‘Mind about having Hallie and Ada here.’
‘Who? Oh! No, of course not. I could take them to the beach. Show them the old Battery. I’m sure they’d be fascinated.’
Alison and her mother exchanged doubtful looks, unable to imagine the twins having any interest at all in the Battery.
It wasn’t only the broken road that littered the beach with bits of broken concrete and rubble, but also the remains of the old Goodfellow Battery, a First World War military fort which, during the Second World War, had been enlarged with a hospital, gun emplacements, searchlights, barracks and officers’ mess, most of which had been washed away by the sea thanks to the appalling coastal erosion.
What remained of it now ironically helped a little in the battle against that erosion, but it attracted attention from curious visitors and history buffs, and Alison had seen quite a few videos online of people who’d ventured inside the broken structure to film for their YouTube channel or social media sites.
Somehow, she doubted that seven-year-old twin girls would be as captivated.
‘You’ll have to bring them next weekend if you’re not working,’ Mam said. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t let your dad anywhere near them. Maybe,’ she added shrewdly, ‘you can leave them here. Have the weekend to yourself for once.’
‘Mam, you’ve got a broken arm!’
‘Oh, so what?’ Her mother glanced down at her plaster-encased arm and sighed. ‘It’s a bit of a nuisance, I must say, but I’m all right really. Mind you, your dad’s had to fasten the button on my jeans. I couldn’t manage it with one hand. Speaking of which, Elaine and Christopher are coming to the pub to meet us, along with Rosie, so that’ll be nice, won’t it?’
Alison frowned. ‘Why did you say, “speaking of which” and go on about Elaine and Christopher when you were talking about the button of your jeans?’
‘Why do you think? You just watch our Elaine’s face when she clocks me wearing jeans again. You know what she thinks about me dressing inappropriately for my age.’ She tutted crossly. ‘Honestly, she’d have me dress like an old woman if she had her way.’
Alison bit her lip. Her mam was eighty-four. What age did she think you became an old woman?
She smiled fondly at her mother, who was nibbling happily on a custard cream. She still insisted on having her hair coloured every six weeks at the salon in the village of Hilderstead, around eight miles north-west of Kelsea Sands, covering the grey with a lovely ash blonde. She couldn’t see a thing without her glasses so had stopped wearing make-up as she feared she’d end up looking like Lily Savage if she attempted it, but her skin wasn’t in bad condition since she’d always used moisturiser, and she dressed quite fashionably despite her sister-in-law’s disapproval.
It was strange, but sometimes it seemed her mother was younger than Alison. How had that happened?
Dad groaned. ‘I’m starving. Did you hear my belly rumble then?’ he demanded. There was a beep from his phone, and he beamed in delight. ‘I’ve got a text message!’
‘Aw,’ Mam said fondly. ‘His very first one. I’m so proud.’
‘It’s our Christopher,’ Dad announced. ‘They’re already at the pub and they want us to hurry up because they’re hungry and Rosie’s already gone through two packets of crisps waiting.’
Alison laughed. ‘Sounds like our Rosie. Come on then. To the pub!’
Odd, but as she helped her mam into her coat, Alison suddenly felt a whole lot brighter.
3
As blue as the sky was, it was decidedly cold outside, and the three of them hurried up the road to the pub as fast as Mam and Dad could manage.
They went past the front door of The North Star and round to the side door which, during the day, was the one everyone used. As they stepped inside, the familiar smell of beer mixed with cooking smells from the kitchen made them all relax instantly. Alison had forgotten how much she loved this place.
‘I’ll get the drinks,’ Dad announced. ‘You make sure you get your mam settled, Alison, there’s a good lass.’
Alison sent a cheery wave to Seb’s lad Sam, who was behind the bar, and herded her mother through to the main room of the pub.
The North Star had two sections: a large, quiet bar room running the full length of the main building, where people could sit by one of the two fireplaces and maybe select a book from either of the bookcases, or head to a table by one of the bay windows and gaze out over the river; and the restaurant, which was mainly used during the evening, or for private functions, or on exceptionally busy days. It was the only room that was carpeted. The bar room had its original slate floor.
The North Star was a large square building with a more recent rear extension. It had been built in the mid nineteenth century after the old village of Kelsea tumbled into the sea and the residents moved closer to the Humber.
A few decades ago, its red-brick walls had been rendered and painted white, while the inside was cheerfully decorated in shades of cream and teal. It had polished oak tables and fittings, teal Dralon chairs and banquettes, a large bay window on one side of the front door, and two slightly smaller bay windows on the other, all giving glorious views across the estuary to Lincolnshire. On its walls were maps and images of the Holderness coast, photographs of past lifeboat crew members, and even an old lifebelt.
It was warm and welcoming, and Alison’s spirits lifted even further when she spotted the other members of her family sitting at a table by the window.
Rosie waved frantically at them, as if they couldn’t possibly see her otherwise, even though there was currently no one else in the bar.
Christopher – a handsome, quiet man, with receding, wiry grey hair and gentle eyes – got to his feet as they approached the table, ever the gentleman. Alison often thought that he, a retired old-school police inspector, was like someone from another age. Sometimes it was hard to believe that he was her dad’s younger brother. Her uncle was calm, cool, thoughtful and sensible. Dad was – not. What they had in common, though, was their kindness. They were both lovely men in their own way.
