The Girl on the Beach (2 page)

‘You foolish girl. Don’t you know better than to talk to strange boys?’

‘Why not?’

‘Anything could have happened. You do not know him. He could be wicked, degenerate …’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Someone who knows nothing of decency and proper behaviour, an evil person.’

‘He’s not evil. He was kind to me and helped me when I was lost. He lent me his towel to dry my feet.’

‘Merciful heaven! What have you been up to?’

‘Nothing, Miss Paterson. I went paddling and my feet were wet and there was sand between my toes.’

‘Do you mean to tell me you removed your stockings?’

‘I wanted to paddle and I couldn’t do that with my stockings on, could I?’

‘Don’t be cheeky, miserable rebellious girl. You were expressly told not to wander off. Have you learnt nothing of obedience? You will have to be punished. What a sorry end to what could have been a lovely day.’

‘It was a lovely day,’ she said, aware that everyone else on the coach was looking at her, goggle-eyed at her temerity. ‘I made a new friend.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t suppose you will ever see that boy again. And a good thing too.’

‘I know,’ was said with a resigned sigh.

‘I shall have to report your disgraceful behaviour to Mr Carruthers.’

‘Oh no, please, Miss Paterson. He’ll make me go in the cupboard …’

‘You should have thought of that before. Now be silent. I have had enough of you for one day.’

Julie lapsed into silence, but it was not a silence of shame or remorse, it was a silence of happy recollections. Nothing they could do to her could stifle those.

‘I met a girl on the beach today,’ Harry said, after the waitress had served them all with roast chicken, stuffing and several dishes of vegetables, and left them to their meal.

‘Don’t you think you are a little young to be picking up girls, son?’ his father queried with a smile, one eyebrow raised.

‘She was lost.’

‘Oh, you mean a little girl,’ he said with relief. ‘What did you do?’

‘I helped her find her party. She’d come down in a charabanc from the Coram Foundling Hospital. I thought hospitals were for ill people.’

‘So they are, but originally the word had a wider meaning and the Foundling Hospital is a very old institution.’

‘She said she had been left on the doorstep when she was a baby. They told her that her father was killed in the war and her mother threw herself into the river. The hospital called her Julie Monday because she arrived on a Monday in July.’

‘Poor child,’ his mother murmured. ‘How dreadful for her.’

‘She didn’t seem unhappy.’

‘No, I believe the children are well looked after and she would not have known any other kind of life, would she?’ his father said, frowning at Roly and Millie who had paused with mouths agape to look from one to the other in curiosity.

‘No, I suppose not. The funny thing was she said the outing had been paid for by Sir Bertram.’

‘I am not surprised. Sir Bertram is a good man. I believe he has recently been appointed to the Board of Governors of the hospital. It is a testing time for the institution. The present building has been sold and they are looking for new premises.’

‘She said they were going to move to the country.’

‘You seem to have had quite a long conversation with her,’ his mother said. ‘I am surprised a little girl like that was so articulate.’

‘She wasn’t that little. She said she was eight. She had walked the whole length of the beach and could not find her way back.’ That was stretching the truth, he knew, but it sounded better than saying he had simply offered to walk with her. And he had helped her to find her charabanc.

‘Your good deed for the day, eh?’ his father said.

Harry grinned and attacked his roast chicken with gusto. Swimming always gave him a good appetite and their landlady was an exceptionally good cook. He found himself wondering what Julie was having for her supper and if she had been punished. The teacher, or whatever she was, had grabbed her a bit roughly and almost lifted her off the ground when she pushed her into the charabanc. She was a lively girl, full of curiosity, and not a bit sorry for herself; he had no doubt she would survive.

How Julie had come to be chosen to work in Sir Bertram’s grand Maida Vale home, she never knew, but at the age of fourteen, when the orphanage decided her education was complete, she had been packed off to take up a position as a chambermaid, for which she received her board and lodging, her uniform and the sum of twenty-four pounds a year, paid monthly. Her job was to strip and make beds, empty chamber pots and wash them out, clean the bathroom, sweep and dust the bedrooms and the upper landings, shake out the mats and, in the winter, clean out and relight the fire in Her Ladyship’s boudoir, carrying the coal up from the cellar in a large scuttle, which had to be replenished during the day. There were fireplaces in the bedrooms but fires were only lit in them if someone was ill. When that was done, she was expected to help with the laundry.

It had taken her a long time to settle down. It was not that the work was too onerous, she had been schooled to
expect that, but she missed the regimented atmosphere of the home and her friends. From sleeping in a crowded dormitory, she found herself, for the first time in her life, sleeping in a tiny attic room alone. There were no whispered secrets after lights out, no one to confide in, no opportunity to play. And the other servants, a cook, a kitchen maid and a parlour maid, looked down on her because of where she had come from. Coram orphans were almost always bastards, so they said.

She had been there two years when the nursery maid left and she was promoted to the domain of Bernard, who was four, and the new baby, Emily. They were Sir Bertram’s second family; he had two grown-up sons by his first wife who had died some years before. The children had a nurse, Miss Thomas, who was far superior to a nursery maid, a distinction Julie soon learnt. The nurse’s job was to look after the children, Julie’s was to keep the nursery suite clean and tidy, washing up after their meals and doing the laundry.

It was the laundry that occupied her one Friday in the summer of 1936. It was a fine sunny day with a stiff breeze. She finished the washing, mangled it and took it out to hang on the line at the bottom of the garden, well out of sight of the house. She was struggling with a sheet in the wind when it was taken out of her hands and thrown over the line. She looked round to see Ted Austen grinning at her. He was the family chauffeur and full of his own importance because he could drive a motor car and wore jodhpurs and a peaked cap when on duty. She did not like him. He thought he was God’s gift to the opposite sex and was always trying to touch her. She tried ignoring him but he grabbed her round the waist and waltzed her behind the
sheet, where he put his arms about her and tried to kiss her.

‘Leave off, Ted,’ she said, struggling to free herself.

‘Leave off? You don’t mean that. You’ve been making sheep’s eyes at me for weeks, don’t think I haven’t noticed.’

‘I have not.’ She was not quite sure what ‘sheep’s eyes’ meant, but she could guess. ‘Why on earth would I do that?’

‘Because you’d like a bit of slap and tickle, and as you aren’t half bad-looking, I thought I’d oblige. Like this, see.’ He brought his mouth down to hers at the same time as he fumbled for her skirt in an effort to lift it. She tried to beat him off, and though he was obliged to lift his head to take a firmer hold of her, she was no match for him. She felt his warm hand on her thigh above her stockings and screamed and kept on screaming until he dropped her skirt and clapped his hand over her mouth. ‘Shut up, can’t you? Do you want the whole household down on us?’ This had been her intention, but she realised how useless that would be when he added, ‘They won’t believe you, you know, not when I tell them you came onto me. You’re from the orphanage and that means you’re up for anything—’

He was suddenly hauled off her and she found herself free and Ted struggling with a strange man who had come in the back gate from the mews. Before her horrified gaze, the stranger delivered a blow that sent Ted reeling to the ground with blood pouring from his nose. ‘You’ll be sorry for that, Julie Monday,’ he muttered, scrambling to his feet. ‘No one ever messes with me and gets away with it, and I mean no one. You’ll pay for it, see if you don’t.’ And, clapping his handkerchief to his nose, he disappeared through the gate to the mews garage where the car was kept.

The stranger turned to her. ‘Julie Monday,’ he said, laughing. ‘It
is
you.’

She was mystified. ‘Yes, but—’

‘You don’t remember me, do you? I’m Harry Walker. We met at the seaside. Goodness, how many years ago was that? It must be ten at least.’

‘Harry!’ She stared up at the young man who faced her. He was tall, well built and well dressed. His auburn hair was ruffled and his tie askew, but when she looked closer, she recognised the amber eyes and the cheerful smile and her own eyes shone with delight. ‘I never thought I’d see you again.’

‘Nor I you. How have you been? Are you working here?’

‘Yes, in the nursery. This is Sir Bertram Chalfont’s house.’

‘I know. Do you like it?’

‘It’s all right, I suppose. What do you do?’

‘I work in Chalfont’s factory with my father, but I’m studying for an engineering qualification at night school.’

‘How did you come to be here?’

‘I was passing on my way home from a football match and heard your cries for help. I’m jolly glad I did. Are you all right?’

‘Yes, I am now.’

‘Will you report him?’

‘There’d be no point. They wouldn’t believe me, especially Lady Chalfont wouldn’t. Ted Austen is one of her favourites on account of he kowtows to her, and I daren’t go to Sir Bertram. I shall just have to keep out of his way.’

‘Mind you do. Fellows like him are a menace.’

She didn’t want to talk about Ted Austen. ‘I can’t believe it’s you.’

‘I can’t take it in either.’ He stood looking at her. The
coltish child, all arms and legs, had become a handsome young woman with a superb figure, due no doubt to the better diet she received under Sir Bertram’s roof. Her wispy blond hair had grown and thickened and was now confined under a white cap similar to the one she had worn as an eight-year-old. He was curious about her. What had her life been like since he last saw her? How had she come to be working for Sir Bertram? ‘I say, we ought to meet again. I’d like to hear what you’ve been doing. Catch up, you know. Do you have any time off?’

‘I have a day off a week.’

‘What do you do then?’

‘If the weather is fine, I usually go for a walk, sometimes in Regent’s Park, sometimes Hyde Park.’

‘And if it’s wet?’

She shrugged. ‘If it’s a Sunday, I stay in my room or find a café. If it’s a weekday, I go to the library or wander round a museum, usually the Victoria and Albert. Sometimes, if I’ve got a few pence, I go to a matinee at the pictures – anywhere out of the rain.’

‘I can’t meet you in the week but what about a weekend? That’s if you want to.’

‘Oh, yes, I’d like that. I’m off this Sunday.’

‘Good. I’ll meet you at two o’clock by Speakers’ Corner in Hyde Park.’ He combed his fingers through his hair and straightened his tie. ‘If you’re sure you’ll be all right, I’ll be off. See you Sunday.’

As soon as he had gone she felt vulnerable again and hurriedly pegged out the washing, keeping a watch out in case Ted returned. Once safely back in the nursery suite, she collapsed onto her bed. Miss Thomas had taken the children for a walk in the park and, for a moment, she could
relax, though there was a pile of ironing to do. Unlike the hospital, where she had to use flat irons heated on a stove, Sir Bertram’s house boasted an electric iron.

Ted Austen’s assault had shaken her up and she was worried about his threats and wondered what he would do, but that was soon set aside in dreaming about Harry Walker. He was grown-up now and really handsome, but underneath she sensed he was still the same boy who had befriended her so long ago. Fancy him remembering her! It was the name, of course. Everyone remembered that.

She hoped Sunday would be fine, she was looking forward to meeting and talking to him. She wouldn’t tell anyone about it; she was sure it would be forbidden. She remembered a homily she had received from Lady Chalfont when she first arrived, something about not having followers. She had not understood what a follower was and had not dared to ask, but since then she had discovered her predecessor had been dismissed for having a follower, which she learnt had been a boyfriend who took her out on her day off and got her in the family way. Harry wasn’t a boyfriend, he was simply an acquaintance, but he was meeting her on her day off, so it had to be kept a secret. But she was glowing with it and went about her work with renewed vigour.

Her prayers for good weather were answered. Dressed in the only non-uniform dress she possessed – a calf-length blue cotton printed with tiny white flowers – a woollen cardigan and a tiny felt hat perched on the side of her head and held by a hatpin, she set off for Hyde Park. The park was crowded with people enjoying their Sunday afternoon, strolling about, playing ball, swimming in the Serpentine,
riding horses along Rotten Row or listening to the soapbox speakers who vied with each other to see who could shout the loudest for their particular hobby horse. She hardly noticed them as she hurried to the rendezvous, searching out the young man she looked upon as her saviour. And there he was, dressed in a brown suit and a bowler hat, which he doffed as she approached. The gesture made her laugh; people weren’t usually that polite to her. ‘You came, then,’ he said.

‘Why wouldn’t I?’

‘You might have thought I was as bad as that fellow who attacked you.’

‘I know you are not. He’s a nasty piece of work and you’re … you’re nice.’

He laughed aloud. This young lady, pert though she was, had no idea of the rules of flirtation, of saying one thing and meaning another, of playing hard to get. He must be careful not to spoil her simple faith. ‘Nice, am I? How do you know that?’

‘Because I do. You’re Harry.’ As if that answered his question.

‘What would you like to do now?’

‘Anything. Let’s walk and talk. I want to hear all about your life. Do you still live with you parents and brother and sister?’

They turned to walk side by side, though neither seemed to bother about the direction in which they were going. ‘You remembered that?’

‘Yes, I remember everything. You see, that was a grand day, the day we met, and I’ve never forgotten it.’

‘Me neither. Were you punished when you got back?’

‘I had to go in the cupboard for a whole day. It was dark
and full of spiders and I could hear the mice in the skirting. I was frightened but I kept telling myself it didn’t matter because they couldn’t take the day away from me, could they? Not once I’d had it.’

‘No.’ She was a strange mixture of naivety and wisdom, half woman, half child, which appealed to him. ‘Did you often have to go in the cupboard?’

‘Not often. Only for very bad deeds.’

‘What was so bad about paddling in the sea?’

‘It wasn’t the paddling, it was talking to you and letting you see me with my legs all bare.’

He laughed. ‘Did they know you also had your skirt in your bloomers?’

‘No, thank goodness, but it’s not fair of you to remind me of that. I didn’t know any better.’

‘You do now?’

‘Oh, yes, I had it drummed into me about behaving with decorum.’ She laughed. ‘I think I am not behaving with decorum now.’

‘Who cares?’

Julie certainly did not. She took his arm and quizzed him about himself. She learnt that he had passed a scholarship to go to grammar school and could have gone on to college but decided he wanted to learn on the job and go to night school, so he had been given a position at the Chalfont Engineering Works. ‘We make radios,’ he said. ‘When I get my qualifications, I’ll be promoted.’

‘You will be a great man.’

‘Nice of you to say so.’

They carried on walking and talking. She learnt his brother Roland was at Cambridge University and learning to fly, which he fully expected to come in useful in the event
of war. Already there was a civil war in Spain and he was convinced, like many others, that it would happen to the rest of Europe before long, what with Herr Hitler striding about making speeches and promising the German people the earth. Millie was walking out with a young man she had met at a ball and would no doubt soon be announcing her engagement. His mother was already getting very excited about it.

Julie responded with tales of her life in the Foundling Hospital which had taken over a convent in Surrey soon after they met. ‘Then last year they went to a new place in Berkhamsted,’ she said. ‘I used to meet some of the girls sometimes, but I’ve lost touch with all of them now.’

‘Have you been at Sir Bertram’s long?’

‘Four years. Ever since I left the Coram.’

‘Do you like it?’

She shrugged. ‘It’s all right, I suppose, though what I’ll do when the children no longer need a nursery, I don’t know. Bernard is going to be sent away to boarding school but Emily will be educated at home, so I’ve been told. She is to have a governess.’

‘I expect you will easily find another position. Sir Bertram will give you a good reference, I am sure.’

‘If I don’t blot my copybook.’

It was easy to talk to him. He listened with grave attention and broke in now and again with a question or a comment and the afternoon flew by. He escorted her home but she stopped him at the end of the street. ‘Leave me here. They mustn’t see me with you.’

‘Why not? Can’t you do what you like on your day off?’

‘I’m not allowed followers.’

He laughed. ‘I’m not following you, I’m right beside you.’

‘Yes, but the girl before me was dismissed for it. He got her in the family way.’

‘I wouldn’t do that, Julie, I promise you.’

‘I know, but they wouldn’t understand.’

They arranged to meet again the following Sunday and she hurried back to her mundane routine, wondering if Harry constituted a follower. She had better be careful.

She was careful, so was he, and they continued to see each other week after week, through summer and into winter, when she appeared in a brown tweed coat she had bought from a second-hand stall on the market. They would walk in Hyde Park or visit the zoo in Regent’s Park. Sometimes they sheltered from the elements in museums and picture galleries which contributed to her further education, as did the arrival of the Jarrow marchers in the capital, one pouring wet Sunday in October. The Jarrow shipbuilding yard had been closed down the year before, throwing thousands of men out of work and causing real hardship. They had marched nearly three hundred miles, singing to the accompaniment of a mouth organ band and staying with sympathisers on the way. It was the feat of the walk by hungry ill-dressed men that attracted the attention of the populace, not the cause for which they marched, and they achieved little. It made Julie realise how lucky she was to have a job – however hard and ill paid – and a comfortable home.