You’re never too old to try something new!
When octogenarian Olive Turner is persuaded by her son to move into a retirement home, she congratulates herself on finding the secret to an easy life: no washing-up, cooking or cleaning. But Olive isn’t one for mindless bingo with her fellow residents, and before the first day is over she’s already hatching a plan to escape back to her beloved beach hut and indulge in her secret passion for a very good gin & tonic.
Before long Olive’s secret is out and turning into something wonderful and new. Only a select few are invited, but word spreads quickly about the weekly meetings of The Gin Shack Club. Soon everybody on the beach wants to become a gin connoisseur and join Olive in her refusal ever to be forced into acting older than she feels.
A journey of friendship, defiance and a quest for the perfect G&T.
Praise for CATHERINE MILLER
‘An emotional debut written straight from the heart’ – Julie Cohen, author of Dear Thing
‘A great concept with a theme lots of women will relate to. I really enjoyed it.’ – Katie Fforde, author of A Summer at Sea
‘Memorable characters and a life-enriching, emotional plot. Love it.’ – Sue Moorcroft
‘A highly-emotional, moving novel, full of longing, hope and surprises waiting just around the corner.’ – Becca’s Books
‘Only a few pages in, and I couldn’t stop reading, having found myself involved in Fliss’s story and eager to find out what happened next.’ – Portobello Book Blog
‘This book had many things I love in a good book and it kept me guessing with twists I wouldn’t have expected and moments that made me giggle.’ – A Writer in a Wheelchair
‘I thought this book was very realistic in its depictions of modern motherhood.’ – Alicia (Goodreads)
‘Waiting for You was an easy book to read as it was so engaging. The writing flowed well and it was well plotted out. There were quite a few surprises I had no idea were coming, just when I thought I had it all worked out!’ – Rock Chick Blog
‘A great read which I thoroughly enjoyed.’ – Fiona’s Book Reviews
Also by Catherine Miller
Christmas at the Gin Shack
The Missing Piece
Waiting for You
All That is Left of Us
The Day that Changed Everything
99 Days with You
The Gin Shack on the Beach
Catherine Miller
CATHERINE MILLER
When Catherine became a mum to twins, she decided her hands weren’t full enough so wrote a novel with every spare moment she managed to find. By the time the twins were two, Catherine had a two-book deal with Carina UK. There is a possibility she has aged remarkably in that time.
Catherine was an NHS physiotherapist, but for health reasons (uveitis and sarcoidosis) she retired early from this career. As she loved her physiotherapy job, she decided that, if she couldn’t continue, she would pursue her writing dream. It took a few years and a couple of babies, but in 2015 she won the Katie Fforde bursary, was a finalist in the London Book Fair Write Stuff competition and highly commended in Woman magazine’s writing competition. Soon afterwards she signed with Carina. Soon after that, she collapsed in a heap and was eventually revived by chocolate.
Catherine is one-eighth of the award-winning bloggers The Romaniacs: https://theromaniacgroup.wordpress.com/
You can follow Catherine on Twitter @katylittlelady
Contents
Cover
Blurb
Praise
Book List
Title Page
Author Bio
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Epilogue
Excerpt
Acknowledgements
Copyright
This one’s for my real-life Randolph. The best Grandad a girl could hope for. The world doesn’t have enough Randolphs, especially since this one left. It seemed right to address the balance by creating fictional ones. And while the Randy in this story isn’t based on my grandad, they both have one familiar trait: that cheeky twinkle in the eye.
Randolph Harris Austen
22nd September 1923 – 20th May 2012
Chapter One
Most days, there was nothing in the world more comforting than swinging open the beach-hut doors, thermos in hand, breathing in the sweet seaweed breeze of Westbrook Bay. This was Olive Turner’s sanctuary. Her place of restoration. Of being at one. A place to fart loudly where no one else could hear.
No one was ever here as early as Olive. The other beach-hut owners, people who’d become her friends over the years, were not early birds like her. The only other human being she’d ever spotted here at six in the morning was a lady similar in age to her whom she watched with guarded respect every week as she went for her swim in the sea. There was something about it that was equal parts admirable and crackers. Who did that? Although there weren’t many eighty-four-year-olds about who were unable to sleep in their own homes for all the ghosts walking around those familiar rooms. Here, by the beach, watching life go idly by, was her preference.
Which was why today was different. It was why every beach-hut owner in Olive’s row was going to break the mould and meet her here at eight-thirty. Because if there was one thing she wasn’t going to give up, it was her shabby-chic, duck-egg-blue, sanity-sparing beach hut.
Giving up her house wasn’t going to be the hardship she might have imagined. With a home, one should have foundations, a connection to the bricks and mortar that told the story of a lifetime. But whatever roots had been there for them as a family had died many years before. What had happened had been enough to shatter any sense of belonging. It was also enough to shatter the people left behind. And recent events meant she’d had a knock to her confidence. Living alone didn’t have the same appeal it once had.
Olive decided to continue her morning routine as usual. Nobody would arrive for at least the next couple of hours. She folded out her garden chair so it faced the rising sun. Even though it was July there was still a nip in the air at this time of the morning, so she grabbed her blanket from the ottoman inside the beach hut. The chink of glass as she hauled it out reminded her she’d need to replace it before anyone arrived. The last thing she needed was her son finding her stash of bespoke gins, giving him an even more valid reason to deprive her of the beach hut. A little alcohol never hurt anyone, although the same couldn’t be said for too much.
This wasn’t about that, though. This was about keeping some form of independence. She might be older than she once was and there might have been that one incident, but there was nothing wrong with her marbles or her constitution and she wasn’t going to let her son boss her about without a fight.
It was why she was glad she would have her friends here in her corner. If there was one thing guaranteed with Richard, it was that he wouldn’t like a show. It had been a strange and terrible thing to witness the relationship with her son go so sour over the years. It was as if neither of them had ever adjusted to the changed dimensions, even after all this time. She didn’t want to resent him, but it had been hard, watching him become so seemingly unfeeling when it didn’t need to be like that.
As she settled down in the chair with her blanket, she poured a cuppa from her thermos. She would forgo an extra slug of something to help shield against the early cold. She needed her head to be as clear as possible. Richard, every inch a lawyer, would put his argument across so eloquently it would be hard to argue with. And there was a huge part of her that was so sad she was being put in a position where she needed to disagree with him.
She understood why. Anyone who’d been through what they had would be altered. He’d used it to his advantage. He’d become successful on the back of the anger he carried. It was no wonder his dotty old mother was a burden when he had a firm up in London to manage. He wasn’t the kind of person who could come running when her boiler broke and she wasn’t one hundred per cent sure who to contact without being totally ripped off. He wasn’t able to pop by when a family of pigeons somehow took up residence in the shed and Olive wasn’t agile enough to sort it out. And she’d not wanted to trouble him on the occasions when she should have.
The problem was it was always a number. He’d get hold of a phone number and get someone to sort it. A stranger. Someone she didn’t know. She wasn’t keen on inviting strangers into her home. Richard had literally gone apeshit when he’d visited to find she was practically keeping the pigeons as pets. Well, it had seemed unnecessarily mean when the pest-control guy had come round. She’d wanted the RSPCA to come and give them a home. Somewhere more suitable. Olive had turned pest-control man away and started buying bird feed instead. It was part of her caring nature. She’d spent her whole life providing for others. Up until her retirement she’d worked as an auxiliary nurse in the local hospice. She knew how cruel the end of life could be and she certainly wasn’t going to be responsible for ending anyone’s. Not even a pigeon’s.
After the last gulp of tea, Olive let out a rip-roaring burp unapologetically. Pigeon-gate was what had started her on this road to the Oakley West Retirement Quarters. A place to live out her golden years in comfort. It was happening because Richard thought she was losing her marbles. That she was just a few steps away from leaving the gas cooker on… and kaboom, the house would be gone.
It wasn’t like that at all. Her marbles were firmly in place. It was just, these days, she didn’t give two hoots what anyone thought, her son included. The only person she planned to please these days was Olive Turner. But however much she wanted to deny it, there was this creeping realisation that time was no longer on her side. It had taken one moment for this news to be delivered to her with startling acuity. She’d been making tea at the time. Such a simple everyday task: fill the kettle, flick it on, teabag into the mug, milk, wait for it to boil, pour the hot water in. A series of tasks so familiar they barely needed thought. It had been once she’d sourced the teabag that it started to go wrong. In a heartbeat she no longer recognised the object in her hand. It was alien. A flying saucer in all the wrong colours. She went to taste it. She wanted to put it in her mouth to see if it was the sweet she was thinking of or something else entirely. But then her arm wouldn’t move. It didn’t wish to cooperate and all at once she knew something was wrong. Something was very badly wrong and she didn’t know what to do when her body wasn’t moving as it should. When her brain wasn’t able to align the dots.
Rather than seek help, she’d sat at the kitchen table, not able to function. It had taken only moments for her to turn from the fiercely independent woman she liked to believe she was, to a shadow unable to perform. And then she was back. The teabag abandoned on the floor. Her arm perfectly able to move as before. It was like that moment of being there while also being missing had vanished.
It had been a TIA. A transient ischemic attack her doctor had called it. A mini stroke. A warning sign.
It was also a wake-up call. So, when Richard had suggested she move into retirement quarters, to her surprise, and his, she’d not even resisted. Of course she hadn’t. At her age, she’d lost any desire to cook anything extravagant for herself. And she had a lifetime of washing dishes behind her. If going into Oakley West meant someone else did the cooking and cleaned the dishes, she was all for it. When she found out they’d do her clothes washing as well, she was sold on the idea. It would be a chance to enjoy life more, without the mundanity of running a household. Richard didn’t need to know about the other reason. About the time she was lost and it was only luck that had meant it wasn’t a more permanent problem. He didn’t need to know about the extra tablets she now took to prevent its ever happening again. He was wrapping her up in enough cotton wool already. It would add more fuel to the fire about giving up all aspects of her independence. The fact was, the beach hut was her lifeline to the outside world. These people were her neighbours, not the ones she was leaving behind at the house.
With the sun having risen adequately to burn off the chill, Olive put away the blanket, careful to ensure it concealed the rest of the ottoman’s precious gin cargo. Leaving the chair out and the beach-hut doors wide open, she went for her early-morning walk. She liked to feel the sand beneath her toes. The early-morning sun making the grains toasty and inviting. It was the perfect time of day. It was possible to hear the entire village creaking awake. There were kettles being pinged to life, toilets being flushed, showers being run. The early risers were few and far between and it was only on the odd occasion that she would spot a dog-walker grumpily mooching along the promenade. This morning was one of those days when there was no one. Even the seagulls were still resting their weary heads, not ready to give their dawn chorus recital just yet.
Olive took a breath of the crisp sea air and smiled towards the sky. ‘Couldn’t ask for more perfect conditions,’ she said, half expecting the earth to reply. Taking one last glance to check she was alone, she removed her bright kaftan-style top and elasticated trousers. In two easy manoeuvres she was naked. Who needed underwear at the beach? They were unnecessary complications. Leaving her clothes in a pile a safe distance from the lapping tide, she tiptoed towards the sea. She loved that first moment of dipping her toe in the water. It was the closest thing she’d found to making love. That glorious point of entry where you were surprised and delighted all at the same time. Where the body braced itself, but then instantly relaxed into being at one with this new sensation. It was funny how it reminded her how long her husband had been gone, but also made her feel closer to him than anything else in the world.
It was ironic really. When she’d first spotted that woman swimming in the morning months ago, she’d thought she was crackers. Who would want to expose themselves to the elements at that time of day? But when she finally spoke to the lady, she said to her it had become like oxygen. It was what reminded her she was alive.
Olive didn’t jump in the moment they had that conversation. It took weeks. She observed the woman, realising it was always a Tuesday morning that she came for a dip, always at the same time, always in a knee-length wetsuit, always prepared with her towels and dry clothes. For weeks, Olive stared at the sea and wondered what it would feel like to be reminded she was alive. She also wondered where on earth she would find a wetsuit for a shorter, portly woman with larger than average breasts.
It was a morning just like this one when she gave in to the urge. The sea lured her in with its promise of being her oxygen. Having never sourced the not-on-the-market wetsuit, she went commando and by golly, it truly was the way to feel alive. The first time, she rushed in and out so quickly it had taken her breath away.
These days she was more relaxed about the whole thing. Today she strode in so she was up to her shoulders, her breasts floating like buoyancy aids, and then swam parallel to the shoreline without a care in the world.
With each dip she’d increased the distance more and more, turning so she was always within a reasonable distance of her beach hut. She was too old to worry about safety. If the ocean wanted to swallow her up and take her, she was too near death to care. The thought was freeing. The fact that her sagging eighty-four-year-old butt might be seen by passers-by had once been a concern, but after the first few cheery Good Mornings, she’d become proud of putting a smile on the faces of even the grumpiest of early-morning dog-walkers. She would only be embarrassed if one of them caught her on the naked stroll back to the beach hut. She tended to wait in the water until the coast was clear (literally), before heading back to the comfort of her beach hut, where she would pop on the gas heater and get herself dry in privacy.
Turning before she was too far away from the hut, she decided she would cut this morning’s dip short. She needed to be ready before everyone else arrived and she didn’t want to have to rush. It was important that Richard understood…
‘Mother.’
…that she hadn’t lost her marbles just yet.
Next to Olive’s small pile of clothes stood her son in his business suit, looking grumpier than all the grumpy early dog-walkers put together.
‘Glorious day for it, don’t you think?’ She offered a wave, causing her breasts to bob a little more freely than she would have liked. Turned out being spotted on her naked walk back to the beach hut wasn’t going to be the most embarrassing thing to result from her early-morning skinny-dipping hobby. Oops. A definite double D oops.
Chapter Two
‘I’m not coming out.’ Olive was certain about that.
‘Mother. You will catch your death if you stay in there any longer.’
‘That would suit you down to the ground. You may as well leave me to it.’ Despite the fact Richard had sourced a towel from the beach hut, she was still resolute about not getting out with her son standing there.
‘I’m not leaving you to it. This is exactly why you shouldn’t be left to it. Don’t you realise how dangerous it is, swimming around in the sea without any lifeguards about? There’s not a soul about to help you if you were to get into trouble. Haven’t you heard of riptides?’
‘Oh, Richard. Don’t be such a worrywart.’
‘Come out right now and I’ll kick the habit in the gut straight away. It’s just someone – naming no names – keeps giving me very just cause for concern.’
‘I’m not coming out. Not unless you get off the beach so I can go and get dressed in privacy.’ Olive didn’t want to risk her son catching sight of her noo-noo. The fact he’d caught her skinny-dipping was bad enough and she was pretty certain she’d already flashed a nipple by accident. That was enough trauma for the pair of them for the day. She wasn’t planning on adding to it.
‘Did you not hear what I just said about it being dangerous? I’m not leaving until I know you’re out safely.’
‘Don’t be such a killjoy. Of course it’s safe. I’ll be walking to the shore. But I won’t be all the time you’re stood there with that towel.’ This was hardly how she’d expected this morning’s protest to go. Richard had said he would be here at nine to make sure she handed the keys over. Trust him to be early.
‘I’m not leaving until I know you’re out safely.’
‘You’re being ridiculous. You’re forty-eight, Richard. No forty-eight-year-old man wants the trauma of seeing his mother naked. Now bugger off and came back when you said you would be here.’
‘Oh, I’m being ridiculous. Says the woman bobbing around in the English Channel without a stitch on, before most people are out of bed. Nothing wrong with that.’
Olive couldn’t work out if it was a hint of sarcasm in his voice or if this was pigeon-gate all over again and she’d finally sent her son over the edge. ‘It really is glorious. You should try it some time.’
It was the wrong thing to say. Olive knew it as soon as Richard chucked the towel on the ground in a rage.
‘I am not going to take up skinny-dipping, Mother, and I would really, really appreciate it if you would just get the hell out.’
At that moment, Olive spotted Skylar arriving at the beach huts and thanked her lucky stars. She didn’t want to enrage her son any more, but there was no way she was changing her mind about coming out starkers in front of him. Even with his promises of having his eyes closed, there were some things that weren’t worth the risk. And as risk assessments went, she was prepared to take the chance of being swallowed up by a riptide over the odds of towel slippage and her son catching a glimpse.
‘Skylar…’ Olive beckoned her friend over, knowing that if someone was there to ensure she didn’t drown herself, she might convince her son to go sit in his car for a bit and return again when she was respectable.
Skylar waved a response and headed over to see why she was being flagged in that direction. Olive admired her friend as she navigated the sandy beach. She was everything Olive would have liked to have been at her age, although with a few too many body piercings for Olive. Skylar rented the beach hut next to Olive’s and it was painted a rich red. Olive always knew when Skylar was there because of the sound of wind chimes and the waft of joss sticks. As she wandered in their direction, Olive wondered if she’d ever get to learn her story. This girl with long skirts and string-vest tops who was simple and complex all at once. She was a walking oxymoron who Olive often wanted to know better, but she was yet to get her to open up.
‘Everything okay?’
Jerked back to the here and now, Olive realised the situation needed a bit of explanation. ‘Ummm, I’m hoping you won’t mind taking over lifeguard duties from Richard. He’s arrived a little earlier than expected. We’re in a bit of a standoff situation to be honest.’
‘Mother…’ There was a visible flush to Richard’s cheeks as he lifted the towel from the sand and shook the grains off. ‘Apologies.’ Richard turned to greet Skylar, a hand outstretched ready for a formal greeting. ‘I’m Richard Turner. I’m just a little concerned about my elderly mother catching pneumonia because she’s refusing to come out with me here. Average morning activities. Nice to meet you.’
‘Skylar, would you be a darling and take over towel duties? Tell Richard to buzz off until nine when we were expecting him and hopefully we can forget this ever happened.’
‘You could just get out, Mother. Save us all from any further embarrassment.’
It saddened Olive that her son saw her like that. An embarrassment to him, although, if she remembered rightly, that was one of the roles parents were supposed to fulfil.
‘Olive, are you naked?’ Skylar laughed at the realisation. A delightful crisp sound that filled the air and set the seagulls off as if returning her call.
‘I most certainly am, darling.’
‘Fantastic. You go, girl!’ Skylar’s face lit with delight and it made Olive immediately less conscious, unlike her son’s reaction.
‘So, would you mind? Take the towel from Richard, get him to disappear, then avert your eyes while I get out.’
‘No problem.’ Skylar attempted to take the towel. ‘You do know she’s not coming out unless you move. I’ll let you know once she is.’
Richard was reluctant to give in. Olive saw it in the steely stare he sent her way, but he handed the towel over all the same, and stomped his way back towards the promenade, briefcase in hand. Never had a man looked more at odds with his surroundings.
Once Richard was off the sands, Skylar turned her attention to Olive with a broad smile playing on her features. ‘Olive Turner. How is it you never cease to surprise me?’
‘I surprise myself some days. I guess at my age you get to the point of not caring. Try telling that to Richard, though.’
‘He didn’t look very impressed.’
‘I think that might be the understatement of the century. I can’t imagine many men would be too happy at finding their mother naked in the sea.’
‘Ha! I very much doubt it happens to many men, to be fair.’
‘Don’t be siding with him now. I’ll never hear the end of this as it is. Time to avert your eyes. This wrinkled prune has wrinkles on her wrinkles. No one needs to see that.’
Skylar straightened out the towel and held it out in front of her, craning her neck round as well as closing her eyes. ‘What I don’t understand is why you couldn’t have got Richard to do this? I’m sure your dignity would have remained intact.’
Making sure Skylar wasn’t going to get a look, Olive stood letting the water drip off her body. The chill against her skin was enough to send shivers to her bones. She really had stayed in there too long. She didn’t like to admit her son was right, but staying in cold water for prolonged periods really wasn’t something she should be doing. ‘I didn’t want to risk it.’ It wasn’t just a case of a mother not wanting to risk her son seeing her in the nude. Laced on her skin, she knew, were memories of the past. Scars she kept covered because of the reminders they provided. There was a reason she kept those marks hidden from him. There was a reason diving into the sea with no clothes on was so wild and freeing.
When Olive reached Skylar, she wrapped the towel round tight, hiding any signs of the mark on her side. Her body shivered against the brutal breeze the English Channel was dishing out.
‘You’re freezing, Olive. You need more than that towel to get you warm. How long have you been in there?’ Skylar placed an arm round her shoulder, leading her towards their beach huts. She wanted to answer, but her teeth were chattering uncontrollably and it was impossible to form words.
Fortunately her friend was one of the most resourceful people she knew. Soon Olive was ensconced in blankets with a mug of hot chocolate in her hands, warming up by her gas heater.
‘I know you don’t want me siding with your son, Olive, but you really can’t be letting yourself get that cold. It won’t do you any good at all.’
‘Don’t say “at your age”, please.’ Olive had recovered enough to form sentences, but wasn’t quite ready for a lecture while still faced with the prospect of trying to prevent her son from insisting she stop renting her beach hut.
‘You know I’d never say that to you.’
Olive and Skylar had had many conversations about how Olive didn’t feel her age and how going into retirement quarters made her feel a fraudster, but then she’d had her wake-up call. She wasn’t infallible. However much she didn’t want it to, age was catching up with her. As a result, the desire to live alone had left her, and while she’d much rather be one of those ladies who spent their last days on cruise liners flirting with waiters young enough to be their sons and never lifting a finger to do domestic chores again, sadly, this move wasn’t going to be as luxurious as all that. It was more about practicalities. Richard wanted her to be contained so he’d know she was being cared for in his absence, and although he didn’t need to know why, these days she was inclined to agree.
‘Good. Because we have a beach-hut tenancy to save.’
‘Exactly. Because I’m not sure I could cope without you about to babysit Lucas. Among other things, of course.’
‘You’d miss the bacon sandwiches, wouldn’t you? Which, thinking about it, I best get cracking on with.’ Olive started to move, the shivers having settled.
‘I’ll let you get changed.’ Skylar moved from her position leaning against the counter.
‘It won’t take a minute. Pop back when you can smell breakfast.’ It wouldn’t be long before the others started to join them and it had become a bit of a tradition for them to take turns in making each other bacon sarnies whenever there was more than one of them about at a time. Olive most enjoyed cooking for the kids: Skylar’s son, Lucas, and the three Salter lads, all in their late teens and turning into fine young men. It was a joy watching them grow up with their wakeboards and kites. She wouldn’t miss the four walls of her house, but she would miss this; the community she’d found herself part of.
Tunic, trousers and bulky bangles secured firmly back in place, Olive set to work creating a feast for all the guests she was expecting. She’d even be gracious enough to make Richard some when he returned. Although the trauma of catching her in the nuddy might be enough to turn him away for ever.
Once everyone had gathered, the air was filled with the pleasant buzz of chatter and laughter Olive was used to. Each of the six beach huts had their doors flung open and deckchairs gathered round as Olive made sure the central table was supplied with rounds of bacon sandwiches and freshly buttered toast. The only person missing was Skylar’s son, Lucas. He was at Westbrook Junior’s breakfast club and Olive was pretty sure he’d much rather be here.
The two middle beach huts were occupied by one family – the Salters. Tony and Esme occupied the hut next to Skylar with their three sons and all their equipment took up the space in the other. Next to the boys was Paul the fisherman. He was the quietest of the bunch and had taken longer to come out of his shell, but it turned out bacon was the way to the heart of even the hardiest soul. In the last of this row of six huts were Mark and Lily, an adorable young married couple with a gorgeous chocolate Labrador, Button, that Olive was entirely in love with. In fact, Button lived a lavish life with all of the beach-hut tenants doting on him.