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Thursday, 28th July 1960
The bus drops Gladys in Crimpton-on-Sea at twenty past nine in the morning.
This little town is not as familiar as it used to be. With the modernisation of the railway station still ongoing, the reasons to walk these streets have been few and far between this year. Malden is the local travel hub now. And it has more shops.
It doesn't have Bowsham's, though.
Gladys smiles at the sound of the bell over the door as she walks into the bakery. The smell hits her next: warm and sweet and a bit yeasty: fresh-baked bread and pastries. She looks to the left and the glass-fronted counter. There are iced buns and custard tarts and cinnamon swirls and apple turnovers. On the shelves behind are loaves of all shapes, sizes and hues.
And smiling welcome is Eva Bowsham, her grey-flecked hair swept back into the net she always wears when she is in the shop; her apron as pristine as brand-new snowfall.
"Miss Gladys Pugh!" Mrs Bowsham says. "Now where have you been all summer long, eh?"
Gladys laughs. "Oh, I think you know only too well where I've been – I'm never anywhere else."
Mrs Bowsham cocks her head as she looks Gladys up and down. "It's taking its toll, though." She tuts at herself as soon as she has spoken. "Oh, I don't mean to be rude. But you look tired, dear, and after that awful business a couple of weeks ago – all over the papers, it was, and you were right in the middle of it. Mr Bowsham and I were worried sick."
"You're very kind, but it's a matter for the police now, not for the likes of me," Gladys tells her. "And if I look tired, it's because I was up late with a leaving do. Two of my Yellowcoats are off down the road to Jayford Park. We had to give them a good send-off."
"Yes, we heard the camp is closing." Mrs Bowsham shakes her head. "It's a shame. Been a part of the landscape here since before the war."
"Times change, I suppose," Gladys says. She doesn't really want to talk about endings, though – not on a day like today. "So how's the railway station coming along?"
"End of August, according to British Rail." Mrs Bowsham looks disapproving. "The whole town's been quiet, all summer through. You know, you could have come to visit us sooner."
"And now I'm breathing this fragrant air again, I'm wondering why on earth I haven't," Gladys admits. "How are you both, Mrs Bowsham? It's been far too long."
The catch up is swift, because life doesn't change much for people like them. Gladys moves on from the pleasantries and begins to fill a shopping bag. A white bloomer, golden and crisp on the outside, soft and pillowy within; a couple of floury rolls and some smaller rolls packed with grains and seeds. Two iced buns for afters. And, most importantly of all, a bag of still-warm Eccles cakes.
"Taking some back for Mr Fairbrother?" Mrs Bowsham asks with a wide grin. It would appear the baker's wife remembers they are Jeffrey's favourite treat.
"They are certainly for him," Gladys acknowledges. "But he doesn't work at the camp any longer."
"Oh?" Mrs Bowsham finishes bagging up the pastries and hands them over. "Just visiting you today, then?"
"Something like that," Gladys agrees.
"Well, you give the professor our very best, now," Mrs Bowsham advises. "Anything more?"
"I think that will do us just fine," Gladys says. "How much do I owe you?"
She pays, leaves the shop and turns right along Crimpton's little high street. Gladys stops at the cheesemongers, then at the greengrocers, and finally she goes into the little Italian delicatessen that Jeffrey raved about. She smiles at a rather handsome elderly man behind the counter and informs him that she is about to go on a picnic with a man who adores Italian food, and she needs to impress him. Can this gentleman help her out? The shop owner is immediately moved to do his best, and by way of a few heavily-accented questions he pinpoints some thin slices of a dry-cured ham from Parma, some similarly treated beef with a name beginning with B that Gladys immediately forgets, a tub of tomato salad with basil and mozzarella and olive oil, two pots of plump green olives because Gladys cannot choose between the best-sounding marinades, and a small jar of honey with figs in it. She is not sure about the last item until the gentleman behind the counter looks at her very seriously, holds the jar in his hand and presses his other hand to his heart. He says something in Italian that ends with the word she is quite sure means 'love', and Gladys decides that the day requires a risk or two, even in grocery-shopping.
When she comes to pay for her purchases, the Italian gentleman rings it up on the till, sniffs an unimpressed sniff at the figure shown, and rounds it down by a shilling and a half. Gladys shrugs, hands over the money and leaves the deli to the sound of the gentleman beginning to croon a song in his mother tongue. It seems she has inspired a romantic mood.
She undertakes a mental check of her inventory outside. Her thoughts are a little sluggish. Mrs Bowsham was right; she is bone-weary. Between her promotion and the diminishing size of her team, her duties are more numerous than ever. She doesn't blame her colleagues for their departures, of course – everyone needs to look to their own future – but that doesn't change the burden she now carries.
Not her problem today, though. Today is about a picnic by the sea, where she has been offered the use of a pretty beach hut that belonged to Roger McDonald's late sister. Gladys has bread, cheese, cold-cuts, salad and some nibbly-bits as well. She has options for afters, too. Jeffrey insisted he would bring the wine. There will be tea and sugar available at the beach hut, along with water and the means to heat it. She just needs a pint of milk, which she can grab from the corner shop at the junction with Station Road.
She walks to the corner to see to that particular mission – remembering that she will need a pat of butter to go with the bread – by which time she must make her rendezvous. She bustles along Station Road towards the library. Jeffrey is due to meet her at ten o'clock, though of course he could have been delayed for any number of reasons, including heavy traffic, the unfamiliarity of driving a car, a terrible and unforeseen motoring accident…
But he is already there, and oh, what a sight for sore eyes! He is leaning against the door of a white sedan car with a grey stripe down the side. The bonnet of the car proclaims the word 'Humber' over the front edge. Gladys has no idea whether this is impressive or not, but the car looks well cared for and spacious, and Jeffrey has driven it from Bloomsbury to the south Essex coast and remains in one piece. That is good enough for her.
He smiles when he sees her, puts the road map he was studying through the open window and hurries over to her. As soon as he is standing next to her, he looks at her bags and seems to hesitate.
"Ah," he says. "Um. Yes. I hadn't thought this far ahead."
"How do you mean?"
He shakes his head. "Nothing. Being ridiculous." He takes the bags from her and turns away. He is flushed. Of course, he is Jeffrey Fairbrother, so this is nothing new. Gladys has yet to discover an experience that does not cause him at least a little embarrassment.
With the shopping safely stowed in the car's boot, her thoughts catch up and she works out what his cryptic comment meant. She touches Jeffrey's arm. He looks at her, questioning.
"You hadn't thought about how we might say hello?" she asks.
"I've thought about it," he confesses. "But I had not incorporated two bags of shopping into the, er, scenarios I conjured up."
She smiles. Just seeing him, being with him, breathing the same air…she feels light and giddy and girlish. "I'm not holding any bags right now," she tells him.
He exhales sharply, perhaps a laugh, and he opens his arms. Gladys steps closer. They embrace, there in the library car park, and for a moment the two of them are holding on tightly. Gladys has imagined kisses of every kind during her own daydreams. She has also wondered whether the three weeks they have been apart might have dampened the burgeoning passion of their reunion.
But right now, an embrace is better than kisses. It has been a long time since someone put their arms around her and really meant it.
"I suppose," Jeffrey says into her ear, "that if I am to drive us to the beach, I'm going to have to let you go."
"It's a big car," Gladys says back. "Maybe we can both squeeze behind the steering wheel."
"Worth a try," he says solemnly, and Gladys laughs, and wonders for the hundredth time just what has happened to him in Madison that he is so ready to join in with her joking. She pulls back far enough to look at his face. He is smiling, pleased that his response did not fall flat. His cheeks are pink. She has no idea whether this is pleasure or embarrassment. Perhaps it is both.
"At the risk of sounding like a stuck record," she murmurs, "I have missed you."
"Three weeks," he agrees. "When I walked you to Liverpool Street, I didn't think I'd have to wait so long to see you again." He frowns. "Just as well. I might have got on the train with you."
She smiles at that, but her own thoughts trip her up. If this is the result of a three-week separation, then what will happen in September? Will he return to Madison but fly back for Christmas, almost four months later? Might she manage to see him for a brief visit in December, before his next term in America? Or will she be on her own for ten long months until he finds his way back to these shores next July?
Gladys berates herself for speculating without information. The whole point of this time together is that they can work things out. For now, they need to concentrate on driving to Wallis Sands, finding Mr McDonald's beach hut and making the most of this beautiful summer's day.
She looks at Jeffrey's expression. It would seem that in the last few seconds he has known some serious thoughts as well. He shuffles a bit, but he does not evade her scrutiny.
"I'm still a bit frightened," she admits softly.
"Me too," he replies.
She nods. "We can be honest with each other, though. Seems like a good place to start."
"It does," he agrees.
He walks her around to the passenger side, where he insists on opening the car door for her. Jeffrey cannot help but be a gentleman. Then he joins her in the car and hands her the map.
"How are you at these things?" he asks.
"It's a map. They tell you which way to go." She doesn't really understand the question. "Do you need me to give directions?"
"That would be helpful. I only got this far because I remembered the bus route from Colchester."
"How was it? The drive?" she asks. This is his friend's motorcar: the one whose cottage Jeffrey is staying in.
He starts the engine, looks around, backs out of the spot where he parked. "I've had chance to get used to driving again over the last week or so. Took the car up to Hazlemere a couple of times. But I'll admit it was nerve-racking, at first," he says. "Especially in London traffic. I found my rhythm quickly enough, though. This morning's drive has been rather nice. Quite enjoyed it once I got past Chelmsford."
Gladys settles back in the seat, studying the map. Wallis Sands is maybe twenty minutes away. The route is not difficult. "Left turn to the high street," she says. "Then right. That road will take us up to Buxted Magna. Happy?"
Jeffrey looks both ways along the utterly empty Station Road. "Happy," he says, "about sums it up."
Gladys smiles.
~~~
The beach hut is located along a row of about a dozen, all painted in bright, cheerful colours. The one for which Gladys has been given the key is pale blue. There is a small set of steps up to a wooden deck outside the double-doors of the hut itself, arranged that way to accommodate the embankment on which the huts are built. When the doors stand fully open, they bolt into the deck and the platform becomes a sheltered sunny spot.
The beach is not as busy here as it will be further along towards Clacton. At this time on a Thursday, most of the locals are at work. A few retirees occupy other huts. A holidaying couple have staked out a windbreak on the sand further along. Some kids are paddling, making sandcastles, one is flying a kite. It's all very predictable and reassuring.
Gladys unlocks the doors and pulls them open, one by one. Inside, the single-room hut is colourful and welcoming. Mr McDonald's late sister took great pride in this place, or so he told her. Everything had to be just so. There is a counter along the left-hand side, incorporating a small sink and a place for a Calor Gas stove and a kettle. Beneath the counter, behind a rose-printed curtain, is storage. Above, mounted on the wall are narrow shelves and hooks for crockery. At the back of the hut, angled into one corner, is the kind of armchair that begs to be occupied for hours at a time. It is covered by a hand-crocheted blanket of many colours: the kind of thing that Gladys's Aunt Bethan might craft. Along the right-hand side of the hut is a bench, cushioned on top, boxed beneath allowing for more storage space. It could be used as a sofa or a bed. Against the back wall, between the bench and the armchair, is a little table.
It is charming, and clean, and clearly a place that has been loved over the years. It's a shame Mr McDonald finds visiting the place too painful. His sister, in all the best ways, remains a part of it.
"This is lovely," Jeffrey says, following her inside. "Oh, Gladys, I wasn't expecting this."
"What were you expecting?" she asks, as she begins to remove supplies from the bags.
"A hut, a couple of deckchairs, a folding table," he admits. "But this? This is the Park Lane of beach huts!" He looks over the kitchen supplies. "I brought paper plates and cups, but look! Stemmed wine glasses."
"They are nice glasses," Gladys agrees. "But right now, I'd much prefer a cup of tea. I don't suppose you fancy having a go at that gas stove, do you?"
Jeffrey sets the kettle boiling. Gladys finishes unpacking the food and stowing it behind the curtain, out of the sunlight. Jeffrey has brought along a cool-box, bright orange and sturdy, which he opens out. The wine is staying cold thanks to some frozen brick things. She passes him the items that would do best in a refrigerator and smiles to herself as he exclaims happily over her choices.
She sits down on the cushioned bench with a sigh. Now that they are here, she can let herself relax. Seeing Jeffrey again is a thrill, but the weeks that have gone by since last they met were wearying. The business with Foster took a lot out of her. In the time since, it does not feel as though she has managed to recuperate. This is her first day off in three weeks. She knows she has been sleeping too lightly, consumed with worry for her team.
The bench is comfortable. The cushions are more supportive than they look. Gladys slides her sandals off her feet, finds a cushion to lean against, curls her legs up around herself. She rests her head against the wall of the hut.
"You look as though a day off is exactly what you need," Jeffrey observes.
"I cannot argue with that," she agrees. The sound of the sea is a companionable murmur. She likes the smell of the fresh air. She likes not having to solve any immediate problems. "Oh, it's good to get away. Let myself catch up."
"It's been a tricky time for you."
"For all of us." She breathes deep. "The police really think that terrible man caused a car accident?"
"I'm, er, not privy to the investigative details," Jeffrey tells her. "But the information that has been released to the press would not be out there if the Met weren't already confident in their case."
"That poor woman and her baby."
"Yes. It was a horrible situation. I feel for the whole family." Jeffrey sighs. "If the police get to the bottom of Foster's involvement, I'm hoping it will at least bring some sense of justice."
Gladys hums thoughtfully. "He must have thought he'd got away with it. All those years ago. And now this. He put himself right in the spotlight because he couldn't keep his nasty urges under control."
"If the man ends up serving time, it will be largely down to you," Jeffrey tells her. "I wish I could have helped more than I did."
She rolls her head against the wall, side to side, because lifting it up to shake it properly would require too much energy. "Without your help, I'm not sure the situation would have been resolved at all."
"I still wish I'd been able to see you last week."
She wishes he had too, but she wouldn't have been able to get away for more than an hour or two, and in any case, Jeffrey had his own issues to deal with. "You couldn't predict your mother was going to break her leg, now could you?"
"No. I couldn't do that," he agrees. "Gladys, put your feet up. Get comfortable. Here – I-I'll pile up some cushions. You can lean back there with the table right next to you."
She wants to protest – she feels she should be offering lively conversation, or suggesting companionable activities – but the notion of stretching out and relaxing is too beguiling to resist. She shuffles up the bench, reclines into the pile of softness Jeffrey has made for her, catches his hand as he turns away.
"What?" he asks, smiling self-consciously as she gazes up at him.
"Just…hello," she says.
"Hello."
Gladys sighs in contentment. In recent weeks, she has embraced a sense of independence, of inner strength. It feels like a step backwards, to clutch tightly to this idea that Jeffrey's presence makes everything better, but she is too done in to fight it. "It's so good to see you."
"And you," he says.
She lets go of his hand. "Do you remember how I like my tea?"
"Anything but Lapsang Souchong," he recalls. "But yes, unless you've suddenly developed a much sweeter tooth – dash of milk and no sugar."
"Do they drink tea in America?" she asks. Her head falls into the cushions and she wriggles to find a comfy spot. "They always seem to be drinking coffee in the films."
There's a pause. Jeffrey says, "Some like tea. Though coffee is the hot drink of choice, over there. I frequent a store not far from campus. A specialist in loose-leaf tea and coffee beans. The place smells…" He pauses and inhales slowly through his nose as if in memory. "It smells indescribably wonderful when you walk in. They, er, they do a large-leaf Ceylon tea I'm very fond of, and I get them to grind a coffee blend I like."
"All the comforts of home," Gladys muses with a smile. Her eyelids close.
"Well, Madison is, in fact, er…" He coughs. "Yes. All the, er, comforts."
"Is there anything you miss?" she asks. Her thoughts seem to be drifting. "Jaffa Cakes, maybe? I think I'd miss Jaffa Cakes."
"Oh, things like that you can get easily enough, though sometimes you have to pay import prices." The kettle begins to whistle. "What I miss most, I suppose, is proper chips." Gladys hears him move over to the stove. "Cut to the right size, fried in the right fat, liberally soaked in salt and vinegar." He sighs, wistful, even though he is at the British seaside and the nearest chippy will be no more than a stone's throw distant. "You cannot get proper chips in America." The kettle's whistle becomes urgent, before it breaks off with a wheeze. Jeffrey must have removed it from the heat. "And bacon. American bacon is unforgivable. You can get any cut you like, so long as it is streaky. And overcooked."
"Cariad," she murmurs in sympathy. "Are you sure you want to live in such a place?"
"Oh. Um. There are plus points," he says. She can hear the sound of a teapot being rinsed through with boiling water. "The restaurant culture is more diverse. Much better Asian food over there. And Wisconsin was settled predominantly by German and Scandinavian immigrants, so lots of European influence. The landscape is stunning too – the city is on an isthmus."
"Issss…mussss," Gladys repeats. It's a funny word. "What's that?"
"A strip of land between two bodies of water. Two lakes, in this case. The university itself is bordered by Lake Mendota. There are some lovely walks. And there are parks, gardens, an arboretum. Lots of places to enjoy greenery and fresh air."
"Sounds pretty."
"It is. And the locals complain about the weather, but I rather like it. The winters are cold and snowy, just as winter should be. And the summer only gets humid and nasty around about now, really. At which point, I can turn my back and visit the land of my birth. Leave the mosquitoes to the natives."
She hums agreement. It sounds as if he has it all well organised. Unfortunately, it doesn't sound like a life he is ready to give up for the sake of a might-have-been Welsh woman who doesn't like his favourite posh tea.
"I'm glad you're happy, Jeff," she says with a sigh. "…deserve to be happy."
She hears the clink of a metal teaspoon against a ceramic teapot, and then she hears nothing more for a while.
~~~
She stirs slowly. Naturally. Nothing wakes her – only the way her body has decided it has rested enough. This is a luxury she does not usually get to indulge.
"Mmm," she murmurs. She is warm, and comfortable, and the air smells fresh: salt and sand and sweetness. Gladys breathes deeply, sighs the breath out. She stretches and gives a grunt of pleasure at the sensation.
She opens her eyes.
She is in a pretty little beach hut.
"Oh," she says, as reality intrudes.
"Good afternoon," Jeffrey says.
She turns her head to see him sitting in the armchair, a book open in his hands, jacket off and shirt-sleeves rolled up. He is smiling at her, affectionate, amused.
"I, um…" She fell asleep. Three weeks of separation, all eating into a narrow two-month window of reunion before they face the likelihood of saying goodbye forever, and they finally manage to meet up…and she fell asleep on him. "Oh, heavens, Jeffrey, I'm so sorry!"
"Why on earth are you sorry? I've been paid few more genuine compliments in my whole life."
She sits herself up. The blanket from the chair has been placed over her body while she slept. "Compliment?" she asks, still trying to speed her thoughts up.
"You fell asleep in my company."
"I know! I wasn't bored, or anything."
He laughs at that. "I didn't think you were. I thought you were tired, and you felt comfortable. Safe. I thought there was a-a sense of trust between us. Was I wrong?"
She thinks about that. "No, I think that's exactly right."
"Good. That's why I feel complimented. Would you like that cup of tea, now?"
"That would be very welcome."
She manages to sit up properly, feet over the edge and back against the wall, and she keeps the blanket over her shoulders while her circulation speeds up. There is a small tumbler of water on the table next to the end of the bench. She smiles at Jeffrey's thoughtfulness, picks the glass up and sips to get rid of the sleep-dryness in her mouth.
"Right then," she says, while Jeffrey prepares another pot of tea. "How long have I been sleeping?"
"Hmm? Oh, about an hour and a half."
"And did I embarrass myself at all?"
"Why on earth would you?"
"I could have snored. Or talked in my sleep."
"Oh, yes, you did both of those things."
She blinks rapidly. She'd been trying to make a joke of it. "Oh, heavens, what did I–"
"I am teasing you, Gladys!" he assures her. "It's one of the long-lost skills I have recently reclaimed." He turns to lean against the counter. "Clearly, you needed the sleep. It is perfectly all right. I was happy to take some time, unwind after the drive. I had some tea, and a couple of Eccles cakes – thank you for those. Then I went for a walk to find the nearest facilities. Oh – I stowed your handbag out of sight behind the curtain, just in case. And then I came back and read my book. All is well."
She checks her watch. It is a quarter past midday. And now that Jeffrey has mentioned the nearest facilities…
"Which way to the loos?" she asks.
"Out of the hut, turn left."
"Can you pass me my bag?"
He does so. Gladys slips her sandals back on. She wonders what her impromptu nap has done to her hair and makeup.
She stands up and exits the beach hut to go and find out.
~~~
Lunch is excellent, and worth the extra money Gladys spent in the delicatessen. She can remember once, a long time ago, Jeffrey admitting how important 'the pleasures of the flesh' were to him. He had, alas, been restricting his comment to eating and drinking, but the truth in his confession has never been more apparent. Jeffrey's eyes close as he savours every mouthful. He eats slowly, carefully, paying each morsel the most meticulous attention. It is a very sensual experience – one Gladys finds herself emulating.
They open the wine, and the chilled, crisp flavour blends perfectly with the picnic food. It feels as if Gladys's senses are in overdrive. The colours in the hut, her tastebuds and sense of smell, even the tactility of holding the stem of a glass of wine: everything seems heightened. Outside, the sunshine is warm and the clouds, thin and drifting.
"Do you cook?" she asks Jeffrey as their appetites begin to feel sated and they simply relax, nibbling grapes along with cubes of melon that, they have discovered, go deliciously well with the fig-infused honey. "You said you'd stopped eating your dinner at the pub."
"I do cook. I rather enjoy it. Much to my mother's chagrin," he says. "Oh, I can't claim any great level of sophistication, but I have some basic skill."
"Why does your mother disapprove?"
"Because she never learned to cook, and takes pride in this."
Gladys looks at him, confused. It seems a strange thing, to be proud of one's inability to do something.
Jeffrey shrugs his shoulders. "My mother is fanatically class-conscious. Cooking, for her, is something the lower classes do for the upper classes." He looks rueful. "Nonsense, of course, but after what happened with her fall, I suppose I should be thankful for her attitude. If Mrs Booth had not arrived as usual to see to mother's breakfast…" He shudders, clearly haunted by the incident. "I-I mean, Mother couldn't have managed the front door on her own – not with a broken leg. The telephone might as well have been a hundred miles away. And Cliffton, the er, the gardener who lives on the grounds, he was away for a spell."
Gladys sympathises. It sounds as if this house Jeffrey's mother lives in, alone, is a big old place. "How is she getting on with the crutches?"
"Oh, she hates them with a passion. But she hates the walking-frame even more, so she is learning to live with them." He sits up straighter. "Mother will push through. By willpower, if nothing else."
Gladys nods. "You worry about her," she says after a moment.
"I do." Jeffrey frowns. There's a brief pause. Gladys watches him pick up a grape and consider it with great solemnity. She waits to see what this contemplation will bring. "I suppose," he says, "we should really be talking about you and me. Not my mother."
"We should," she agrees. Her heart speeds. "I'm more scared of saying the wrong thing, though, if that's the topic."
"Me too. But it occurs to me that we, er, we have an opportunity here."
"An opportunity?"
"We're on something of a deadline, if I can call it that. I mean, it isn't absolute. We've already proved that we could continue our conversations by exchange of letters. I'm certainly not averse to that, so please don't feel I am, er, pressuring you to-to move things along faster than you'd like…"
"Let's keep that option in reserve," Gladys suggests. "I'd rather be able to see your face when we talk. You're a terrible liar, Jeffrey. That's a good thing. I've learnt a lot this year about how painful truths serve me better than pretty lies."
He frowns at her choice of words. "I have no desire to cause you more pain than I already have."
"Nor I you. And to be honest with you, I'm a little bit wary of that concern."
He tilts his head, interested. "Why do you say that?"
She takes her time, working out how to put this into words. This was not the discussion she'd envisaged them having, but at the same time, it feels right that they state their positions.
"It's about not being sure which bits of myself to trust," she decides.
"I'm not sure I understand."
"My feelings. My wants. My fears. All of it." She sighs and tries to clarify. "There is a part of me that's clamouring away, begging me to say what you want to hear. To do what you want me to do. Whatever it takes, whatever it takes…anything to make sure you don't turn your back on me again." Her voice is shaking. She is afraid, and she is already regretting her honesty, but this is a day for risks. "I am trying to ignore that clamouring. Whatever happens between us, I want it to be real. Honest." She bites at her lip, remembering the way she told Spike last season that she would 'do anything' to be with Jeffrey. That was a different time, though, and she was a different woman. "See, if the only way I can be with you is if I change myself to fit? I don't think that would be a good thing." She looks at Jeffrey carefully, wondering if he will take offence.
"I agree," he says. He sounds surprised. "I-it appears we have something of a confluence of thoughts." He leans closer, hands woven together at his knees, fingertips pressing so hard that the skin has whitened; Gladys is surprised to note that he is as anxious as she is. "This is what I meant by 'opportunity'," he explains. "Let's take our cue from the narrowness of the timescales we are working with. Why should we equivocate when we can be direct with each other? A-after all, we know each other well enough, would you not agree?"
Gladys considers. "Yes. I mean, I'm not quite ready to throw caution to the wind – there are things I want to be sure of before we move this further along."
"Exactly. I-I feel the same. So may I suggest – if there are things you want to know, then ask me. If you have expectations, state them. If you have fears, or anxieties, let us explore them together."
"And would this honesty work two ways?" she asks.
"It would have to," he acknowledges. "I see no other fair way forward."
"And if we don't like the things we say to each other?"
Jeffrey gives a helpless shrug. "It might happen like that. We could discover that we lack compatibility. If so, better to find out now than later. On the other hand, we could discover that the things we want are so beautifully in tune that it would be absurd to wait one moment longer." He pauses to wet his lips. His hands are trembling. He unclasps them and places them on the arms of the chair, leaning back, trying to look more relaxed. "I don't know what will happen, Gladys. But I can tell you that I have a clamouring voice of my own, and just like yours, it is warning me against doing anything that will cost me that glimmer of hope."
"I wonder what would hurt more?" Gladys muses. "Saying goodbye? Or being together, only to discover we've got it horribly wrong."
"Both those options sound awful," Jeffrey says. "Let's try for a better one. So will you talk? Shall we be brave together?"
She arches a brow. "A few weeks ago, you told me that last season you'd grown alarmed by the way we kept having…what was it? 'Emotional conversations'?" She allows a hint of teasing to creep into her tone. "And now you're asking for us to do just that?"
"Several times over," he agrees, with something of a rueful smile. "I-I'm not sure we'll cover all we need to on one afternoon."
She nods and stands up. "I will be brave. Will you?"
"Yes. Or, well, I'll try. Haven't done this before. Might be terrible at it."
She clears the plates from the little table, and stacks away the remnants of their lunch. The bottle of wine, still half full, goes back into the cool-box. As she does all this, she says, "Will you join me for a stroll along the shore? The sunshine is lovely, there's a nice breeze, and I have the urge to feel sand and sea on my feet."
"That sounds terribly romantic," Jeffrey considers. "I would be required to remove shoes and socks and roll up my trousers, would I?"
"Required? No. But you'll look silly if you don't."
"Heavens forfend I ever look silly," he says flatly. "Very well. A barefoot stroll along the sea shore it is."
~~~
They hold hands, and the rushing surf occasionally cools their feet, and the wet sand is firm and textured and sensual. Westwards they walk, away from distant Clacton and the ever-busier beaches, back towards the dunes of Colne Point. The solitude is welcome. This day was always supposed to be for them.
"Was it a gradual thing?" Gladys asks, when it seems that Jeffrey is not yet ready to offer a conversational starter. "This whole new you, I mean. Linen suits and rolled-up sleeves. Very attractive forearms, by the way."
"Um, thank you. I've always had arms, though. They were not gradual."
"There you go," she retorts. "You can tease, now. And joke. Going from the last few weeks, you can even hear the word 'love' without panicking and delivering a spontaneous lecture."
He smiles at that, fortunately. There was a time when the comment would have triggered a bout of bristling. "Careless Love," he recalls. "How are the roses this year?"
"Struggling. Mr McDonald says the summer's been far too wet. Roses like water, but if the ground gets waterlogged, it…" She shakes her head. "It has something to do with the roots. And clay. Or something."
"Yes, there's a heavy clay subsoil, in spite of the proximity to the coast. I remember." He nudges against her, shoulder to shoulder. "You know, you didn't need to introduce soil to the conversation to pique my interest. Although as a technique, it works very well."
"And there's that joking again! What on earth has Wisconsin done to you?"
"I used to joke quite well," Jeffrey says reflectively. "Never in the way Ted can have an audience roaring with laughter, of course, but I could manage a spot of dry wit from time to time. I seemed to lose the knack, over the years."
"And now it has come back?"
"I suppose it has."
"So do we blame Cambridge for the dulling of your humour? Or your ex-wife? Or some other kind of personality crisis?"
"All those things. I'm the kind of person who…retreats. When unhappy, or uncertain. You know this about me."
"I do," she agrees.
"You once called me prickly."
"I remember."
He sighs. "The thing is, I was unhappy for a long time. Longer than I realised. And I'm still not sure whether I was unhappy because my marriage fell apart, or if it was the other way around."
"Did you never talk to your ex-wife about how you felt?" she asks, a little uncertain because already the topic feels big and menacing.
Jeffrey shoots her a quick look. "I don't think Daphne and I ever talked about anything," he says. "Nothing real, anyway. Just superficial things. At the time, it didn't occur to me that the way I felt should be the subject of a conversation."
Gladys nods. She rubs her thumb over Jeffrey's hand. "I like talking," she says, as firmly as she can. "I've never been a fan of holding things inside. Maybe because I've never really been able to do it – not when it matters. Perhaps it seems simplistic to you, but my view has always been that if there's a problem, better for it to be out in the open where it can be seen, and understood, and solved."
"Marion is of the same school of thought," Jeffrey tells her. "And in answer to your original question – the changes you note have been a gradual process, though a swifter one than most who know me might imagine."
"Your friend Marion is key to this, then?" Gladys asks, hoping she sounds nonchalant rather than teeth-grindingly jealous.
"No, I-I wouldn't say that. She has helped. Enormously. But key to my emotional convalescence has been my writing."
Gladys arches her eyebrows, surprised. "Really?"
"Indeed. Rather, er, rather egomaniacally, I chose to tell a story where the narrative unfolds through the eyes of a figure based upon myself. I could not do so without examining my own behaviour. This was a process I'd shied from, most of my life. It was not always comfortable, but it was, er, necessary." He gives a slightly-awkward shrug. "I-In the American vernacular, I took a long, hard look at myself."
"Can't have been that bad. I mean, look what you ended up with in your book. I quite fancy Broderick White, you know."
Jeffrey laughs. "That sounds like a quick way to tie ourselves in knots. But I see your point, and I appreciate the vote of confidence." He shakes his head. "I was lucky, I suppose. As soon as I met Marion, I had a sounding board for all kinds of ideas. I'd already made some headway in capturing Rick's character, identifying his flaws, starting to find ways to-to address those flaws. Add an exceptional editor into the mix, and make her a trustworthy friend to boot? Somewhere in the middle of it all, I suppose I started to work a few things out."
Gladys turns to look out to sea when she says, "And do I need to be as jealous of her as I am?"
Jeffrey doesn't reply at first. She eventually has to check his expression. He seems both bewildered and a touch amused. This does not placate her.
"Jeff?"
"Sorry. It did not occur to me that you would view her as a threat," he says.
"I don't know her. I don't view her as anything, other than the woman who sent me anonymous notes and, by the way, has been lucky enough to spend a lot of time in your company over the last six months."
"We have spent a lot of time together," he acknowledges. "Me, and Marion…and Marion's partner."
"She's married," Gladys guesses, with a surge of relief.
"No."
The relief subsides. "Business partner?"
"No." Jeffrey sighs. "Gladys, I am – in as basic a way as it is possible to be – not the kind of person Marion is, um, drawn to."
It takes her a moment. "Oh," she finally says.
"And I would have preferred not to reveal such private information about her, especially given the difficulties she has always faced. America is in many ways a society even more prejudiced than our own, particularly with regard to nonconforming lifestyles. But I have promised you honesty, and you have never given me cause not to trust you."
"Your friend Marion lives with another woman," Gladys clarifies.
"She does indeed." Jeffrey squeezes her hand. "But you had no need for jealousy, in any case. Marion is fifty-three, a cat-owner, and she does not speak with a mellifluous Welsh accent. In romantic terms, the woman does nothing at all for me."
Gladys smiles at that. "And what are you going to do with me when I'm fifty-three, then?"
"Not sure. Are you likely to own a cat?"
"Oh, shut up," she laughs, and the tension she has been feeling dissipates. "Did you know that Marion wrote me a letter?"
"Do you mean in addition to the notes she used to get you to my book-signing?"
"Mmm. About a week later, a letter arrived. Quite chatty, and with a full confession."
"Ah. No, she, er, she didn't tell me she'd done that." He shoots her a look. "Should I be worried?"
"Hardly. Seems like she's very fond of you – which is why I felt jealous." Gladys lets her arm rub against Jeffrey. She likes the sensation of the light hairs on his forearm against her skin. "She mentioned that you spoke on the telephone. After we met up the first time."
"Yes. I phoned her that night. She'd been expecting me to, given what she'd done."
"And what did you tell her?"
"That she shouldn't have done it, and thank goodness she had. Or words to that effect." He caresses the back of her hand with his thumb. "When I told her I had too much I needed to say to you and I didn't know where to start, she told me to just start. And, well, here we are."
"Here we are. So what would you like to say?" Gladys invites.
He frowns. "I suppose, well, I have a failed marriage not far behind me. I have to take responsibility for that failure."
"I don't think it was solely your fault," Gladys suggests. "Marriages take two."
"Agreed, but I still need to acknowledge my part."
"You're worried you'll make the same mistakes again?"
"Yes," he says simply.
Gladys nods. "I'm not."
He glances her way. "Why so confident?"
"Because we're having this conversation. Because I know you."
"I admit," Jeffrey says, "that I have come some distance. I am better able to discuss problems. And that's a good thing. But I can only address the mistakes I have been able to identify. What if there are others I have overlooked?"
"Then they can wait their turn." She shrugs. "Look, maybe they exist, maybe they don't, but we can't do anything about them until they happen." Gladys nudges his shoulder. "Seems to me we've got plenty to sort out already – why add to the list?"
She means the question rhetorically, but Jeffrey says, "Why? Because I'm not sure I have the strength to go through another divorce."
Gladys arches her eyebrows. "Well. There's confident."
Jeffrey shrugs. His hand in hers is restless but he doesn't let go. "Should I not have said it?"
"Of course you should, if it's on your mind." Gladys shakes her head. "Did you have these worries when you and your ex started out?"
"No. No, I assumed everything would be fine. Rather blithely, I failed to anticipate that marriage requires more than a simple decision to…to be married."
"And do you think, maybe, this might have been a mistake?"
"It was."
"But you know now that marriage needs more. From both parties."
"Yes." Jeffrey huffs. "Yes, fair enough, you make a good point, Gladys. I'd be starting from a more informed position."
She nods. "I won't be, though."
"You won't…I'm sorry?"
"You're worried that your first marriage failed. I'm worried that I've got no experience at all to bring to any…any theoretical venture."
Jeffrey nods. "I see. Though I'm not sure your concerns are significant."
"No?" She's mildly offended. "I don't get to have worries?"
"Of course you do; that's not what I mean." He is getting frustrated, and Gladys anticipates a hunching-up, a turning-away, just as he did last summer whenever things got tricky. But he breathes deep, squeezes her hand in his and says, "What I mean is – you haven't been married before. That's true. But you do not lack skills or-or-or experience."
"What experience?"
"You've lived in close-quarters with family and friends and colleagues on numerous occasions. You've learned how to define your own space and make allowances for others. You know how to share. You know how to navigate relationships that become difficult, stressed." Jeffrey glances at her. "I've witnessed how you behave as a friend. A colleague. A sister." His look grows pointed. Gladys nods. She has not forgotten that night last season, and the letter he helped her compose for Gareth. "Honestly, Gladys, I have no qualms at all about the way you would adapt to being a, er, romantic partner."
She thinks about this. It makes a kind of sense, tinged as it is by Jeffrey's optimism. Funny, how he's convinced of her strengths and yet remains haunted by his own fallibility.
"Well then," she says, "it seems we both have worries that the other person has already decided aren't too worrying."
It takes him a moment to untangle the sentence. He gives a chuckle. "It does, doesn't it?"
"I am in no way dismissing your concerns when I point that out," she adds. "And I will always be available if you feel the need to talk about something specific."
"Yes. And, er, I will too."
"Good enough, then," Gladys says. "Next topic?"
Jeffrey stops walking, draws her back to him. He takes her other hand in his free one. The coastline here is straight and sandy, but they've walked far enough that the few people near the beach huts of Wallis Sands are too distant to observe. Still, he looks around, afraid of being interrupted or scrutinised. Jeffrey Fairbrother is still a deeply self-conscious man.
"It occurs to me that there is something I have never said to you," he says. "Not in so many words."
"You'll tell me when you're ready," she says, because pretending she doesn't understand would be a lie and she has pledged herself to honesty.
He smiles, a touch helpless. "Oh, Gladys, I have been ready for months. The problem was, I thought I had already lost my chance." He lifts her hand in his and presses a kiss to the inside of her wrist. It makes her shiver. "I love you," he says, voice a little rough. "I have no idea how to convince you of this, after everything that happened. But it is the truth. My truth. I love you."
"And I love you." She smiles, pulls her hand from his and settles it on Jeffrey's shoulder. She feels him circle her waist with an arm. "You don't need to convince me of anything. I know you, cariad. You wouldn't even be able to say the words if you didn't mean them."
He considers this. "Ah. Yes, that's probably true."
Barefoot as she is, she has to go on tiptoe to press a kiss to his mouth. He murmurs and kisses back. There is an understated passion to the moment that feels a little like teetering on some kind of brink.
She draws back, even though she doesn't really want to, wary that they are only semi-private here. "There we are, then," she says. "Seems like a solid foundation."
"Yes. It does."
They start walking again.
"Er, kissing, then," Jeffrey says, after a moment.
"Yes, I noticed that," she says with a smile.
He nods. Clears his throat. "It's, er, i-it was all right?"
She comes very close to laughing, because she can only assume he is either joking or fishing for compliments. Fortunately, she doesn't do so. She looks Jeffrey's way. He is studying his own feet as they walk along the sand, and with quite the attentive expression.
How does a man who is nearly forty and who was married for seven years doubt his ability to kiss?
Gladys turns her head and looks out to sea. "I suppose there is a problem," she acknowledges.
"Oh." He sounds disappointed but not surprised. "If you could, er, point me in the, er…?"
"The problem with the way you kiss me – on the occasions you've done so thus far, which have not been numerous, so I'm working with a limited amount of information…"
"Er, yes. Of course."
"The problem is that you seem to know exactly how to coax every single nerve-ending I have into the most delicious thrum of pleasure." She draws a deep breath and lets it out again. "You make everything go very, very warm, for me. You make me want to kiss longer, and deeper, and with a passion that is completely unrestrained." She feigns a sigh. "Which is, of course, very awkward when we're in a public space. So if you could bear that in mind, at least until we have some privacy?"
He squeezes her hand, and says, "I wasn't asking for flattery."
"No, I thought you wanted honesty," she retorts.
"Gladys," he says, as if admonishing her for a tease.
"You don't believe me? Are you telling me our kisses leave you feeling a little flat, even while I'm busy trying to stop my toes from curling?"
"I just…" He hesitates and looks at her, interested. "Your toes curl?"
"Well, they're right down there, on display. Kiss me again, see what happens."
She is, in fact, teasing at this point, but Jeffrey is no longer a man in thrall to his inhibitions. He pulls her close and his hand goes to her face and he says her name. Gladys's breath catches, simply with the tone of his voice. His thumb sweeps over her cheekbone, his arm coaxes her body against his, his eyes search her own.
"Oh," she breathes. Her knees are weakening. She shivers.
And then Jeffrey moves in slowly and their lips touch, and part, and caress, and Gladys's back arches as she tries to press as close as she can. And heavens, but these are the kisses she has been waiting her whole life for. It's good to know the one in London three weeks ago wasn't a fluke.
When they pull away, Jeffrey needs a moment to catch his breath before he remembers himself enough to glance down at her feet. At this point, Gladys can only assume that her toes have made the attempt to burrow halfway to Australia, because all she can feel against them is cool, damp sand.
"Yes," he says. "Right, then."
"Convinced?"
"I'm sorry, I didn't, er…"
"Because I'm very willing to keep demonstrating the point."
He is flushed, but he's smiling too. "I can only apologise for my insecurities."
"No need," Gladys says lightly. "Especially when they're so very easy to disprove."
Their embrace loosens. Both of them know that they need to be a touch more patient. Jeffrey takes her hand again and their stroll resumes.
It takes a few minutes for Gladys's heart rate to settle back down.
"So. What now?" she finally prompts. "Another big, scary, menacing topic of conversation?"
Jeffrey shakes his head slowly. "Now," he says, "I am going to splash about in the waves for a while. Would you care to join me, Miss Pugh?"
"Delighted, Mr Fairbrother. Just let me tuck my skirt up." She glances around, checks their privacy, then hoists up her skirt. Her sundress has a belt to it, and she tucks the excess material into it.
Jeffrey is looking at her knees with a combination of interest and shock.
"You've seen me in less, love," she points out with a laugh.
"Never after a kiss like that, though," he points out.
"Well, don't worry. They're only legs." She leans in and flashes him a wicked look. "I'm keeping the garter in reserve. For a special occasion."
Jeffrey stares at her a moment, jaw slack, before he swallows hard. Gladys winks and sets off into the shallow waves.
~~~
Gladys wins the prettiest shell competition, but – magnanimously – she allows that Jeffrey's pebble is far and away the nicest, and concedes that particular victory to him. Their sandcastle becomes complicated when Jeffrey insists on the layout matching up with a specific period in Norman history; this is likely because he works out, early in the process, that she is charmed and amused by his meticulous approach, and he decides to milk it for all it is worth.
As the afternoon progresses, she wonders out loud whether they should bring along a ball and a set of bats if they return for another day at the beach. Jeffrey convinces her that this is a bad idea; he claims he is hoping for some time to prove his worth before he is forced to demonstrate his lack of talent for sport. Gladys takes this as a challenge and proceeds to come up with examples of the skills he could demonstrate – juggling, a competent Highland fling in full kilted regalia, taming an enraged bull with a raised hand and a stern look – each one more imaginative and unlikely than the last. Jeffrey admits his limitations at first, until he notices her mischief and decides to join in. Not long afterwards, he is bragging about the quite impossible talents he commands.
The sillier they get, the more they laugh. The laughter is a joy and a relief. Gladys has been mentally preparing for this day for some time – more so than their reunion in Bloomsbury, which happened unexpectedly and required her to wing the whole thing. She has readied herself for tentative flirting, serious talks, and even for very bad news. It did not occur to her to anticipate fun, but now that it has happened, it feels somehow reaffirming.
She and Jeffrey are good together. In many ways, the complications of last summer aside, they always have been.
They wander back to Wallis Sands as the afternoon turns to early evening. Most of the beach huts have closed up by the time they return. The couple with the windbreak has gone home, as have the few families with kids. An older couple, sitting out on their hut's deck and sharing a pot of tea, offer a friendly nod and wave as Gladys and Jeffrey walk past. Two youngsters in their middle teens are holding hands as they walk towards Clacton, their bicycles propped against the rough stone of the retaining wall lining the sloped access road down on to the beach. It is quiet, for the height of summer, but that isn't unusual for this spot. The resorts are where people gravitate, especially later in the day.
Jeffrey suggests that they finish the wine while he still has some time in hand before he needs to drive home. It is a sensible idea, even if it does force them both to acknowledge that they are going to have to say goodbye sooner than they are ready.
In the storage area underneath the bench, they find a large picnic blanket along with numerous items intended to pass a pleasant few hours within the beach hut itself: playing cards, dominoes, jigsaw puzzles and a selection of novels. They take the blanket and the wine, and they leave the hut to find a quiet spot where they can relax in the early evening sunshine.
Gladys wonders whether their conversation will return to the bigger, scarier topics. There are several weighty questions yet to be asked and answered. Still, as much as Jeffrey was keen to make the most of this ever-shrinking window of opportunity, it feels to Gladys as if they have done enough for one day. Not every conversation has to be an emotional minefield.
Therefore, once they are stretched out on the blanket together and sipping still-chilled wine from stemmed glasses, she asks, "What's your earliest childhood memory?"
Jeffrey thinks for a moment, before he replies, "Pins and needles."
"Oh yes?"
"Yes. I would have been about three, I think. Tucked away in my nursery. My nanny was sitting with me on the floor, and we were reading a book together – by which I mean, she was reading a book and I was looking at the pictures. We reached the end of the story and I went to get another, except my leg had fallen asleep because I'd been sitting awkwardly, too distracted by Timmy Tiptoes to notice. When I moved, my leg refused to cooperate. I examined it for a moment, confused by the leaden lump it seemed to have become. Then the pins and needles began, and I absolutely wailed."
"Oh dear," Gladys says, stifling a laugh.
"Believe me, at that tender age I was quite certain I had done myself some permanent damage." Jeffrey shakes his head. "I remember the incident with surprising clarity." He looks her way. "What about you?"
"Screaming at my dad," she says cheerfully.
"Good lord."
"First time I'd ever seen him come home from the colliery without being able to wash there first. So he was black as night, just the whites of his eyes and his teeth peeking through. Didn't look like my dad at all. I was convinced a monster was attacking. Took my mam half an hour to calm me down, meanwhile Gareth had to give Dad a hand putting the tin bath in place so he could get a good scrub." Gladys shakes her head. "I was four. Gareth was, um, twelve, I think. Dad did his best to laugh it off, but I always had the sense it shook him up. I was such a daddy's girl, see, and to have me scream like that…well."
Their different backgrounds could not be more apparent thanks to one throwaway question, Gladys thinks. Jeffrey and his nanny in a well-appointed nursery; Gladys terrified of her coal-blackened father.
Ah well. Better to share than to hide.
"Have you ever broken a bone?" Jeffrey asks. Perhaps such injuries are on his mind after what happened with his mum.
"Several times," Gladys says. "First one was my wrist. A fracture. I fell out of a tree. Aged nine, I think. Eight and nine were my peak tree-climbing years. Anyway, I thought I'd just bruised myself. Didn't tell anyone, even though it hurt like billy-o. Then my wrist went dark purple, almost black, and my mam noticed. Got me to the cottage hospital and it was all strapped up and sorted out."
"You had 'peak' tree-climbing years," Jeffrey says, apparently stuck on this comment.
Gladys laughs. "Plenty of trees in the valleys. They were a nice, cheap way of entertaining yourself as a kid. Conkers. Scrumping. Making dens or tree houses. And of course, climbing up as high as you could possibly go."
"I take it your injury taught you greater caution."
Gladys shrugs. "Little bit. Of course, my next breakage was done while undertaking a much more ladylike pastime. Broke my little finger on the mangle, helping Mam on laundry day." She holds up her right hand. The littlest finger remains ever-so-slightly misaligned. "Not a major injury, but the bone snapped and has never reset quite right." She drops her hand and sips her wine. "And then I broke my ankle. 1945, when I was posted at St Fagan's Castle."
"This was when you were in the Land Army?"
"That's right." She's a little surprised that he remembers the few conversations they had last year about their wartime experiences. "Fortunately, the injury only restricted my work there for a week, before I was due to go home anyway."
"And how did you break your ankle? Was it a heroic fall from a combine harvester?"
Gladys smirks. "Bunk bed accident."
"Um…"
She giggles. "Bunk beds, three beds high, in our dorm. I was in the middle. I dropped something. I think it was one of my slippers. Anyway, I bent over the edge to retrieve it, trapped my foot in the ladder to keep from sliding off the bed. Slid off anyway, but where most of my body went, my foot refused to follow, jammed as it was between a metal rung and the frame of the bed." Gladys sighs. "Made a horrible thunk-sound when it went snap."
"That sounds awful."
"It wasn't fun. But it did teach me to be a lot more careful with ladders. And bunk beds." Gladys smiles at Jeffrey. "That was the last serious injury I did to myself, though I've had a few sprains and cuts on tennis courts and the like. What about you?"
"I broke my collarbone. Fell off a bicycle in Cambridge, first year of my Masters – that was straight after the war, when I went back to resume my education. I took quite the tumble, landed heavily on my shoulder, screamed blue murder because I'd never known pain like it. Not even on the rugby field at Wellington."
"Ouch," Gladys sympathises. "Were you with someone who could help?"
"Not as such. Fortunately, it was in the town centre, and there were passers-by, one of whom happened to work at Addenbrooke's. That's the, er, main hospital in Cambridge. I was examined by a qualified doctor within thirty seconds of hitting the surface of the road, and diagnosed with a likely broken clavicle. Transport was arranged to get me to hospital for an x-ray." Jeffrey sniffs. "I had my right arm in a sling for several weeks. Never did manage to improve my left-handed writing, though."
Gladys finishes her glass of wine and stretches back on the picnic blanket, arm behind her head, eyes closed against the glow of the early-evening sunshine. "We should stop talking about moments in our lives that were painful. Something nicer, I think. What was the best birthday present you ever got?"
"Oh, um – I ought to say the archaeological toolkit my father gifted me for my nineteenth birthday, a month or so after I'd begun my undergraduate studies. But I think, in truth, the best present I ever received was my Hornby clockwork train. My grandfather got me that, when I turned six. I even got the expansion set the following year. Allowed me to build ever more complex track layouts for it."
"Is your grandfather still with us?"
"Oh, goodness, no, we lost him when I was ten." Jeffrey smiles, a touch wistful. "I think of him often, though. One of those people who always embraced a-a joyful sense of wonder at the world."
"He sounds like a treasure."
"So he was." Jeffrey shuffles down to lie beside her and rolls on to his side. "Your turn. Best birthday present."
"I had a rag doll named Beatrice. Shock of red hair, bright blue eyes, and three different pretty dresses she could put on."
"Why 'Beatrice'?" Jeffrey asks.
"Oh, she looked very well-to-do, and it was the poshest name I could think up." She laughs at herself, at her own childish absurdity. "My Aunt Bethan made her for me, which is why Beatrice has lasted to this day. She's now in my niece's toy box, and I think she's named Sophie. But she'll be Beatrice to me until the day I die, and she was my most loyal, trusted, constant companion between the ages of four, when I received her, and maybe ten or so, when I'd moved on from dollies and my little sister nabbed her for herself."
They talk a while longer, exchanging memories, sipping the last of the wine. It feels, strangely, as if they are getting to know each other, even though they have already shared so much.
Gladys's wristwatch reads half past six when they pick themselves up and return to the beach hut. There are leftovers from their lunch, and she is feeling peckish, but an evening at the seaside requires a visit to the chip shop, and the one local to Wallis Sands closes at seven. The chippy is doing good business with the both the locals and the evening visitors, which is a good sign. They order themselves battered haddock and chips, and they take their wrapped parcels back to the beach hut. Both of them eat straight from the newspaper, with their fingers. The stemmed wine glasses were a lovely touch, earlier, but some consumables always taste best au naturel.
Once they've finished their dinner and cleaned up after themselves, they share a pot of tea and play a remarkably competitive round of dominoes that Jeffrey wins, though Gladys claims she has chosen to grant him this victory because she knew his masculine pride would not take well to defeat.
The evening is growing late and the sun is only half an hour from setting when they wash up the tea cups and begin to think about leaving.
"It's been such a lovely day," Gladys says, tea towel in hand, careful with each item of china she dries and hangs back on its hook. "I haven't laughed so much in ages."
"Neither have I," Jeffrey agrees. "Though I'm concerned for the summer season at Crimpton if you find yourself short on laughter."
"Well, there's laughter and there's laughter, isn't there," she points out.
Before she needs to clarify further, Jeffrey says, "Yes, by the middle of the season it all started to feel a touch like going through the motions. The, er, repetition."
"Exactly," she agrees.
He hands her the rinsed teapot to dry. "I haven't asked after the camp today. Not because I'm not interested. You seemed so worn down by everything earlier. I didn't want to…you know. Spoil the mood?"
"Oh, it's all fine, Jeff." Gladys smiles at him. "That snooze did me the world of good, not to mention the time we've been able to spend together."
"Have you heard from Tracey?"
"Oh, yes, I meant to tell you – she telephoned yesterday evening. Happy to come back for the six weeks we still have left. We're expecting her Saturday. And thank goodness she said yes, because Gary and Dawn are off to Jayford tomorrow."
"Oh, so soon? I was hoping they'd hang on for the season."
"I don't blame them. Jayford's season extends into October, what with all the indoor facilities they have, and those modern static caravans. It's better wages and a chance to get their foot in the door for next spring."
"I can see their point of view."
"Hmm." She considers carefully before she adds, "Jenny Ford indicated to me that she'd be happy to have me on Jayford's management team."
Jeffrey pauses in his current task, which is wiping clean the little sink he has used to wash the crockery. He doesn't look at her when he asks, "Are you tempted?"
"Little bit," she acknowledges. "I mean, the off-season gives me some time in hand to make a decision, but I'll need another job next spring. And Jenny would be a much better employer than Joe Maplin ever was."
He nods, slowly, at the sense of this. "But?" he prompts, his voice soft.
"But it's still a summer job, in temporary accommodation. And I'm not getting younger. Whatever comes next, I think I need it to feel a bit more…grown-up. Permanent."
Jeffrey makes a sort of hum of understanding and goes back to his wiping. Gladys waits. This would seem like the ideal time for them to discuss some of those more looming questions: does Jeffrey want to take her to America?; if he wants them to marry, how soon?; is he happy for his wife to remain in work, wherever they end up?
He doesn't pursue the topic. Instead, he asks, "Any developments with Ted's young friend?"
She blinks, but takes the hint and allows the change in subject. There's no good news to report, however. Ted has spent the last week mooning after a girl less than half his age – a nice girl, attractive, lovely singing voice, and very taken with Ted's charisma and worldliness. But what might have been a harmless flirtation has taken a turn for the uncomfortably serious.
"He's proposed," Gladys admits. "And she said yes. Her mother is furious."
"Gladys," Jeffrey says with a wince. "You said over the phone that this girl was barely twenty!"
"That's right."
"So what are you going to do?"
"Me? Nothing. I've already tried to tell him he's too old, and it isn't fair on the young lady, but he won't have it. He's got stars in his eyes. And so has she." Gladys shrugs. "Ted wants them to run away together. Tour the music halls, perform their duets every evening. Live out their love story."
Jeffrey shakes his head. "It's going to end badly, and probably before Saturday. I wish you luck."
"And I appreciate that."
The cleaning up is done. Gladys hangs the tea towel on its little hook at the end of the counter.
"I suppose time's getting on," Jeffrey says.
She nods and sighs. "I don't want to say goodbye."
"No. Neither do I." He reaches for her hand and draws her close. "I'm a little afraid that if I do so, another three weeks will go by without the chance to see you."
"Let's try to avoid that," Gladys says, trying to make her voice sound light. "Did you have any thoughts about next week?"
"Actually, I did. Have you ever visited Colchester Castle?"
"Not really. If I'm in Colchester, I tend to be shopping. What's at the castle?"
"An impressive archaeological collection. One of the best in the country. I haven't been there for more than ten years. But if you get bored of Bronze Age axe heads or the Roman vaults, there's a park and gardens to wander about in, too."
"Can I squeeze in an errand or two, while we're in town?"
"Of course. I-I was hoping we could make another whole day of it."
"And these historic things – do you promise to explain them to me, tell me why they're important?"
He smiles. "I promise. Also – I promise to be quiet if you beg me to stop rambling on about them."
"That's a plan, then." She glances behind herself, through the half-open beach hut door, but no one is visible. She turns back and stretches up to kiss Jeffrey's mouth. It is still an exotic feeling: that she has the right to do this whenever she likes. "Next Thursday, in Colchester."
"We still have a lot to talk about," Jeffrey says.
"We do. But we're making strides. And I think the way we've had fun together today is just as important as all the big conversations."
"Yes. Yes, I think that's right."
Gladys breathes in deeply and sighs it out. "All right, love. Take me home. Let's get you at least part of the way to London before you lose all the light."
"In a minute," he mutters.
And just as he did that morning, he puts his arms around her and holds her for a while. They stand there in a borrowed beach hut that still smells faintly of fish and chips, and Gladys does her best to memorise the sensation of their embrace.
She's going to need memories like this to get her through the next seven days.
~~~~~~