The Beachcomber (10 page)

Maggie was still not convinced. “It’s just plain daft if you ask me! Look at what you’re doing. You’ve got two weeks’ wages and a week’s holiday pay, and a few savings – that ain’t gonna last long, is it? And from what your mother told you about the place being ‘derelict,’ you could be walking into a right dump.”

Kathy laughed. “Don’t exaggerate.”

Maggie persisted. “But how do you know, eh? You haven’t even seen it. What if it’s so bad you can’t even live in it, then what? All right, you could check into a hotel, but then your money will be gone faster than you can catch the next train back … that’s
if
you’ve got the fare.”

She was desperately worried. “Think again, Kathy. Give me a few days and I’ll get time off to go with you. It’s at the coast so there must be caravans there. We’ll rent one for a week and get the house sorted out at the same time. It’ll be fun. Oh, Kathy! Say you will?”

Kathy was half tempted, but on reflection her resolve hardened. “My mind’s made up. I’m catching the half past ten train and I’ll call you when I get there.” She loved Maggie and didn’t want her worrying. “Look, if you like you can still ask for time off and follow me down. I’d like that.”

“I’m not staying in no ‘derelict’ house, though!” Maggie was adamant. “I’m not as daft as you.”

Kathy laughed. “No, you’re dafter, or you wouldn’t be going out with that bloke.”

Maggie gave her a playful thump. “We’ll see.”

Kathy asked hopefully, “Do you think you
will
be able to get time off?”

“I’ll have a damned good try.”

Returning to stand the case on its end, she groaned when trying to lift it. “Like I said … I’m not carrying this thing down the stairs.”

“Stop moaning,
you
don’t have to,” Kathy explained. “I’ve ordered a taxi. The driver can take it down the stairs, and the porter will carry it for me at the station.”

Maggie gave a sigh of relief. “Thank God for that. Let
them
get the ruptures!”

There was still a lot more to do before the taxi arrived. “These are the boxes to be collected for the charity shop.” Kathy closed the last box. “And the rest is to be left for the landlord.” Pointing to a piled-up sofa, she told Maggie, “He paid me a few bob to leave all the curtains, bedding, rugs and towels … oh, and a few ornaments I don’t have use for. He wants to keep it all for his next tenant.”

Maggie tutted. “Tight git! You’d think he’d at least get some new stuff.”

Kathy agreed, but said, “He’s tight-fisted with his money. That’s why he’s rich and we’re not.”

“No, it’s not,” Maggie retorted. “He’s rich because he bought two houses along the street for next to nothing, and made them into eight flats.” She pulled a face that made Kathy laugh out loud. “…
And
because he’s a tight git!”

“You’re right.” Kathy had to agree. “We’d best get a move on or I’ll miss the train.” She began checking each room. “Best make sure everything’s all right before we leave,” she told Maggie. “I don’t want him to think I keep an untidy, dirty place.”

Maggie followed her. “If he wants to see untidy –” she was not surprised to note that every room was neat and clean as a new pin – “he’d best come and see
my
place.”

They were startled when a man’s voice boomed out behind them, “Taxi for the station. Would that be you two?” A large man with a beer-belly and a thick, gruff voice filled the doorway. “Well? Did you order a taxi or didn’t you? I ain’t got all day.”

“It’s me.” After the initial shock of this big man with the booming voice, Kathy leapt into action. “If you could please take the portmanteau down, I need to collect a few things. I’ll be right behind.” She straightened her jacket and picked up her hat and gloves from the side.

As he walked toward the portmanteau, Maggie dodged into the bedroom. Without delay, Kathy followed, the pair of them peeping around the corner as he lifted the article. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! What the bloody hell’s she got in ’ere?”

“See, I told you it was heavy!” Digging Kathy in the ribs, Maggie was bursting to laugh. “I bet you’ve ruptured the poor devil!”

Red-faced and grunting, he carried it across the room and out the door, moaning and groaning as he bounced it down one step after another. “I wish he’d be careful,” Kathy declared as they emerged from their hiding-place. “He might break it.”

“Yes, and he might ‘break’ your bleedin’ neck if you say anything.”

A knock on the door announced the arrival of the charity people to collect the boxes. “Every little helps,” the bottle-blond said with a grateful smile. “We have all kinds of people who come into the shop and buy this kind of bric-a-brac.”

Maggie had a naturally suspicious nature. “If you ask me, they were a dodgy pair!” she said as they left. “I bet you they’ll be straight around the market and flog the bleedin’ lot.”

“Don’t be so cynical,” Kathy chided. “These people do a good job.”

Maggie didn’t answer: she knew what she knew and that was that.

As the two of them left the house, the irate driver rounded on Kathy. “I hope you realize this meter’s ticking?” he asked pointedly. Before she could answer, he grabbed Kathy’s bag and threw it in the back. “I recall somebody saying they had a train to catch, and it won’t be my fault if she misses it!”

Behind him, Maggie was laughing.

When it was time to leave, Kathy hugged her friend tight. “I’ll call you when I get there,” she promised. “Remember what I said … take care of yourself.”

Maggie’s bottom lip began to tremble. “You too,” she muttered. “I’ll ask for time off, so’s I can come and help you settle in.”

As Kathy climbed into the taxi, Maggie apologized. “I really should be coming to the station with you.”

Kathy dismissed her worries. “There’s no use you coming with me,” she said. “I’ll be on the train as soon as ever I get there. Besides, you’ve had three warnings about being late already.”

“Hmh! She’s just a frustrated old cow.”

As the driver pulled away, Kathy saw how down Maggie was. “Stop worrying,” she called out the window. “I’ll be all right.”

Maggie waved her out of sight. “I’ll miss yer, gal.” Thrusting her hands into her jacket pocket, she turned to look up at the flat, bowed her head, and walked away. “That old cow had best let me have time off,” she muttered. “I need to know that Kathy’s all right.”

She quickened her step, the merest whisper of a smile beginning to wipe away the misery. “First, though, I’ve a date coming up, and a new frock to buy.” With that in mind, she headed straight for the nearest shop. It was the surest thing to take her mind off her troubles.

The minute the taxi stopped, Kathy was given her first instruction. “If yer think I’m lifting that portmanteau again, you’ve another thought coming,” the taxi driver growled. “So, if you want to catch that train, you’d best find a porter … and make sure he’s built like a navvy, or he’ll never lift the damned thing.”

Giving him a hard look, Kathy ran off to see if there was a porter about. She eventually found one, but he was built more like a nanny than a navvy. “Huh! Is that the best you could do?” the taxi driver asked Kathy in a loud, insulting voice. Addressing the porter, he gave a snide little grin. “If you can lift that out of the boot, I’ll not charge her a penny fare.”

The porter winked knowingly at Kathy, then he glanced into the open boot at the huge portmanteau. “It’s a deal,” he said. Walking from side to side, he took a moment or two to mentally assess the size and weight of the article.

“Go on then!” the big man urged with a nasty chuckle. “It won’t leap out the more you look at it.” He thought the porter was a bad joke.

As for Kathy, her bet was on the porter. At least he
seemed
confident.

With Kathy on one side and the big man on the other, the little porter took hold of each corner and, easing the portmanteau forward, got it to the edge of the boot. “The bet’s only on if you
lift
it out!” the big man grumbled. “Dropping it off the edge onto the barrow don’t count.”

The porter never said a word; instead he looked up at the taxi driver with a disdainful stare. Then he spat into the palms of his hands, rubbed them together, and with one mighty heave lifted the portmanteau in the air. With immense courage he held it aloft for the slightest moment, before dropping it thankfully to the barrow.

By this time, Kathy was leaping and dancing about. “HE DID IT!” she cried. “He
lifted
it out, and I don’t owe you a fare.” In a mad moment of triumph she vigorously shook the porter by the hand, until she remembered how he’d spat into it. Discreetly wiping it on her skirt, she thanked him. “Even I didn’t think you could do it,” she apologized lamely.

“You’d be surprised at what we’re asked to lift,” the porter revealed proudly. Glancing at the big man, he made a suggestion. “A tenner says I can lift
you
straight off your feet!”

The other man’s answer was a rude gesture, and the quickest exit from the station the porter had ever witnessed.

A moment later, after Kathy got her ticket, she and the porter headed toward the train, which had just pulled into the station. “I’d best get this on board for you,” he suggested. “We don’t want you doing an injury to yourself, do we?” He was also thoughtful enough to get a promise from the attendant that he would take it off at the other end.

Slipping him a generous tip, Kathy thanked him, and he wished her good day.

Once on the train, she settled into her seat. “I’m on my way,” she murmured, “West Bay, here I come!” Even though she was somewhat nervous, there was still a sense of great excitement. After all, as she constantly reminded herself, she was about to start a whole new life.

The train went straight through from London to Weymouth.

Throughout the long journey, she read snatches of the newspapers left by previous passengers, and occasionally struck up desultory conversations with passengers nearby. She bought two drinks from the trolley that was pushed lazily up and down by some weary woman – and had to run to the loo a couple of times for her troubles.

On the final leg of the journey, she gazed out the windows at the scenery, wondering about the house in West Bay and the woman who had shared it with her father. Several times she murmured the name “Liz,” and each time she had a different image in her mind.

Finally she fell asleep, waking only when the conductor alerted her that they had arrived at Weymouth Station.

After disembarking, she secured another porter. He told her the best way to get to West Bay was by bus to Bridport and taxi, although, “I reckon you’ve already missed the last one.” Luckily she hadn’t: at the information desk she was relieved to hear, “The last bus is about to leave in ten minutes.” The clerk pointed her in the right direction, and the bus conductor took charge of her trolley and portmanteau – though he had a word or two to say when lifting the portmanteau into the hold – and soon Kathy was off on the last leg of her adventure.

Dropped off in the town of Bridport, Kathy had to travel the final mile or so in a taxi. “Barden House, you say?” The driver knew the house. “Used to take a gentleman there …
he
was from London, too.” Much to Kathy’s astonishment he went on to describe her father. “Though I haven’t seen him this past year or so,” he said. “There was a woman – his wife, I expect – lovely lady, or so they say. I never met her myself. It seems the house is empty now … in need of some tender loving care.” He smiled at her through his mirror. “Sorry to be going on a bit, you must be tired after your journey. I’m afraid idle gossip goes with the job.”

Kathy assured him she was interested. “I’ll be staying at the house,” she told him.

They chatted all the way to West Bay. Kathy didn’t learn any more; except that her father would turn up every now and then, and after a while he would leave. When the taxi came to collect him, the woman would wave from the window apparently, but she never came out. “They do say as how she was a shy little thing.”

Kathy did not enlighten him as to her identity. It was better that way, she thought.

By the time they got to West Bay, the sun had gone down. The first sighting she got of the house was when they turned the corner and he declared, “There she is, Barden House. Looking a bit more tired than the last time I saw her.”

He drew up and got her portmanteau out of the boot. “Looks like you’ve got your work cut out, Miss,” he said, casting his eye over the run-down garden. “Shame. It’s such a lovely house an’ all.”

Kathy wasn’t listening. Having got out of the taxi, she stood gazing at the house, through her own eyes and, inevitably, through the eyes of her father. Bathed in the soft light of a nearby street-lamp, the house gave off a warm, welcoming feel: even though, as the driver said, the paint was peeling off the window-sills and the garden resembled a jungle, the house was pretty as a picture.

In the half-light it was impossible to see the extent of disrepair, but the house seemed strong, square in structure, with wide windows and a deep porch. Myriads of climbing flowers had grown over the porch, their many tentacles drooping down either side, like two arms embracing. Kathy thought there was a peculiar enchantment about the place.

Now that she was really here, actually
here
, at the house where her father and his love had hidden away from the world, Kathy began to realize the happiness he must have found here.