Summer at 23 the Strand: A gorgeously feel-good holiday read!. Linda Mitchelmore

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СКАЧАТЬ Elisabeth laughed. ‘You’ll have the sun on your face – along with a lot of water, I expect! – and you’ll be concentrating so hard on standing upright that anything that’s bothering you in life will just fade away into insignificance.’

      I hope so, Cally thought but didn’t say.

      But so it proved. Cally found standing on a moving board with the force of a constantly shifting sea beneath her easier than she ever imagined it would be. Whole minutes went by when she didn’t think about the lump. Elisabeth encouraged her to go further and further each time. Cally was zipping along now and she could see Jack and the children on the beach. Jack was kneeling down scooping buckets of sand to make a pit of some sort for the boys to play in.

      ‘Hey!’ she shouted, but the breeze and her own speed whipped the word away.

      But Jack must have sensed her because he looked up. He waved. And then he blew her a kiss. And in that moment there were no other people in the world, and nothing else mattered except their love. She’d been stupid to keep such a massive worry to herself, and silly beyond belief to think she had to cope on her own. Life was for living, and that was just what she was going to do.

       Dear new occupant,

       I was left a gift by the previous occupant and this is my gift to you – Welsh cakes made by my sons and me. My husband was chief taster and he says they are ‘Ace!’ I hope you will enjoy them with a cup of tea, sitting on the deck perhaps. I arrived here a worried woman, but this place has smoothed out my worries and I’m going home with a more positive outlook. Whatever your reasons for coming here I wish you a happy time. If you feel like leaving something for the next occupant of 23 The Strand, please do – but it’s by no means obligatory.

       Cally – and Jack, Noah and Riley too.

Chapter Three

      EARLY JUNE

      Arthur

      ‘Mum!’ a child’s voice said. ‘Is that man in the chalet next door Father Christmas on holiday?’

      A boy or a girl? Arthur couldn’t tell. Children’s voices were all the same when they were little and this voice sounded as though it belonged to a little person. Certainly an uninhibited one, Arthur decided.

      ‘Shush. Come away.’

      ‘He is! He is!’ the child persisted.

      ‘I said shush!’ the child’s mother snapped, and the child began to cry.

      Oh dear. Arthur didn’t like to think he was responsible for a child’s tears.

      He fingered his long white beard, which was almost resting on his chest these days. His hair could do with a cut as well – it was nearly on his shoulders, and if it wasn’t for the fact it curled at the ends, it would have been. No wonder the child thought he looked like Father Christmas. And then there was the size of him. He’d put on at least a stone now his beloved Judith was no longer here to check his diet, to make sure he ate more greens than potatoes. Fewer pies. Arthur had lived on pies since becoming a widower.

      Ought he to be eating these Welsh cakes the previous occupant had made for him? What a strange thing to do – leave a present for someone you’ve not met and are hardly likely to. But the cakes were welcome. They brought a lump to Arthur’s throat actually. He missed Judith like one might miss a limb, but her cooking he didn’t miss – cooking and Judith had never gone together. But goodness, what would he give now for a slice of her burnt toast, a poached egg with the yolk like a rubber bullet on top? And the little note with the Welsh cakes – so personal. That had brought a lump to his throat as well. Already he was thinking what he might leave for the next occupant, whoever she or he might be.

      Twelve Welsh cakes. There were ten left on the plate now. He would never eat them all and they might be stale by the morning.

      ‘Excuse me,’ Arthur called out to the young mother of the child – a boy in bright-red shorts and a T-shirt with a dinosaur on it, he noticed – at 22 The Strand who had mistaken him for Father Christmas, ‘would you and your little boy like some of these Welsh cakes? I’ll never eat them all.’

      ‘I’m not little!’ the boy said, folding his arms across his skinny little body.

      Goodness, Arthur thought, that lad could do with a bit of filling up.

      ‘Your very fine boy, then,’ Arthur said. ‘Would he like some?’

      ‘I don’t know…’

      ‘Mum! It doesn’t say in my Father Christmas book that Father Christmas eats wish cakes.’

      ‘Welsh cakes,’ his mother corrected him. And then she leaned in and whispered, ‘And he’s not Father Christmas.’

      But she hadn’t whispered quietly enough. Arthur had always had razor-sharp hearing. A radar, Judith had always called it.

      Arthur decided to take the cakes to the little family at 22 The Strand anyway. He walked carefully down the steps and along the prom. He stood at the bottom of the steps of the chalet next door, the plate with the cakes held out before him.

      ‘Father Christmas is one of life’s great mysteries. I don’t know that anyone knows exactly what he eats, or when,’ Arthur said, tapping the side of his nose. He had reached the bottom of the wooden steps that led up to the chalet next to his and the boy, sitting on one of the deckchairs, was looking down at him, eyes wide with wonder, his mouth open in a perfect ‘O’.

      The young woman smiled.

      ‘Indeed not,’ she said. ‘Hello. I’m Hannah.’

      ‘Arthur.’

      ‘Arthur?’ the little boy said. ‘It doesn’t say in my Father Christmas book that Father Christmas is called Arthur, Mum.’

      ‘Ah, well,’ Arthur said. ‘I only let special people call me Arthur.’

      And that much was true. He was only ever Arthur to his family, and his old school friend, David, with whom he had always kept in touch and exchanged Christmas cards. Arthur and Judith had never encouraged familiarity with neighbours by using Christian names. Mr and Mrs Arthur Beddoes had always had a very nice ring to it and that’s the way he wanted it to stay. Except now there was only a Mr Arthur Beddoes. And his memories of Judith, of course. Arthur swallowed back tears. Grown men weren’t supposed to cry – well, his generation weren’t, although it seemed fine for today’s young men to share their feelings and their world was probably a better place because of it. Sometimes – and especially since Judith’s death – Arthur wished he knew someone well enough to be able to share his feelings, someone who might not be embarrassed or not know what to do if he shed a tear at a song that had been special to him and Judith, or a beautiful sunset he could no longer share the wonder of with his wife.

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