The Beachcomber by Josephine Cox

necessary information together, Kathy went out to the driver and paid him. “You’ve been a great help, thank you.”
    He wished her well. “I know a few useful blokes,” he told her. “Painters, plumbers and such.” He scribbled down his name and address. “Jack of all trades, that’s me,” he said, before he drove off into the night.
    The clerk gave her the keys, a long form to sign and a small cardboard box, sealed over with a length of sticky tape. “You’ll find everything you need in there,” she advised. “One night … leaving tomorrow at ten a.m.” She laboriously scribbled it all into her ledger. “You’ll have to pay in advance, I’m afraid,” she said apologetically.
    Kathy handed over the money, thanked her.
    “I’ll take you down there,” the girl said, “seeing as it’s dark.” Grabbing a torch, she led Kathy out of the office, along a lamp-lit, meandering path, through rows of caravans. There, right at the top, stood number eighteen; the number clearly highlighted by the two gas lamps either side of the door.
    Once inside the caravan, the girl bustled around, lighting the gas mantels. Staring around at what she could see, Kathy was delighted. In front of her was a tiny kitchen with cooker, and to her left there was a comfortable living area, with seats all around the bay window, and a little table jutting out from the wall. The curtains were bright and cheerful; candy stripes on white in the kitchen; and splashes of flowers against a yellow background elsewhere. To the right a door led into a cozy bedroom. In here, too, the curtains were of a bright, colorful fabric, the same, exactly, as the corner of the eiderdown peeping out. “Oh, it’s lovely!” Kathy exclaimed. “Thank you,” she said to the clerk.
    “My pleasure,” the girl replied. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” She hurried out, back into the night.
    Kathy gazed around once more, thrilled with her good fortune. Suddenly realizing she’d had little to eat since early morning, she felt her stomach turning somersaults. Dropping her toiletries and undies onto the bed, she went out, clicking shut the door behind her. “There must be a chip shop,” she mused. “It can’t be proper seaside without a fish-and-chip shop.” After all, there were all those fishing-boats in the harbor.
    The clerk put her mind at rest. “Go down this road –” she pointed to the road on the right – “you’ll find a chip shop on your left.” As Kathy walked out the door, she called out, “Or you can get a roll at the bar here.”
    Kathy declined with thanks. “I really fancy fish and chips.” With mushy peas and a few bits of pork crackling, she thought, licking her lips in anticipation.
    As she rounded the corner, she saw a telephone box. “I wonder if Maggie’s back from the Palais?” That was where she planned to spend this evening, Kathy recalled.
    One by one, she dropped the coins into the box. The operator took the number, but eventually told her there was no answer. “She’s probably still on the town with her new fella,” Kathy mused, disappointed, as she pressed button “B” to get her coins back.
    The farther she got down the street, the more Kathy could smell the fish and chips. “That’ll do for me,” she muttered, quickening her steps. At that minute, for many reasons, she wished with all her heart that Maggie was here.
    There was a queue in the shop. “It’s a ten-minute wait if you want cod,” the woman told her as she came in the door. “Dabs and fish-cakes are quicker.”
    Kathy assured her she was willing to wait. “I’m in no rush.”
    From some way behind in the queue, Tom studied her for a minute. With her face turned slightly away it was difficult to see her features clearly, but he suspected she was very pretty, with that handsome profile and thick, shoulder-length hair. In the short time he’d been in West Bay, Jasper had managed to introduce him to quite a number of people, despite his