The Red Beach Hut

THE RED BEACH HUT

Lynn Michell

First published by Inspired Quill: October 2017

Second edition published by Linen Press, London: January 2018

8 Maltings Lodge

Corney Reach Way

London

W4 2TT

www.linen-press.com

© 2017 Lynn Michell

The right of Lynn Michell to be identified as the author
 of this work has been asserted by her in accordance
 with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and
 incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination
 or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual
 persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales
 is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition
 that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold,
 hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior
 consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which 
it is published and without a similar condition, including this
 condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Cover design: Venetia Jackson, Zebedee Design

Photography: Archangel

ISBN 9780993599743

About the Author

I write and I run Linen Press, a small indie press for women writers: www.linen-press.com. It’s a fine balancing act but ever since I saw Elvira Madigan, I’ve secretly wanted to be a tightrope walker.

My published books criss-cross genres and include a writing scheme for primary schools, a book recording the experiences of thirty people with severe Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, and the authorised biography of the super-realist painter, Rosa Branson.

Close to my heart is my debut novel, White Lies, spanning four generations and played out against the backcloth of the 1950s Mao Mao uprising in Kenya, and The Red Beach Hut about a fine but fated friendship between a man and a boy, both outsiders, both misfits, on a windswept English beach.

I have recently moved, after twelve years in southern France, to a remote croft in the Western Isles. I live in a caravan with views of sea, seals and islands, and look after black and brown sheep.

Books by Lynn Michell

Fiction

2017 The Red Beach Hut. Inspired Quill

2015 Run Alice, Run. Inspired Quill

2011 White Lies. Quartet. Rights bought by Linen Press

1993 Letters To My Semi-Detached Son. The Women’s Press

Life writing

2021 Rosa Branson: A Portrait. Linen Press

2013 Shooting Stars Are The Flying Fish Of The Night. Lynn Michell & Stefan Gregory. Linen Press

Non-Fiction

2003 Shattered: Life With ME. HarperCollins

1990 Growing Up in Smoke. Pluto Press

1987-1991 Write From The Start. Longman. A writing scheme for primary schools. Six illustrated pupils’ books and two teachers’ books

Anthologies

1997 A Stranger At My Table: Mothering Adolescents. The Women’s Press

2022 Tabula Rasa: Poetry by Women. Linen Press

Praise for Lynn Michell’s Writing

ROSA BRANSON: A PORTRAIT

‘This wonderful book captures Rosa’s great strength of character, her unquenchable passion to promote classical painting, her astonishing talent and her enormous generosity.’

– Heath Rosselli, Co-founder of The Worlington Movement

‘Compelling and deeply felt. A narrative which has the intimacy and power of memoir.’

– Ali Bacon, author of In the Blink of an Eye and A Kettle of Fish

THE RED BEACH HUT

‘Rare to find such beauty and language as crisp and refreshing as the seaside it so powerfully evokes.’

– Maureen Freely, novelist, translator and activist

‘From the first pages, an atmosphere of such convincing threat that the reader’s expectations are on red alert.’

– Jenny Gorrod. Dundee University Review of the Arts

‘LOVED it so much. The characters are brilliantly rendered. I appreciated its subtlety in terms of how prejudice is handled. Structurally it works exquisitely, and the prose style is gorgeous.’

– Jess Richards, author of Snake Ropes, Cooking with Bones, City of Circles, Birds and Ghosts

‘The prose is achingly beautiful…I doubt there can be a more poetic or lyrical writer when it comes to sea and shore.’

– Avril Joy, Costa and People’s Prize winning author

‘With poetic, melodious prose the narrative moves back and forth between characters, as well as across the ebbs and flows of time and timelessness.’

.– Joyce Goodman, professor of History of Education, Winchester University

‘Lynn Michell writes a beautifully innocent and endearing tale twisted by the tainted gaze of society’s perverse darkness.’

– Isabelle Coy-Dibley for The Contemporary Small Press

‘A parable for our times… a sensitively written contemporary story and an intriguing book about secrets, assumptions, and consequences.’

– Derek Thompson, author of the Thomas Bladen thrillers, Long Shadows, West Country Murder

WHITE LIES

‘A debut novel which possesses and is possessed by a rare authority of voice… It is the mother’s voice that sings White Lies into unforgettability. Hers and Eve’s. Their thoughts and writing ring like music.’

– Tom Adair, The Scotsman

‘Gripping… with a bombshell of an ending.’

– Michele Hanson, The Guardian

‘Credible and touching. Dramatic and tragic.’

– The Torch

‘A first class read. Captures the time and transports the reader whilst exploring the reactions, feelings and fears of those who lived through the early stages of the Emergency.’

– Martyn Day, Lawyer for former Mau Mau against the British Government

‘A wonderful evocation of Africa by an extremely accomplished writer. There are passages of extraordinary vividness and beauty. I love the sense, by the daughter, of unease at her father’s painting of a golden era of colonialism, the spaces, the gaps that he is unwilling or unable to discuss.’

– Edwin Hawkes, Makepeace Towle

SHATTERED: LIFE WITH ME

‘A timely and powerfully written book.’

– Bernard MacLaverty, author of Cal, Lamb, Grace Notes and The Anatomy School.

‘Inspiring stories, not simply of broken lives, but of survival and hope in the face of terrible adversity.’

– Dr Vance Spence, Chairman of MERGE

‘Shattered is a powerfully written account of life with ME – an unpredictable and devastating illness.’

– Tuam Herald

‘The reader is kept on a steady and reassuring journey of validation and support. Identifying with the ME stories reminds us that we are not alone in this fight.’

– CF Alliance Newsletter 2003

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Page

About the Author

Books by Lynn Michell

Praise for Lynn Michell’s Writing

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

More From This Author

1

Day 8

The man and boy stood hand in hand on the top concrete step and stared, like they always did, towards the line where the sky melted into the sea. In the evening light it took a while for the air and water to fuse just as it took a few minutes for the two of them to feel at ease with each other. Then familiarity flooded back. With small nods the boy counted down to the amber-stained sand below. Seven. He took a breath, glanced up and waited.

‘Ready?’ Always the same word. The same starting gun. He liked that.

‘Yup.’

‘The sun’s red,’ the boy said.

‘A blood orange.’

‘A ball of fire.’

The effect was temporary Disneyland splashed on the tired colours of the English coastal town. Normally on this shore, at this hour, there was only grey. Then a dimmer switch turned the shade in increments too small for the human eye to observe. Later, darkness would sweep in and the lights of bobbing, tethered boats would flicker on one by one to announce the night.

With the gentlest pressure from his hand to the smaller one, the man led the way, leaving behind the merry-go-round and whelk stalls and skittering sweet wrappers of the promenade. On the beach, tourists were folding their towels and rolling up their mats before heading for a pizza place that displayed plastic-coated photos of food, or a forlorn unlicensed cafe that served tea with a pre-heated meal. Afterwards those same people moved on to a themed bar or a disco that shrieked neon light and beamed ugly noise. None of that mattered. The backcloth of the town was not important to them.

‘Why are we starting here instead of at your hut?’ the boy asked, disturbed by the change in the routine. ‘We always start at your hut. Same as yesterday and the day before. I like that.’

‘I know you do. I’m sorry. I did tell you though. I don’t want us to set off from the hut today.’

‘Why?’

Although he had expected the question, the man took a while to reply. He wouldn’t insult the boy with an easy verbal exit. As always, the boy waited patiently, trustingly, using the empty time to scan the watery landscape.

‘I’m expecting visitors later this evening and I want to be there to meet them by myself.’

‘Without me.’

‘Well… yes. They don’t know you.’

What I should be saying is that I’ll be on my way very soon, but I’m not sure how to tell you that. I don’t want to hurt you.

‘So I can’t come?’

Another long pause while he worked out an answer that was neither a lie nor the truth.

‘It’s a business meeting for grown-ups.’

‘No kids?’

‘Nope.’

‘Can we start from your hut tomorrow?’

‘Maybe.’

Damn.

He hated lying.

‘I’d like to start from the hut. Same as always.’ The boy glanced up, trying to catch and hold the man’s gaze.

He’s different today. Not just starting our walk from the promenade steps instead of his hut. He’s quieter. Sadder. Not really paying attention to me. Like he’s not really here. Like he’s thinking about something else. I do that too sometimes.

It was the first time in their short week together that Abbott had been anything but open and direct and truthful with the boy. He’d made very sure he’d never taken advantage of him, never patronised him, never skidded away from the truth. Their relationship was built on honesty and the boy had responded day by day with a growing trust and ease.

‘How about we walk barefoot today?’ It was a ploy – to change the subject and to distract the child. But the boy was canny.

‘Why?’

‘Because… the sand is soft and powdery today after the rain and then the wind.’

‘But we walk very close to the sea. The sand’s damp there,’ the boy said, puzzled and needing accuracy.

‘That’s true. Well… powdery until we reach the sea and then we can walk in the water and not worry about getting our shoes wet. That’s good, isn’t it?’

And I’m not going to get another chance for a long time to walk to the cove barefoot pretending to be a beach bum. There’s no meeting for grown-ups or men from Mars. I’m leaving our beach very, very soon. I’m going away but I don’t know how to tell you that. But if we leave our shoes here we have to come back here, so there’s no possible excuse to stop at the hut where you’ll see my bag ready and packed. All part of a cruelly necessary plan.

‘OK.’ Keen to please but also puzzled. Had he known the word, the boy would have said the vibes were different this evening. Jagged instead of calm. Edgy instead of reassuring.

‘We can leave our shoes here. Hide them under the steps.’

‘What if someone takes them?’

The man glanced down. Almost managed a smile. ‘They won’t,’ he said. ‘No danger of that.’

Without bending down to undo the laces, he trod out of his cheap, grubby trainers and kicked them out of sight under the last step. The boy sat down to undo the buckles of his flesh-coloured jelly sandals. He leant over to nudge them carefully into place, side by side but not quite touching, one inch away from the trainers. That done, he stood up and slipped his hand back into the man’s and for a few moments gazed up with affection. The man smiled back, and felt like a complete heel.

You bastard.

Apart from today’s different starting point, their walk was exactly the same as always. They set off in a straight line down to the sea’s edge, then wheeled left and struck out along the curved shoreline towards the farthest point, where jagged rocks inhabited the sea, holding the fort and blocking the way to the smaller cove beyond.

As they walked, their bare feet left repeated signatures, large and small, in the sludgy tide-wet sand. Five and five, the boy counted silently. Ten and ten. Square heel and round toe marks frothed with toothpaste foam before the water took away the edges of the imprints. Looking back along the beach, he saw that the furthest dents were already erased, as if part of their walk together was vanishing. The tide was on the turn, sucking the shingle and rattling it backwards, reclaiming it for its own.

Despite the slight chill in the air, the man’s hand was warm. He registered the boy’s delicate pressure and the staccato squeezes of pleasure. The child’s bones felt as fragile as a bird’s but the man knew his spirit was strong.

‘Yellow, lime green, white,’ the boy chanted when they drew level with the row of sweetie-coloured beach huts, a long way back up the beach, lined up as straight as soldiers against the high concrete wall that was topped with a footpath for walkers too faint-hearted to venture this late along the beach.

‘I don’t like the white one.’

‘I know.’

‘I don’t like the people in the white beach hut.’

‘I know. We’ve talked about that a lot. Let’s forget all about them. It’s OK… they’ll be gone soon. Summer’s nearly finished.’

‘Good. I don’t want them here.’

They walked on.

‘But they’re there now,’ the boy said, twisting his neck. ‘They’re staring at us. Like they always do.’

‘Take no notice.’

‘That’s hard. I can feel them watching us.’

‘They’ve got nothing better to do.’

‘Oh… blue, another white one,’ the boy continued, satisfied with the man’s answer. ‘Yours. Cherry red.’

‘Pink. You missed one.’ The man said on cue.

‘I don’t have to say pink. It’s empty.’

‘They’re all empty.’

‘’Cept the white one,’ he sighed. ‘I mean all the other huts had people in, only they’ve gone away now but the pink one has had no-one in it all summer. It’s empty.’

‘OK. I understand.’

‘Red was empty but not now because you live there. I like the red one best.’

The man allowed himself an ironic smile because this conversation, with a few variations, was as predictable as everything the boy did. Beyond the beach huts, there was only sand.

‘OK…I want to know when. You say when.’

The man was expecting this too, would have been surprised if the words had not been spoken here, three-quarters of the way across the bay, where they could almost touch the closeness of night and true dark.

‘Why can’t I see it?’ he persisted, despite several previous explanations.

‘Because it happens slowly.’ The man’s voice was calm and patient, a baritone rumble above the rush and scatter of pebbles as the tide continued its task of pulling them back into the sea.

‘But we can say now it’s day and now it’s night…’

‘Only afterwards. There’s light and dark but there’s grey in between. Twilight. It doesn’t matter if we aren’t sure. It’s OK sometimes not to know. To be uncertain.’

‘I like certain.’

‘I know you do.’

‘What about me and you? Are we certain?’ He liked the word.

The man paused before answering. ‘We are friends. That’s certain. But I’m not here for more than a short stay. I told you that the first day we met. I said I’m here for a week or so. No longer.’

I won’t even be here tonight. Nor tomorrow. The hut’s tidied and I’m packed and ready to go the