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High Heels
on the
Beach

Bettina Hunt
 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,
events, and incidents are either the products of the author's
imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2021 Bettina Hunt

Cover Design © Kirsty McManus
All rights reserved.
For my family who are forever asking if I’ve finished writing my book
yet, here’s one of them. I love you.
 Chapter One

Before I go to sleep, I tap out a message to Suzy and hit send.

I’m turning 30 tomorrow, do I
A) Hide under the duvet and refuse to get up
B) Hold a big party, you have to celebrate in style
C) Go to work, it’s just another day
D) Make a list of everything I want to achieve by the time
I’m 40

Suzy and I have been doing this ever since we met at work, we hit it
off instantly, becoming best friends and are now virtually attached at
the hip. It was Suzy’s idea actually, she said if we ever needed help
in making life decisions (not those really serious ones, we should
seek proper expert advice for those!), we should send a message to
the other, giving four options and let the other person decide for us.
It’s a sort of grown-up version of those Choose Your Own Adventure
books that we were so obsessed with as kids, but the twist is we’re
not characters in a book. This is real life.

***
‘SURPRISE!’
The hideous word chimes in my ears, it’s a word that I’ve come to
despise intensely. I stare at the twenty faces standing expectantly in
front of me, all wanting me to be every bit as elated as they are.
‘Wow!’ I say, sounding surprised.
There’s no need for me to act surprised however, I am surprised.
Mostly surprised by Suzy who’s supposed to be my best friend and
really should know better. If she’d been any kind of friend, she
would have selected any option but B. I guess it was my stupid fault
for popping it onto the list.
In all the years that we’ve been friends I have never known Suzy to
plan anything. She’s more of the spontaneous, let’s do something
last-minute, kind. I remember the time she booked us on one of
those last-minute holidays leaving the very next day and we had to
blitz the shops, raiding them for anything vaguely summery before
they closed. All I can say is thank goodness for late night shopping
and that my passport was valid. Suzy never worries herself about
the practicalities, it’s always left to me to pick up the pieces.
But this party couldn’t have been planned at the last minute,
surprise parties take time to organise. Which explains why I didn’t
find a reciprocal message from her this morning and was forced to
go into work on my birthday, and why I didn’t receive a read tick
when I sent her a second message with a question mark. And it
explains why she spent the entire day avoiding me, playing a
comical game of cat and mouse. But, as soon as it turned half past
five, Suzy sashayed over to my desk and insisted that we popped
into the pub across the road for just one drink. She was adamant
that I couldn’t let a big birthday slide. Urgh. And then this happens.
‘I’m going to kill you!’ I yell over the music (Stevie Wonder’s Happy
Birthday playing on a maddening loop; in case you’re wondering). If
you haven’t guessed yet, I bloody hate surprises. Suzy’s grinning
from ear to ear, looking as pleased as punch. And, from the inane
expression on my boyfriend Tom’s face, it’s abundantly clear who
she’s been in collusion with to organise it. The sneaky so and sos. I
watch as the two people closest to me share a smile between them
and my party continues.
Playing the delighted birthday girl to perfection, I fix a smile on my
face, but, underneath the smiles, I can’t help but feel annoyed.
Thankfully, the music switches to ‘get onto the dancefloor and shake
your booty’ party tunes and I’m swept away, under a crowd of
people. But you know something, it’s been five long minutes and I
appear to be the only person without a glass in hand and, quite
frankly, at this moment, that’s all I care about. It’s my friggin’
birthday!
***

URGH.
No matter what anyone tells you, it is never a good idea to drink on
a school night. It doesn’t matter how tempted you feel, do not do it.
It’s JUST not worth it. You see, despite my initial reluctance to
‘celebrate’ turning thirty, it turns out I’m rather partial to a glass of
bubbly. Which, after the debacle of having to stand on a table and
demand someone gets me a drink, (rather effective, I may add)
resulted in me never being without a glass in hand. Not for the first
time Tom had to help me into my bed before heading back to his
place.
Sitting at my desk this morning, sporting my favourite Dolce and
Gabbana sunglasses, I complain noisily about the blanket white sky
that’s hurting my eyes but the stark reality is my head’s thumping
because I’m hungover. Feeling as sick as a dog when I woke up, I
was sorely tempted this morning to send an urgent message to Suzy
to let her decide how my day should pan out. But, calling in sick was
never an option as we have a huge and extremely important client
account meeting today which I’m supposed to be leading… Oh joy.
I teeter across the office floor, blaming my towering heels for being
unsteady on my feet, struggling to remember exactly how much I
drank last night. Coming between me and my intended destination,
the meeting room, is Terry, the IT Dictator, who’s standing, arms
folded, by the door, watching with bemused interest. Terry’s our IT
Director, Suzy assigned him the dictator nickname after I told her the
story of what happened when I first joined Faber & Wallace. I
wanted to print out an email that I’d forwarded from my personal
email account to show Suzy (before we transitioned from work
colleagues to friends) It was one of those amusing chain emails that
for once I thought was hilarious. The next morning, trawling my
emails I found one from IT saying that an email had been
quarantined for falling foul of the IT Policy. Imagine my shock at
getting one of those, goody two shoes Becca gets a slap on the
wrist. Anyway, the email asked me to contact the IT Department if I
thought they had made a mistake. Well quite clearly the overzealous
policy was a genuine error that could be simply rectified. Preferring
the personal touch in those days, oh how naïve was I, in a chirpy
mood I traipsed down the corridor to Terry’s office only to have him
interrogate me in a manner more befitting of someone who’d been
accused of murder. He went through the whole charade of
pretending to listen to me explain my intentions and then point
blank refused, REFUSED, to release the email. I’m not bitter or
anything, and the incident is but a distant memory, but the
nickname still stands. I exaggerate a smile and squeeze past him, he
then follows me into the meeting room.
Ignoring Terry as he buffoons around with Tim on the pretence of
being on hand for any last-minute IT needs, I make myself busy
shuffling papers. There’s nothing printed on them I just like to give
the impression that I’ve done lots of research in preparation for
meetings. I make a big show of searching for something, because
you never know who’s watching. Acting out the whole ‘Oh look, here
it is!’ performance, pretty well if I do say so myself. I watch in horror
as the pile of papers slide off the table straight onto the floor. Is it
really necessary for the cleaners to use enough wax to create a
waxwork model? I drop down to gather them up, my head spinning,
how can I get up without looking like I’ve taken to the ice rink for
the first time?
‘Jesus, what the hell is that?!’ I shout, pointing to the window –
everyone cranes to look while I use the time, and the table, to pull
myself up. I switch on the laptop, tapping furiously at the keys.
Come on! Why isn’t it responding? I need to find the presentation. I
watch Terry snake his way towards me, whistling while he struts. He
calmly takes one look at the laptop, smiles knowingly and then plugs
it in. ‘No charge.’ He says, winking. No charge, what does he mean?
The laptop was out of battery, he wants to bill me for his time?
Focus Becca. Eight sets of eyes are looking on expectantly. I blink
and try to get the blurry figures on the screen to come into view. A
week ago, I had this presentation perfected to a tee, today I can’t
even put one foot forward without stumbling. It’s alright for Suzy,
she booked today day off so I can’t even ask her to cover for me
whilst I hide in the toilet and get some shut eye.
‘Aha, here’s the DON!’ Tim booms as the couple we’re pitching to are
shown into the meeting room by Hayley, the receptionist.
Tim knows Don from way back. He means before FW - Before Faber
& Wallace. Basically, Don goes to businesses and pitches to deal with
their advertising and marketing needs and then subs out the work.
And that’s where we come in. If we win this, a huge chunk of
business will be coming our way. So, it’s a really big deal. Don’s
apparently the best of the best. Apparently. He’s also much younger
than I was anticipating.
I’ve finally found the presentation and miraculously made it appear
on the big screen. Ha, who needs Terry. I begin talking but the
words coming out of my mouth bear no resemblance to what’s being
shown on screen. Tim, the big boss – so nicknamed because
everything he does is with largesse, is looking dismayed. What is
this? it’s really hard to see indoors with dark glasses, is he gesturing
that he’s going to cut my throat? Jesus Tim, a slight overreaction,
don’t you think? I don’t have the right words but they will come to
me, I just need a little more time. Tim stands up, nudging me out of
the way.
‘Well thanks Becca, that’s absolutely fascinating. I can take it from
here.’
Was it? I haven’t even got to the good bits yet. Just like me, Tim
knows this presentation like the back of his hand. I’ve been working
all the hours on it. I’ve even practised it in his office, ensuring it was
nothing but slick and yet, here, I am unable to perform. And, much
like a play’s understudy, Tim’s waiting in the wings, ready to step in.
Don and his assistant, Orla, are looking perplexed. Although, with
Orla, it’s hard to tell if it’s a genuine look of bafflement or the Botox
that’s at work here. Don presses his lips together, his face consumed
with, what I can only assume is, pity for me. In fact, his eyes linger
over me long after Tim’s taken ownership of the presentation.
One-hour, copious cups of coffee, and far too many chocolate
biscuits from the biscuit bowl later, I’ve perked up immensely. Don’s
rubbing at the corner of his mouth with his finger whilst gazing
directly into my eyes. This is not a mating ritual that I am aware of
… Now he’s behaving rather seductively, mouthing something I can’t
make out, slightly embarrassing during a meeting of utmost
importance. Oh, wait, no, he’s not trying to publicly seduce me, he’s
trying to alert me to the fact I have something on my face.
Chocolate, I have chocolate smeared around my mouth. Damn. And
I would have gotten away with it if it wasn’t for the mountain of
wrappers in front of me. I knew I should have picked out the
Hobnobs instead.
Now that I’m feeling practically human again, I’m able to
remove those troublesome sunglasses and suddenly the world
seems so much clearer. I’m relieved that the white clouds have
dispersed and a glorious blue sky is peeking through, because I
really do have an aversion to white skies. Tim seems to have pulled
off the impossible, with smiles and handshakes all round. Before Don
and Orla make their departure, Don shoots me a wink. Taking me to
one side, an arm around my shoulder he asks me if I’m okay. I
reassure him that I am but he asks again, are you really sure? Oh,
that smooth Irish accent is causing my legs to wobble. He takes my
hand in his at which point I can see Orla from the corner of my eye
giving me the evils. The facial work clearly hasn’t extended to those
big blue eyes of hers.
I message Suzy, arranging to meet for lunch. I order a tomato,
mozzarella and pesto panini while I wait. When she does eventually
make an appearance, she orders the Eggs Benedict, perfect brunch
food apparently. It’s not brunch time, she’s missed half the day,
sleeping in. I scold Suzy for holding my surprise party on a week
day. She tuts and tells me that it was only the appetiser, the real
celebrations are on Saturday.
‘You have to have a small celebration on your ACTUAL birthday.’ Suzy
shrieks.
What am I, five? I don’t care about my birthday. I didn’t want to
turn thirty and if I hadn’t ‘celebrated’ I could have remained in
denial. I flip my mirror compact open to reapply my favourite
Charlotte Tilbury lipstick – shade Bitch Perfect and reel back,
horrified at the appearance of a new wrinkle. Birthdays mean
growing old. I don’t tell her this though, she looks so excited I’m
wondering if she is forgetting that it’s not her birthday. She tells me I
am a grown woman and can make my own choices. She reminds me
no one forced me to drink as much as I did. Yeah, yeah, so why did
they keep shoving drinks into my hand!
We air kiss goodbye as she’s off shoe shopping. I head back to my
desk wondering what she’s planning next. The thing is, I’m pretty
sure that Tom’s already made plans for us. I accidently picked up his
phone instead of mine and saw a confirmation from a restaurant
booking app, it’s for a restaurant that I’ve been tagging Tom in on
Twitter every week for the last year. He’s finally got the hint. I’ll have
to break it to Suzy later. I know she wants to go clubbing, reliving
her teens and all that, but that’s her idea of a perfect night out. Not
mine. Besides, what if Tom’s planning to propose on Saturday night?
I wouldn’t put it past him. We’ve been together three years now and
we’ve stopped a few times, admittedly instigated by me, at the
windows of jewellers and I’ve pointed out rings I like while he looks
on and nods. He must be proposing! I need to go shopping for a
new dress and heels for the occasion, that’s a given. Events like this
tend to find their way onto social media and I need to look
immaculate and flawless. I call the hairdressers and book an
appointment for Saturday morning. It’s about time I got my roots
sorted. Being proposed to is a momentous thing. I have to
remember to tell Suzy I’m busy Saturday.
Back at my desk I start up my computer, it’s taking a long time to
wake up. I try to shake it into action by tapping the screen gently on
the side. Perhaps I’m not being as gentle as I thought as a couple of
my colleagues are looking right at me. I can be quite heavy handed,
so my dad tells me. He’d often tell me off for not being able to close
a car door without banging it. He does have a point. I do the same
with shop doors – slam, slam, slam. I giggle at the thought,
garnering more baffled stares from said colleagues.
Tim hasn’t uttered a word to me since the meeting, in fact he’s
actively avoiding my gaze. I get the distinct impression that he’s
annoyed. To be fair I would be too, because if I was the top dog and
fully expected to just sit back and relax during a meeting but ended
up having to present the entire thing, that would be irritating. Still,
at least we won the account. Bright side and all that.
Terry dances around my desk like an overexcited puppy, all bouncy
and bursting with glee. You know when someone does a little jig as
they are talking, that’s Terry. ‘HR wants a word,’ he trills into my
face. A word? They want a word? Human Resources have never
wanted a word. My computer pings into life, popping up a meeting
request. How did Terry know this before me? Has he got insider
information? Is he in collusion with the Evil Bitchface that’s in charge
of HR? She’s been in the position for years, having been promoted
from the reception desk. Everyone within the company knows this
because she drops it into every conversation, as an example of
where hard work and ambition can get you. Frequently she takes a
wander around the office, claiming it’s to get her step count up,
personally I think she’s using it as an excuse to snoop. I accept the
request immediately but my eyes widen at the suggestion that I
might want to bring a representative to accompany me. I sit up
straight with a sick feeling in my stomach, this sounds serious. The
thing is I haven’t been entirely honest with you. You’d think that
now that I’ve turned thirty the next decade will fall neatly into place
because of the foundations that I’ve been busy laying, a bit like the
Tetris game we all got addicted to a few years back. You’d think. But
the truth is, I’ve had a few run ins lately with HR due to
performance or, more precisely, the lack of it. I glance around the
office; everyone appears to be hard at work. But young Lee over
there (fresh faced graduate trainee) is busy researching his next
holiday, how do I know this? because his screen’s reflecting straight
into mine. Why doesn’t anyone pick on him? I let out a loud yawn,
Christ I’m tired.
Sumatra smiles as our eyes connect – Suma, of course! She’ll be
perfect. The bosses LOVE her, she’s not had a day off sick in five
years and is a stickler for detail. Totally trustworthy and all-round
good egg. Suzy will be annoyed I don’t pick her, she’s the official
office gossip. It’s not that I don’t trust her, although I’m wobbling
after the birthday party fiasco, but she isn’t here and she’ll get the
lowdown regardless.
I shoot Suma an email and watch as she reads it, her head bobs
above the computer monitor and she gestures for the two of us to
meet in the kitchen. Within seconds we’re both standing over the
sink, pretending to be busy. She’s rinsing her mug out and I’m
waiting for the kettle to boil.
‘Thanks for this, I’d be delighted. You know, I’ve been working here
just over five years and not once have I been asked to sit in on a
disciplinary.’ She tells me, rather too cheerfully.
The hairs on my arms stand to attention. I gulp. No one mentioned
the D word. I try not to show my alarm to Suma, nodding
understandably. ‘I’ve been here seven and neither have I,’ I reply,
reassuring her it’s nothing personal.
An hour later and we’re both sat in the Evil Bitchface’s office. HR
don’t mess around when it comes to important matters.
Suma’s looking the part, furiously taking notes as EB talks while I
listen. I lean over to see what she’s writing down and my heart sinks
as I see no words, only doodles. Have I made a terrible mistake?
Suma taps the side of her nose. Thinking she must have the sniffles
I hand her a tissue. She hands it back. EB is looking very stern but
it’s hard to take her seriously, not since I saw her gorging on a
Blooming Onion at our very first company outing to Outback
Steakhouse. Sadly, I will never see that again as they pulled out of
the UK a while back.
Feeling rather nervous, I feel my body temperature rising. To quell
my anxiety, I begin to visualise EB naked. It’s a pro tip to calm your
nerves when you have an important meeting or presentation to
make, I learnt this at a rare training event she booked me on. Oh
yuck.
‘Sorry?’
‘What?’
‘Are you okay Becca?’
‘Yes, fine!’ I reply, realising that I must have said yuck out loud.
EB reels off a string of my so-called misdemeanours, all of which I
can confidently explain away. She pushes her glasses up from the tip
of her nose.
‘Now Becca I know you have an excellent track record and Tim has
been at pains to stress this, he’s exceptionally keen for Faber &
Wallace to retain you. But it’s not so easy to just forget about your
recent performance, or to just simply wipe the slate clean. So, I, I
mean we were wondering if you’d benefit from some time off. To get
your life together. Faber & Wallace will be willing to hold your job
open for three months. Why don’t you go away, get yourself sorted
and come back all refreshed? How does that sound?’
My mouth drops. How does that sound? Sounds like the proverbial
shit sandwich, if you ask me. Can they do this? I’m no HR expert but
I’m pretty sure it’s illegal. I feel dizzy. My hands are clammy and my
pen’s rattling redundantly between my fingers. Oh god. This is the
worst possible time to be slung out of a job. I was just beginning to
show them what I could do. To show Tim and Faber & Wallace I was
management material, that I could lead a team. What if they realise
they can manage without me? What then?
But on the other hand, as thirtieth birthday presents go this is quite
an awesome one, right? No work for three months AND they’re
willing to pay. Granted it’s just statutory, barely anything really, but
it’s enough to go travelling and I can always get a cleaning job or
bar work if I have to. Cash in hand, glass in hand. Must stop thinking
about alcohol Becca…
Suma pulls me to one side. ‘This is brilliant! I mean of course I’m
going to miss having you around the office, but this way I get a
short-term promotion and you get a well-deserved holiday.’ She is
slightly too enthusiastic about the prospect of me taking some time
off. I was hoping for tears and sympathy, instead I get a cup of
milky tea and a Twix while I mull over the proposal. The only pro I
can think of is if Tom proposes on Saturday night as planned, we
could potentially have a whirlwind wedding and go on an extra-long
honeymoon during my enforced sabbatical.
Having decided to accept EB’s offer, which was made clear to me
that I didn’t really have a choice on, I swoop up my handbag and
discreetly wave bye to Suma. I make the most of my unexpectedly
free afternoon. After two hours of being pampered to the hilt
involving a super vitamin facial, a chocolate body wrap, a gentle
massage, manicure and pedicure, followed by time in the chill out
room sipping on tepid lemon infused water, I head back to the flat.
I had hoped that Tom and I would’ve moved in together by now but
he’s fiercely independent. And, of course, as a modern woman, I’ve
never once pushed him to move in with me, or for me to move in
with him, even though it would have made financial sense to pool
our resources. Actually, the proposal couldn’t have come at a better
time because the flat rent’s up for review and of course there’s the
small matter of my job. I won’t tell him this just yet, I’ll drop the
bombshell once he’s proposed. Damn, I completely forgot to
message Suzy to tell her I can’t make it. Message Suzy and a
message pings back instantly, a simple OK. No have fun, have a
great time or anything like that. That’s not like her. She’s the kind of
person that writes an essay when a simple sentence would suffice.
She’s also the kind of person that holds a meeting when an email
would achieve the same result. Fully intending to message her back
to check she’s okay and that I haven’t unintentionally upset her, I
grab a packet of Jacob’s and nibble on a couple of crackers. I don’t
want to undo all of this afternoon’s hard work.
***
At the hair salon I leave untouched the biscuits that accompany the
cappuccino. And for lunch I pull out the half-eaten packet of crackers
and smear a sliver of peanut butter on a few of them, and crunch on
a couple of sticks of celery. I don’t want to be too hungry when we
have dinner but at the same time, I don’t want to be half way to
feeling full. Where we’re going tonight has the most divine mains
and the desserts are to die for, according to the reviews.
Disappointingly, Tom doesn’t even bother getting out the car,
beeping his horn three times from the street. I know that horn
intimately, Tom’s quite an angry driver and uses the horn at every
opportunity, far more than I consider necessary, and even when the
Highway Code specifically states that you mustn’t. If I pull him up on
it, he just shrugs saying that no one pays any attention to that old
thing. My brand-new skyscraper heels are already slicing into my
ankles, but I refuse to swap into a more comfortable pair, instead I
pop a couple of painkillers into my mouth and wash them down with
a full glass of water. Never scrimp on the water part. I once read an
article where a Doctor, yes an actual bona fide doctor, didn’t and he
ended up with a burnt oesophagus and was in hospital for weeks.
Ouch. I apply a thick lick of sexy nude gloss on my lips and am now
ready to meet my fiancé. Squee!
Opening the passenger door, I beam seductively at my handsome
boyfriend. His eyebrows are furrowed and he’s not smiling, if I didn’t
know any better, I would say that something’s playing on his mind.
The poor guy must be so nervous about proposing. Bless. Hang on,
does this mean he’s already asked my dad for my hand in marriage?
Do my parents know about this? When I spoke to mum earlier, she
gave no indication that she knew a thing. Perhaps it’s just dad that
knows. He’s good at keeping secrets, once he lost his job and carried
on going to ‘work’ for six months before he found another job and
we were none the wiser, until he finally cracked and confessed. It
was about the same time that he took up playing poker and
discovered he had an excellent poker face. I briefly contemplate
nipping back into the flat and making a quick call to my parents to
find out. I’ve already told you, I don’t like surprises and knowing
would just make it that much easier to deal with. I’ve already proved
I can do a surprised expression really well, if I have to.
Fixing my seatbelt, I notice that Tom’s wearing jeans, did he even
check the dress code? I want to say something but instead I bite my
lip. When he pulls into a gravelly pub car park alarm bells start
ringing, what he’s up to? It’s not a pub we’ve been to before. A
ferocious sounding dog is barking nearby. Suddenly feeling incredibly
overdressed, I’m reluctant to get out of the car. Is this area safe?
Boarded up houses nearby suggest otherwise.
‘Tom, I assume we’re just going in here for a quick drink, but can I
suggest that we skip the pre-dinner drinks and head straight to the
restaurant. From the look of their Instagram pics it is quite stunning.
Much nicer than this place.’ I say, trying not to sound too disgusted
by my surroundings. I don’t like to criticise or take over as this IS his
night, the one he’s obviously spent time planning for us but I can’t
just sit back and say nothing.
‘What are you talking about? What restaurant? Becca, I am really
sorry.’
Oh god, my stomach has that horrid weird feeling, with an
impending feeling of doom.
‘The one I saw you’d booked for us tonight.’ I say quietly. My chin’s
fallen into my chest. Oh god what I have done? Suddenly my outfit
looks way over the top and I feel ridiculous.
‘Becca, I’m so sorry. I don’t think it’s working between us. I wish I
could say that there isn’t anyone else, but...’ His voice wobbles, his
eyes are welling up and his cheeks are flushed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he sobs
and splutters, apologising again. I wipe away tiny saliva particles
that have landed on my shoulder. I find myself pulling him closer,
comforting him in my arms. He’s broken up with me and I’m the one
comforting him.
‘I don’t understand. I thought you were going to propose this
evening, at that lovely restaurant, the one that you had left open on
your phone. Surely you meant for me to see, so I could be suitably
dressed for the occasion?’ My voice trails off.
Tom shakes his head.
‘Who is she?’ I ask. Suddenly my voice finds a depth and strength I
never knew I had. Anger’s setting in. How dare someone swoop in
and steal my boyfriend. The one. My one. And on my thirtieth
birthday.
‘What?’ He seems genuinely surprised that I’d want to know.
Through gritted teeth I repeat the question. I’m not letting him off
the hook that easily.
‘Oh Becca...’ Tom’s voice is small and meek.
But he doesn’t need to tell me. I already know.
 Chapter Two

Back at the flat, I blink back tears as I hastily tap out a message.
HR want you to take an enforced three-month sabbatical
and your boyfriend has just dumped you
Do you
A) Fight for your job, you need the money
B) Accept work’s offer graciously and make the most of the
time you have off
C) Tell your best friend you know she’s been cheating with
your boyfriend
D) Hide under the duvet and refuse to get up

The brave face I was putting on in front of Tom has dissipated, my

entire body shakes uncontrollably as the need to sob my broken
heart out takes hold. Blinded by tears, I face plant onto a tear-
drenched pillow.
Next morning, I realise with horror that yes, I really did send this to
Suzy and no, I wasn’t actually expecting a reply, because I wasn’t
supposed to send it!
I’ve decided that this will be the last ever ‘let your friend choose
your adventure’ message I send. It’s time to move on. I shouldn’t
need people to make decisions on my behalf. They don’t know
what’s best for me, that’s been made abundantly clear from the
events of the last few days. It was a stupid game that’s got out of
hand, how we ever managed to continue it for so long is a mystery.
I’m the one who’s been left paying the price for the game but the
last thing I want is anyone to think that I’m moping about at home.
To make this crystal clear, I update my Instagram bio to say ‘off
travelling’ #livingmybestlife. That should tell the social media
stalkers (you know who you are) everything they need to know.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror, crying must be bad for the skin
as my face is covered in blemishes, either that or the beauty facial
has caused a nasty reaction. And then I giggle as it dawns on me
my ‘blemishes’ are splatters of hair spray and splashes of skincare
products on the rather grimy, hasn’t been cleaned in months, mirror.
I dig out the Mr Muscle from under the kitchen sink and set to work
polishing the mirror to perfection, it’s so clean I feel like I could step
through it. And then I get busy cleaning the rest of the flat, until
there is not an item out of place and not a speck of dust visible.
News of my work sabbatical and relationship woes spreads like
wildfire through the office as during Monday my phone buzzes away
incessantly. Scrolling through the messages, they are all from work
colleagues.
Hope your okay buddy x
This one’s from Lee, I didn’t even know he had my number. If he’s
looked it up on the company database, is that a data breach and
should I be suing the company or him? I’m kidding, it’s so nice of
him to think of me, even if he doesn’t know the difference between
your and you’re. Graduate as well! It’s always a surprise when
people step up to offer support, showing you who your real friends
are when your so-called friends stab you in the back. I’m not bitter;
I just feel a bit of an idiot I didn’t see it coming. Nothing from Suzy
though. I can’t say I blame her, if I were her, I’d be keeping a low
profile too. Thank goodness I never did push for Tom and I to move
in together as then I’d be homeless, jobless and loveless. Oh wait, I
am.
Suzy is Tom’s childhood friend; they were neighbours and grew up
together. In fact, that’s how Tom and I met, through Suzy. They
never appeared to have a really close connection and if anyone did
give them the just friends ‘yeah right!’ comment they’d do the whole
When Harry Met Sally spiel, insisting a man and woman can be just
friends. Which as we all know now is complete bollocks. I wonder
who made the first move, was it Suzy? Did she suddenly get an
epiphany and realise she was about to lose Tom to me forever, or
was it Tom who, after spending a lot of time with Suzy, realised Suzy
was the one all along.
I toss my head back, despairing, why am I even giving my
headspace to these two? I’m thirty, not dead. I’m not going to let
these setbacks dictate the rest of my life. There’s that brave face I
always insist on wearing.
My phone buzzes once more, this time it’s Suma.
Fancy drinks after work?
Another message swiftly follows, apparently the company want to
thank me for all my hard work and recognise the contribution I’ve
made to the team. Does this sound like a leaving do to you, because
it feels a lot like that to me? Apparently, Tim is up for it. I do hope
she means just for drinks. I ponder the invitation. Do I really want to
do this, will I be able to stop at just a couple and, now that I’m no
longer with Tom, who will see to it that I get home safely? I know
that person should be me, it’s just for so long I’ve relied on Tom to
look out for me.
I message Suma back, replying thanks but no thanks.
Sorry, I don’t really fancy it right now. I’ll be back before you know
it. It’s only three months.
She replies with a sad face emoji and says that she’ll pop by later
with some treats if I’m up for some company. Bless her, her heart’s
in the right place. I flick through my wardrobe, with a dawning
realisation that I don’t like any of the clothes I own and am in dire
need of a fashion overhaul. My clothes are so boring, the kind you
buy when you are sitting comfortably and smugly in a long-term
relationship. These clothes are not a new man going to get. I need
to do a Kate Middleton and let Tom know what he’s missing but the
contents of my purse are sparse. I suppose I really should make do
with what I’ve already got. Back go on my work suit and high heels.
With the few coins in my possession, I head to the nearest coffee
shop ‘The Coffee Box’, thankfully an independent. The chains are
awash with mother and baby groups and right now I don’t want to
be reminded that the next stage of my life has been placed further
out of my reach. It’s belting down with rain and stupidly I’ve come
out without an umbrella. Drenched, I push open the door. The
bearded barista greets me with a friendly smile and a loyalty card.
Behind the counter is a notice that says free hugs – just ask. With
nothing to lose I cheekily point at the sign and without a word he
comes from behind the counter and wraps his big strong hands
firmly around my waist for a few seconds before returning to the
counter. That felt so good, comforting and not at all sexual. I so
needed that. I notice that he’s pulled out a loyalty card and added a
few extra stamps to my purchase of one before furnishing me with a
cheeky wink, instructing me to go and sit down and he’ll bring my
oat milk latte over. Don’t tell me that you get that kind of service in
Costa. What do you mean why am I drinking a coffee made with oat
milk? No, I don’t have a dairy intolerance, people always ask me
that. Have you tried oat milk? It’s so good. If you haven’t tasted it,
trust me, you’re missing out. As my order’s placed on the table the
barista also delivers an extra item, a rich and moist looking brownie.
I look up in surprise, but the barista just smiles and walks away. I
bite into it, it has just the right amount of crunch on the outside,
meltingly soft and squidgy on the inside. Oh, that’s good. I make
suitably appreciative noises and he glances my way, with a subtle
twitch to his mouth. He knows he’s hit the spot. A customer leaves
with a takeaway order and the barista heads back to my table.
‘Nice huh?’
‘Oh definitely.’ I nod, my mood instantly brightened. ‘Just perfect.’
‘Great. It’s a new recipe that the chef’s working on,’ he tells me.
‘She’s asked me to try it out on some customers. You looked like
someone who’d appreciate it.’
What does he mean by that? Does he mean I look like I eat a lot of
cake? I can’t help myself; I have to ask.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
He chuckles, shaking his head at the same time.
‘That you look like the kind of person that appreciates the finer
things in life,’ he replies smoothly.
Well played. I forgive him instantly. Besides, he has the dreamiest
chocolatey brown eyes I have ever seen, matching the rich
chocolate brownie that I’m currently sinking my teeth into. The
twinkle in his eye tells me I’ve made a new friend. It’s a shame that
we’ve only just met and I am about to bugger off for three months.
A real shame.
Sipping on my coffee, I know that it’s time to stop procrastinating
and write the message that I’ve been putting off.
I compose a message to Charlie, she’s my little sister. Over ten years
ago, I left Sunny Bay and my home – now called The Yellow Beach
House B&B with no intention of returning. Once again, the tears
begin to flow.
Charlie, life’s a bitch. Tom’s dumped me for Suze, the contract is up
on the flat and the landlord’s decided to put the rent up which I
have no hope of affording. Oh, and work isn’t going so great either,
they’ve put me on a three-month sabbatical…
I know I’m throwing everything at her but it feels so good to be
completely open, to be able to share the weight of my failure.
Charlie doesn’t reply; calling me back straight away instead. ‘What
the hell Becca, I thought you had your shit together?’
‘So did I.’ I reply through sobs. ‘Do you think there’s a spare room
for me at the B&B? Just as a stop gap. I’ll explain everything as soon
as I get there.’
‘Of course there is!’ Charlie reassures me. ‘Leave it with me.’
Five minutes later mum calls demanding I get on the next train
home. I love my family. I really do. When the chips are down,
they’re always ready and waiting with the sweet potatoes.
From the comfort of my phone, I book my train ticket and head off,
waving goodbye to the barista. He lifts his head up and waves back.
‘See you soon,’ he enthuses, putting a huge smile on my face. Just
the kind of feeling you need when everyone else in the world seems
to have all but given up on you. God bless the independent coffee
shop.
I must leave a review on TripAdvisor, telling everyone about this fab
sanctuary that I’ve discovered. The barista’s called Art, I know this
because rather handily the receipt said ‘Today you have been served
by Art.’ Businesses love that, don’t they? Making everything about
people. And credit where credit is due, Art is great. I might just put
in my review that it’s not child friendly, so it doesn’t get overrun with
those yummy mummy types by the time I get back. Then again, do I
want anyone else sharing Art? It’s a difficult one, on the one hand I
don’t want the place to be packed out but on the other hand, if no
one else goes there, well it will close down wont it?
Mum’s waiting at the station for me as my train pulls in. She’s driving
dad’s gleaming racing green convertible. The one he purchased in
the midst of a midlife crisis. Yes, it’s a cliché and yes mum was mad
for a week or two, until she laid down some ground rules of his
using it and dad treated her to a stunning gold and emerald
necklace that she’d been lusting over for years. Secretly I think that
she loves that car more than dad does now. Charlie tells me that
mum’s affectionately given it a nickname – Bertie. And borrows it
whenever she gets the chance. Dad’s more likely to be found
rambling through the countryside, dressed in his walking boots.
More recently, he’s been thinking about his impact on the
environment and mumbling about his carbon footprint. Last week
things got heated when dad told mum he was thinking of selling the
car and mum became angry, bursting into tears saying that the only
way that Bertie would leave the house would be over her dead body.
So here we are. Mum hands me a flask of tea for the car journey.
It’s no more than a five-minute trip but she insists that I mustn’t get
dehydrated. I tell her there’s more chance of me being carsick
consuming a milk laden tea. She tuts. ‘You’ve always got an answer
for everything Becca.’ ‘Sorry mum.’ I reply, feeling chastened.
Dad’s waiting out the front of The Yellow Beach House to greet me
but is gone before I’ve finished saying ‘hi’. Mum tells me not to
worry, there will be plenty of time to catch up. She then shoots me
the kind of look that says, ‘why do you only head home when you’re
in trouble?’ And the guilt of not coming back, even for the holidays,
hits me. For the second time in as many days, I can’t hold back. All
the dread, fear and upset comes flooding out as I sob into her
shoulder. Just like I’m eight again she cuddles me close and soothes
me. Taking my hand in hers she leads me up to my old bedroom.
She fusses over me, closes the curtains and orders me to get some
rest. But I can’t rest now, I can smell the sea air calling my name. I
make for the door.
‘You’re not going out like that are you?’ Charlie laughs, raising an
eyebrow.
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘High heels on the beach?’
I glance down. In my abject misery I’ve completely forgotten I’m still
wearing my work clothes. But the sense of urgency to go to the
beach and my sheer stubbornness overrides Charlie’s disdain. I want
to feel the sea breeze on my face and listen to the calming sounds
of the waves, lapping at the shore. Besides, I don’t have time to
waste, it’s almost dinner time.
Charlie was right. Of course it was a silly idea to wear heels on the
beach, my feet sink into the sand every step I take. I close my eyes
and forget the bemused faces of the people around me, before
whipping them off. I take a deep breath; I’d forgotten how good it
feels to be beside the sea. I giggle as I hum to the tune of ‘oh I do
like to be beside the sea.’
When mum first mooted the suggestion of turning our ample house
into a seaside B&B I was aghast. And then I’d met Tom and all of a
sudden it no longer mattered; I wouldn’t be needing my room.
Running a B&B suits mum down to the ground. She can fuss over
people and Dad can do most of the cooking and help with the
bookkeeping.
Charlie occasionally gets roped in to do the housekeeping, if they’re
particularly busy, but most of the time, she’s allowed to do her own
thing in a separate wing of the house. Charlie’s an artist, and a
gifted one at that. She paints pictures of the area around us and
makes a comfortable living from it. Some of her paintings are
hanging up in the B&B along with a price tag in case people want to
buy one. And they have, quite a few actually. She’s even been asked
to do the odd special commission, she loves this.
‘This means that people really love my work, mum.’
Mum beams, she loves having such a talented daughter. And dad,
well he often takes Charlie to places of interest and scenic
viewpoints. He knows all the nooks and crannies of the area as he
was born and bred here.
‘Dinner!’ I hear mum call. I make my way down the stairs. I’m not
sure if she means me or just the guests but my stomach’s rumbling
loudly, it’s more than ready for one of her special hearty meals. The
stairs groan and creak with every rickety step. Dad’s been meaning
to fix the stairs for ages, first he promised mum he’d do it and then
he said he’d get someone in. I take it he’s managed to do neither. I’ll
mention it at dinner, it’s the kind of thing that makes you lose stars
in reviews. I enter the kitchen to find dad busy helping mum put the
finishing touches to the dinner.
‘Back already Dad?’
‘I only went to the shops!’ He replies jovially, as if I have asked him
the silliest question. Being the curious sort, I poke my head into the
dining room to see what delightful guests we have staying with us. A
middle-aged couple and two ladies who are of retirement age but
not ready to commit to the nursing home just yet. Those two in the
corner are already on the wine and laughing raucously. I hope I’m
having as much fun as them when I get to their age. It’s pretty quiet
here but next week is the start of the holiday season and we are
expecting a full house, Charlie reliably informs me. She goes on to
tell me that she’s planning to book a holiday now that I am here to
help mum and dad. I shoot her a death stare. The last time I
‘helped’ I spilt tomato soup over a guest and smashed plates on the
floor as I carried them back to the kitchen. Mum told me never to
touch anything again, which was fine because I had no intention of
returning. I remind Charlie of this fact which results in her retreating
into a sulk.
‘I need a break too.’ she wails.
‘I can help at front desk but am useless at making beds.’ I reply. I
feel sorry for her, I really do. She does sound like she’s at the end of
her tether.
My offer to help is, I can only assume, rejected as she rolls her eyes
at me and refuses to speak to me for the rest of dinner. On the
menu tonight is chicken a la something or other. The sauce is a
creamy mushroom concoction. Mum’s a decent cook but her culinary
offering is stuck firmly in the 1970’s. Old fashioned food aside, there
are some cracking views of the sea from a couple of the guest
rooms and it IS perfectly positioned, being in close proximity to the
beach and only a short walk from the shops. Listen to me, I sound
like I’m selling the place myself. Although, I am a dab hand at
marketing…
After dinner, the two old ladies, Mabel and Florrie slip into the bar for
a glass of sherry. Dad’s donned his black and white barman
costume, which is not to be confused with his batman costume
which he wears when someone requires ‘saving.’ At least that’s what
he told us when we used to bang on the locked door of my parent’s
room and he opened the door ever so slightly. Dad’s really relishing
his starring role as barman, he’s pretending to be like Tom Cruise in
Cocktail, shaking up cocktails and delighting in entertaining our two
elderly guests with stories from old. They’re laughing so much I’m
worried that they are going to end up in A&E being treated for
breathing difficulties. Dad can be such a flirt at times, bless him. I’m
sat in the corner having a quiet drink, a glass of rosé and reading a
book I found languishing on the communal bookshelf. When I
ordered my drink, dad demanded payment from me. I shot him a
look that told him not to be silly, he didn’t really expect me to pay
and then he shot back a look that told me he was absolutely serious.
Reluctantly I handed over the cash, moaning about the cost. I really
should have taken myself off to the pub. They had an Elvis
impersonator there tonight, which would have been a million times
more entertaining than being here. There’s no sign of Charlie, still in
a strop no doubt, she probably did go to the pub.
Shortly before eleven the middle-aged couple enter the bar and ask
if it’s too late to get a drink, quite why they’re here I haven’t a clue.
Like I said, the pub is miles cheaper. I check my phone, still not a
dicky from Suzy, and Tom hasn’t contacted me either begging to get
back with him. Arsehole. I ask Dad for another glass of rosé and he
orders me to address him as barman. I humour him but only
because I need all the allies I can get. Why didn’t I give my number
to Art? While I’m feeling ever so slightly tipsy, I head over to the
review site and start tapping out my review. I giggle as I picture Art
and his rather sexy eyebrow piercing standing behind the counter of
The Coffee Box. I may have left rather an embarrassing and glowing
review of the man, rather than the shop…
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
balustrades. The rough outline of the case may be said to be a steep
gable, with fantastic carvings above. The central portion stands on a
very high plinth, the middle tower, which is crowned with a phœnix,
standing above much curious carving, has five pipes carried on
“ponts,” and has on each side a double tier of eleven pipes, then an
angular tower, crowned with a lyre and two angels, beyond which is
a flat of seven pipes. All the wood-work is well carved, with a little
gilding judiciously used. On each side of this central portion is a
tower springing from a corbel, at a much lower level than the rest of
the work, so that the tops of the pipes, which are five, standing on
“ponts,” are about level with the tops of the lowest pipes in the centre
of the case. They are crowned with domes, from which dragons
peep, and are surmounted by winged angels bearing trumpets. The
Choir case has three angels on its central tower of seven pipes, on
each side of which are two tiers of small pipes, and then an angular
tower, surmounted by an angel. A wooden gallery joins the Choir
case to the inner angle of the outer towers of the Great case, and a
like gallery joins these towers to the walls of the nave. All this work
overhangs the marble gallery below, and its curved supports are
beautifully carved. The lower gallery contains the usual fittings of an
orchestra, the pipes are quite plain and the leaf of their mouths is
rounded, not sharp as in the Cathedral, or at St. Jacques, and no
carving is introduced between their feet. 1872.
The wood of all these organs is dark, not black, oak, and the
sculpture excellent.
 (Larger)
ST. PAULS ANTWERP
12TH. SEPTR. 1872

BRUGES.
THE CATHEDRAL (St. Sauveur).—On the Choir Screen stands
an elaborately designed organ. Its base is taller than usual, and the
arrangement of pipes somewhat complicated. In the centre is a
tower of seven pipes, with a flat on each side containing two tiers of
pipes. Above the cornice of this work, rises in the centre a tall tower
of seven pipes, crowned with much carved work, and surmounted by
a large figure. On each side is a flat of pipes, with an angel playing
on a trumpet in each corner. On each side of the organ stands a
tower of five large pipes, with elaborate cornices and wings. That on
the south side is surmounted by King David, and that on the north by
St. Cecilia. These towers overhang the case, and are joined to the
centre work by flats of seven pipes. The pipes are gilt in the English
fashion, the front facing the Choir consists simply of panels of carved
open work, with a Choir Organ in front, the pipes of which are
gilt. 1872.
ST. ANNE.—On the Choir Screen stands a little organ, with gilt
pipes and very elaborate carving. 1872.
ST. JACQUES.—On the Choir Screen is a handsome organ,
with good carving. The side facing the Choir shows pipes in its two
end towers only, the rest being filled in with open work tracery. 1872.
ST. JEAN (chapel in the hospital of).—The organ, not a very old
instrument, stands in a second gallery, at the west end of the chapel,
its pipes are gilt, and arranged somewhat in the German manner,
showing a Great and Choir front in one case. 1872.
NOTRE DAME.—There is on the Choir Screen a very curious
early Renaissance organ case, forming the base of the rood. Its
pipes are not gilt, and it has a plain Choir Organ on its eastern
side. 1872.
LES SŒURS DE CHARITÉ (chapel in the convent of).—In the
west gallery is a small organ, standing flush with its front. It consists
of a single flat of bright tin pipes, and the wood-work is painted
white. 1872.

BRUSSELS.
STE. GUDULE.—At the west end is an ugly divided organ case,
with very little work about it. In the front of its gallery is a hanging
Choir Organ, of bad Gothic. On the south side of the Choir, stands a
fair-sized harmonium. 1869.
NOTRE DAME DES VICTOIRES.—A Renaissance organ stands
at the west end, the pipes plain, and the case dirty. It consists of a
centre tower, two curved compartments, and two outer towers,
supported by giants, and set at an angle of 45° with the front. The
Choir Organ in front is very similar in pattern; the upper part of the
Great Organ case has many carvings of musical instruments, &c.,
and a medallion bearing a head in the centre. 1872.

GHENT (Gand).
THE CATHEDRAL (St. Bavon).—A handsome organ stands at
the junction of the north transept with the Choir, which has three
towers with five pipes each; the two outside ones are supported by
satyrs, and crowned with angels holding trumpets. On each side of
the centre tower, are two flats of five pipes each, over which is much
carving, with shields supported by angels. Over the centre tower is a
small three-sided case, containing seven pipes in each
compartment, surmounted with tabernacle work, on which is a figure
on horseback, query, St. Bavon? The key-board of the organ is
behind in a gallery, just under the vaulting of the north aisle of the
Choir, which has a small Choir front facing the east; but I was told
that this was really quite an independent instrument. The arches
under the organ are cased with black and white marble, all the
carving about the case is good, and dates from the seventeenth
century. The case is of oak, but after the fashion of the country,
painted oak colour. I objected to this, but was informed what could I
expect, when they were in the habit of painting imitation marble on
marble. The main case reaches about half-way up the triforium, and
the upper case more than half-way up the clerestory windows. The
tone is good, and from its quality, I should say, has not been much
altered from its original state. At High Mass I heard it very well
played. The soft stops I could hardly hear, on account of the people
perpetually moving in the Church. 1872.
 (Larger)
CATHEDRAL (ST. BAVON) GHENT.
5TH. OCT, 1872.

THE BÉGUINAGE.—At the west end is an organ, not a very

large one, with its Choir Organ planted just in front of it, or else
inserted into the lower part of the case, German fashion. Its quality
was not bad, and was fairly played by one of the Béguines, who was
seated at the back of the instrument. 1872.
THE ENGLISH CHURCH (Temple Protestant).—In the west
gallery is a small, poor-toned organ; it has three towers, the least in
the centre, which, however, stands higher than the others, from the
plinth of the case curving up in the middle. On each side is a flat,
with two tiers of pipes, and the cornice of the centre tower overlaps
those of the other towers, which gives a crowded effect to the
case. 1872.
ST. JACQUES.—The case of the organ, at the west end, is
divided into three parts, the centre one being lower than the
others. 1872.
ST. MICHAEL.—The modern organ at the west end of the
church, is of a peculiar and very ugly design. 1872.
ST. NICOLAS.—At the west end is a modern Gothic organ, the
front of which consists of a gable, with a lofty tower and pinnacle in
the centre. 1872.

LIÉGE.
ST. JACQUES.—At the west end is a very pretty Renaissance
organ. In the centre of the case is a large tower containing seven
pipes, on each side of which is a flat, with a double tier of pipes, then
a flat of four pipes, beyond which are semi-circular endings
containing three pipes, supported by figures holding trumpets, and
surmounted by tabernacle work. The lower part of the case is very
tall, so that from the gallery to the feet of the pipes is nearly half the
height of the instrument. In the front projects the Choir Organ,
supported by a stone bracket. It consists of a central tower of seven
pipes, with much carved work above, supporting a statue of St.
Cecilia, with a flat on each side, and semi-circular ends, filled with
pipes. All the work about this organ is very good, and by some it is
considered the prettiest organ case in existence. 1863.

LOUVAIN.
ST. PIERRE.—The organ stands projecting from the east wall of
the north transept, and fills the space between the clerestory and
half way up the opening into the side aisles. The case consists of a
tower of seven pipes in the centre, with tabernacle work on the top,
crowned with St. Peter. On each side are tall flats, with a semi-
circular pediment, beyond which are semi-circular ends, supported
by brackets. It may be noted that the pipes in the semi-circular ends
are very slender, and their feet are longer than their bodies. The
Choir Organ in front is very similar in design. The carving about the
case and gallery is nice, without being anything particular, and the
tone fair, though rather deficient in power. 1872.

MECHLIN (Malines).
THE CATHEDRAL (St. Rumbold).—The organ, which stands at
the west end, is an old ordinary-looking instrument. In the south aisle
of the Choir is a modern Gothic organ. In the Cathedral of the
Primate of Belgium one might expect that there would be finer
instruments. 1872.
ST. JEAN.—At the west end is a modern Renaissance organ. A
white plaster wall is brought so forward, that it stands flush with the
front of the case, the effect of which is not good. 1872.
 NOTRE-DAME.—In the south transept, over the Choir aisle
arch, stands an organ with its Choir in front, good in tone, and in a
very clean and good condition, so that I fancied it to be a new
instrument. I was, however, told that it was old. The pipes were left
their natural colour, and there was no gilding about the wood-work. It
is a very pretty instrument on a moderate scale. 1872.
 NOTES ON DUTCH ORGANS.

AMSTERDAM.
IEUWE KERK.—At the west end is a large organ, with
double shutters, the lower half of the case being wider
than the upper part. It is painted mahogany colour, as well
as the Choir Organ in front. It is altogether a tasteless
design. A second organ stands at the junction of the nave
with the south transept; it is closed with shutters, and is a very good
picturesque specimen of a small organ, as tasteful as the west organ
is tasteless. 1872.
OUDE KERK.—At the west end, in a marble gallery, stands a
fine organ, the wall behind which is painted black. The case is
bronze colour, with white statues and decorations. The claires-voies
and the bases of the pipes have much gilding, and the mouths of the
pipes are also gilt. It has five towers, the centre and the two outer of
which are circular, the two others are angular. The central tower is
surmounted by a black-faced clock, with white and gold ornaments.
The southern circular tower has a statue of St. John, and the south
angular tower a shield bearing a “ship proper.” The north angular
tower has the arms of the town, and the north circular tower a figure
standing by an altar. The flats between the towers have each three
tiers of pipes, the central tower two tiers, seven pipes in the lower,
and nine in the upper. The angular towers have also two tiers, seven
below and eleven above. The outer towers have seven pipes each.
The Choir Organ has a central tower of seven pipes, with a flat on
each side, containing two tiers of pipes, ten in each; then an angular
tower of seven pipes, with half circles of ten pipes for a finish, above
which are white recumbent figures. On the north side of the Church
is a little organ closed with shutters, on which musical instruments
are painted. 1872.
 (Larger)
OUDE KERK AMSTERDAM.
25TH. SEPTR. 1872.

DELFT.
NIEUWE KERK.—A large organ at the west end, with a Choir
Organ in front, said to have a very fine tone. The case is painted a
light bright pink, and is very tasteless. 1872.
OUDE KERK.—At the west end is a large organ, with its Choir in
front. Both have three towers, the largest in the centre. The pipes
have gilt mouths, and the case is painted light salmon colour. It is a
very similar design to the organ in the Nieuwe Kerk. 1872.

GOUDA.
JANSKERK (St. John’s).—A fine organ with its Choir in front,
painted a cold dark brown colour, stands in a marble gallery, at the
west end of the Church. It is surrounded by a plaster curtain or
mantle, coloured blue, with a dull red lining. It has three towers; the
largest in the centre has seven pipes, and is crowned with two
angels, one of whom plays on a harp. On each side of the centre
tower is a flat, with angels over them, the one playing a flute, the
other a triangle; beyond which are angular compartments, joining the
two outer towers, which are surmounted by angels bearing trumpets.
Under the pipe-work stands coats-of-arms, blazoned and gilded. The
front of the organ, which curves forward, is supported by four
Corinthian columns, with gilt capitals. The centre tower of the Choir
Organ has nine pipes, with a coat-of-arms over, supported by lions,
on each side of which is a flat of pipes, beyond which are angular
towers and curved ends. A large white and gold bracket supports this
portion of the instrument. The balustrade of the gallery is wood-work,
painted of the same colour as the organ, with coats-of-arms
blazoned thereon, and having a handsome gilded cresting. The
mouths of the pipes are gilt, and there is much gilding about the
case, &c. The marbles of the gallery are grey and dove-
coloured. 1872.
 (Larger)
JANS KERK GOUDA
19TH. SEPTR. 1872.

HAARLEM.
GROOTEKERK (St. Bavon).—This famous organ stands in a
marble gallery at the west end of the Church, but the effect of its
grand case is somewhat marred, by the Dutch want of taste, in the
way the case is painted. The wall behind the instrument is painted a
glossy black (the rest of the Church being whitewashed). The
statues, coats-of-arms, &c., on the top of the instrument, are painted
bright white, their bases grey marble, and the remainder of the case
is painted with a light tint of dull pinkish drab. The mouths of the
pipes and the carving at their tops and feet, are all brightly gilt. The
support of the Choir Organ is bronze, with a large and two small
gilded angels on it. Under the gallery is a white marble allegory,
which I will not attempt to explain, and the entire top of the case,
except the outer towers, is crowned with a mass of carving, with the
arms of the town supported by lions. The central tower consists of
two tiers, the lower of seven, the upper of nine pipes. On each side
is a narrow flat, divided into five compartments, the next but one to
the top being occupied by a statue playing on a musical instrument,
and the rest filled with small pipes. Next are angular towers, with
their pipes arranged in the same mode as the centre, beyond which
is a flat, containing two tiers of pipes, above which is a niche with a
statue. Beyond this are the two outer towers of seven great pipes
each, the feet of which commence at a much lower level than the
rest of the pipes, so that the summit of these towers is not so high as
the rest of the instrument. That on the south side is crowned with
King David, and that on the north with a figure, but whom it
represents I never could find out. Outside the great tower, on tall
pedestals, stand angels with trumpets. The Choir Organ has its
tallest tower of seven pipes in the centre; a flat of three tiers of pipes
on each side; then an angular tower of seven pipes, and curved
ends. These last are surmounted by sitting figures. The balustrade of
the gallery has some elaborate carved open work above it, and its
supporting columns are of some sort of dark marble. The general
tone of the instrument is very good, but the vox humana is bad. The
player, though he could hardly be called first-rate, was very skilful in
showing off the quality of the instrument. All the fittings about the
key-board are clumsy; the black keys are topped with tortoiseshell.
The cornices of the towers greatly overhang, but the flats between
being small in proportion to the towers, and the intricacy of the
general forms, prevent the usual ill effect. 1872.
 (Larger)
ST. BAVON HAARLEM.
23RD. SEPTR. 1872.

HERTOGENBOSCH (Bois-le-Duc).
ST. JANSKIRK.—The organ case at the west end of this church
is perhaps the finest in Europe. The oak wood-work is very dark, and
profusely carved, without any gilding, and is in a good state of polish.
The top of the case from the ground is about one hundred feet. The
pipes, which, when I saw them, were in very bright condition, have
their mouths gilded. The centre pipes of each tower have a pattern
beaten upon their surface, and are gilt, with the exception of the
lower one on the centre tower, which is only partially gilt. The centre
tower, which is surmounted by a clock, under which is the Dance of
Death, or some such subject, has two tiers of pipes, seven below
and eleven above. On each side of this is a flat, divided into two
tiers, which contain, in the lower compartment, what may be called
five double pipes, or perhaps, more accurately speaking, it has ten
pipes, with their feet joined together, the heads of the lower ones
standing on the plinth, and the upper ones in their usual position. I
could not see how these pipes were supplied with wind, and I have a
strong idea that they are dummies. In the upper part were six double
pipes arranged in the same manner, and above are niches, figures,
columns, and pediments. Next come two angular towers, with a
lower tier of seven, and an upper tier of eleven pipes. And to finish
the organ, instead of the great towers, as at Haarlem, are two large
flats corbelled out from the sides of the instrument, containing five
large pipes, and sloping towards the wall behind. These are crowned
with fantastic pyramids. The Choir Organ in front has over its centre
tower, which contains five pipes, a figure of St. John with his Eagle,
on each side of which is a flat with seven small pipes, in its lower
compartment, and in its upper compartment six double pipes, similar
to those in the Great Organ. Beyond this, is an angular tower of
seven pipes, with a vase on its summit, and a small return
compartment of pipes, joining the case to the gallery, which is of
elaborately carved oak, and supported by two grey stone pillars. I did
not hear the instrument, but was told it was nearly as good as
Haarlem. 1872.