Christmas at the Gin Shack. Catherine Miller
on. Anyway, the view was such a pretty one, why would she want to let it rush by by being in such a hurry?
When she did eventually get to her beach hut, she enjoyed the view some more as she waited to get her breath back. She wanted to believe it was the wind taking her breath away and not the exertion. But she wasn’t daft. She was no spring chicken.
Admiring the view, Olive was surprised to see the beach café boarded up. When had that happened? She passed it often enough to have noticed. And she’d not heard anything about it closing. Maybe they were having some work done? Olive would have to tap into the beach-hut community knowledge to see if any of them knew anything about it.
It was while she was mourning the loss of readily available fish and chips and ice cream that she noticed. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Back when the Gin Shack had opened, Tony had brought a wooden sign for her beach hut that said: “The Original Gin Shack.” It was a small thank-you gift for coming up with the idea in the first place and allowing him to run with it becoming an actual business. But on her small wooden thank-you gift there were three brown streamers. No bottom. No change to the name. Just three short pieces of streamer identical to the ones used to deface the Gin Shack sign.
Olive went in for a closer inspection, peering at it as if she were some kind of detective wanting to know the exact way they were attached, as if knowing might serve her well in finding out who was responsible.
It was likely a practical joke. There was no finesse or effort, unlike the craft-fiti attack that had been attached to the Gin Shack. It lacked any skill. They were just torn pieces of tissue paper attached with sticky tape.
One of the Gin Shack crew who’d been at the meeting had probably pocketed a piece off the floor ready to relive the laughter of that day. But would they really add it to Olive’s sign thinking she would see the funny side of it? Surely they realised she’d not regarded it in the lighthearted way they all had. Olive liked to think none of her friends would do such a thing. But if they weren’t as concerned about the attack as she had been, they would mean this as a flippant gesture.
Olive got her mobile phone from her pocket. She was far savvier with one of these things now she’d had expert tutorials from Veronica. Those were the kinds of things Olive would like to see on the Oakley West activities programme: how to use Shazam, not advanced crochet. Anyway, she was lucky enough to have personal tuition from Veronica, so taking a picture of the offending item was pretty easy. As was going into Messenger and sending it to the group chat they had open for all things Gin Shack-related.
Any of you know anything about this?
Olive liked to think that, even if one of them was pranking her, they’d own up about it, and if it was one of the menfolk having a laugh, she was certain there would be poo-related jokes to give them away before long.
Leaving the streamers in place for now, Olive got back to the mission in hand. She wanted to set up about three or four kilner jars with different quantities of mincemeat and gin to see what worked best, if at all. For this first test, she reckoned twenty-four hours was a good length of time for the soaking process to occur. She would be able to check on the taste regularly if that wasn’t long enough.
Pushing the door to get in and make a start, there was a thud, with the door jarring and stopping Olive from being able to get in. Yanking it the other way, as this one was a two-way door, she found it jammed. It wasn’t shifting, however she wiggled it.
Just what she needed. One of the deckchairs must have slid down and was now pushing up against the door.
Fortunately the door was open wide enough for her to sneak her hand round and unlock the second door, which was secured by an internal bolt. That should swing open with ease.
But rather than swinging open, it didn’t want to move either.
Not wanting to admit defeat, Olive pulled with a bit more force. Hopefully the deckchair would give up the fight before she did. If this didn’t work, she’d have to find a stick or similar to try and push whatever had got caught up out of the way.
When pulling with all her might (and she’d have to concede to its being less than that of the average person) didn’t work, she went in search of a stick and found a generous one, possibly used by Button – the chocolate Labrador owned by Mark and Lily that they all considered theirs.
‘Aaaaaaaaiiitttttccccccccchhhhhhhhhhooooooooooo.’
The sound of someone sneezing was so distinct, Olive froze to the spot. It wasn’t a chair she was about to poke with a stick, it was a person.
A nasty dose of adrenaline had entered Olive’s bloodstream and all of a sudden she was alert to everything, with no idea what to do. Should she run? Chance would be a fine thing. They clearly knew she was out here. Surely if they were planning to attack her they would have done it already, and if they were lying in wait, stopping someone from opening the door was a pretty poor way to pounce. It just left one question… who was in there?
‘Hello?’ Olive should probably call the police or get Richard to come down and check it out with her, but there seemed to be no threat of danger. ‘Are you going to open the doors and let me in my beach hut?’
‘One moment, please,’ a croaky voice said from inside.
Well, at least the intruder sounded like they might be polite at the very least.
Although, for all Olive knew, they might be loading up a machine gun on the other side of the door. Perhaps she should take cover by the industrial bins up by the café until the person had emerged. At least that way she could grab some glass bottles and lob them as some kind of deterrent.
Just as she was beginning to discover movement in her legs, her phone buzzed. In her panic she’d missed several notifications about the additional poo streamers she’d found attached to her sign. She’d practically forgotten about that now, what with their being a beach-hut interloper.
We’re coming down to take a look
The message was from Veronica and Olive knew the “we” meant she was bringing Randy with her. Bloomin’ heck, she’d never been so glad to know the cavalry was coming, even if they didn’t know what they were walking into. She didn’t even know to be fair.
Hearing grumbling from inside the beach hut, Olive backed further away towards the slope where she hoped Randy and Veronica would appear. Sure enough, they were sauntering down, arm in arm, their current concerns about Olive’s beach hut only stretching to offensive pieces of brown paper. Little did they know what Olive had in store for them.
‘There’s someone in there,’ Olive hissed as she rushed to meet them.
‘You mean you’ve caught the bugger?’ Randy said, his thick, bushy eyebrows twitching in delight.
‘I don’t think I’ve caught anyone. I just couldn’t open the doors and it turns out it’s because someone’s in there.’ Olive peered back towards the hut to see if there were any signs of them coming out. If they wanted to make a run for it, now would be the time to do so. ‘So far I’ve said hello and they asked me to wait a moment, please.’
‘Have you called the police?’ Veronica asked, glancing in the same direction as Olive, as if something quite spectacular might happen when the person emerged.
‘Well, no, they seemed rather too polite to worry about calling the police.’ Olive might think differently if they were to get in there and find that whoever it was had been raiding her gin stash. No one was allowed to touch that without permission.
‘How do you know there’s just one person in there? We might be outnumbered already.’ Randy was pushing up his sleeves like they were about to take on a gang of yobs about to launch into some pillaging attack, as if having his sleeves up would somehow make a difference. If that really was the case, this trio of octogenarians weren’t going to be able to throw better punches as a result. Olive had used all her arm energy up on giving Tony CPR. That might have been the only dose she had left.