Page 50 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay
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 dinnerwhen 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.”
