Page 49 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay
“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 words94 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.”
