Cruel Habitations

by Kate Charles

Genres: Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

April 1989: sisters Alison and Jacquie Barnett take a holiday to Greece that neither of them will ever forget.

When Jacquie's father dies, she discovers he has split everything equally with her sister, whom no one has seen for eleven years. And Jacquie, desperate for the money, has no choice but to try to trace her. It is a journey that takes her to Westmead, and stirs old emotions that will once more put lives in danger . . .

Release date: November 30, 2012

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 416

Sample

When Sophie Lilburn first laid eyes on Quire Close, she thought it was the most beautiful place she’d ever seen. At first glance it seemed perfectly symmetrical: two rows of stone mediaeval terraced houses, stretching into the distance and soaring into the sky, facing each other across tiny front gardens and a narrow stretch of cobblestones. After a moment, though, her photographer’s eye registered the asymmetries, and those enchanted her even more. Here and there existed a touch of originality, a gothic stone-mullioned window or a fantastically zigzagged chimney, even taller than its neighbours. An occasional Georgian door or a Victorian flourish were perhaps incongruous, but those incongruities added to the beauty of the whole. She could, Sophie thought, spend the rest of her life photographing this place, and not tire of it.

It wasn’t London, but perhaps it was time to leave the city. For the first time since Chris had suggested moving to Westmead, Sophie’s heart lifted.

To live in a place like Quire Close would be an enormous privilege, a joy – that’s what Chris kept saying. It had been built, Chris told her, back in the 1300s, to house the men of the choir of Westmead Cathedral, and had fulfilled that purpose to this very day. With the teaching job at the Cathedral School and the coveted position of Lay Clerk in the cathedral choir would come the tenancy of a house in Quire Close, rent-free.

Too good to be true: that’s what Chris had said, when he first learned of the opportunity. His dark eyes had shone with enthusiasm – an enthusiasm that had been there in the early days of their marriage, the early days of his career, but which had gradually died out with the grind of teaching in a London comprehensive school.

The only thing that had kept Chris sane during those London years, apart from his naturally sanguine temperament, was the music. He was possessed of a fine tenor voice, and loved using it, so he had done a fair amount of singing as a deputy for various church choirs within the London area. There was no shortage of opportunities to do this, but his long-held secret ambition – as he now confessed – was to sing in a cathedral choir.

He’d heard about this job from one of his singing colleagues, who knew the person who was leaving. Tenor Lay Clerk and history teacher: the perfect combination. It would be well paid, he told Sophie, and with it would come the house.

From the eagerness in his voice, the look on his face, she could tell that he wanted this more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. Laid-back Chris, who usually took what life had dealt to him without complaint. Who was she to stand in his way? And if – when – they had a baby, Westmead would be a healthier environment than London.

‘It is lovely,’ Sophie said now, poised at the entrance of Quire Close.

Chris took her hand, eager as a young lover, and drew her into the close. It was like stepping into another world, one which was self-contained and bore only passing similarity to the one outside. One way in, one way out: under the arch through which they’d come. At its foot, the close narrowed in a mediaeval trick of perspective, ending in a pair of larger and more substantial houses.

The mellow West Country stone of the buildings glowed in the sunshine. Spring was in the air, adding its intoxicating perfume to the magic of the close. Tulips bloomed, buds swelled with new life.

And behind them loomed the cathedral.

They had arrived in Westmead early, with plenty of time to explore Quire Close and the cathedral before the interviews were to begin. Chris was uncharacteristically nervous about the interviews; so much was at stake. First he was to talk to the Headmaster of the school, then he would have an interview and an audition with the Director of Music and the Precentor of the cathedral. Sophie would join them for lunch in the refectory.

‘Good luck,’ she said to Chris as he left her for the first of the interviews. ‘It will be fine.’

She went into the cathedral. The enormity of it awed her, even intimidated her. Sophie was not easily intimidated, but she found that the sheer scale of the place unnerved her. The soaring stone vaults, the vast windows, the massive pillars with their improbably delicate carved capitals: none of it seemed to have any relation to the world as she knew it. She realised that she ought to be looking at it as a photographer, enjoying the play of light on stone, the texture of the carving. But it was too alien; she doubted that she would ever feel at home in that building.

Berating herself for her cowardice, she escaped through the great west doors and spent an hour in the town of Westmead itself. Officially it was a city, by virtue of the cathedral at its heart, but it had the feel of a rather sleepy West Country market town. Nothing, thought Sophie, like London. Its charms were soon exhausted, and she returned across the broad cathedral green in time to meet the men for lunch.

She had arranged to meet them in the cathedral refectory, tucked against the south side of the building in a converted bit of the old cloister. It wasn’t difficult to find.

The men were already seated, but stood when she arrived: Chris, a nervous smile still plastered on his face, and across from him a tall, lean man in an impeccably cut suit. Chris made the introductions as she took the chair beside him. ‘My wife, Sophie. Jeremy Hammond, the Director of Music.’

Sophie took the languid hand which was extended to her across the table. ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Hammond.’

‘My pleasure. Please, call me Jeremy.’ He looked across at her under half-lowered lids and smiled, revealing perfect teeth. Sophie returned his gaze levelly, observing a good-looking man who was fully aware of his own charms. The charm was general, not focused specifically on her. She knew the type: London was full of them.

Sophie didn’t consider herself a portrait photographer, but she was interested in faces, and she studied Jeremy Hammond’s as he resumed his seat. It was a mobile, expressive face, blessed with sculptured cheekbones and wide blue eyes under beautifully shaped wings of eyebrows. Rich auburn hair fell from a centre parting and framed his face, just long enough to touch the collar of his shirt.

‘We’re waiting for the Precentor,’ Chris explained. ‘He was meant to be joining us earlier, but had a meeting he couldn’t get out of.’

Jeremy Hammond shook his head. ‘Oh, these clergy,’ he said, raising his eyebrows. ‘So very busy, always. Or so they would have us lesser mortals believe. But here,’ he added, ‘he is now.’

A shorter man in a black cassock joined them, moving to the seat across the table from Sophie. Jeremy introduced him. ‘Canon Peter Swan,’ he said. ‘The Canon Precentor.’

Nothing at all like the elegant Jeremy Hammond – he might, thought Sophie, be described as ugly. Middle-aged and middle-sized. Unsmiling, even as he shook hands with them. Humourless and charmless.

‘We have to get our own food,’ Jeremy explained; he led them in the direction of the queue. ‘Have whatever you like. It’s on the cathedral.’

The food looked appetising and freshly prepared. Sophie chose quiche and salad and returned with her tray to the table.

Jeremy engaged Chris in an animated conversation about some particular piece of music, leaving Sophie to eat her quiche and look across the table at Canon Peter Swan. He clearly felt no need to talk to her, applying himself with concentration to his food, so she took the opportunity to study him. He had an interesting face, she decided, displaying a characterful sort of ugliness, rather like one of the gargoyles which perched along the roof of the cathedral.

Gravity was not his friend, Sophie observed. His skin and the underlying flesh seemed but lightly attached to his skull; gravity dragged his face, with its loose folds of flesh, downwards, making him look perhaps ten years older than he was.

His meal finished, Canon Swan laid his cutlery on his plate; the time for small talk had arrived. ‘You’re a Londoner, Mrs Lilburn?’

‘We’ve lived there for a number of years – since we were married.’

‘Your husband has done a lot of singing in London, then?’

Sophie nodded. ‘Depping, mostly. Different churches, all over town. You’d have to ask him about it.’ She gave an apologetic shrug. ‘I’m afraid I’m not at all churchy.’

‘Very wise of you.’ And then, for some reason, he smiled across at her. The transformation was so astonishing that she caught her breath. His sagging jowls disappeared; the planes of his face moved upwards, rearranging themselves into those of a much younger man. Ten years, twenty years, younger. A different face altogether. He still wasn’t handsome, but Sophie could now glimpse at least the potential for a hint of charm. How fascinating it would be, she thought, to photograph this face.

Breaking away from his conversation with Jeremy, Chris addressed the Precentor. ‘I’ve sung at All Saints’ Margaret Street, at Bourne Street, at St Alban’s, Holborn. A few times at the Abbey. All over the place, really.’

‘He comes very well recommended,’ Jeremy said. ‘And it must be said that he passed the audition with flying colours. That bit of Haydn was beautifully sung.’

‘And Mrs Lilburn?’ the canon asked, looking across at her.

Chris answered for her. ‘Sophie is a photographer,’ he said with pride. ‘She’s quite well known in her field.’

Still the canon looked at Sophie. ‘How would you feel about moving from London? Would that be a problem for you?’

‘I can take pictures wherever I am,’ she evaded, dropping her eyes. She mustn’t ruin things for Chris, she told herself. This meant so much to him.

Canon Swan, having missed out on the formal interview, seemed to feel that he had to get through a list of questions. ‘How about family? Do you have children?’

‘No,’ said Sophie. ‘No. Not yet.’ She didn’t dare to look at Chris, though she could feel his eyes on her.

Not yet. That was the problem. And it certainly wasn’t for want of trying, at least not in the past year.

Chris had always wanted children, from the very first. He would have been delighted if they’d had a baby straight away, followed by several more. He came from a large family himself, and that was the natural state of things as far as he was concerned. Some men aspire to fathering an entire football team; Chris would have been happy with a respectable-sized chamber choir.

But he’d never nagged her about it, Sophie acknowledged to herself. He’d made it clear how he felt, but he had respected her decision to wait, to establish herself in her career before tying herself down with babies.

‘Give me two years,’ she’d said at first. Two years had turned into five in no time; now they had been married for nine years, and still there was no baby.

Sophie was thirty years old. A year before, on the eve of that birthday, as spring crept up on the frozen world, her biological clock had kicked into operation. Suddenly it seemed the most important thing in the world to her that she should have a baby. Now. Before it was too late.

Chris, of course, had been delighted. Delighted at her decision, and at the suddenly increased frequency of their lovemaking. For a few months it was bliss, and both of them glowed with new joy in each other.

But nothing had happened. Making love day and night, and not a sign of success.

After those first months, the joy of it had begun to pall. Going to bed became a chore, a duty, robbed of tenderness and tinged with a sort of desperation. Would this be the time it would happen? The potential of failure hung over their bed.

Sophie had begun reading up on conception. She’d begun taking her temperature, and insisted on even more frequent lovemaking – if it could even be called that any longer – when the time was right. She had even visited her GP, seeking referral to an infertility specialist. ‘Give it a year,’ the GP had said. ‘Then we’ll start thinking about that sort of thing.’

It had now been a year, and still there was no sign of a baby.

Jeremy Hammond invited them to have coffee at his house. ‘I certainly wouldn’t inflict the swill that passes for coffee in the refectory on you,’ he said with a shudder. ‘Come and have some decent coffee with me.’

Canon Swan declined, citing another pressing meeting, so it was just the three of them who went back to Quire Close. ‘Do you have one of those big houses at the end?’ Sophie asked as they came through the arch.

‘Not I. I’m merely the humble Director of Music.’ Jeremy had a gliding sort of walk, and this, coupled with his long legs, meant they had to hurry over the cobblestones to keep up with him. ‘Here we are.’ He turned into an immaculate front garden and unlocked his door. ‘You’ll find that all the houses in the close are a bit different inside. Mine is one of the nicer ones, I think.’

The entrance hall was extremely narrow. ‘Come upstairs,’ Jeremy beckoned, leading them up a long straight staircase, back along a landing, and into the room at the front of the house. ‘My sitting room,’ he announced. ‘A bit too small to be called a drawing room, but it will do.’

It was, Sophie saw, a lovely room. Jeremy was fortunate to be on the south-facing side of the close, so the room was light and sunny. Everything in it was in the best possible taste: a mellow oriental rug, a few nice pictures on the warm terracotta walls, some fine pieces of antique furniture. There were books in the alcoves, along with a well-disguised sound system, and a beautiful clavichord in one corner. ‘Not enough room in here for my piano,’ Jeremy explained, ‘and they never would have got it up those stairs anyway, so I had this made to fit in here.’

Their host disappeared for a few minutes back downstairs to make the coffee, so Sophie wandered about and inspected the pictures while Chris sank into a comfortable armchair, clasping his hands nervously in his lap.

‘How has it gone so far?’ Sophie asked him.

Chris nodded. ‘Quite well, I think. They seem to like me.’

‘And do you like them?’

‘You know me,’ he grinned. ‘I like everyone.’

It was true, Sophie acknowledged. Her husband was one of those uncritical people who saw the best in everyone. She wasn’t like that.

Neither, it would appear, was Jeremy Hammond.

‘Those clergy,’ he said as he glided into the room bearing a tray. ‘They think they’re so important. Rushing about here, there, and everywhere. I mean, they think they actually run the cathedral. Can you imagine?’

Sophie, with her limited knowledge of cathedrals, was confused. ‘I thought the Bishop ran the cathedral. And he’s clergy, isn’t he?’

‘Oh, my dear! You have so much to learn!’ Jeremy put the tray down on an exquisite mahogany side table and turned to her with delight. ‘In the first place, the Bishop has absolutely nothing to do with the cathedral.’

‘But isn’t that his chair in there? The big one, near the pulpit? That’s what someone said.’ She hated to display her ignorance of this alien world.

Jeremy didn’t seem to mind; in fact he clearly revelled in the opportunity to explain. ‘The Bishop’s chair – the cathedra, to use your actual Latin – is what makes it a cathedral. But the Bishop’s job is to run the diocese, not the cathedral. That’s what the Dean is supposed to be for. The Dean and Chapter. You’ll note,’ he added with a wicked grin, ‘that I said supposed. This Dean, in particular, is completely useless. People let him pretend that he’s in charge, but everyone knows he’s not.’

Another word had baffled her. ‘You said the Dean and Chapter. What’s the Chapter?’

Jeremy handed her a tiny bone-china cup of fragrant black coffee. ‘That’s the corporate name for all of the canons. The residentiary canons, that is – the ones who “live in”, as it were. Most cathedrals have three or four of them. We’re lucky in that we only have three – that’s fewer of them to get in the way.’

Sophie accepted a dollop of cream in her coffee and took an appreciative sip. She loved good coffee; the fact that Jeremy Hammond shared that passion seemed to her a good sign. ‘Canon Swan is one of them?’

‘That’s right. He’s the Precentor. The one who sings the services,’ he explained. ‘He’s the one who is generally concerned with the music, and the running of the services – or at least I let him think so. That’s why he was in on the interview today.’

‘He sings?’

Jeremy, in the act of offering Chris the cream, turned his head to look at her, raising his eyebrows. ‘Oh, yes. Not too badly, either – for a man of his age,’ he admitted.

‘Has he been here for a long time, then?’ Chris put in.

‘Not long.’ Jeremy stirred cream into his own coffee and took a sip, then smiled his approval of his own efforts. ‘About two years, give or take. He got the appointment because he was an old friend of the Dean. That’s the way things work around here – it’s who you know that’s important.’

It was the human element that interested Sophie. ‘Is he married?’

Jeremy laughed. ‘No.’ With one elegant hand he made an expressive gesture. ‘He is a bit of an old sourpuss. Who would have him? Let’s be honest – he doesn’t exactly spread sweetness and light about the place.’

To Sophie’s disappointment, Chris shifted the subject. ‘Tell me about the Dean,’ he requested.

‘The Dean,’ pronounced Jeremy, ‘is irrelevant. You don’t really need to know anything about him other than that. Useless, as I said before. He breeds Burmese cats and grows old-fashioned roses and only leaves the Deanery when absolutely necessary. You’ll see him now and then, sitting in his Decani stall in the choir for services, and sometimes he even stirs himself to read a lesson, but I promise you that he’ll never impinge on your life in any way.’

He was speaking, Sophie realised, as though their future involvement at Westmead Cathedral was a foregone conclusion. ‘Then who does run the cathedral?’ she asked.

Jeremy put down his coffee cup and moved to the window. ‘Come here, my dear,’ he commanded.

Sophie obeyed, draining the last of her coffee and going to his side.

‘Quire Close,’ said Jeremy, ‘is the seat of power. Not the Deanery.’ Looking out of the window, he swept his hand dramatically from one end to the other. ‘There are two people who matter in this place. One of them lives at the entrance, just through the arch.’ He pointed up the close. ‘Leslie Clunch, he’s called.’

Her gaze followed his finger, though there was no one in sight. ‘And who is Leslie Clunch?’

‘Retired verger,’ said Jeremy. ‘Head Verger, as he’d be the first to tell you.’

The word meant nothing to her; she looked towards Chris for enlightenment.

‘The vergers are the ones who walk in front of the clergy and choir when they come in for services,’ Chris supplied. ‘And when they go out, or go up to the pulpit to preach or read. They wear black gowns and carry silver wands. It’s sort of a ceremonial thing.’

‘The wands are called “verges”,’ added Jeremy. ‘Hence the name. But the vergers do far more than go walkabout with the clergy. They’re the ones who really run the place on a day-to-day basis.’

‘I saw some men wearing black gowns when I was in the cathedral earlier,’ Sophie recalled. ‘They seemed to be keeping an eye on the place.’

Jeremy nodded. ‘Exactly. They keep an eagle eye on tourists, so they don’t do anything naughty or walk off with the silver, and they make themselves indispensable to everyone else. They would be the first to tell you that the clergy couldn’t manage without them.’

‘So this Leslie Clunch …?’ Sophie prompted.

‘Was Head Verger for donkey’s years. The better part of thirty years, I reckon,’ said Jeremy. ‘He retired about two years ago, and in recognition of his long service to Westmead Cathedral, he was given a grace-and-favour residence in Quire Close.’

‘Why do you say he’s powerful? I mean, if he’s retired …’

Jeremy’s mouth curved in an arch smile. ‘My dear, he knows where all of the bodies are buried, so to speak. There’s nothing that’s happened in this cathedral for thirty years that he doesn’t know about. He has a very long memory,’ he added. ‘It’s more than anyone’s job is worth to cross him.’

Sophie was baffled: Jeremy was talking as if this were a den of iniquity, not a house of God. She thought that cathedrals were meant to be holy places, full of holy people who never did anything of which they might be ashamed. Before she could put this into words, though, Jeremy went on. ‘And nothing happens in this close without Leslie Clunch knowing about it. Nothing.’ His voice was light, but Sophie sensed that it contained a hint of warning.

‘Does he live on his own?’ Chris asked.

‘Oh, no. There is a Mrs Clunch – Olive.’ Jeremy grinned. ‘The long-suffering Olive. She’s an invalid now. Very poorly. Never goes out. Leslie looks after her night and day, as he’d be the first to tell you.’

Chris joined them at the window. ‘Then how does he have time to know the business of everyone in the close?’

Jeremy shook his head and smiled, lifting his shoulders in an elegant shrug. After a significant pause he said, ‘You’ll find out soon enough what I’m talking about.’

Again that assumption that their future lay in Westmead. Sophie fought against a bubble of panic that welled up inside her; perhaps it was irrational, but all she wanted to do at that moment was walk down the stairs, out of Quire Close, and flee home to London. Instead she forced herself to speak normally. ‘You said that there are two people who matter,’ she recalled. ‘Who is the other one, then?’

‘Ah,’ said Jeremy. ‘Now that is a long story. Shall we have some more coffee, perhaps?’

He went off and prepared a fresh supply, then settled down in a wing-backed chair, crossing his long legs in front of him. ‘Elspeth Verey,’ he said, as if tasting the name in his mouth. ‘Elspeth Verey.’

Sophie waited, understanding that this was Jeremy’s way of creating a bit of drama.

‘Elspeth Verey lives at the far end of the close,’ Jeremy began. ‘In Priory House, one of the larger houses.’

He took his time telling the story, relishing it. Elspeth Verey, he explained, had been in Westmead even longer than Leslie Clunch: more than forty years. She’d been a young girl in her teens when her father had been appointed Dean of Westmead Cathedral, and had spent those formative years living at the Deanery.

The Very Reverend Arthur Worthington, her father, had been a dean of the old school: Oxford-educated, well connected, with private means. Westmead Cathedral had become his kingdom, one he ruled as a benevolent despot. In those days, no one had ever been in any doubt about who was in charge, or where the power lay. Arthur Worthington was as near to an absolute monarch as was possible in the Church of England, yet in spite of that he had been much beloved.

And his daughter, growing up at the heart of so much power, had developed a taste for it. Indeed, she had even come to regard it as her birthright.

In the days when Elspeth Verey was growing up, there was only one way for a woman to achieve status in the Church of England: she had to marry it. Elspeth Worthington, as she then was, grasped this fact quickly, and set about putting her plans into effect in a calculated manner. Carefully she sized up each eligible clergyman who crossed her path – and in a cathedral city, there was an abundance of them to choose from. Even discounting those who were already married, she was spoilt for choice: canons, archdeacons, vicars, rectors, curates.

The curates were too young and untried; most of the vicars and rectors lacked the necessary ambition, the fire in the belly that Elspeth was looking for. The search proved more difficult than she’d anticipated. But when she was twenty-one, she met Richard Verey. He was thirty-eight, and had just been appointed as Archdeacon of Westmead. It was rare to find an archdeacon under forty; the fact that he had already achieved that office indicated that he was on his way to higher things.

They were married within the year, and in another year she had given birth to a son and heir, upon whom she bestowed the honour of the family name: Worthington Verey. His godfather was, in fact, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and from him he took his middle names.

Worthington Michael Ramsey Verey was clearly born for great things. He was an only child, and on him his mother lavished her love, even as she inculcated him with her ambition.

Her choice of husband was proved to be a good one when he succeeded her father as Dean of Westmead. Elspeth Verey moved back into the Deanery in triumph, sure that it was her rightful place. In the Deanery her will reigned supreme, and through her husband she ruled the cathedral.

Everything had gone according to plan. Young Worthington grew in wisdom and stature, achieving fine results in his A levels and securing a place at his father’s Oxford college.

Then came the great shock, the seismic upheaval. Worthington went off to Oxford, and a few months later, Elspeth discovered that she was being compensated for the loss in a most unexpected way: she was pregnant again, at the age of forty-one.

The new baby was another boy, and they called him Dominic.

But Dominic was not destined to grow to manhood in the Deanery. The Very Reverend Richard Verey proved to be a weaker vessel than his formidable and long-lived father-in-law; at the age of sixty he suffered a mild heart attack, and his doctors urged him to consider early retirement, at sixty-two. Reluctantly he agreed, and plans were under way for him to stand down as Dean when, a year later, another heart attack proved fatal.

Elspeth Verey was left a widow at the age of forty-seven.

Priory House, at the end of Quire Close, was in the process of being renovated as Dean Verey’s retirement home. No one questioned Elspeth Verey’s right to move into it with her young son, and there she had remained.

She was, Jeremy told them, the undoubted Queen of Westmead. Now fifty-eight, her ambitions were vested in her sons. Dominic was still at school, but Worthington was well on the way to fulfilling his destiny: he would, his mother was sure, be Dean of Westmead one day in the not-too-distant future. The present dean had been appointed through her string-pulling: an ineffectual man who would not do much harm until it was time for Worthington to take over.

Of course, Elspeth Verey was the social arbiter of Westmead. Those upon whom she smiled would flourish; those upon whom she frowned would be consigned to the status of non-person.

‘Does she like you?’ Sophie blurted; even as she said it she realised that the question was perhaps not as tactful or discreet as it should be.

But Jeremy didn’t seem to mind. He grinned, uncrossing his legs and recrossing them the other way. ‘Oh, yes. Our Elspeth likes me. She finds me … amusing.’ He raised an eyebrow and lowered his voice. ‘But I’ll tell you who she doesn’t like.’

‘Who?’

‘The Subdean’s wife. Elspeth can’t bear her.’

‘Why?’

‘Because,’ Jeremy said, his mouth curving maliciously, ‘the Subdean was one of those young curates whom Elspeth rejected all those years ago.’

Sophie processed the information. ‘The Subdean? But if the Dean—’

Her question was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. Jeremy went into another room to take the call, and when he returned he was beaming.

‘That was the Headmaster,’ he said to Chris. ‘He’s spoken to Canon Swan. We’ve all agreed. If you want the job, it’s yours.’

Chris looked at Sophie, and she at him. His cheerful round face glowed with excitement; the smile on her face felt frozen.

April 1989

No one would have taken the two girls for sisters. They were very different: Jacquie, the elder by a year, was dark and lean, while Alison was fair, with a tendency towards plumpness. Of the two, Alison was the prettier, though it might be argued that Jacquie, with her stronger bone structure, would stand the test of time better.

They were going on holiday together – a fortnight in Greece. Alison couldn’t believe it. Their parents were actually allowing them to do it.

This would be their first trip abroad, the first time either of them had been out of England. Their parents had never been very big on holidays, considering such things to be a frivolous waste of money and time. When the girls were small, there had been the occasional foray to the north Norfolk coast, to Wells-Next-the-Sea or Cromer, for a day or sometimes even a weekend of sitting on the beach at the edge of the chilly sea, the parents keeping a vigilant eye on their daughters.

This was going to be different, Jacquie assured her sister with enthusiasm. The sea would be warm – warm enough to swim in. The sky would be a perpetual blue, the air balmy. Most importantly, their parents would not be there. And there would be men.

If Joan and Frank Barnett had known anything at all about package holidays abroad, they would never have dreamed of allowing their daughters to embark upon one. But their sphere of existence was narrow, confined by their own world view. They didn’t own a television, as a matter of choice; in their opinion, televi