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

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.