The Beach Hut Read Free Page A

sister. If Prue had her way Jane would be scrambling over the rocks in her Start-rite sandals, squealing every time she spotted a crab, tucking with gusto into the selection of sandwiches Prue provided for lunch - fish-paste, egg or Marmite.
    Jane certainly didn’t begrudge her siblings the experience, but it didn’t mean she wanted to take part. And it wasn’t as if she wanted to sit here, full of torpor, her very being crying out for something, anything to happen, though she didn’t know quite what. It was the slowest agony, and she wasn’t entirely sure of the cure, but she was pretty sure she wasn’t going to find it on Everdene beach. She couldn’t explain it to her mother, who obviously expected her to stay the same age for ever. Carefree, childlike, innocent.
    It was ironic, therefore, that Prue organised the very thing that made sure Jane would never be innocent again.
     
    It was a Thursday morning, and by eleven o’clock the sun was burning bright in the sky. Jane was uncomfortably hot, and was taking refuge in the cool shade of the hut. She was contemplating walking into the village and calling Sandra from the telephone box, to find out if she was having as dull and miserable a time as she was. Maybe she could ask her to come and stay? They wouldn’t be able to get up to much, but at least they could gossip and giggle together. Debate the merits of the boys they had met. She’d ask her mother if she could invite her - Sandra could come down by train, Daddy wouldn’t mind motoring over to the station to collect her . . .
    ‘Darling!’
    Jane started, her eyes flying open. She’d been on the verge of drifting off. Her mother was standing over her.
    ‘You will not believe what I’ve arranged!’
    She had a smile on her face Jane knew of old. A mixture of self-satisfaction and determination, which meant Prue was pleased with whatever she had done, and whoever she had done it on behalf of had jolly well better be pleased as well. Jane’s heart sank. If it was golf lessons, she would absolutely refuse. Her mother had been muttering about organising something for her at the club. Jane thought she would rather die.
    ‘I’ve got you a job.’
    Jane stared at her. This wasn’t what she’d expected.
    ‘There was a card pinned up in the post office. Competent typist wanted. ’
    Jane breathed out slowly. It could have been worse. Much, much worse.
    Her mother was still looking excited. There must be more. She leaned forward.
    ‘Terence Shaw,’ she pronounced.
    Jane gazed at her, quite blank.
    ‘Terence Shaw!’ repeated her mother. ‘The novelist!’
    Jane frowned and shook her head.
    ‘I’ve never heard of him.’
    Prue gave a little tut of impatience and Jane felt aggrieved. Her mother was no great intellectual - Jane couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her reading a book - so why the scorn?
    ‘You must have. He’s . . . infamous. Sells bucket-loads of books, apparently. Rich as Croesus. Which is why he can afford one of those . . .’
    Prue waved her hand vaguely towards the houses further down the beach, on the top of the cliff. There were only half a dozen of them, built in the nineteen thirties, sprawling Art Deco houses with flat roofs and curved fronts, set in their own grounds. They each had a Great Gatsby smugness, with their spectacular views and private tennis courts.
    ‘He wants someone to type his latest novel. Six hours a day.’ Prue paused dramatically before divulging the next nugget of information. ‘Six pounds a week!’
    Jane sat up. Now she was definitely interested! Six pounds a week? Her mind raced back to the magazines she’d been perusing - what would she be able to afford if she was earning that kind of money?
    ‘He’d like you to start this afternoon. Two o’clock.’ Her mother was ushering her up out of her seat. ‘Come on, come on - you need to get yourself tidied up. You can’t start a job looking like that, with your hair all over the