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  She offers him a choice of two: the best, with an en suite bathroom and a view of the links, is five pounds fifty including breakfast. Cheered by the thought of clean sheets and a hot bath, he eagerly fills out the form in his spidery handwriting and passes it back to her.

  ‘We usually ask for payment in advance,’ she says, with a sharp glance. ‘Not that we think you’d do a runner, sir, you’re not the type,’ she adds hurriedly. ‘It’s just company policy.’

  He nods, feeling in his jacket pocket for his wallet, wondering mildly who the ‘company’ consists of. Her mother and father, probably, who live out the back.

  ‘That’ll be five pounds fifty then. Cash is best, if you have it.’

  He pats his trouser pockets, first the two at the back, then the two at the front. He cannot remember picking up his wallet this morning. In fact, he cannot even remember what he’d done with it on returning from the newsagents. The dead hand of dread grips his stomach. The wallet is probably still in the pocket of his old parka. He can almost picture it hanging over the back of the armchair where he left it.

  He pulls out a handful of change from his trouser pocket: some coppers, two sixpenny pieces he’d never got round to cashing in when everything went decimal – a single twenty pence coin and a crumpled one pound note. One pound thirty-eight pence. Not enough even for the room without breakfast.

  ‘Would you take a cheque?’ he stutters, flushing under the young woman’s increasingly sceptical gaze. ‘I might have a cheque book in the car. Or I could go to the bank in the morning and get cash?’

  ‘If you go and look for your cheque book, sir,’ she says coolly, ‘I’ll go and ask the manager.’

  He knows that it is a fool’s errand, but he dutifully returns to the car and rifles through old newspapers, empty carrier bags, sweet wrappers, dirty mugs and other detritus on the seats and shelves, in the glove pockets and footwells, even in the boot. He finds a half crown which stopped being legal currency nearly three years ago, a book of Green Shield stamps and some out-of-date Co-op vouchers, but no cheque book. He sits in the driver’s seat, rests his elbows on the steering wheel and puts his head in his hands.

  He is a mess. One of life’s losers, always have been, he thinks, dolefully. Other people said he was a genius because he could work with numbers, and abstract concepts came easily. But what’s the use of a man who can’t even plan the basics of a simple trip, like remembering to bring his wallet and a cheque book?

  The consequences of his stupidity are starting to dawn. He has nowhere to stay, and might not even have enough petrol to get back to London. He’d filled up not so long ago, he feels sure, but his memory is not what it was, and the petrol gauge has been stuck on empty for many years, so it is impossible to tell. He has not eaten since breakfast, and is now hungry and thirsty.

  Can’t even manage to get through the simplest activities in life without making a hash of them, he berates himself, whacking the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. ‘Just what is the point?’ he shouts out loud, startling himself. ‘Just what is the ruddy, bloody point of it all? You’re a complete waste of space.’ Whatever was he thinking, coming all this way after so many years, out of stupid sentiment? He starts the engine and crunches angrily into first gear, spinning the rear wheels on the gravel.

  One pound and thirty-eight pence would buy him a pint and a bag of chips at least, and he could warm up. Perhaps if he has something to eat, his mind will start working properly and he can decide what to do next. He drives back towards the town, parks in a side street and begins to walk towards the centre. There must be a pub around here somewhere.

  As he turns a corner, his eye is caught by a cheery window on the opposite side of the street. It looks so inviting: people sitting at tables with red gingham cloths set with pots of tea, and tiered cake stands piled with sandwiches and pastries. A flickering glow on their faces suggests there is a real fire somewhere in the room. He can just make out some fancy italic lettering in an arc across the window: Kathleen’s Kitchen. His feet stop involuntarily in their tracks.

  With a hammering heart, he crosses the road and opens the door, causing the bell to tinkle and the other customers to glance in his direction – obviously trying not to stare at this unusual-looking stranger – before resuming their conversations. But the little room is filled with warmth and firelight and the delicious smell of baking. There’s a tiny Christmas tree in the corner and fairy lights strung around the walls. He feels almost tearful with the relief of it and tries not to notice the way they have lowered their voices, as though he is somehow untrustworthy or frightening.

  A slightly tubby dark-haired woman, young, perhaps in her thirties, emerges from the kitchen area with a tray and smiles at him. She shows him to a table just to the left of the fire and gives him a menu. Vic sits down and scans it gratefully, noticing that a pot of tea is just ten pence. He might have set his heart on chips, but the cakes nestled beneath their glass domes look so delicious. And then he sees it: ‘Carrot Cake – 8p’.

  As he waits for his order to arrive, he tries to calm his racing thoughts. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his memory, he seems to remember that she spoke of an auntie, or perhaps it was her mother, who ran a tea room in the town. But that was thirty years ago, even more, and there was nothing to suggest that she would have gone into the business herself, let alone given it her name. It could be anyone’s tea room – Kathleen was a common enough name, after all – and the fact that carrot cake was on the menu was hardly surprising. It might have gone out of fashion after the war, but he has read somewhere recently that it’s been enjoying a revival among today’s whole-earth hippy folks.

  When it arrives, the carrot cake looks just like hers: a small block of sponge flecked with orange, auburn as her hair, but this one has a full quarter-inch of soft white topping. Back then, when rationing tightened its grip and there was rarely enough sugar or butter for icing, her cake was usually served plain. With his knife he carefully removes the topping, cuts a small square of the sponge and places it into his mouth. He smiles blissfully. It is hers, he is sure of it.

  When the waitress appears again, he beckons her over.

  ‘This cake is delicious,’ he says.

  ‘I’m glad you’re enjoying it,’ she replies, glancing at his plate. ‘But is the icing too sweet for your taste?’

  ‘Oh no, it’s just that …’ It is too difficult to explain. ‘No, it’s fine, lovely in fact.’ He struggles to find the words to ask what he is burning to know without appearing impolite or intrusive. Then, inspiration: ‘In fact, I’d love to have the recipe. Did you bake it yourself?’

  She smiles. ‘No, sir. I do the scones. They’re more my line.’

  ‘Would it be possible to speak to the person who made this cake?’

  Her eyebrows rise, ever so slightly. ‘I’m sure I could get you the recipe.’

  ‘I would very much like to congratulate them myself, in person,’ he says, trying to read the expression that creeps across her face. Who is this strange bloke, so interested in cake?

  ‘I’m afraid she’s not here at the moment, sir.’

  ‘Is she likely to return this afternoon?’

  ‘It’s possible.’ Her expression hardens, the little frown lines between her eyebrows deepening with suspicion. ‘We close at six, sir.’

  He glances up at the clock. It is five-fifteen.

  ‘I will wait then, if you don’t mind?’

  ‘Not at all, sir. If she comes back I will tell her you are here. Can I mention a name?’

  This takes him aback. If she hears his name, she might decide not to appear. ‘She won’t know me,’ he says defensively at first, then relents. ‘Mr Mackensie. Vic. Short for Vikram.’

  ‘Very well, sir,’ she says. ‘Would you like me to top up the pot, while you are waiting?’

  ‘Er… yes, thank you, miss. And another slice of carrot cake, please.’

  He takes out his newspaper. When the waitress returns w
ith hot water to refill his teapot, she notices that his hands are trembling.

  Part One

  THE MAGIC EYE

  One

  July 1936

  Pa had a friend who worked at the Orwell Hotel and said he could get the smaller lounge for a private function fee of five pounds, so long as they put ten pounds behind the bar for drinks.

  ‘Drinks? You’re going to let them drink alcohol on her sixteenth birthday?’ Ma shouted, believing her daughter safely out of range. ‘Fifteen pounds? Are you out of your mind?’

  Kath, sitting at the top of the stairs, could hear every word and pictured the scene as clearly as though she were there: Pa hiding behind his newspaper, Ma pacing the small rug in front of the old cast-iron Esse fire, unlit of course, it being July and one of the hottest days of the year.

  Finally she heard Pa, his voice mild, mollifying. ‘It’s not every day your only daughter turns sweet sixteen, Maggie. She’s a level-headed kid, she won’t overdo it. What harm could there be in half a pint on her sixteenth birthday?’

  ‘She might be level-headed, but what about her friends? Especially the boys? They won’t be content with just half a pint, you know that. And before long they’ll be pickled and getting into fights. Answer me that, Bob.’

  He was caving in, as she knew he would.

  ‘And what’s wrong with the parish hall, anyway?’ her mother’s rant continued. ‘Mark had a good old do there for his sixteenth. We can do a fruit punch and sausage rolls, put on some of your old records…’

  Kath turned back into her bedroom and closed the door. The dreary old parish hall that always smelled of damp, the toilets out the back filled with cobwebs and creepy insects? She didn’t want a ‘good old do’ like her brother Mark’s. It was just boring: the boys gathered in one corner, the girls in another, all shouting over the music and ignoring each other.

  No, Kath had something more glamorous in mind: fairy lights, a glitter ball, a proper dance floor and a swing band: the world that Hollywood stars like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers seemed to inhabit. Okay, perhaps that was stretching it a bit, for Felixstowe. But a fruit punch in the parish hall was not how she’d envisaged celebrating her birthday, the end of her General Certificate exams, the last few weeks of school ever and the start of her life as an adult.

  But what was that new life going to look like? She had no idea, and that worried her – not that she was letting on. That Saturday, she and Joan went to the beach and, after a short and numbingly cold dip in the sea, laid their towels on the sand to make a start on their tans.

  ‘This is more like it,’ Kath said, stretching out and closing her eyes. ‘Summer’s here at last. No more exams and soon no more school. Holidays forever.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to college?’ Joan said, leaning up on one elbow.

  ‘Hadn’t really thought.’

  ‘You’re going to get a job, then?’

  ‘Not if I can help it. Who wants to work in a shop or serve grumpy tourists in a cafe? On your feet all day?’ Kath squinted up at her friend, shielding her eyes with her hand. ‘That’s not for me.’

  In fact, she knew her parents would be expecting her to find a job, at least until she got married. It was inevitable. Kath’s mother Maggie had always gone out to work, except when the children were young. Currently she was cook for a private school in Lower Walton, to which she cycled every day come rain or shine. The hours were ideal: she was always there when they got home from school and during the holidays. The extra income meant that the family had been able to buy their own three-bedroomed semi in a tree-lined street not far from the seafront with all mod cons: an electric cooker, a fridge and a vacuum cleaner. They even had a clothes washing machine.

  ‘What’re you going to live on, then?’ Joan said.

  ‘I’m going to find a rich man,’ Kath said. ‘Preferably handsome, and good at dancing.’

  Joan scoffed. ‘Dunno where you’re going to find one of them.’

  ‘Mark’s got some mates at the station.’ She meant the flying boat station down at Landguard, the Marine Aircraft Experimental Establishment or MAEE for short, where he worked as an apprentice carpenter. Unlike Kath, he knew exactly what he wanted to do with his life: he was going to become a pilot. His friends were infinitely more sophisticated than any her own age, and a few were decidedly dishy.

  In particular, she had her eye on one called Billy, who came to the house every now and again. He’d sit at the kitchen table rocking back on his chair, chain-smoking and swigging beer direct from the bottle. He wore wide-legged trousers and tight-fitting jumpers, often with stripes, and although Ma disapproved – after he’d gone she would fling doors and windows open wide whatever the weather, muttering about the disgusting smell of tobacco – Kath thought he was the most thrilling boy she’d ever met.

  ‘Surely you don’t want to stay in this place forever?’ Joan asked. She was one of the clever kids at school, always coming near the top of the class, apparently without having to do any work at all. If she got the grades she was hoping for, she was going to study shorthand and typing at the technical college in Ipswich.

  Kath hated it when people complained about the town. As far as she was concerned, it was perfect. It had everything she needed: the beach and the prom, the pleasure park, the tennis club, a good range of shops, dances at the Pier Pavilion or the Town Hall every weekend, the marshes if you needed time to yourself. Why would anyone want to leave? Besides, all her friends were here.

  She was one of those girls who seemed to sail through life, having discovered at an early age that a sweet smile could win most arguments and help her get what she wanted. Although not the prettiest in the class and certainly not the most sophisticated, she was one of the most popular; though not the brightest, she was by no means dim; although not good enough at hockey to be the first one the captain picked, she was never the last. She had no idea what her exam results would be, and nor did she really care; she had, until now, given scarcely a thought about what she might do with the rest of her life, except for a vague understanding that she would eventually get married and have children.

  The sun disappeared behind a particularly large grey cloud and she shivered, sitting up and pulling her towel around her. ‘This is no good. We’re never going to get a tan today. Let’s get dressed and cycle to the ferry. Pa says there’s something happening over on the Bawdsey side.’

  Joan demurred for a moment, checking her watch. ‘I’ve got to be back for lunch.’

  ‘It’s only half eleven. There’s a whole hour before lunchtime,’ Kath said, pulling on her jumper. ‘So let’s get a move on.’

  The best part of cycling to the ferry was the long downward slope as you left the town, freewheeling as fast as you dared, bending as low as possible over the handlebars to reduce wind drag – that’s what Mark called it – so that you kept going halfway along the flat part. You could compete to see how long you could keep going before having to turn the pedals, or if you were on your own you could judge the distance you had travelled before having to pedal by the little flags marking the greens on the unkempt golf course that lay between the road and the sea.

  Cycling was the perfect kind of freedom: the air rushing through your hair, the road speeding by beneath you. Kath hated the winter, when that liberty was often curbed by the weather, but in summertime her bike went with her everywhere.

  Some of her wealthier friends rode horses and she’d even sat on one briefly, but Kath could never really see the point of it. ‘Why would you want all that bother of feeding them and clearing up their muck when you can get there faster on two wheels?’ she’d scoff. ‘You just don’t get it, do you?’ they’d retort, rolling their eyes. ‘A horse is a living being. It can love you, and you love it back. You can’t have a relationship with a bit of metal.’

  They reached the ferry in record time, parked their bikes in front of the Ferry Boat Inn and strolled past the fishermen’s shacks. Over on the other side of the estuary,
on a small bluff overlooking the junction of the river and the sea, stood the fairy-tale towers and turrets of Bawdsey Manor, an architectural confection built as a holiday home by a Victorian millionaire glorying in the name of Sir William Cuthbert Quilter. Kath’s grandfather Poppa had told her that Quilter also owned several hotels in Felixstowe as well as being a Member of Parliament, so there were plenty who’d doff their caps to his memory.

  Poppa worked as a gardener at the Manor and had even, on one occasion, been inside the house itself. As a child sitting on his knee, Kath had listened entranced to his descriptions of Sir Cuthbert’s study lined in gold-tooled leather, the beautiful wood panelling and heavy oak staircase leading upwards to heaven knew how many salons and bedrooms, the double-height hall with a musicians’ gallery above, the mirror-lined ballroom and the wonderful views from the terraces.

  ‘They say there’s a hundred rooms,’ he said as she tried to imagine what anyone, even someone with a large family, could possibly do with a hundred rooms.

  What Poppa coveted most was the billiard room, with racks for the cues and brass sliders on the walls for keeping score. ‘I could’ve spent many a happy hour in there,’ he said, the smile crinkling his whole face. ‘A glass of port or two, a cue in my hand, and that view across the North Sea with nothing between you and the horizon. What bliss.’

  Poppa had taken an especial shine to Lady Mary, Sir Cuthbert’s elegant wife, who had designed the gardens herself. ‘You should see them, little Kathleen.’ He waved his arms expansively, nearly unseating her from his lap, as he described the sequence of separate areas: the Round Garden made from the foundations of a Martello tower, the lily pond in the formal Italian garden, and the kitchen garden the size of a cricket pitch with a beautiful ornate glasshouse they called the lemonry. ‘Though whatever you’d want with all those sour old fruits beats me,’ he’d muttered.