The Beachcomber. Josephine Cox

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      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 realise the happiness he must have found here.

      Her thoughts were shattered when the taxi-driver exclaimed, ‘How in God’s name did you manage with this!’ Puffing and panting, the driver half-carried, half-dragged the portmanteau to the front door. ‘It weighs a ton.’

      Apologising, Kathy got the house-key from her bag and opened the front door. ‘Just drop it inside, if you don’t mind,’ she asked. ‘I’ll be fine now.’

      When the front door swung open, the musty smell wafted out to greet them. ‘You’d best get the place checked out for damp,’ the driver suggested. ‘Being close to the water an’ all, you never know.’

      Fumbling for the light-switch, Kathy groaned when there was no response. ‘Maybe the bulb’s gone,’ she said hopefully.

      ‘I wouldn’t like to say.’ The driver also tried the switch, to no avail. ‘The house has been empty a long time. They’ve probably cut off the electric. Water, too, I should imagine.’

      Going back to the car for a torch, he tried every switch downstairs and still there was nothing. ‘There’s a guest-house back down the road a bit,’ he suggested. ‘If you ask me, you’d be better off booking in there, at least until you can get the electric back on.’ He shivered as the damp took a hold of him. ‘You can’t stay here,’ he said, ‘you’ll catch your death o’ cold.’

      Kathy was torn: she wanted so much to stay in the house, yet she knew the driver was right. It was chilly, even in July, and the electric was definitely off. Even if she stayed the night, she wouldn’t be able to sleep for the cold, and in the morning there would be no hot bath. Besides, she didn’t know if there were clothes on the bed, or clean sheets anywhere; if there were, would they be damp and mouldy? ‘I should have travelled overnight,’ she muttered. ‘At least I could have got things sorted out in daylight.’

      Checking in at a guest-house was the only solution as far as she could see, but it was not what she wanted; anyway, she didn’t have money to throw away on such luxuries. It was a dilemma and, the more she thought about it, the more she was tempted to stay in the house, however cold and uncomfortable.

      Suddenly, Maggie’s remark came into her mind. ‘It’s the seaside, ain’t it? There’s bound to be caravans.’

      Excited, she asked the driver, ‘Is there a caravan site round here?’

      He nodded. ‘As a matter of fact, yes, there is …’ He realised her line of thinking and approved. ‘I’ll take you there. It’s just the other side of the harbour.’

      He was about to trundle the portmanteau back to the car when Kathy had an idea. ‘If you’ll lend me your torch for a minute, I’ll take only what I need for tonight.’

      So, while he went to turn the car round, Kathy opened the portmanteau. She took out a clean set of undies, which she thrust into her bag, and grabbed the toiletries bag. Then she shut the portmanteau and was hurrying down the path in no time.

      Passing the harbour, with the boats shifting about and the water making patterns in the moonlight, Kathy thought how beautiful it all was. ‘I can see why you were happy here, Dad,’ she murmured.

      ‘What did you say?’ The driver strained his ears.

      ‘Nothing,’ Kathy answered. ‘I was just thinking out loud.’

      ‘First sign of madness,’ he said, making her smile.

      Turning into the caravan park, he asked if she wanted him to wait. ‘If they’ve got nothing for you, I can take you on to the guest-house?’ Thinking it was a sensible idea, Kathy readily agreed.

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