Bones Under The Beach Hut

Chapter Eight

Carole was surprised that the man in the next hut appeared to recognize her. She had no recollection of ever having seen him before. Rising from a wooden folding chair, he said, 'Good morning. You must be Mrs Seddon.'

His beach hut had not been open on her previous visit, because Carole would certainly have remembered it if it had been. The opened doors revealed, fixed on to their interiors and continuing on all three walls of the hut, a huge array of naval memorabilia. Highly polished brass port and starboard lights were attached to the inside of their appropriate doors. There were also anchors, ancient quadrants and sextants, watercolours of ships, model ships, ships in bottles, framed hat ribbons, wooden dead eyes, cleats, badges, flags, boards with demonstration knots pinned on them, and green glass floats for fishing nets. In pride of place at the back of the hut stood a brass-studded wooden ship's wheel. Over the doors was fixed a worn brass plaque bearing the name: The Bridge.

Slightly fazed by the display, Carole acknowledged that she was indeed Mrs Seddon. The gentleman who'd asked the question was of a piece with the contents of his hut. Probably in his early seventies, he had a full grey beard in the style of George V. He wore a blazer with embossed brass buttons and on its breast pocket a badge featuring a lot of woven gold wire. His dark blue tie also bore some naval insignia.

Offering a hairy hand to Carole, the man identified himself. 'Good morning, my name is Reginald Flowers and I am President of the Smalting Beach Hut Association.'

It was then that Carole noticed he was not alone. Sitting on another folding chair beside him was a chubby little woman with faded red hair and thick-lensed glasses. Open on her lap was a folded-back spiral reporter's notebook in which she'd apparently been writing shorthand.

'And this is Dora,' said Reginald Flowers with the utmost condescension, 'who is my secretary.'

'Well, Reginald, that's not strictly accurate,' the woman objected rather feebly.

'What do you mean?'

'Well, I'm not your secretary. I'm secretary of the Smalting Beach Hut Association.'

'It comes to the same thing, Dora.'

'No, it doesn't really.'

'Yes, it does. Anyway, I need to speak to Mrs Seddon. So could you please go off and type up those letters as soon as possible?'

'I'll do them this evening. I only came down this morning to have a nice day in my beach hut.' She smiled myopically at Carole and pointed along the row. 'Mine's the third one along. It's called Cape of Good Hope.'

'Oh. How nice,' said Carole.

'And obviously my full name isn't just Dora. It's Dora Pinchbeck.'

'Ah. Well-'

'Dora,' said Reginald Flowers firmly, 'I would be very grateful if you could do those letters straight away, and then you can enjoy your day in the beach hut.'

'Well, I'd really rather—'

'If you would be so kind,' came the implacable order.

'Oh, very well.' And Dora shuffled her notebook and pen into her bag. 'I'll have to lock up Cape of Good Hope before I go.'

'That will be quite permissible,' her magnanimous boss assured her.

With a long-suffering sigh, Dora Pinchbeck scuttled off to her beach hut.

'And bring the letters here for me to sign as soon as you've finished them!' Reginald Flowers called after her. Then he turned back to bestow a gracious smile on Carole. 'As I say, I am the President of the Smalting Beach Hut Association. As such, I do of course know everything that goes on in these beach huts.'

'I'm sure you do. Anyway, nice to meet you.' Nodding towards the collection in the hut, Carole said, 'An ex-naval man, I assume?'

His face darkened. 'No, I did not myself in fact serve before the mast, though many of my ancestors

did. Let's just say that the history of the British Navy has been a lifelong interest of mine and one that in retirement I have been able to pursue more thoroughly.'

Carole was about to respond: 'I'd never have guessed,' but decided it might sound flippant to someone who was as clearly obsessed as Reginald Flowers. So instead she commented on the splendour of his hoard. 'Do you really leave it here all the time? Isn't there a terrible risk of it all being stolen?'

'No, Mrs Seddon. Although I do take the collection home during the winter months, there is in fact no danger of any of it being stolen. That is what the Smalting Beach Hut Association is there for.'

'Oh?'

'During the summer months the SBHA — as we call it — appoints a security officer, whose job it is to patrol the beach huts and ensure that their security is maintained.'

'What a good idea. Isn't that rather expensive, though?'

'The SBHA has funds to cover the costs.'

'And where do those funds come from?'

'Some from Fether District Council.' A shadow crossed his face, as though he regretted having to take help from that source. 'One of the first actions of the SBHA when I formed it was to lobby the Council for a security officer. And I won that little battle, as I have won many other set-tos with Fether District Council.' His face darkened again. 'Though sadly they would not let me sit on the selection board when the security officer was appointed.'

'So are you saying that the Council supports the SBHA financially?'

'Only a very little. They do no more than they absolutely have to, and even that is after a lot of lobbying from us . . . well, from me usually. No, the costs of running the SBHA are raised largely from subscriptions.'

'Oh.' Suddenly Carole realized how she should respond to this prompt. 'Well, I should pay a subscription, shouldn't I?'

'Yes, that would be a good thing. The SBHA exists to look after the concerns of all beach hut users. And your subscription also entitles you to receive our regular newsletter, The Hut Parade.'

'What an amusing title,' Carole lied.

'Well, we like it.' The smile that accompanied these words left no doubt that it was Reginald Flowers who had thought up the name for the newsletter. Carole reckoned he was probably its editor too. 'Your subscription also secures for you a complimentary annual tide table. All new members get that.' There was disapproval in Reginald Flowers's voice as he continued, 'I gather you have taken over the rental of Quiet Harbour from Miss Rose.'

'Yes, but it's all been cleared with Kelvin Southwest from the Fether District Council.'

A cynical light came into Reginald Flowers's watery blue eyes. 'Oh yes, well, it's very easy to get things cleared with Mr Southwest, isn't it? Particularly if you're a woman.'

Now she had formed an estimation of Reginald

Flowers's character, Carole was unsurprised to find there was friction between him and Kelvin Southwest. Two control freaks for a single beach is probably one too many.

'He was very reasonable about it,' she said.

That prompted a sardonic chuckle. 'Oh yes, I'm sure he was. Always ready to do little favours for people, our Kelvin, isn't he? Provided of course that the people are prepared to do little favours for him.' Carole didn't think any comment was appropriate; she mustn't be seen to be taking sides in what was clearly an ongoing conflict. 'One day,' Reginald Flowers continued ominously, 'one day our Kelvin is going to take one favour too many . . .'

'Oh?'

'There's a very fine line, Mrs Seddon, between co-operation and corruption, you know. Still, it wouldn't be the first time a local government officer has taken a backhander, would it?'

Once again Carole decided not to comment. She moved the subject on. 'If you let me know how much I owe you for the subscription, I'll write you a cheque straight away.'

'The subscription is twenty pounds per annum.'

'Oh well, I think I've probably got that in cash. I'm just going for a little walk, but when I get back to my hut I'll find my handbag and bring the money over to you.' Carole suddenly realized that, in spite of Reginald Flowers's reassurances about the security of the Smalting Beach, she had been very foolish to leave her bag in the hut. She looked over to Fowey, but was relieved to see that Jude, still dressed only in her bikini, was sprawled in one of the director's chairs.

'There is a form for you to fill in,' announced Reginald Flowers. Oh yes, of course there would be. Carole somehow got the feeling that becoming a member of any organization run by him would involve a lot of form-filling. He bustled about inside his naval museum and emerged holding a badly printed form covered with lots of boxes that Carole could see would be too small for the information they were meant to contain. And the form was three pages long.

But she took it with appropriate gratitude and said she'd bring it back with the money when she'd filled it in. 'I'll do it the moment I get back to the hut,' she said, gesturing in the direction of Fowey.

Reginald Flowers looked puzzled. 'I understood that you were taking over Miss Rose's hut. That's over there.'

So he doesn't know everything that goes on in the beach huts, does he? Carole guessed he didn't know about the fire under Quiet Harbour, and for some reason she didn't feel inclined to tell him about it. All she said was, 'There was a bit of a problem with that one, so while it's being sorted out, Kelvin Southwest's let me use Fowey.'

'Has he?' said Reginald Flowers, as if hearing of another example in the long list of the Council official's transgressions.

Carole continued her walk. The hut adjacent to Quiet Harbour was still being ruled by the poisonous matriarch whom Carole had seen on her previous visit. The downtrodden glumness on the faces of her son Gavin, his wife Nell, and their children Tristram and Hermione, showed that their stay with Granny was proving to be a very long week indeed. Carole once again made all kinds of vows to herself about the way she was going to behave to Lily.

And then she was once again outside Quiet Harbour. She didn't want to make a show of inspecting it, so she walked on past. But there was still something intriguing about the place, oddities that needed explanation, a sense of unfinished business.