‘If you’ve got that sort of money,’ Alison insisted, ‘you could have lent some of it to me.’
That surprised him. ‘What for?’
‘In case you haven’t noticed,’ she said, looking up and down the street meaningfully, ‘I haven’t got a car. I’ve had a driving licence since I was eighteen and no car.’
‘What do you want a car for?’ he said. ‘We’ve always gone everywhere in my car.’ He decided to tease her a bit. ‘Or isn’t a BMW good enough for you?’
She didn’t respond to the teasing. ‘So you’ll be giving us a lift to work,’ she said flatly.
‘Not bloody likely,’ he said quickly and he wasn’t teasing. ‘I’m not having your horrible sticky kids wiping their fingers all over my nice new upholstery. Let ’em walk. Do ’em good.’ And he adjusted the sunroof and backed out of the alley as quickly as he could.
There are times, Alison thought, when he can be really unbelievably selfish.
In the cramped offices of the Alexander Jones Agency in Guildford, the windows could be opened only four inadequate inches. Outside, in the cobbled street that led uphill to the centre of the town, drivers ground gears, swore and sweated, the stink from their exhausts fouling what fresh air there was. Inside, the air was so stale and hot that by ten o’clock in the morning it was impossible to hold a pen, a civilised conversation or even an opinion. To make matters worse Mr Jones was clearing his desk before cruising off on his second holiday of the year. ‘Clearing his desk’ meant interviewing each of his three employees in turn to check on the current state of the cases they were investigating.
Morgan Griffiths was the first to occupy the hot seat because he was the most senior member of the team.
‘What’s the latest from Jaffa Jewels?’ Mr Jones wanted to know.
‘The shop in Maidstone’s gone bankrupt.’
‘We expected that.’
‘Eastbourne seem to be holdin’ on. Just about. They’ve promised a payment in September. The Chichester shops have just paid £1,000.’
‘Did we have to use any pressure?’
‘No.’
‘How many visits did you make?’
‘One.’
‘Well that’s all very satisfactory,’ Mr Jones said, wiping the sweat from his bald patch with a crumpled handkerchief. ‘If we can’t bill them for a large fee at least we can claim efficiency. Anything new in this morning? No. Send Barbara in then.’
Barbara Kirkby was a married woman in her late forties. She grimaced at Morgan as he passed on the message.
‘Don’t tell me,’ she joked. ‘He’s going to offer to take us all with him to the Mediterranean.’
‘I’d settle for a day in Brighton,’ Roger said. As the third and most junior member of the team he got all the worst jobs. For the last five days he’d been stuck in the office, manning the phone.
A day at the sea, Morgan thought longingly, remembering the long sandy beaches at Hampton. The thought suddenly sprouted into an uncharacteristic plan.
‘Well why not?’ he said. ‘There’s no reason why we got to do our paperwork here. We’d have to put in the right number of hours, make sure there was always someone here to man the phone. But we could rearrange our hours, if you see what I mean. We could take it in turns to be off for a day, couldn’t we. Working away, like.’
It was a wonderful idea.
‘We could fill in files on a train,’ Roger said.
‘Or on a beach,’ Barbara said. ‘And I thought you were the original upright man.’
The plan was agreed, which was how Morgan Griffiths contrived to be driving into Hampton again on a glorious summer morning.
Heat shimmered phantom pools across the road ahead, the weald was languid, foliage sticky, stubble burnt brown. He drove at speed, wearing dark glasses against the glare and enjoying the slip-stream of cooler air as it blew past his cheeks. Despite the languor of the day he felt charged with excitement. First stop the beach, he thought.
In Butlin’s holiday camp they were better prepared for heat. The campers spent their days in shorts and T-shirts, or skimpy swimming costumes, the pools were crowded, there were iced drinks a-plenty and every window in the place was opened wide. In the four huge restaurants, all the doors were open too, to dispel the heat from the central kitchen.
Brad was on duty that morning, cool looking in her black and white uniform with her scarlet hair tied back with a wide black ribbon. She was in a determinedly cheerful mood, saucing the elderly campers, petting the kids, teasing the girls and giving the eye to all the men she passed.
‘There y’are kid,’ she said to Jon, when she reached Alison’s table. ‘The biggest chocolate sundae in the whole wide world.’ Because it was school holiday time he’d spent the morning in the camp play-group while his mother was working and he deserved a reward.
The child was overawed. ‘Ta!’
‘Eat it nicely,’ Alison warned. He was wearing a pale blue T-shirt that morning and she didn’t want chocolate stains all down the front of it.
‘So how’s tricks?’ Brad said, tucking her tray under her arm and leaning both hands on the table.
‘Complicated,’ Alison told her. ‘We’ve had six double bookings and one treble.’
‘Typical,’ Brad said, grinning. But then her expression changed, suddenly and most dramatically, from lifted smile to down-turned fury.
‘Je-sus!’ she said. And with that she was across the room in four strides banging into tables as she went. ‘You bloody little git!’ Before anyone could stop her she had seized one of the campers by the throat. He jumped to his feet, struggling to get away from her, but she shook him so hard that his head jerked back and hit the wall behind him.
The hall erupted, campers on their feet, shrieking, waiters and waitresses scattering in all directions, the timid panicking back to the kitchen, the foolhardy and the rubber-necks stampeding towards the fracas. By the time the crowd had thinned enough for Alison to see what was happening, Brad was turning out the young man’s pockets.
‘Hand it all over,’ she was bellowing. ‘And yer wallet, you thieving git.’
Alison could see a heap of coins and assorted jewellery on the table. Recognisable jewellery, most of it gold and all of it Brad’s. Brad’s hand threw down a bundle of notes. The camper’s face was as white as paper.
But then the supervisor was at Brad’s elbow, leading her away, and the camper took off and ran through the hall, knocking cups and cutlery from the tables as he went. Alison didn’t know which way to look – at Jon, who was stolidly eating his ice-cream, at Emma who was picking smarties out of their carton one by one, at Brad who was being marched into the kitchen or at the camper who was being detained by two security guards just outside the open doors.
‘I’ll see you in the car,’ Brad called to her. ‘Wait for me.’
In thirty impressive seconds the restaurant was set to rights. Waiters were dispatched to clear the broken crockery, meals re-served, cheerful muzak relayed on the tannoy, the families who’d been sitting in the vicinity of Brad’s attack moved to another and better part of the hall. By the time Jon had finished his melting ice-cream, nobody could have guessed there had ever been anything wrong.
But Brad didn’t come back.
Alison took her children off to the toilets to clean their sticky hands. Then they walked through the camp to the staff car park and Brad’s battered Mini. But there was still no sign of her friend. They waited twenty minutes as the sun baked the tops of their heads and the tarmac bubbled in the heat. Emma fell asleep in the buggy in a most uncomfortable position and Jon ran round the cars until he was red in the face and out of breath and desperate for a drink.
‘All right,’ Alison said, when he’d asked her for a third time, ‘I’ll just leave a note for Brad and we’ll go home.’ Which she did, adding as a PS ‘See you on the beach.’
As the tide was out they walked home along the sands, paddling in the shallow water and stopping from time to tim
e to splash their arms and legs and faces. Emma woke to scrabble out of her harness and then fell straight into the sea water, where she rolled like a porpoise until her dress was soaked and her arms were covered in sand. It was one of the best walks they’d had in a long time.
‘We’ll nip back to the house and get some drinks and your buckets and spades,’ Alison said, ‘and then we’ll come straight back and make a castle with a moat. How about that?’
Rapturous agreement. So rapturous that Jon actually agreed to sit in the buggy and be pushed so as to get home and back as quickly as possible.
When they returned to the beach, laden with bags and buckets and straw mats, Brad was sitting against the breakwater sunning her legs and as cheerful as ever. She’d moussed her hair into its cockatoo quiff, put on her full make-up and changed out of her black and white uniform into a scarlet T-shirt and a pair of purple and black cycling shorts.
‘What’s this?’ she said to the children. ‘Sand pies?’
‘We’re going to make a castle,’ Jon told her.
‘Tastle!’ Emma echoed.
‘Come on then,’ Brad said. ‘Bags I first go with the bucket.’
‘What was all that about?’ Alison said as the castle began to take shape.
‘Thieving little git,’ Brad said, shovelling vigorously. ‘I found him in the pub last night. Took him home, didden I? An’ he only went through my jewel box an’ nicked my purse.’
‘Oh Brad!’
‘D’you see his face when he saw me?’
Jon staggered up the beach with a bucket full of water and hurled it at the moat. Most of it landed on Brad’s legs.
‘Cor! Lovely!’ she approved. ‘You can do that again any time sunshine.’
‘What happened next?’ Alison said, as she and Brad toiled together on either side of the moat.
‘They called the police, didden they.’
‘And?’
‘Did I want to press charges.’
‘And did you?’
‘Not ’alf. I don’t work my guts out day after day so’s some thieving little toe-rag can run off with the goodies.’
‘But what about you?’ Alison said. ‘Weren’t they cross?’
‘Oh yes,’ Brad said easily, standing up to stretch her spine and to see how much further they’d got to dig. ‘I got me cards.’
‘They sacked you?’
‘Well no. They would ha’ done though. I give ’em me notice before they had the chance.’
‘Oh Brad! What’ll you do now?’
‘Get another job,’ Brad said cheerfully.
‘But what if you can’t?’
‘I’ll find something,’ Brad said. ‘Old people’s home. Lavatory attendant. They’re advertising for wardmaids up St Mary’s.’
‘Oh Brad!’ Alison said. ‘That’s awful.’
Brad shrugged. ‘They’re only jobs,’ she said.
‘I wanta n’orange,’ Emma said.
‘An’ you shall have one, my sunshine,’ Brad said. ‘Where’s the bottle Ali?’ She looked up the beach to where they’d left their belongings and her tone changed. ‘I say Ali, there’s a feller lookin’ at you.’
‘No there isn’t,’ Alison said, with the perfect confidence of being right. ‘If any fellers are looking our way they’ll be looking at you.’
‘He’s coming over,’ Brad said. ‘So we shall see, shan’t we.’
Vaguely curious, Alison stopped digging and stood up to see what her friend was talking about. There was a man walking down the shingle towards them, a big, solid-looking man in a short-sleeved shirt and faded jeans, a man with a chunky face, gingery hair on his head and a lot of darker hair on his forearms. At first she didn’t recognise who he was, but as he got closer and smiled at her, she remembered.
‘It’s the Welshman,’ she said. ‘Look Jon. Here’s the man who pulled you out of the pool.’
‘Morgan Griffiths,’ he said. ‘I saw you from the promenade. I thought it was you.’
‘Alison Toan,’ Alison said, feeling she ought to tell him her name. She introduced him to Brad.
He shook hands with them both, formally.
‘We’re makin’ a moat,’ Jon told him importantly. ‘Mum’s diggin.’’
‘So I see.’
‘You can dig too if you like,’ the little boy offered.
He hesitated. ‘What does your mam say?’
‘More hands make light work,’ Alison told him.
So he joined them, helped to finish the channel and enlarge the moat and was fed biscuits and orange juice as a reward for his hard work. Then he sat on the pebbles and watched while Brad and Jon went for a swim to cool down and Alison and Emma decorated the sides of the castle with shells. After a few seconds she looked up at him and smiled.
‘You’re always doin’ things with your kids,’ he said, feeling he ought to speak. ‘Playin’ games and makin’ things.’
She took that as the compliment he intended. ‘That’s family life for you. We like doing things together, don’t we Emma? We’re going to Brighton on Monday. Me an’ Brad an’ the kids.’
‘Won’t you be at work?’
‘No,’ she said, patting the side of the castle which was in danger of dissolving. ‘I’m taking four days holiday. To give them a few treats.’
‘Very nice. Is your husband on holiday too?’
‘No. Only me. He’s got to work.’
‘Ah.’
‘So we’re off on the razzle, aren’t we kids? Brighton Monday, Hotham Park Tuesday, Portsmouth Wednesday.’
‘Very nice.’
‘Are you on holiday too?’ she asked. ‘Or are you working?’
‘No,’ he said seriously. ‘Neither really. Just a day off.’
‘Ah. Come over here a minute Emma, there’s a good little girl. You need some more sun cream.’
He watched as she rubbed cream on to the baby’s shoulders, hugged her and tumbled her about, and played their old, well-tried game. ‘Who loves yer?’
‘You do,’ the baby said chording with pleasure.
‘No,’ feigning surprise. ‘I don’t, do I?’
‘Yes. Yes. You do.’
‘Oh well then, I shall have to kiss your tummy.’
Squeals of pleasure. Breathless hugs. Sand sprayed in every direction in a loving skirmish.
She’s so feminine, Morgan thought, admiring her gentle hands and the curves of her cheeks and her arms and her breasts. Her dark hair was laced with sand and her bare skin tanned to the prettiest colour. In fact she was turning him on so powerfully he had to shift into a different position to hide the state he was in.
She looked across at him, smiling lazily, her eyes very green in the sunlight.
If she wasn’t a married woman, he thought, I could really fall for her. Out a’ the question, of course, but I can enjoy her company. There’s nothing wrong with that. If she doesn’t want me to be with them she’ll soon say so.
‘Isn’t it lovely not to have to work,’ she said.
‘You look like an advertisement for the sunny south coast,’ he said.
‘The water’s wicked,’ Brad said, charging up the sand with Jon in tow. ‘Come on in you lot. You’ll love it.’
‘Later perhaps,’ Morgan said. He could hardly strip to his trunks, the state he was in.
The afternoon spread before them, idle with heat and well-being. The sea was spangled with sunshine and so warm that they all went for a swim one after the other while the children paddled and sat in the water up to their chins. Pond-sized ripples edged the tide gradually up the beach, and soon – too soon – the sun was an orange disc half way towards the horizon.
‘We should be getting home,’ Alison said regretfully, ‘or these two’ll never go to bed tonight.’
‘Would you like a lift?’ Morgan offered.
‘No thanks. It’s only up the road.’
She was already shaking the sand from the towels, packing her bag and stacking the plastic buckets one inside the oth
er. Suddenly he knew that he didn’t want to part from her. He had to think of some other way to prolong the day. Or find some excuse to see her again. Her and the kids.
She and Brad worked together folding the towels.
‘I’ve got to be in Brighton on Monday,’ he lied, looking at them. ‘Maybe we could meet somewhere.’
He was a bit disappointed when it was Brad who answered him. ‘Have you?’ she said, giving him her teasing look.
‘Yes. We could go for a meal perhaps.’
‘It would have to be McDonald’s,’ she grinned.
‘That’s fine by me.’
‘You don’t want the kids tagging along, do you?’ Alison said.
‘Yes, course. It’s the kids I’m invitin’ really. It’s their holiday, issen it.’
Alison thought about it, her head tilted against the sunlight. ‘Well all right then,’ she said at last. ‘We’d like that, wouldn’t we kids?’
‘West Pier at ten o’clock,’ Brad said, brushing the sand from her legs.
‘I’ll be there.’
‘Well, well, well,’ Brad teased, as she and Alison and the kids walked back to Shore Street. ‘You’re a dark horse an’ no mistake, Ali Toan.’
‘It’s not like that,’ Alison said, annoyed with herself to be blushing. ‘He’s after you.’
‘I don’t particularly want him. You can ’ave him if you like.’
‘I don’t want him,’ Alison protested.
‘He’s all right,’ Brad said. ‘Not my cup a’ tea, but a bloody sight better than the Great-I-Am.’
‘Oh don’t start that, Brad,’ Alison begged. ‘You know we can’t agree about him.’
‘When was the last time he came down on the beach with you an’ the kids?’ Brad wanted to know. ‘Never.’
‘Oh come on, Brad. He’s just opened a new shop.’
Brad snorted. ‘New shop,’ she scorned. ‘If he’d got any sense he’d be paying a bit more attention to his old wife.’
They were waiting for a break in the home-going traffic in the Selsey Road. It was very hot and stuffy now they were away from the beach, and the pavements were smeared with spilt drinks and dropped ice-cream. Alison suddenly felt weary. It was going to be a long, hot evening, cooped up in the house with the children, all on her own. Brad was right. Rigg ought to spend more time with them.
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