The Beachcomber. Josephine Cox

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.

      As it happened, the clerk at the desk was most helpful. ‘We’ve a cancelled booking,’ she told Kathy, ‘but I’m not sure if the manager will let the van out for just one night … in case we have a last-minute request for a long booking.’ All the same, she went away to find him, and when she returned a few minutes later her quick smile and easy manner told Kathy she was in luck. ‘He says we’re not likely to get any other customers tonight, so he’ll take your booking.’

      While the clerk got the necessary information together, Kathy went out to the driver and paid him. ‘You’ve been a great help, thank you.’

      He wished her well. ‘I know a few useful blokes,’ he told her. ‘Painters, plumbers and such.’ He scribbled down his name and address. ‘Jack of all trades, that’s me,’ he said, before he drove off into the night.

      The clerk gave her the keys, a long form to sign and a small cardboard box, sealed over with a length of sticky tape. ‘You’ll find everything you need in there,’ she advised. ‘One night … leaving tomorrow at ten a.m.’ She laboriously scribbled it all into her ledger. ‘You’ll have to pay in advance, I’m afraid,’ she said apologetically.

      Kathy handed over the money, thanked her.

      ‘I’ll take you down there,’ the girl said, ‘seeing as it’s dark.’ Grabbing a torch, she led Kathy out of the office, along a lamp-lit, meandering path, through rows of caravans. There, right at the top, stood number eighteen; the number clearly highlighted by the two gas lamps either side of the door.

      Once inside the caravan, the girl bustled around, lighting the gas mantels. Staring round at what she could see, Kathy was delighted. In front of her was a tiny kitchen with cooker, and to her left there was a comfortable living area, with seats all round the bay window, and a little table jutting out from the wall. The curtains were bright and cheerful; candy stripes on white in the kitchen; and splashes of flowers against a yellow background elsewhere. To the right a door led into a cosy bedroom. In here, too, the curtains were of a bright, colourful fabric, the same, exactly, as the corner of the eiderdown peeping out. ‘Oh, it’s lovely!’ Kathy exclaimed. ‘Thank you,’ she said to the clerk.

      ‘My pleasure,’ the girl replied. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’ She hurried out, back into the night.

      Kathy gazed around once more, thrilled with her good fortune. Suddenly realising she’d had little to eat since early morning, she felt her stomach turning somersaults. Dropping her toiletries and undies onto the bed, she went out, clicking shut the door behind her. ‘There must be a chip shop,’ she mused. ‘It can’t be proper seaside without a fish-and-chip shop.’ After all, there were all those fishing-boats in the harbour.

      The clerk put her mind at rest. ‘Go down this road –’ she pointed to the road on the right – ‘you’ll find a chip shop on your left.’ As Kathy walked out the door, she called out, ‘Or you can get a roll at the bar here.’

      Kathy declined with thanks. ‘I really fancy fish and chips.’ With mushy peas and a few bits of pork crackling, she thought, licking her lips in anticipation.

      As she rounded the corner, she saw a telephone box. ‘I wonder if Maggie’s back from the Palais?’ That was where she planned to spend this evening, Kathy recalled.

      One by one, she dropped