Page 33 of Meet me at the Seaside Cottages

‘Like Shelby McFlynn.’

‘Shelby McFlynn doesn’t have a passport,’ says Janey. ‘Everyone’s scared of something. Everyone’s got a mess.’

Then she grins.

‘Although not quite as much as whoever lives here and is about to find out they now own seven dogs.’

*

They go round to the back door, being friendly locals, Janey explains, and not religious salespeople.

‘I can’t believe you’ve never been here,’ says Essie.

‘I haven’t! It was empty for a while I think, once it stopped being a school, then rented. Honestly, my life has a bit more going on than Carso gossip.’

Essie gives her a look.

‘Okay, it also has hospital gossip.’

The back door is pale green, peeling, with four glass panes through which nothing can be seen. Outside sits an ancient bootscraper and next to it a very large pair of wellingtons, next to a small pair of wellingtons, pink with purple flowers.

‘They won’t be in,’ says Essie. ‘It’s the middle of the day.’

Janey shrugs. ‘As someone who works in the community, I can tell you that you’d be amazed by just how many people are home in the daytime these days.’

She knocks loudly.

‘HELLO!’ she hollers, being used to turning up to people’s houses and to those people not being able to hear particularly well.

Essie winces. ‘Mum!’

*

However, to Essie’s surprise, it does the trick, and soon they hear a thudding noise in the hallway and a large figure opens the door, an enquiring look on his face.

Janey is completely taken aback. It’s Lowell, the man from the pub quiz.

*

‘Oh!’ she finds herself saying. The man himself looks slightly uncomfortable and Janey finds herself gripped by the horrible thought that he thinks she has tracked him down to his house and is one of those creepy middle-aged stalkers who falls in love with vicars and whatnot and he’ll have to get a restraining order.

‘Ah,’ says Lowell in return, then glances down at himself, as if he’s checking he remembered to put his trousers on that day. He did, but his large jumper has toast crumbs on it, and he brushes them off hastily.

‘Yes, sorry . . . Jane, is it?’

‘Um, Janey,’ she manages to stutter out. ‘And this is . . .’

But Essie has disappeared in pure embarrassment and is back in the garden staring at her phone, her ears pink.

‘From the quiz,’ says the man carefully, as if there’s a possibility that she’s come to take him hostage, and he’s trying not to upset her by using a soothing tone of voice.

‘Yes,’ says Janey, regaining her composure and feeling quite irritated. She’s a middle-aged woman, not an unexploded bomb. Although some days the difference isn’t that big. ‘But this isn’t about that.’

‘Good,’ says Lowell. ‘I’m not sure I can handle any more questions about Spitfires.’

‘Do you have a dog?’ asks Janey, feeling this is a bad angle to come in on but not quite sure where else to start.

He looks confused. ‘Well, kind of, but Jack Meakin looks after it for me, has done since...’

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