The Girl From Seaforth Sands by Katie Flynn Read Free Book Online

though it’s early still, folk are going to start coming on to the sands any minute now. Why, anyone might come along and see you and think you a nasty, common sort of kid. Come out of that at once, do you hear me?’
    ‘No, I shan’t,’ Amy said defiantly, splashing with her arms and pretending to swim. Indeed, when each of the little waves came inshore it lifted her up and carried her with it, making her feel as though she really was swimming. ‘I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss, anyhow, because no one’s here yet. Besides, ever such smart ladies and gentlemen go swimming these days, you know they do! Don’t you remember the pictures in that old copy of the Sketch , which Mam brought home from the Grimshaw place? I’m sure what they were wearing wasn’t nearly as respectable as my drawers and chemmy.’
    ‘The folk who go swimming have proper costumes and . . . oh, Amy, someone is coming, honest to God they are! Now will you come out and stop shaming me? I do declare, if I were to tell our mam . . .’
    ‘But you won’t,’ Amy pointed out. Mary might disapprove, but she wouldn’t go tale-clatting to Mam, not she. Nevertheless, she glanced along the beach and saw that someone really was approaching. Two – no, three – figures, one of which heldwhat she took to be a fishing rod in one hand and a basket of some sort in the other. ‘Oh, damn,’ Amy muttered. But she knew her sister was right. Seaforth Sands was a popular venue with half Liverpool when the weather was fine and today was to be a holiday for a good many people, though schoolkids, already on holiday, were missing out. Accordingly she began to wade out of the sea, though her tilted chin and defiant glare would tell her sister, she hoped, that she was coming because she wanted to do so and not because she was afraid of the consequences.
    Indeed, the little wavelets were no more than lapping at her ankles when she took another glance along the beach and realised, with considerable dismay, that she recognised at least one of the small advancing group. The detestable Paddy Keagan, hair on end, ragged jersey tied round his waist, kicking a round pebble before him and singing what was probably a very rude sea shanty, was approaching, thankfully at a saunter. And it stands to reason, Amy told herself, hastily splashing ashore, that if Paddy’s here, Albert’s with him and that could mean . . . oh, all sorts of trouble.
    The far worse trouble, that of being soaked with salt water and without so much as a handkerchief with which to dry herself, did not occur to poor Amy until she was approaching their bag of food. Then, glancing down at herself, she saw how far from glamorous one looked in a sodden chemise with drawers which had managed to trap, in their one plain frill, a quantity of grey-looking sand. ‘Oh, God love me, I’m in a pickle this time,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘Oh, oh, they’re getting awfully close, so they are, and that pig of a Paddy is starting togrin like . . . like an ape!’ She seized her skirt and pulled it on all anyhow, then began to struggle into her blouse, which was too small for her anyway. Her long hair was dripping down her back, soaking her all over again, and Mary was expostulating, telling her that she couldn’t possibly put dry clothes over soaking underwear and wasn’t she the stupidest, naughtiest kid ever to disobey her elders, now.
    But Amy was past caring what Mary might say. What worries me is what that bleedin’ Paddy would put about if he sees me in my drawers, Amy told herself, continuing to struggle into her – by now – damp clothing. Oh, he would jeer at her, he would scoff, he would . . .
    A great guffaw of laughter interrupted her thoughts. Paddy stood not six yards distant, grimy hands on hips, his belongings cast down, a grin from ear to ear splitting his horrible, dirt-smeared face. ‘Ooh, look at ole sainted Shrimpy, Mammy’s good little darlin’, a-wearin’ of frilly