The Beachcomber. Josephine Cox
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in.’
As Kathy climbed into the taxi, Maggie apologised. ‘I really should be coming to the station with you.’
Kathy dismissed her worries. ‘There’s no use you coming with me,’ she said. ‘I’ll be on the train as soon as ever I get there. Besides, you’ve had three warnings about being late already.’
‘Hmh! She’s just a frustrated old cow.’
As the driver pulled away, Kathy saw how down Maggie was. ‘Stop worrying,’ she called out the window. ‘I’ll be all right.’
Maggie waved her out of sight. ‘I’ll miss yer, gal.’ Thrusting her hands into her jacket pocket, she turned to look up at the flat, bowed her head, and walked away. ‘That old cow had best let me have time off,’ she muttered. ‘I need to know that Kathy’s all right.’
She quickened her step, the merest whisper of a smile beginning to wipe away the misery. ‘First, though, I’ve a date coming up, and a new frock to buy.’ With that in mind, she headed straight for the nearest shop. It was the surest thing to take her mind off her troubles.
The minute the taxi stopped, Kathy was given her first instruction. ‘If yer think I’m lifting that portmanteau again, you’ve another thought coming,’ the taxi-driver growled. ‘So, if you want to catch that train, you’d best find a porter … and make sure he’s built like a navvy, or he’ll never lift the damned thing.’
Giving him a hard look, Kathy ran off to see if there was a porter about. She eventually found one, but he was built more like a nanny than a navvy. ‘Huh! Is that the best you could do?’ the taxi driver asked Kathy in a loud, insulting voice. Addressing the porter, he gave a snide little grin. ‘If you can lift that out of the boot, I’ll not charge her a penny fare.’
The porter winked knowingly at Kathy, then he glanced into the open boot at the huge portmanteau. ‘It’s a deal,’ he said. Walking from side to side, he took a moment or two to mentally assess the size and weight of the article.
‘Go on then!’ the big man urged with a nasty chuckle. ‘It won’t leap out the more you look at it.’ He thought the porter was a bad joke.
As for Kathy, her bet was on the porter. At least he seemed confident.
With Kathy on one side and the big man on the other, the little porter took hold of each corner and, easing the portmanteau forward, got it to the edge of the boot. ‘The bet’s only on if you lift it out!’ the big man grumbled. ‘Dropping it off the edge onto the barrow don’t count.’
The porter never said a word; instead he looked up at the taxi-driver with a disdainful stare. Then he spat into the palms of his hands, rubbed them together, and with one mighty heave lifted the portmanteau in the air. With immense courage he held it aloft for the slightest moment, before dropping it thankfully to the barrow.
By this time, Kathy was leaping and dancing about. ‘HE DID IT!’ she cried. ‘He lifted it out, and I don’t owe you a fare.’ In a mad moment of triumph she vigorously shook the porter by the hand, until she remembered how he’d spat into it. Discreetly wiping it on her skirt, she thanked him. ‘Even I didn’t think you could do it,’ she apologised lamely.
‘You’d be surprised at what we’re asked to lift,’ the porter revealed proudly. Glancing at the big man, he made a suggestion. ‘A tenner says I can lift you straight off your feet!’
The other man’s answer was a rude gesture, and the quickest exit from the station the porter had ever witnessed.
A moment later, after Kathy got her ticket, she and the porter headed towards the train, which had just pulled into the station. ‘I’d best get this on board for you,’ he suggested. ‘We don’t want you doing an injury to yourself, do we?’ He was also thoughtful enough to get a promise from the attendant that he would take it off at the other end.
Slipping him a generous tip, Kathy thanked him, and he wished her good day.
Once on the train, she settled into her seat. ‘I’m on my way,’ she murmured, ‘West Bay, here I come!’ Even though she was somewhat nervous, there was still a sense of great excitement. After all, as she constantly reminded herself, she was about to start a whole new life.
The train went straight through from London to Weymouth.
Throughout the long journey, she read snatches of the newspapers left by previous passengers, and occasionally struck up desultory conversations with passengers nearby. She bought two drinks from the trolley that was pushed lazily up and down by some weary woman – and had to run to the loo a couple of times for her troubles.
On the final leg of the journey, she gazed out the windows at the scenery, wondering about the house in West Bay and the woman who had shared it with her father. Several times she murmured the name ‘Liz’, and each time she had a different image in her mind.
Finally she fell asleep, waking only when the conductor alerted her that they had arrived at Weymouth Station.
After disembarking, she secured another porter. He told her the best way to get to West Bay was by bus to Bridport and taxi, although, ‘I reckon you’ve already missed the last one.’ Luckily she hadn’t: at the information desk she was relieved to hear, ‘The last bus is about to leave in ten minutes.’ The clerk pointed her in the right direction, and the bus conductor took charge of her trolley and portmanteau – though he had a word or two to say when lifting the portmanteau into the hold – and soon Kathy was off on the last leg of her adventure.
Dropped off in the town of Bridport, Kathy had to travel the final mile or so in a taxi. ‘Barden House, you say?’ The driver knew the house. ‘Used to take a gentleman there … he was from London, too.’ Much to Kathy’s astonishment he went on to describe her father. ‘Though I haven’t seen him this past year or so,’ he said. ‘There was a woman – his wife, I expect – lovely lady, or so they say. I never met her myself. It seems the house is empty now … in need of some tender loving care.’ He smiled at her through his mirror. ‘Sorry to be going on a bit, you must be tired after your journey. I’m afraid idle gossip goes with the job.’
Kathy assured him she was interested. ‘I’ll be staying at the house,’ she told him.
They chatted all the way to West Bay. Kathy didn’t learn any more; except that her father would turn up every now and then, and after a while he would leave. When the taxi came to collect him, the woman would wave from the window apparently, but she never came out. ‘They do say as how she was a shy little thing.’
Kathy did not enlighten him as to her identity. It was better that way, she thought.
By the time they got to West Bay, the sun had gone down. The first sighting she got of the house was when they turned the corner and he declared, ‘There she is, Barden House. Looking a bit more tired than the last time I saw her.’
He drew up and 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