The Beach Hut (18 page)

There was nothing she could do now. It was all in the lap of the gods. She just had to make sure Alan had enough suncream on, and drank plenty of fluids - he’d got badly burnt the year before last, as she had underestimated the strength of the midday sun. And she’d bring him regular snacks. She had a pile of sandwiches made up in the hut, and some fruit, and at some point she’d go and buy him an ice cream.

There was a party atmosphere building up. The competition had grown and grown in popularity, to the point where the local radio station sent down a DJ to whip up the spectators into a frenzy of anticipation. The bass of the music boomed out across the beach; seagulls swooped overhead cawing at the invasion, their beady eyes sweeping the beach for scraps of food. The television crew wandered up and down, stopping to interview each competitor. When they came to Alan, Janet shot out from the beach hut and came to supervise. In the end, she felt it was best if she spoke for Alan.

‘He’s always been a wonderful artist,’ she explained to the world at large. ‘And the Sandcastle Competition is the highlight of his year.’

‘I believe he’s held the trophy for the past three years?’

‘We’re quite confident,’ smiled Janet. ‘He’s been working on this design for months. Every detail is historically accurate.’

‘Definitely a work of art,’ commented the interviewer.

A work of genius, thought Janet privately, but it wasn’t really her place to say so. It never ceased to amaze her, how he could construct something so wonderful out of a few million grains of sand. His fingers swooped, scooped, patted and caressed, coaxing the sand into shape. His minions were on hand, pointing out areas of potential weakness. Eventually Neptune’s castle emerged, proud and glorious, the great god himself presiding over his domicile, trident aloft.

The teenagers next to him were taking a break, slugging back beer, wiping the sweat from their brows. The girl was in a bikini top and cut-off shorts, her long copper curls scooped up in an untidy pile on top of her head. For a moment, Janet had a glimpse back to another girl-a carefree sixteen-year-old with romantic hopes and dreams. She shook away the memory. She wouldn’t swap what she had, if she had her time over again, she told herself. She walked over to the nearest ice-cream van and bought Alan a Magnum. White was his favourite. She was rewarded with a smile, but he barely had time to pause and eat it. When he was engrossed, nothing would distract him.

The mid-afternoon sun beat down relentlessly. Scantily clad girls moved amongst the contestants and the audience handing out bottles of water. Chart-topping hits pounded out, the DJ getting more and more hysterical as the moment of judgement approached. The judge was some sort of local celebrity-a singer with a boy-band, with gelled-back hair and mirrored sunglasses, who had spent most of the afternoon signing his name on young girls’ arms, to many squeals of excitement. Janet watched carefully as he moved his way amongst the entries, wondering what his criteria were for judging. Did he have any idea about artistic merit, or technical skill? He was accompanied by the organisers of the competition-a couple of bigwigs from the local council, she guessed - and a representative from the building company that were sponsoring the competition. Everywhere they went they were shadowed by the television crew, eager to capture every moment.

Gradually they whittled their choices down to about five. Janet watched, eagle-eyed, as they moved between them, conferring amongst themselves. Alan was still in the running. Of course he was. There was no doubt that his castle was the most superior. It was only a matter of time. He didn’t seem remotely perturbed by the outcome. He was busy chatting to people who came to talk to him about his work, smiling away, quite oblivious.

It was down to the last three. Alan and his Neptune’s castle. The teenagers next to him, whose work was now evident as Sleeping Beauty’s castle, smothered in briars and roses. And a crop-headed man and his long-haired mate who had built a reconstruction of Portmeirion. Janet thought her heart was going to burst out of her chest. She couldn’t bear the suspense. The DJ wasn’t helping.

‘We’re going to have a winner any minute. The judges are in dispute, apparently. They can’t agree . . .’

How could they not agree? It was blatantly obvious who was the winner. The skill, the craft, the detail, it was all there. Janet supposed they had to tease it out, like all the reality television shows. They had to milk it for the cameras. Everything was a charade these days.

When she saw the judge finally come to rest by the young couple, and stick the flag that denoted first prize into their turret, she thought she was going to be sick. She couldn’t read the expression on Alan’s face, or even be sure he understood. The couple were hugging each other, the girl with her wild red mane, the boy with his dark hair swept back. Lucky, healthy, privileged kids to whom this was just a joke, a novelty, something to laugh over in the pub tonight. Not the reward for a year’s hard work. She felt a sour taste in her mouth. Disappointment. Resentment. The television crew were muscling in, poking their microphones towards the couple. The girl shimmered and sparkled, her eyes lighting up as she expressed her delight at winning.

Of course they had gone for her. It was going to be on television. They wanted someone who looked good, who could articulate her feelings, who would be the perfect spokeswoman for the cynical money-making machine the contest had become. They didn’t want a middle-aged man with learning difficulties who would struggle to communicate his feelings, even though he had overcome more obstacles to achieve this than the winning couple would ever experience in their combined lifetimes.

She watched as Alan and his team of helpers leapt up and down on his handiwork in their ritual destruction. Next door, the winning castle stood proudly, the victor’s flag fluttering in the breeze. Janet felt an overwhelming urge to go and stamp it down herself, crushing each of the towers with her foot, kicking in the drawbridge, but she knew that would be bad form. Instead, she went and put the kettle on for a cup of tea.

One thing was certain. She couldn’t go through it all again - the build-up, the anticipation, the tension, the disappointment.

They wouldn’t come back next year.

W
hen, exactly, had the Ginger Ninja turned into a Titian temptress?

The last time Harry Milton saw Florence Carr, she was a spotty, frizzy-haired skinny little thing, youngest daughter of the family three huts down whom everyone tried to avoid because they were total trainspotters. And now? Now she was quite simply stunning. The ginger frizz had morphed into copper ringlets, her eyes were green flecked with gold, the Everdene sun had kissed her skin palest bronze.

She took his breath away.

Harry had groaned when his grandmother had told him the Carrs had invited them down for a barbecue.

‘Oh no,’ he protested. ‘The Boring Family. They are so massively uncool.’

The Carrs looked like something out of the nineteen fifties, with their badly knitted jumpers, cagoules and thick-rimmed glasses. Nerds, the lot of them. They were always striding about with binoculars, or one of those laminated maps on a piece of string round their necks.

‘We’ve got to go, darling,’ his grandmother chided him. ‘Mr Carr’s been giving me lots of professional advice. Gratis. Accepting their invitation graciously is the least I can do. So please come. Just for me.’

Harry concurred, good-naturedly, because he knew his grandmother had been put through the wringer and had been left in a terrible mess after his grandfather died. That was why she was having to sell the hut. Harry couldn’t believe this would be his last summer at Everdene. He’d been here every year since he was born, with his brothers and sisters and cousins and uncles and aunts, all of them coming and going in a steady stream. Sometimes his grandmother was left with all her grandchildren, while the middle generation went on with their jobs safe in the knowledge their offspring were having the time of their lives. They all squashed in somehow. There was no privacy, of course, which became difficult as they got older, but actually they didn’t care.

For the past few days it had been just him and Jane, and it had been rather nice. After all, she wasn’t like normal grandmothers. She didn’t fuss and cluck, or disapprove. She was very laid-back, had her finger on the pulse of what was happening in the world. ‘Groovy Granny’, they sometimes called her for a joke. And she was generous. She always knew when to slip you fifty quid on the quiet, and she’d paid for him to have driving lessons the year before. Now she was strapped for cash, of course. Harry didn’t understand quite what had happened - how could his grandfather have left her in such a mess, when he was supposed to be a financial adviser?

Anyway, Harry knew it was kind of Mr Carr to give her advice - he was some sort of hotshot accountant - so of course he agreed to come to the barbecue. He hadn’t bothered to make much of an effort to dress up, because the Carrs were the least fashion-conscious family on the planet - Mr Carr wore socks under his sandals, and the boys always had on shorts that were either embarrassingly small or ridiculously large, and Mrs Carr looked as if she got all her clothes from a charity shop.

So when Florence emerged from the depths of their hut with a tray of meat for the barbecue, looking beyond cool in cut-off denim shorts, a White Stripes T-shirt and gladiator sandals, Harry nearly dropped his beer.

‘Hi.’ She flashed him a smile, revealing perfect teeth and a dimple. He tried not to stare as he took in the snake tattoo on her perfectly flat, brown stomach, the armful of silver bracelets, the tongue ring - bloody hell, Florence Carr with a
tongue
ring? She was a total babe.

‘Florence is off to Cambridge,’ her mother was saying proudly. ‘To do law. She wants to be a barrister.’

‘I’m having a year off, though,’ Florence added. ‘I’m going to South America.’

They both looked at Harry expectantly. He struggled to find his tongue. The tongue he hadn’t had the bottle to get pierced, even though he wanted to.

‘I’m off to Bristol. To do medicine.’

‘Cool,’ said Florence. ‘You having a gap year?’

‘No,’ replied Harry. ‘It’s such a long course. I didn’t want to be a pensioner when I came out.’

Everyone laughed, and he took a swig of beer. He felt a bit strange. He wished he was wearing something a bit edgier than a pair of combat shorts and a Jack Wills sweatshirt. And bloody Crocs, for God’s sake. One of the great things about Everdene was it didn’t matter what you looked like, you just dressed for comfort, and even if everyone looked like a knob in Crocs they still wore them and it didn’t matter.

Florence tossed her mane of hair back over her shoulders and took a slug of beer from her bottle.

‘It’s open mic night at the Ship Aground later,’ she told Harry. ‘If you fancy going.’

‘Sure,’ he said, and felt his heart beat faster.

This was really weird.

He never fell for girls. They fell for him. If he saw someone he took a liking to, he crooked his finger and they came running. Girls with glossy hair and long, coltish legs who smelt expensive. Yet he had never been left almost speechless by someone. He wasn’t sure it was a feeling he liked. Was this love at first sight? And what was he supposed to do about it? He didn’t even know if she had a boyfriend, if some uber-cool bloke in skinny jeans and a Kurt Cobain haircut was going to rock up any minute and claim her for his own.

His eyes barely left her throughout the barbecue. She was confident, unselfconscious, gregarious. She took charge of the cooking - Harry remembered from past experience that the Carrs could massacre a simple sausage; they were either raw or overcooked - but Florence had marinated chicken pieces in honey and ginger, and made a couscous salad which her parents eyed with suspicion, slick with olive oil and flecked with finely chopped flat-leaf parsley.

‘Jamie Oliver,’ she told everyone, and it was, as Harry had suspected it would be, delicious.

For dessert, she sliced open bananas still in their skins, drizzling them with rum and pushing in squares of chocolate. Then she wrapped them in foil and put them on the dying embers of the barbecue. The Carrs just seemed to accept that this phoenix had risen from their midst. They took their instruction from her meekly.

Harry watched her eat her banana. She was sitting cross-legged on the picnic rug, her hair tumbling round her shoulders, excavating the chocolatey goo with a plastic spoon, licking up every last drop of sweetness. He felt a ravening hunger deep inside. He wanted to kiss away the sticky confection from her lips, devour her. The feeling alarmed him. It was so powerful. Visceral.

He started as she looked up at him, smiling. She knew.

‘Shall we go, then?’ she asked him, tossing her paper plate into a nearby bin-bag. ‘I don’t suppose the wrinklies will mind.’

Wild horses couldn’t have stopped him.

 

Harry loved the Ship Aground. He’d had his first illegal drink there at thirteen, his first kiss at fourteen, and his sixteenth birthday party. He’d worked there three summers in a row, collecting glasses. He knew all the staff. They were almost like family. Yet he never tired of it. It was filled with the local hardcore, and the perennial surfers, but kept itself fresh with the constant ebb and flow of summer tourists who fell for its charms.

It was bursting at the seams tonight as he walked in with Florence. He pushed through the crowds, nodding and waving at acquaintances, until they reached the bar, where he ordered them both drinks. The open-mic night was in full swing. People came up to do their turn, some clearly talented, others incapable of even holding a tune. They found a seat, unbelievably - two stools in a corner round an upturned barrel - and had to sit very close to hear each other. They talked about music, about Glastonbury (she’d been, he hadn’t), and the best gig they’d ever been to (Red Hot Chili Peppers him, Beyoncé her). And as an Alanis Morisette wannabe walked off the stage, Florence put down her glass.