The Beachcomber. Josephine Cox

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.

Part 2 July 1952 All Things New

       Chapter 3

      IT WAS EIGHT O’CLOCK in the evening on Friday 12 July, 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 harbour, 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 harbour, 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 realised. ‘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 moustache and a flat cap that covered almost all the top half of his features, the man resembled an old sheepdog. 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 round 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 harbour, 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. Afterwards, 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 round 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 cosy, and you’ll wake up to the sound of seagulls calling and a view straight from heaven …’ Pointing towards the far side of the harbour, 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. ‘Anyroad, 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