The Beachcomber (7 page)

Kathy nodded. “
She
gave it to me.”

Opening the case, she drew out the house deeds, but left the letters inside. “Look at that.” Handing the deeds to Maggie, she waited for her reaction.

After perusing the document, Maggie was delighted for Kathy, but confused by the meaning of it all. “It’s a house!” she exclaimed. “In
your
name. But that’s wonderful.” Seeing that Kathy seemed a little sad, she asked lamely, “Ain’t it?”

Kathy told her the whole story … of how her mother had taken great delight in tearing her father’s memory to shreds. She told her about the house in West Bay, and the woman called Liz, and the love-letters that her mother had read and that she herself could never read. She explained how she still found it hard to believe that her father had kept a secret lover for such a long time, and that she never even suspected. “Oh, Maggie, why didn’t he tell me?”

“Because he loved you, that’s why.” Maggie hated what Kathy’s mother had done to her: whenever she came into Kathy’s life she always seemed to take delight in turning it upside down. “He knew how much you loved him, and he didn’t want to spoil that. Happen he thought you would think badly of him, or he felt ashamed in some way that he had the need to go outside his marriage for love and affection.”

Reaching out, she laid her hand over Kathy’s. “Look, gal. I know this must all have come as a terrible shock to you, but don’t let it spoil all them special memories of your dad. He was a lovely man. All right! So he set up a love-nest with this ‘Liz” … and he never told anybody, not even you. But it doesn’t mean he couldn’t trust you.”

Kathy had already told herself all that. “I know,” she said, “and I don’t blame him for what he did … any man would if he had my mother to put up with!” The hatred of her mother trembled in her voice. “Whatever he did,
she
drove him to it, and if that was the only happiness he could find, then I’m glad for him.”

When the tears began to smart in her eyes, she took a minute for the emotion to subside. “She won’t spoil my memories. I won’t let her.”

Maggie understood. “I’m sorry, gal.” Maggie’s heart went out to her. “But he never stopped loving you, did he, eh? ’Cause he even bought the house in your name. That tells you summat, don’t it, eh?”

Kathy had wondered about that, and she voiced her questions to Maggie. “Why would he do that? If he found happiness and comfort with this … Liz, why didn’t he buy the house in
her
name?”

Maggie shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe she’s rich and doesn’t need it. But for what it’s worth, I think he was trying to tell you something.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “I think he was trying to tell you how happy he was with her. I think he wanted you to have the house … because he hoped you might go there and maybe find the same happiness he had.”

Kathy smiled. “I thought that too,” she admitted. “On the trolleybus coming over, I tried to make sense of it all, and I thought the same as you: that he wanted me to have the house, because he loved it so, and because he hoped I might love it too.” Close to tears, her heart swelled with love for him. “I’m not upset or angry with him,” she said, “I’m just so glad he found happiness, because I know he didn’t have that with Mother.”

She gave a wry little smile. “It was just such a shock. I never knew he had it in him to do something like that. In a way I admire him … more than ever. It shows he had the guts to take the chance of happiness when he saw it.”

She recalled how her mother had gone to West Bay, looking for the woman. “She said the house was a ‘poky’ place … filled with rubbishy furniture she ‘wouldn’t even put in her shed.’”

“Ah, well, that’s your mother, ain’t it, gal? If summat didn’t cost a bleedin’ fortune, it ain’t worth having.”

“Apparently there was no sign of the other woman.”

Maggie laughed. “Just as well an’ all, if you ask me! I reckon there’d have been a right cat-fight if them two had got together.”

Kathy didn’t agree. “No, Maggie. She would have kept her distance and torn her to shreds with her vicious tongue.
That’s
Mother’s way. And I should know, because she’s done it to me often enough.”

“Will you try and find this Liz woman?”

“I don’t think so.” Kathy shook her head. “To be honest, I would like to,” she answered, “if only to thank her for the happiness she so obviously gave my father. But, to tell you the truth, I don’t think she
wants
to be found.” She had given this woman a great deal of thought and had come to that conclusion. “Maybe it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie.”

“What will you do … with the house, I mean?”

“I’m not sure yet. It’s all too soon.” She assured Maggie of one thing. “I won’t
sell
it. I couldn’t do that.” She thought of her father and smiled. “It would be like selling his dream.”

Maggie raised her glass. “Here’s to your dad,” she toasted.

Kathy clinked glasses. “And his dream,” she added softly.

That night, when she was all alone with her thoughts and memories, she browsed through the deeds, feeling closer to her father as she turned the worn pages. She touched the letters one by one, but didn’t open them. “What was she like, Dad?” she murmured to his smiling photograph. “I would have loved to have met her.”

She cradled the letters and thought of when her father was alive, and sobbed until her heart ached.

It was a long time before she fell asleep, but before she did, her mind was made up. “It’s time to make some changes. I’ll give up my job and go to West Bay,” she murmured to herself.

And, having decided that, she felt more at peace than she had done for a very long time.

I
T WAS EIGHT O’CLOCK
in the evening on Friday, July 12, 1952; the sun was beginning to drop in the skies and, along the coast, a rising breeze cooled the air.

After a long drive taking some six and a half hours, Tom headed his little two-door Morris Minor into the sleepy seaside hamlet of West Bay.

Drawing into a curve alongside the road, he slipped the car out of gear and left the engine ticking over while he looked at the directions that he’d scribbled down. John Martin had stayed down here just after the war, and had recommended both the place and a guest-house. “Turn left when you come off the main road … follow the signs to West Bay. You’ll find ‘River View’ on your right … there’s a big sign at the gateway. If you come into the harbor, you’ve gone too far.”

Looking about him, Tom took stock of his surroundings; from where he was parked he couldn’t quite see the harbor, but there were seagulls everywhere, and somewhere in front of him the tops of sailing masts bobbed up and down against the skyline. There was a fishmonger’s to his left and a pub to his right, but not a soul in sight. “Where the devil am I?” he wondered aloud.

Taking another look at John’s instructions, he groaned. “I’ve missed the guest-house,” he realized. “I’ll have to go back.”

He almost leapt out of his skin when an old man tapped on the window. “Got lost, ’ave yer, son?” With a shaggy beard, a drooping mustache and a flat cap that covered almost all the top half of his features, the man resembled an old sheep-dog. His face was weathered and jolly, and his expression endearing.

“I ’ope yer don’t mind, only I saw yer lookin’ at yer map.” His merry blue eyes crinkled into a smile. “Where is it yer looking for?” His homely Lancastrian accent was a pleasant surprise. He obviously wasn’t from around here originally.

Weary and peckish, Tom was grateful for any help he could get. “Thank you, and yes, it seems I
have
got lost.” Pointing to the paper in his hand, he told the old fella, “I’m looking for ‘River View,’ only I seem to have missed it.” Holding up the paper so the old man could see the writing, he went on, “It says here, if I can see the harbor, I’ve gone too far.”

“I see!” Showing a row of crooked white teeth, the old fella laughed. “Well if yer looking for “River View,” you’ll be a long time afore yer find it, ’cause it ain’t there no more.”

Tom was horrified. “Why? What do you mean?”

“Ah, well now … I can see you ain’t got
that
in them-there directions, so yer can think yersel’ lucky to ’ave come across me. You see, whoever told you to head for that place couldn’t know it were burned down three year back. Afterward, the ground was sold off, they cleared the old building and built a pub. But they do board and lodgings, if that’s what yer looking for.”

Tom was relieved. “Thank God for that! I’m starving hungry.” He explained, “I’ve just driven all the way from London … stopped at Brownhill for drinks and a bite to eat, but I could really do with a bath and a proper hot meal.” Moreover, he ached through every bone in his body.

The old fellow dashed his hopes straight off. Pursing his lips, he tutted and sighed and warned in a low, ominous voice, “They do say as folks only ever stay one night there … summat about –” he rolled his eyes – “
ghosts
.”

Tom laughed. “The way I feel right now, I don’t think
ghosts
would worry me one bit.”

Disappointed, the old chap straightened up. “Please yerself, son. Are you planning to stay a while?”

Tom nodded. “I hope to,” he said. “Only, I need a few days’ grace, so I can look around to find a place to rent – long-term – until I sort myself out.”

“Well, I never!” The old chap gave a kind of whoop. “That’s it, then! Your troubles are over.”

Intrigued, Tom questioned him. “How d’you mean?”

“Why! Cliff Cottage, o’ course. It’s a pretty little place right atop the hill there, warm and cozy, and you’ll wake up to the sound of seagulls calling and a view straight from heaven …” Pointing toward the far side of the harbor, he explained, “It’s owned by a lady who spends most of her time in Ireland … or is it Scotland?” He scratched his head and pondered, but his memory wasn’t what it once was. “Any-road, now she’s gone away … put the place up for rent, she has. I swear, you’ll not get a prettier place to live, if you tramped the world twice over.”

Excited, Tom got out of the car to shake his hand. “It sounds perfect!” he said. “Who do I see about renting it?”

The old man puffed out his chest. “You see
me
, son, that’s who yer see.
I’m
the fella yer want!” Holding out his hand in greeting, he told Tom proudly, “The name’s Jasper … Jasper Hardcastle. I’m working hand-in-glove with the agent. I’m entrusted with a key to the property, so I can take you there now if you’ve a mind?”

The old chap was so naturally friendly, Tom had taken to him straight off; in fact, he began to feel as if he’d known him for years. “Right then! It sounds good to me. You’d best climb in the car.”

As they drove through the harbor and along the promenade toward the upper ground, Tom commented on the beauty of West Bay: the harbor filled with boats of every size and color, the curving promenade, and that wonderful view out to sea. “It’s just what I need,” he confessed. “A year or so away from the hustle and bustle of London … some time to myself, a place where I can get things into perspective.”

“That’s the very reason I came here forty-five year ago.” The old fellow gave a colorful account of himself. “I lived me younger days in Darwen … in the North,” he revealed. “I were twenty-eight year old, been wed just a year when I lost me darling wife – pneumonia, it were.” His voice dropped as though he was talking to himself. “Wicked business! She were seven month gone with our first babby.”