What Became of You My Love?

by Maeve Haran

  ‘What are you doing up so early?’

  ‘I was going to go for a run and I got waylaid by these croissants. Why don’t you have one? They’re delicious. Duncan told me about you and Cameron last night. Don’t give it a second thought. You won’t dent Cameron’s ego. He’s impermeable. Things just run off him. So cheer up and have another croissant. They’re remarkably good, even though I bought them in the gas station.’

  ‘Debora, you are entirely wonderful. Thank you for the croissant and the chocolate. I’m going to have to desert you to go and look for my grandson. One of Roxy’s followers says they might have seen him in Hove. Near the beach huts. I think he might be staying in one.’

  ‘Cool. I think your beach huts are so cute. Why doesn’t everyone stay in them?’

  ‘I don’t think you’re allowed to. There’s probably a by-law to stop you. There are by-laws to stop you doing most things you want to do, I seem to remember as a kid.’

  ‘Well, good luck. How are things back in Camley?’

  Stella realized, with a pang of guilt, that she hadn’t checked yet today.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Debora reassured her. ‘I’ll make sure everything’s on course. Following Cameron around isn’t a full-time job. As a matter of fact, he seems to be behaving.’

  ‘You still love him, don’t you?’

  ‘Well, you know,’ Debora replied calmly, ‘me and Tammy Wynette seem to be one-man women.’

  Debora waved her goodbye.

  Stella jumped on the first bus that came along and got off as soon as she glimpsed a row of beach huts. There were rows and rows as far as the eye could see with doors in orange, turquoise, lemon, hot-pink, purple and sea-green. As it was a Thursday and very early, most of the huts were still closed up. The open ones seemed to be occupied by oldies in bathing costumes with skin like pickled walnuts or young mums with babies or toddlers too young for school. It struck Stella that there were more dogs than people at this hour, scampering along the edge of the shingle where the tide had left strands of seaweed and patches of greyish sand to explore.

  She felt the kick of excitement as she started her search. Maybe at last she was going to discover her missing grandson.

  An hour later, the excitement was beginning to ebb with the receding tide. She had shown the photograph to all the people she came across, an ice-cream man and the owner of a cafe-kiosk which sold everything from bacon sandwiches to fragrant French crêpes, but no one seemed to have seen either the boy or the dog. Stella bought herself a latte and resumed the search.

  After an hour of searching, she was beginning to feel desperate. A man with a dog a bit like Jesse’s lurcher stopped for a moment to use his phone and she made one last attempt to show him the photograph and explain the story.

  He shook his head. ‘You should ask the Beach Hut Man. He knows everyone down here.’

  ‘The Beach Hut Man?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know his name or where he lives, but he’s usually around here somewhere. He mends beach huts. Like a public service. Doesn’t charge anyone except materials. Bit eccentric, really, but a nice bloke. I don’t know what he lives off. Certainly not mending beach huts.’

  Stella thanked him, feeling a tiny bit better. For what seemed like miles she wandered up and down the beach huts in search of a character who seemed to be more elusive than the Scarlet Pimpernel. Eventually, exhausted, she went back to The Old Galleon. Wondering if maybe she should say sorry, she went up and knocked on Cameron’s door, but it was Duncan who appeared on the landing.

  ‘Too early for Cam, I’m afraid.’

  Still a little embarrassed about last night, Stella shrugged and made for the stairs. Duncan came with her. The lobby was empty. Outside the sun shone invitingly. Stella said goodbye and crossed the road, darting between cars, and stood on the seafront, breathing in the salt air. To her surprise Duncan was still at her side.

  Life in Brighton started slowly and they had the whole of the prom to themselves. ‘I can see why people love it here,’ she announced, more wistfully than she had intended.

  ‘Not missing Camley, then?’

  Stella looked at him, wondering if the question were loaded. After all, it was true she wasn’t missing Camley.

  Out of nowhere a group of grizzled but frighteningly fit rollerbladers swooped past and almost knocked them down so that Duncan had to grab her and pull her out of the way. ‘They’re not taking any prisoners. I hope I’m that fit at seventy. Have you ever tried it?’

  ‘What?’ she asked, momentarily confused.

  ‘Rollerblading,’ he laughed.

  ‘I’m not the physical type.’ Stella shook her head.

  ‘Me neither. Always the last to be picked for football.’ He stood looking at the pier for a moment, the breeze ruffling his hair and bringing a sparkle to his grey-blue eyes. He was still a good-looking man. Success and America had given him a laid-back image that suited him. ‘Funny, I don’t think I’m a physical coward but there’s one thing I’ve always hated the idea of.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  He pointed to the pier which was just opening up for business. ‘Rollercoasters! It’s ridiculous because the odds of being killed are far greater crossing the road but they scare the hell out of me.’

  Stella laughed. ‘Me too. I could never go on them with Emma and I felt a real wuss. I used to fantasize that I’d go to a theme park on my own and have a go.’

  ‘Let’s do it.’ He grabbed her hand before she had time to protest and announced in the kind of pompous voice they had on newsreels: ‘Together they conquered their fear and faced the uncertain future.’

  Then they were running along the prom, Stella shaking her head and trying to protest that this was nuts.

  ‘Turbo Coaster or Crazy Mouse?’ Duncan asked, as they went through the entrance.

  Stella glanced at the girl in the booth enquiringly. ‘The Crazy Mouse is famous for its negative vertical G forces,’ she announced in a voice devoid of interest.

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’ Stella demanded.

  The girl winked. ‘It means it’s pretty fucking scary.’

  ‘C’mon, let’s go for it.’ Duncan took her hand again and they headed along the pier past the Twister and the Wild River and the terrifying Turbo Coaster. Stella glanced back with longing at the dodgems and the Waltzer.

  ‘Do we really have to?’

  But they were already climbing up towards the start of the Crazy Mouse.

  ‘We’re only just opening, mate,’ the attendant greeted them. ‘Only two of you?’ You’ll be flung together, then, won’t you?’

  And then they were secured and the bar was coming down on the car, and before Stella had time for further protests they started off.

  They headed towards the first bend quite slowly, with the sea beyond, forty feet down. This wasn’t so bad.

  Another bend.

  And another.

  With the town behind them and the sea below, the car began to swirl dizzyingly and drop, drop, drop, swooping downwards so fast that the air was knocked from her lungs and she opened her mouth and screamed before the whole thing began again.

  ‘Holy shit!’ Stella shouted inelegantly. ‘Whose crazy idea was this?’

  And down they swooped again.

  She realized she was hanging on to Duncan with one hand and the bar with the other. The words ‘white-knuckle ride’ popped into her consciousness.

  And then some miracle took place.

  She actually began to enjoy it! She turned to him, laughing, and found that he was laughing too. By some trick of the light or the wind, he looked thirty years younger. What a great smile he had, somehow she hadn’t noticed. All that American dentistry, she told herself firmly.

  At last they slowed down and arrived back at the beginning. ‘Well,’ Stella grinned, ‘that was the longest one minute and twenty seconds of my life!’

  For answer, Duncan leaned over and kissed her lightly on the lips.

&n
bsp; It was so sudden and unexpected that Stella almost wondered if she’d imagined it.

  She stared back at him, trying to interpret what he meant by it.

  ‘Right, folks,’ the operator reassured her she hadn’t gone mad. ‘Break it up now. Don’t forget to get your picture.’ He grinned broadly. ‘Unless you’re married to other people.’

  He turned away, laughing at his own joke.

  Duncan dragged her to the booth where their photo was already available.

  In the photograph they both had their heads thrown back and were looking surprisingly happy.

  ‘We’re not buying that!’ she insisted, but Duncan was already handing over the money. ‘Come on,’ he stuffed the photograph into his coat pocket, ‘let’s go and get a doughnut. You haven’t lived till you’ve had a doughnut on Brighton Pier. They’re the food of the gods.’

  They were cooked on the spot and only came in packets of three or six. ‘Six, obviously,’ Duncan insisted. ‘We deserve it.’

  The doughnuts were hot, amazingly light and melted in the mouth, quite unlike the usual stodgy, doughy things that stuck to the roof of your mouth.

  ‘There you go. Two new experiences in one morning. Not bad for a pair of sexagenarians.’

  Three new experiences, Stella almost added, but Duncan was already looking at his phone. ‘Some minor crisis at the Dome. I’m afraid I’ll have to go. At least it isn’t the star being out cold this time. Yet. You are coming to the show, aren’t you?’

  ‘With Debora, I expect.’

  ‘Great. There’ll be some kind of do afterwards for family and friends.’

  It was on the tip of Stella’s tongue to ask: ‘Is Amber going to be there?’ but she realized how presumptuous it would sound. Quite probably it had meant nothing, a happy gesture on a happy day. What was the matter with her? She wasn’t some silly seventeen-year-old. So Duncan had kissed her. It must have been the exhilaration of the moment, nothing more.

  Duncan turned left out of The Old Galleon and cut through the Lanes towards the Dome. A Big Issue seller brandished a copy at him. ‘Help the homeless, mate!’ He had a gaunt junkie’s face with long, lank hair and most of his teeth missing. Duncan glanced at the magazine. It featured a huge photograph of Cameron on the cover. Laughing, Duncan held out his money.

  ‘Poor bloke, eh?’ was the seller’s surprising response. ‘I may be down on my luck but at least I haven’t got gout. I thought gout was something only that old bloke who built the Pavilion would have . . . what’s ’is name? Prince somebody.’

  ‘The Prince Regent?’

  ‘That’s the one! I suppose it’s all the drugs these stars take.’ He winked knowingly at Duncan.

  Duncan walked on, looking for the nearest news-stand. He saw one on the corner of the Old Steine. There was Cameron’s face again, this time taking up the entire front page of the Daily Post, with the headline: A Pain in the Toe for Ageing Rock God. Great. How the hell had they got hold of that story? Virtually no one knew about Cam’s condition.

  He walked briskly north, picking up a takeaway coffee from the little Italian stall. ‘Don’t worry, mate,’ counselled the coffee seller. ‘It might never happen.’

  Duncan grinned ruefully. ‘It just did.’

  Feeling Groovy was on Kensington Gardens, one of the narrow streets he’d walked down with Stella. He smiled again at the name above the shop. How happy must they have been to come up with Feeling Groovy for a second-hand record shop?

  The place was almost empty apart from a lugubrious lurcher and a bored-looking assistant. ‘Anything I could help you with?’ asked the bearded assistant.

  ‘Thanks,’ Duncan replied. ‘I wondered if Jesse was about?’

  The bearded youth glanced behind him.

  ‘Who wants him?’ asked a voice from behind a beaded 1950s curtain. Then Jesse stepped out. ‘Duncan!’ Jesse looked suddenly hunted. ‘I wasn’t expecting you!’

  ‘Could we go and grab a coffee or something?’ Duncan enquired.

  ‘You’ve already got one,’ pointed out Jesse.

  ‘Take the dog for a walk, then?’

  ‘OK?’ he asked the assistant.

  ‘Fine.’ The beard nodded. ‘The Vinyl Appreciation Society don’t seem to be early risers. All those years of smoking dope seem to have slowed down their body clocks.’

  Duncan glanced at Jesse as they walked together, the dog on the lead between them. He looked fine. A little thin perhaps, but remarkably cheerful for a runaway.

  ‘How’ve you been?’

  ‘OK. You?’

  Duncan laughed. ‘I haven’t run away from home. Though occasionally I’d quite like to when Cameron gets particularly irritating.’ He paused, his eyes on Jesse. ‘Your gran’s here. She’s been looking everywhere for you.’

  ‘I’m glad someone has. Not my mum and dad, you note.’ The bitterness in his voice made Duncan reach out and put an arm round him. ‘Your mum was here too. Then Ruby got chicken pox.’

  ‘Not my dad, though. His diary is too full of convicts on death row to save. What’s a moody teenager compared to that?’

  ‘Look, Jesse. Can I go and find Stella? Will you stay at the shop till she comes? Not run off or anything?’

  ‘OK. Scout’s honour. Actually, I wasn’t allowed to join the Scouts. Too militaristic, according to Dad. It was the poncy Woodcraft Folk for me.’ Jesse sat down on a low wall and picked up Licorice. It touched Duncan to the core to see how the dog seemed to be his only source of affection.

  ‘How did you find me?’ Jesse asked.

  ‘Dora told Stella she’d heard from you. She really didn’t want to, Stella says, but she’s worried about you too. Then they tracked down your friend Kirsty.’

  ‘Kirsty warned me they’d been round.’

  ‘Your gran suggested you might work in a record shop.’ He grinned at Jesse. ‘Given your propensity for terrible Sixties music. So she and I went round them all looking for you. Do you realize there are six in Brighton? You couldn’t have chosen a place that only went for downloading? By the way, were you sleeping in Kirsty’s beach hut?’

  ‘Did she tell you?’

  ‘Stella worked it out from a photo she saw at Kirsty’s. All the hostels and homeless shelters had drawn a blank.’

  ‘You really did all look for me, then?’

  Jesse pretended to wipe his nose on his sleeve but Duncan guessed he was hiding his tears. ‘But we didn’t think you were allowed to.’

  ‘You’re not. Someone called the cops once. The Beach Hut Man knew about me, though. He caught me once and I thought that was it. But he’s OK. As soon as he saw I wasn’t vandalizing the place he let me help him with his jobs. He said it could be a kind of apprenticeship. So Gran’s been looking all over for me. She really does care, doesn’t she?’

  ‘I’m sure your mum and dad do too.’

  ‘Yeah, like they really show it.’

  ‘Do you have Stella’s mobile number?’

  Jesse laughed. ‘I do but she’s an old person, remember, no matter what she looks like. She’ll have her phone switched off.’

  Jesse was right. Stella would have been mortified, since she considered herself pretty phone-savvy. Duncan rang Debora instead and asked if she knew where Stella was.

  ‘Going to look at beach huts for some reason. She said she wanted to take some photographs.’

  ‘I’ll see you a bit later,’ Duncan instructed Jesse. ‘Don’t go away. Do you need money for anything?’

  Jesse grinned. ‘I’m earning, remember.’

  Duncan spotted a passing taxi and waved it down.

  Stella began walking along the strip of tarmac next to the shingle beach. As the time passed more beach-hut owners seemed to be in evidence but no one who fitted the description of the Beach Hut Man.

  A mile on she came across a man up a ladder, wearing only dungarees and a baseball cap, with a mahogany tan browner than the Cuprinol he was using to touch up a decaying rafter, and realized she’d struck gold.
Everyone who passed seemed to know him and called out a greeting or request that he might drop by and look at some damp or a leaking bit of clapboard. ‘You seem very popular,’ Stella called up to him.

  He came down the ladder and held out his hand.

  ‘That’s why they call me the Beach Hut Man.’

  She decided to let him talk a little and to win his trust before wading in with any requests about Jesse. ‘Are beach huts your hobby?’

  He grinned. ‘Obsession, my missus’d say. I love ’em. Can’t bear to see them fall into rack and ruin so I help repair them. For free.’

  ‘No wonder you’re popular. Are they all the same, the huts?’

  He laughed as if she’d cracked some uproarious joke. ‘As different as Buckingham Palace is to a budgie cage. Some folks do them up to the nines with shelves and nick-nacks and bunches of flowers and shells, other folks just use them as storage for their windbreaker and deck chairs.’

  Stella suddenly remembered the days they’d come to the seaside when she was a child, with a proper caravanserai of mother, father, aunties and uncles all carrying chairs, tables, cool bags, cushions, picnic baskets and, of course, the inevitable British windbreaker. The stripey windbreaker was as much a tradition of British holidaymaking as the towels your mum would hold up for your dad to protect his modesty.

  Stella took the photograph of Jesse out of her bag. ‘I just wondered if you’d seen this boy down here? He’s my grandson. I thought he might have been staying in a pale-blue and lime-green hut owned by some friends.’

  ‘Don’t the owners know?’

  ‘Their daughter might, but she isn’t saying.’

  ‘Teenagers, eh? Nice-looking lad,’ he said cagily.

  ‘Yes, but have you seen him?’

  He studied her intently, then decided to trust her. ‘I might have. A lad who looks a bit like that helps me sometimes.’

  ‘Do you know his name?’

  ‘He never said. I saw him down here late one night. Almost called the police. Then he came right up to me and held out a hand. Well, I couldn’t call the police after that, could I?’ He seemed to be giving something his deepest consideration.