a cuppa and a book and yet, here he was acting the strong alpha male, the role he despised above all others. He wasn’t an alpha. He wasn’t sure if he was a beta, but he wasn’t a dweeb and he certainly wasn't a mug.

  He could hear them shuffling from one foot to the other and loud whispers of ‘Joshua, you idiot’, but he ignored them until his sixth sense kicked in for the second time in his life and he looked up into the prettiest pair of blue eyes he’d ever seen. It was the girl with the brown hair standing in front of him with a shy smile. He liked it when she smiled, his lips twitching in return.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You don’t need to mind Joshua, Mr Hopper…’

  ‘Hopper is fine. And you are?’

  ‘Beverley. Beverley Markey. Joshua is my… my partner.’

  Of course he is, his heart squeezing tight at the thought of this lovely shy girl and that odious man. Tilting his head for her to take her place back on the floor he clapped his hands.

  ‘Right, that’s the fun over. Men on the left side of the room, women on the right. This morning it’s back to foot basics. This afternoon we will work on your hands.’

  It was a long day, a very long day. He’d forgotten just how tiring it was and he hadn’t been doing any dancing, just a lot of shouting and pulling his hair out – it was lucky he had any left. At this rate he’d be bald by the time he went home. Great two week holiday this was turning out to be although, with the competition finishing on Tuesday, he’d still have a few days to perhaps find a lake somewhere to sit beside with his rod.

  He dismissed them at six and headed for the showers, keen to get changed back into his jeans and shirt. Leotards and leggings were alright but he couldn’t help feeling he was reaching the age where he should stick to jogging bottoms and t-shirts as he rolled back the cuffs on his blue cotton shirt and slipped on his brown loafers. He was a free agent until the morning so he decided on a quick walk before heading to the newsagents for a couple of papers. He’d squirrel himself away in a pub with a pint or two before it was time to hunt down something to eat in one of the many cafes and restaurants that straddled the sea front.

  Apart from a few hardy individuals the beach was empty. He took his time wandering to the shoreline to feel the cool water against his toes. He should have thought to bring his trunks. A nice cool swim after being stuck in a stuffy dance studio would have been just the thing to work up an appetite but, now with all the shops closed, there’d be little chance of that and commando wasn’t regulation wear according to any butler’s guide he’d ever come across.

  Heading back up the beach he sat down in the shadow of the Blackpool Tower, but he didn’t see the donkeys with their dark red collars and shiny coats: he didn’t see the Blackpool Pier stretched out on his right or the ice-cream van starting to pack up. All he saw was a pair of fine eyes and the sweetest smile. He’d lost count of the amount of times he’d had to pick Joshua up on the position of his hands. It was getting to the stage where he was doing it to annoy him, and it had worked. She hadn’t been wearing a ring so, even if they were a couple they weren’t official. But how someone as lovely as that chose to go out with a git like Joshua was beyond him. It wasn’t any of his business, he told himself as he stood up and brushed the sand off his jeans. He was here to find those nuggets of gold for Lavender and then he was off fishing.

  He found a little pizzeria not far from the guesthouse and, propping his book in front of him, glanced at it occasionally to put off any interruptions from the crowd of hen party revellers at the next table. God, he was too old for this game. He pretended to turn the page as he refused both coffee and pudding, instead just paying the bill there and then. He’d make his escape while they still let him: he’d already been asked to scrawl his name across the bride to be’s ample bosom and now they were asking if he’d like to rate the bridesmaids out of ten. As he’d decided early on that none of them were worth more than a two (and that was him being generous) he made some excuse about meeting a friend and almost ran out of the restaurant.

  Sitting on the steps staring out to sea, he finally decided it was time to give up dancing. He wouldn’t let Lavender down but, after they’d whittled down the candidates to the last three pairs, he’d hang up his dancing shoes for good.

  Apart from a couple of ambitious lovers, the beach was empty; empty and quiet. He could still make out the shadows on the sand from the twinkling lights cast from the South Pier; shadows only interrupted by the pools of water left by the falling tide. If he listened, he could just make out the sounds from
the amusement arcade humming in the background but that was all. It was as if he was alone in the world, alone and…

  He didn’t know what made him turn except perhaps that new sense he seemed to have acquired earlier. He was being watched, and watched by her. How could that be? And yet, turning his head slightly, there she was standing on the steps down to the beach. He’d recognise her anywhere, even though she’d changed out of her bright pink leotard hours ago. He wouldn’t deny he’d liked her in Lycra but she was prettier somehow, prettier and more vulnerable in a light summer dress sprinkled with flowers. Her hair, her wondrous hair had escaped the confines of her bun and now flowed across her shoulders and down her back almost reaching her waist. But it wasn’t her dress or her hair he focused on. It was her face and the sheen of tears glistening in the gentle light.

  Leaping to his feet he rushed to her side, dragging out a folded handkerchief from his pocket. ‘Miss Markey, you’re upset. How can I be of assistance?’

  ‘It’s nothing really. Don’t worry about…’

  ‘But I do, I am.’ He thrust the handkerchief into her hand before taking her arm and leading her to one of the benches and helping her sit down.

  ‘You’re shivering,’ he added, noting the tell-tale quivering on her skin with a frown. His eyes shifted to the rounded neckline and he clenched his jaw. It looked like she’d caught her dress with the way the top buttons had ripped through the fabric to be left hanging by a thread. She’d caught her dress or someone had tried to… He blinked. He didn’t feel he knew her well enough to ask her about her relationship with Joshua, but he hoped she’d tell him so he could help. After all she might very well have just caught the material on something… Any other cause was just too horrible to contemplate.