Later that evening, when Hilary returned to the payphone cubicle, John Newton answered the telephone straightaway.  “Hello, Hilary.  How’s Wells-Next-The-Sea?  Our plane was delayed.  We got back only an hour ago.”

“Can I speak to Andy, please?” she asked, in a tight voice.

“Of course.”  In the background, she could hear Constance saying, “We’re in the middle of dinner.”

“I'll ring back later,” she suggested, amazed to hear that her voice sounded quite normal.  “I'll ring in half an hour.”

“Yes… Hilary, is everything all right?”

“Mum’s been knocked down by a car.”

“Oh, my dear girl!”  Then John spoke away from the phone.  “Margaret's been in an accident.”

“Is she all right?” Constance exclaimed.  “Is she in hospital?  Give me the phone!”

“No!  No hospital,” Hilary cried.  “She was killed outright.”

For a moment, silence.  “What did you say, Hilary?” snapped Constance.  “I didn’t quite catch what you said.”

“She’s dead!  It happened a couple of hours ago.”

For a moment, silence, then Constance demanded, “Hilary, what happened?  What happened, Hilary?”

Hilary tried to conjure the pictures of her mind into words but none would come.  She had run out the hotel drive into the busy street, expecting to see her mother bustling towards her, but, even at that point, she had craved reassurance.  Across the road, by the post box, a bundle of clothes lay in the gutter, the blue dress her mother had worn for hotel dinner that evening. 

“Your poor father!  And does Mrs Rayner know?”

“Constance, can I please speak to Andy?”

“Yes… yes, of course.”

There was a pause, the sounds of chairs scraping, then Andy crying, “Oh Hil! Hil!...  I don’t know what to say!”

When she heard his voice she started to sob.  So far, she had been dry-eyed all evening.  There had been so much to do - hospital, police, undertakers.  Her grief had been too great for mere tears.  Now she was crying about Malaga Airport, crying for the same reason as she had cried that afternoon, just a few hours ago, when Margaret had been able to put her arm around her and comfort her.  Everything had been OK then.  Yes, even though she had been sobbing in ready torrents, all her world had been in place, with her mother’s advice and support.  Now, she had to do everything alone.

In the background, John was saying, “Tell Hilary you’ll be with her tomorrow.  You can get the train to Norwich.”

“What…?” he asked, away from the phone.  “Hil, do you want me to be with you?”

“Yes, please!” 

“What about your dad?”

“He’s in a terrible state.  I had to go into the television room.  They were all watching the Olympics, and he didn’t want to talk to me, just kept on watching some stupid race.  I had to drag him out and he wouldn’t believe me.  Then the driver of the car came in, saying, over and over again, that he was terribly sorry.  I know it was his fault, but the poor man’s devastated.  Dad tried to hit him but - thank God – I was able to hold him back.  Now Dad’s just sitting on his bed, staring into space.”

“You’d better get back to him.”

“Yes, I must.  I'll have to ring Granny as well.  She’ll be so upset and I can’t be there with her and…  Maybe I shouldn’t tell her this evening.  Maybe I should let her sleep tonight.  Oh God!  Oh God!”

“Oh, Hil, darling.  I don’t know what to say …….”

“There’s nothing anybody can say.  I'm about to break Granny’s heart.  I could ring Mrs Armitage at the same time.  I'd better ring Barbara in Australia now, though, before they all go to bed… Oh, hang on, they’ll be getting up, not going to bed, won't they?”

Hilary returned to her father, who was still sitting on the edge of his bed, slumped into a heap of grief.  His friends, Ron Smart and Arnold Little, who, a few hours ago, had been watching the Olympics with him, were trying to ply him with alcohol, but two whisky glasses stood untouched on the bedside table.  Hilary tried to hold his hand but he didn’t respond, his fingers lifeless on her palm.  The beige skirt Margaret had worn that afternoon was hanging over a chair and her make-up and toiletries laid out on the dressing table, as if she would be coming back to use them. 

“I'll go and ring Australia,” said Hilary, unable to bear it any longer.

Barbara howled with grief for the sister she hadn’t met face-to-face for over five years.  “And,” she sobbed, “when I have such terrible problems here!”

That night, much to her relief, Hilary slept.  Waking up in her room with the sunshine falling through her window in squares on her bed, she at first assumed this was just another day on holiday, then her grief flooded back, not like the little waves that rippled over the Wells-Next-The-Sea beach, but like North Sea breakers that pounded the Essex shore.  That morning went on and on.  Constance rang to say that Andy was already on the train and would be in Norwich at noon.  Noon seemed an eternity away. 

“I never expected Margaret to go first,” said Mrs Rayner, when Hilary telephoned, then, “Hil, my love, how are you coping?”

“Not very well.”

“Of course not.  But I'm here on the end of the phone.”

“Andy’ll be here soon.”

“He’s a good boy, that.  You hang on to him, my girl.  There aren’t many like him around!”

She asked Frank if he wanted to accompany her to Norwich but he didn’t.  In fact, he was still in bed.  She set off in the car far too early and, unable to bear standing on the platform and waiting, she went into town and popped into Boots.  It was still less than twenty-four hours.  Yesterday afternoon, Hilary and Margaret had sat against the red sandstone cliff – and she had been weeping then?

On the platform, Andy wrapped his arms around her.  “I'm so glad you’re here!” she cried.

He frowned.  ”I don’t know what to say to you, Hil.  I don’t think there is a right thing to say.”

“Would you sleep with me tonight?”

“Yes.  OK.”

When they returned to the hotel, Frank was up but not dressed, padding around his room in his dressing gown.

“Hello, Mr Bowles,” said Andy.  “I’m so sorry to hear about Margaret.”

“What’s he here for?”  Frank demanded, then he added, “That bloody doctor at the hospital won't sign her death certificate, says they’ve got to do a post mortem.  And they won't do the post mortem until tomorrow because today is Sunday.  She’s dead, for heaven’s sake!  Isn't that enough?  Do they have to put us through this?”

“The doctor at the hospital won't sign the death certificate because Margaret wasn’t his patient,” said Andy.

“I didn’t ask you,” Frank snapped.

“I think Andy’s right,” said Hilary.  “How are you, Dad?”

“What do you bloody think?”

She sat down next to him and tried to take his hand again, but he snatched it away and stood up.

“It’s no good, Hilary!  You can't start doing the dutiful daughter act now!  For twenty-one years, everything with you has been Mummy, Mummy, Mummy!  From the day you were born!  Go to church – with Mummy!  Go to choir practice – with Mummy.  Sit in the kitchen drinking tea – with Mummy!  You’ve never even given me the time of day!  I drove you back from Gatwick last week and you didn’t utter a word to me!  So don’t start twittering all over me at this late stage!  The only man you’ve ever wanted is that one over there!”  He nodded at Andy.  “So you’d better take yourself off with him and leave me alone to put on some clothes!”

“He doesn’t mean any of it,” said Andy, as she put the key in the door of her own room.  “He’s in shock and grieving.”

“I know, I know,” said Hilary, knocking her shin against the sharp corner of the luggage rack in her room.  “Oh fuck, fuck, fuck!  That really hurt!”

Andy made her sit down on the edge of her bed.  “You haven't broken the skin.  But I've never heard you swear like that.”

“I just don’t care.”

Hilary and Andy ate dinner in the dining room.  Although the food was cotton wool in her mouth, she ate, to keep up her strength.  Mrs Burr, the proprietor, took food to Frank in his room, but when Hilary went to see him later, the tray was still there, untouched.  Again, she sat next to him and said, “Dad?...” and again he didn’t respond at all.  After a few minutes, she left him, taking the tray of uneaten food away with her.

That evening dragged.  She and Andy read the paper, watched television, went for a walk, but she couldn't settle to anything.  At about ten o'clock, the hotel guests started to retire, with much slamming of doors, flushing of toilets and wrenching of old fashioned taps in bedrooms.  “You will sleep with me tonight, won't you?” Hilary begged Andy.

“Yes.  OK.”

After the rush was over, Hilary went down the long corridor and took a bath, then, while Andy took his bath, Hilary pushed the two twin beds together, before climbing into the bed she had been using all holiday.  When he clambered into the second twin bed, he reached over and put his arm around her shoulders.

After a moment, he exclaimed, “Are you wearing a bikini in bed?”

“I thought you liked my white bikini.  You did in Marbella.”

“Yes, but…”

She moved his fingers to the catch.  “Take it off.”

“Now?”

“Particularly now.”  She met his gaze from her pillow.  “Andy, I think it’s time we went the whole way.”

On his pillow, his expression puckered to a frown. 

“You were gagging for it, in Marbella, and for ages before that.”

He stroked her cheek with his finger.  “Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been surer of anything in my life.”

His frown deepened.  “We mustn’t be stupid about this.  We haven't got any protection.”

“I went to Boots this morning.”

Awkwardly and clumsily, they deflowered each other. 

“I think I understand,” said Andy afterwards, kissing the top of her head.  “It’s quite OK.  I'll take care of you.”