Page 20 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay
“Of course. It’s been really interesting talking to you.”
“I’ll see you later.”
He hurried through to his office to take the call. The council were supposed to have repaired those potholes months ago, but it had been put off and put off until there was more pothole than road. Not a good impression for visitors coming to the town.
Not that he was going to have to worry about that for much longer. As he ended the call he swung his chair round to gaze out of the window at the blank whitewashed brick wall opposite.
Chatting to Mr and Mrs Wright had reminded him that this place was more than just a hotel. It was history. Part of the fabric of this small town, part of people’s lives.
What would people like the Wrights and their other loyal repeat visitors do if the place was closed down? In just another couple of years it would be the Wrights’ diamond anniversary, and they had already expressed their wish to spend it here. It would break their hearts to learn it wouldn’t be possible.
And then there were the staff. They weren’t a large group, but several of them had worked here for as long as he had himself. Tracey, the housekeeping supervisor, was almost sixty — it would be difficult for her to find another job. And Pete, the night manager, would be in the same situation.
It would be nothing short of criminal to let the place fall into ruin, but if that was what the new owners chose to do there was nothing he could do to prevent it. Shaking his head with a sad sigh he turned back to his desk to finish checking through the pile of invoices, his least favourite task.
Chapter Five
Memories. Alex strolled along the Esplanade, his mind drifting back... what, twenty-five years and more to when he was six, seven, eight years old, visiting his grandfather with his mom and dad and his older brother David.
The sand here was perfect for sandcastles. They’d built the most amazing constructions, with moats and drawbridges and battlements. And they’d swum in the sea. He’d like to do that now, but it was probably a bit too cold at this time of year.
There was something so very English about this small town, with its fish and chip shop, its noisy amusement arcade, and a shop defiantly displaying colourful baskets of plastic buckets and spades, beachballs and frisbees in spite of the dwindling number of tourists.
Next to it was a shop selling all sorts of kitsch knick-knacks: glass paperweights with tiny mermaids or pirate ships inside them, mugs with garishly painted seaside scenes, colourful tea cloths with images of the sea front and ‘A Present from Sturcombe’ printed on them.
Maybe he’d buy his brother one of those china trinket trays decorated with sea shells. It would be perfect for holding paperclips, but look suitably embarrassing on his desk in his high-powered law office.
Did people really buy this sort of thing these days? There must be a market for them he supposed. Perhaps, like him, people bought them as tongue-in-cheek gifts for family and friends.
Ah, that was more like it. There were some framed watercolours of the bay and the village which were quite good. His dad would love one of those.
Inside, the shop was like an Aladdin’s cave: postcards, a rack of plastic wallets and purses, and another of fridge magnets. Anda shelf of Christmas knick-knacks — cheery red-cheeked Santas and elves in green pointy hats, popping up out of colourful cardboard tubs like jack-in-the-boxes, and plush reindeer with bright button eyes and long curling lashes, lined up as if ready to be harnessed to a sleigh.
The elderly woman behind the counter looked a little surprised to have a customer. “Hello, my luvver. What can I do for you?”
Alex smiled. “I see you have your Christmas stock in early.”
“Oh ah — people are buying them already. Did you want one of them?”
“No. I was looking for something for my mom and dad. Something like this.”
There was a display of pretty jewellery made of sea glass. He chose a pair of earrings for his mother — blue pebbles set in coils of silver. And the trinket tray for David, of course.
“Those paintings,” he asked as he took his selection to the counter. “Are they by a local artist?”
“Oh, ah.” She chuckled with delight. “They’re by my husband. He always dabbled, but after he retired he took it up a bit more.” Another chuckle. “He’s never going to get hung in the National Gallery, but they do well enough down here for folks as want a souvenir. Which one would you like?”
“That one, I think.” He pointed to one of the bay. “Where’s that view from?”
“Ah, that’s from up the top of Cliff Road there.” She gestured to the left, where the Esplanade ended and the road climbed to the higher ground to the east of the bay. “It’s one of his favourite places.”
“Well, it’s very nice. Tell him I said so.” He passed his phone over the scanner. “Actually, it’s for my dad. He was born here in Sturcombe.”
“Oh?”
“Simon Crocombe.”
“Simon?” Her eyes widened. “You mean old Arthur’s boy?”
