‘Where is she going on her holidays? Somewhere nice, I bet. Certainly not Blackpool.’
‘Blanche said she was going to the Costa Brava.’
‘That’s Spain, isn’t it? That’ll have cost a pretty penny. Well, she’ll not be needing a jacket, it’s supposed to be boiling hot there, isn’t it? Blanche must have misheard.’
‘No.’
‘Then why would she cover herself up like that? With her figure it doesn’t make sense.’
Helen thinks back. Cora had been in the dressing rooms when Helen had poked her head round the curtain to tell Blanche that the rep was asking for her. It was little more than a brief glimpse but Helen saw that Cora’s right shoulder and arm looked bruised. Helen hadn’t thought any more about it until Blanche had given her Cora’s purchases to wrap. Four summer dresses with matching jackets or long-sleeved boleros. Cora has an account at the shop and Helen had watched her struggle to sign her name in the book. ‘Have you hurt yourself?’ she had asked.
‘Just a fall. I shouldn’t be so clumsy,’ Cora had replied and that was the end of the conversation. Cora had arranged for the bags to be delivered and she’d left.
‘She said she’d had a fall,’ Helen says.
‘A fall? Poor Cora. Was she badly bruised?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But she is bruised. I knew it. That husband of hers is knocking her about.’
There’s a note of triumph in Mrs Sykes’s voice that makes Helen uncomfortable.
‘It was nothing. Just her right arm.’
‘You mean that’s all she’ll admit to.’
Helen purses her lips and resolves to say nothing more. The rest of the walk is conducted in silence.
Beth hates everything about the beach, from the concrete ripples of sand that hurt her feet to the sting of salt water. No trip to the sands is complete without her bucket and spade. The red-painted bucket used to belong to Helen and is rusted at the bottom with the residue of many summers’ salt water. The handle is a thick ridge of flaking tin that cuts into Beth’s fingers when she carries a load of water back from the waves at the edge of the beach. Although the top rim of the bucket is rolled over, the bottom edge is as sharp as a knife. The bucket bangs against the front of her thighs when she hauls it back from the water’s edge. The long spade is worse. When Beth grasps it halfway up the wooden haft the tin spade still takes the skin off the back of her heel as she drags it across the sand or cuts into her instep when she tries to dig. Playing on the beach is an activity that other children enjoy. Beth watches them building sandcastles, playing with beach balls and screaming as they run into the waves. This morning’s misery is interrupted by the return of her sister and Mrs Sykes.
‘Here, young lady. I’ve got you a proper ice cream. There! I’ll bet you’ve not seen one of those before,’ Mrs Sykes says with some satisfaction.
Beth nods dumbly. She hasn’t. Two scoops in a double cornet – chocolate one side and strawberry on the other. Beth’s wrist strains with the effort of holding it upright.
Ruth is momentarily thrown by the sheer extravagance and then annoyed. ‘That’s far too much. You shouldn’t have bought such a big one,’ she says, pointing to the offending ice cream. ‘I’d have thought you’d know how bad ice cream is for children’s teeth. Not to mention the danger of a chill.’
‘A chill? In this weather? What are you thinking of? Come on, pet, get it eaten before it melts.’
Both women stare at the child. Beth is anxious to please. She opens her mouth to take a big bite.
‘You’ll be sick,’ Ruth says. And, as if by magic, Beth feels her throat rise. She is sitting cross-legged at her father’s feet, in full view. There is nowhere to hide. Trickles of pink ice cream run from the soggy cornet and gather round her wrist and still she is watched.
‘Hurry up and eat it before it melts. I shall be in bother with your mother if you get it all over your clothes.’
Beth takes a lick. Mrs Sykes smiles.
‘Have you said thank you, Elizabeth?’
‘Thank you very much, Mrs Sykes.’
‘Pleasure, I’m sure.’
Another drool of melted ice slithers down her thumb. Unable to win the argument, Ruth takes up her knitting with increased ferocity. Although Beth has her back to her mother she can still feel the backwash of maternal fury. Beth’s wrist is beginning to ache from the strain. The twin scoops will topple from their temporary mooring on the cornet unless Beth keeps the whole monstrous confection upright. Above her head Mr and Mrs Sykes make preparations to leave and she is forgotten. With infinite care Beth moves forward on to her knees and crawls round the back of her father’s deckchair. She scoops a big hole in the sand with one hand and, with the other, she buries the ice cream. When she crawls back round she catches her mother’s eye. Experience has taught Beth that, under these circumstances, it’s best to keep her head down and her mouth shut until the storm passes.
COLLECTION BOX
If you look carefully you’ll often see collection boxes on the promenade. Some of them are quite unusual – perhaps it’s an old mine from the war, or a big model lifeboat, or even a disarmed depth charge and thrower! Where is your favourite charity box? Score a generous 15 points.
The Singleton family are returning to their hotel room after lunch when Helen pulls her dad to one side. She waits until her mother and Beth disappear round the corner before saying, ‘Can I go out this afternoon?’
‘Where do you want to go?’ Jack asks.
‘Just for a coffee.’
‘Have you told your mother?’
‘It’s only a coffee, Dad. I’ll be back before teatime.’
Jack reaches into his pocket for a coin. ‘Here you are.’
Helen takes the coin and is gone in a flash. Jack shakes his head and continues to make his way up the stairs.
The Belvedere prides itself on being a superior hotel, and so it appears from a casual glance, from its mock-Georgian portico to its oak-panelled main staircase. No expense has been spared. The plush crimson and gold pile carpet that graces the exclusive Residents’ Lounge extends throughout the immaculate ground floor. Sadly this reputation for luxury and cleanliness falters and finally fails when Helen passes through the STAFF ONLY door. Once her eyes have adjusted to the darkness, she makes out a flight of steps that leads to a warren of dimly lit dog-legged corridors. The air reeks of overcooked vegetables and rising damp. She peers at each well-worn and heavily scratched door as she moves through the darkness. Connie, when Helen finds her, is in room three. She is leaning over the washbasin in the corner and squinting into a tiny mirror as she applies another layer of Mediterranean-blue eyeshadow.
‘Hiya!’ Connie shouts in answer to Helen’s polite knock. ‘Come in. Won’t be a sec.’
Helen steps over the threshold and looks around. Connie appears caught in the eye of a storm of personal possessions. Along with the piles of indiscriminate refuse there are copies of Boyfriend magazine (a weekly that Helen would kill to read) and various piles of clothes. Helen is faced with a chaotic mêlée of items from hairclips to powder puffs and discarded food and drink. Various articles of clothing are scattered across the cracked brown lino. A greying bra with circular stitching round the cone-shaped cups is hanging off the back of a chair piled high with discarded skirts and tops. The ledge above the washbasin is crammed with cosmetics, perfume and an overturned can of talc, and the towel rail below