Page 21 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay (Sturcombe Bay Romances #3)

“Well, here we are, Grandad.” Alex smiled as he parked the Jaguar beside the front steps of the hotel.

“Hmph! Weren’t worth getting in the car for just that little distance,” Arthur grumbled. “We could have walked.”

“You could have come down on your skateboard.”

The old man chuckled. “I could at that.”

Marcus grinned as he climbed out of the back seat. “Don’t encourage him. We’ll have him doing backflips and kick-turns down the Esplanade.”

Arthur’s pale eyes were twinkling with amusement as he let Marcus take his arm and help him to slowly climb the three shallow steps that led up to the front entrance. The glass doors whispered open and they walked into the reception hall.

Lisa and Vicky were there to greet them. “Arthur! Lovely to see you. You’re looking well.”

“So are you, my luvvers, so are you. Are you coming to my birthday party?”

“Of course. Everybody’s coming.”

He beamed in delight. “Well, there’s a thing.”

“It’s not every day you get to be ninety-four years old.”

“That’s right. Molly Marston only got to be ninety-two. Edie Channing only got to be ninety-three. I told ’em both I’d outlive ’em, and I did!”

Lisa laughed. “You certainly did.”

“We’re going out onto the terrace,” Alex said. “But you let us know if you get cold.”

“Don’t fuss. You’re like an old woman.”

Alex shook his head in amused exasperation. “Okay, okay. I just want to make sure you get to ninety-five.”

“I’ll get to a hundred,” Arthur asserted with a grin. “You’ll see.”

“I’m sure you will. God and the Devil will be arguing about who’s going to have to put up with you for eternity.”

That made Arthur chuckle with glee.

Although it was late October, the sun was still bright in the high blue sky. Out on the terrace a long table had been set up with a traditional-style buffet — mini sausage rolls, cheese straws, salmon and cucumber sandwiches.

And in the middle, a large square cake, iced in pale green, with a cricket bat, a ball and a wicket made of icing. And piped around the edge, the words 94 not out.

Arthur gazed at it in delight, laughing. “Well, I never! That’s wonderful. Who did that?”

“Our chef, of course,” Lisa told him. “Now, here’s your throne, your majesty, all ready for you.”

They had brought a comfortable armchair out for him, covering it with a red throw, and tied on two gold foil balloons, a 9 and a 4, which bobbed merrily above it.

“Ah, now — this will do me.” He sat down, head erect like a king surveying his subjects. “Welcome, everyone.”

Quite a few people had come. Alex recognised several of them, having seen them around the hotel or down in the town. There was the red-haired receptionist, Jess, and another woman who looked so much like her that they had to be sisters, if not twins.

They were with a good-looking couple he’d seen riding horses on the beach in the early morning, and an older couple whom he took to be their parents.

The manager of the hotel was there, chatting to Kate from the little café on the seafront, and the woman who ran the convenience store just round the corner from Arthur’s house.

Marcus had plated up a few items from the buffet for Arthur, and brought him a cup of tea. Alex thanked him with a nod and moved over to the table to load up a plate for himself.

He found himself standing next to a tall, dark-haired man of around his own age. The man turned, greeting him with a genial smile.

“Hi. You’re Arthur’s grandson, aren’t you?”

“That’s right. Alex Crocombe.”

“I’m Paul Channing. My sister’s the assistant manager here.” He held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Ah, yes.” Alex shook his hand. “Lisa. She mentioned you. You’re the soccer player?”

“I was. And you’re the fighter pilot?”

“I was.” They both laughed, acknowledging the shared experience. “How are you enjoying retirement?”

“I’m working on it. You?”

Alex smiled wryly. “I haven’t entirely figured it out yet.”

By unspoken agreement, they moved away from the table to allow other people to get to it.

“Are you staying in England long?” Paul asked.

“I don’t really have any plans at the moment,” Alex acknowledged. “I’m just enjoying a holiday, and spending time with my grandfather.”

Paul nodded. “Oh, yes. Everyone’s very fond of old Arthur.”

“So I see.” Alex glanced around at the crowd on the terrace. “We were very grateful for the way everyone looked after him when he had his fall. My dad couldn’t get over — he’d had a hip replacement. And I was . . . abroad.”

He saw a flicker of interest in the other man’s eyes, but he didn’t pry.

“Well, if you’re staying a while, why don’t you come down to the pub one evening?” Paul invited genially. “The Smugglers, down on the Esplanade.”

“That would be good. I was thinking of looking in there.”

“Do you play darts or pool?”

“Of course. Not much else to do between shouts, apart from sleeping.”

Paul’s grin spread. “Just don’t let my sister Cassie hustle you into playing pool against her.” He nodded his head towards the dark-haired young woman he’d seen with the horses. “She’s a killer.”

“Really?”

Paul shook his head in mock regret. “Many have tried, many have fallen.”

“Thanks, I’ll remember that.”

As Paul Channing strolled away, Alex glanced around again.

There was no sign of Shelley. Of course, since he had moved out of the hotel he’d had much less chance of bumping into her, but he had taken to dropping in here for an afternoon coffee instead of going down to the café on the Esplanade, in the hope of seeing her.

Was she deliberately avoiding him? He didn’t want her to feel as if he was stalking her, but he really wanted to see her again. There was something about her, that intriguing mix of feistiness and vulnerability.

There had been women in his life — plenty of them, over the years. Easy relationships, no complications, no strings. He had expected little of them, and they had expected little of him — just fun.

But with Shelley, it couldn’t be like that. Was he up for something more serious? That was something he needed to think about . . .

“Okay, everyone. Gather round.” Lisa clapped her hands for attention. “We’re ready to cut the birthday cake. First, blowing out the candle.”

There was a round of applause as she set a cupcake with a single candle on the buffet table in front of Arthur.

“What’s this?” he demanded, indignant. “There’s supposed to be ninety-four.”

“That many would have set the fire alarms off.”

“Huh!” He chuckled with laughter. “You thought I wouldn’t have enough puff to blow out ninety-four candles.”

“I would never even dream that!”

She held up a hand to start a rousing chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’, then with a huff, Arthur blew out the single candle, and with a swift movement that belied his great age he snatched up the fondant cricket ball from the cake and popped it into his mouth, grinning in triumph.

Then it was time to open his presents and read the pile of cards. Most of the presents were bottles of brandy or whiskey, much to his delight. “Well, well. This’ll keep me going for a week or two!”

“He’s loving this,” Marcus murmured to Alex.

“He certainly is. Better try to ration the booze a bit, though.”

“It’s okay, I can hide most of the bottles and just bring them out one at a time.”

Lisa had cut the cake, and Alex took a slice to his grandfather, drawing up a chair to sit beside him. “I guess you have a lot of memories of this place, Grandpa,” he suggested.

“Oh, ah. Backalong we was always up here, me and my pals. During the war, that was.”

“To chat with the soldiers?”

The old man shook his head. “Not soldiers — pilots. Pilots as had got shot down. Mostly they’d got burned — hands, faces. Some of them was blinded, noses and ears gone, fingers gone.”

“Oh . . .” Alex was startled. “I never knew that.”

“They’d been in the hospital up at East Grinstead, then they’d come down here for a bit of convalescence.

We used to chat to them, Freddie Mogford and Stanley Lerwell and me.

Keep their spirits up, read to them, help them with their dinner when they couldn’t hold their knife and fork.

Take them for walks along the coast path there if they could manage it, or down on the beach. ”

Alex stared at his grandfather, impressed. “That’s amazing. You’ve never talked about that before.”

“Ah, well, it was just one of those things. After the war no one talked about it much. Well, what was the point? But families round here used to have them in for tea, make them feel at home. And sometimes there’d be parties, with showgirls coming down from London in a charabanc.

Then when it was all over, they just closed the place down, just like that.

One day there, next day gone! The men all went off home, and we settled down to our old lives again. ”

He sighed in sad reminiscence.

“But she did her bit, the old Carleton. Stood here more’n a hundred and fifty, hundred and sixty years now. But come the war, she did her bit.”

Alex glanced around the terrace and up at the white facade of the hotel, his mind conjuring up images of those long-ago airmen with their bandaged hands and faces.

Airmen like him. He felt the connection tug at his spirit.

And now it was at risk of being left to fall into disrepair, dereliction, until in the end it was demolished. No, for the memory of those airmen, he wasn’t going to let that happen.

* * *

The conservatory windows had probably never been this clean. At least not this pane. Shelley had managed to remain concealed behind a large Chinese fan palm while discreetly watching Alex at his grandfather’s birthday party.

He was really good with the old man, chatting easily to him and making him laugh. Everyone loved Arthur Crocombe — he was a proper character.

And Alex . . . The memory of walking on the beach with him, of eating fish and chips from the paper, would stay with her for a long time . . .

As if the thought had conjured him up, she heard his voice behind her.

“Ah, so this is where you’re hiding.”