* * *

The hot summer’s day, meanwhile, had passed in the usual Salcombe manner for Mrs Bennet and her five daughters. After breakfast the girls had set out for town, armed with regulation jute bags to gather supplies for a picnic. Lizzy and Jane had queued at The Upper Crust for six deliciously soft dough rolls sprinkled with sunflower seeds, whilst Lydia and Kitty had gone round to the deli to buy slices of ham and little quiche pies. The younger girls were seriously delayed by a detour into Cranch’s, the sweetie shop, where they spent a good fifteen minutes holding little plastic baskets and selecting with plastic tongs fizzy cola chews, luminous green snakes, rainbow crystals, and pink shrimps, before exiting, clutching pink-and-white-striped paper bags of goodies. Mary, meanwhile, remained back at 3 Island Street in the front room, where passers-by could peer in and see her swotting for her AS exams. She perched her physics textbook in the window so people could see that she was a girl of intellectual substance, not one to be drawn into softy subjects like media studies—the very thought! The baffled frown on her face showed the intense challenge that such a mission as physics could present even to the brightest student.

The picnic at last prepared and packed into outsized waterproof bags printed with strawberry patterns, the little party was ready to venture out to the beach.

Beaches at Salcombe are either a little distance from the centre of town, North and South Sands, or across the estuary—or dendritic ria , as Mary had once discovered and enjoyed correcting anyone ignorant enough to get the distinction wrong—where lie the glorious ribbons of golden sands known as Fisherman’s Cove, Small’s Cove, Mill Bay, Sunny Cove, and, for those with boats, The Bar.

Visitors delight in the fun of the ferries to get about from the town to the beaches or even up to Kingsbridge. The sturdy Salcombe to South Sands ferry ploughing back and forth, with its gaily fluttering flags and packed with holidaymakers waving buckets and spades, who have the added pleasure of disembarking onto a fine sea tractor to ensure a dry landing on the beach, is a regular sight. Many locals and holiday house owners, however, have invested in some sort of craft to take them from beach to beach at their leisure. So it was a pleasant hundred-foot walk to the wooden jetty where Angelica , a twelve-foot grey inflatable, dearly loved by the Bennet family, was patiently waiting, that the girls and Mrs Bennet headed, laden with one large wicker picnic basket, three Cath Kidston-patterned picnic bags, buckets, spades, cricket kit, rugby ball, tennis ball, towels, swimming gear, handbags, books, magazines, newspapers, windbreakers, and life jackets. Mrs Bennet liked to think of herself as “good in boats.” Her inability to start the six horsepower engine, distinguish a bowline from a clove hitch, or cast off did not deter her from barking instructions. Transferring her weight from the pontoon and down into the bouncy boat always caused Angelica to lurch alarmingly and cause a slight heart flutter in Mrs Bennet’s bosom, but she was game and shouted and bossed the girls around so efficiently that she had a hand to help her from the pontoon, a hand to catch her into the boat, a hand to steady her posterior onto the thwart, and a hand to pass her the overflowing and very unseaworthy handbag that accompanied her everywhere.

Lizzy pulled at the engine, and, after two attempts, it chuckled into life. “Cast off! Cast off!” shouted Mrs Bennet imperiously. “Oh look! There are the Lucas’s in Fly-By-Night . Yahoo! Yahoo! I say, Marcia, yahoo! Wave girls! Wave!”

The Lucas family were sailing by in their splendid Salcombe Yawl, a traditional wooden boat with two masts—main and mizzen—much beloved by Salcombe society.

“Oh I say! Frances! Yahoo!” echoed Mrs Lucas, spotting the overloaded Angelica . “Wonderful news! Charlotte’s “A” level results!”

“What did you say?” cried Mrs Bennet across the water, standing up as if she could get a little closer by doing so. “Go over to Fly-By-Night , Lizzy! I can’t hear what Marcia is saying.”

“She’s like, trying to tell you how brilliantly Charlotte has done in her “A” levels,” interjected Kitty mischievously.

As Mrs Lucas’s official best friend, Mrs Bennet would naturally want to share in such happy news, but her girls were expecting results, too. It could be awkward.

“Sorry, Marcia! Can’t hear you. Catch up later!” shouted Mrs Bennet, adding the command, “Head for the beach, Lizzy!” to which Lizzy responded with such alacrity that Mrs Bennet, caught off-balance, was pitched headfirst across the bows, her legs shooting up into the air in a most unladylike fashion and her handbag flung skyward. The girls could not help but dissolve into peals of laughter, fortunately catching the airborne bag, saving it from a watery grave. The whole incident would have been forgotten if it had not been splendidly caught on camera by a passing professional photographer in a speedboat, who specialised in capturing those magical family moments. Later that day, Mr Bennet, recognising his wife’s legs, her handbag, and his merry daughters on display in a picture in the photographer’s shop window, was so taken by the artistic merit of the shot that he ordered a large print immediately, which gave him much cause to chuckle for many years to come.

Mrs Bennet and handbag now recovered, the party continued on their voyage across the estuary, dodging lasers, toppers, and luxury cruisers, reaching Mill Bay without any further adventure, where Lizzy skilfully drove the boat to shallow water, and Lydia and Kitty leapt out in bare feet, screeching and laughing partly at the coldness of the water and partly for the benefit of some fit young men in Jack Wills pants. Within five minutes, the little party had joined another fifty or so families on the beach, shielded by colourful windshields, with picnics at the ready, books to read, the sparkling sea before them, and nothing much more to do than chill out. Bliss.

* * *

As they settled down on multicoloured beach towels to read, or in Lydia’s and Kitty’s case, to gossip, Mr Bennet clad in his customary long navy shorts, pale blue shirt, and panama hat appeared, unnoticed, and stood behind the windshield, gazing at the hectic scenes of boating antics before him.

“Oh, if only Mr Bennet would go and visit Mr Bingley! Marcia is bound to connive to snatch the young man for one of her daughters. I am sure of it!”

The outburst came from Mrs Bennet, who had been lying on the beach, fretting over the day’s events.

“If you are so sure it is a shame, I have wasted my time chatting to Mr Bingley,” said Mr Bennet. The sound of his voice with no sense of his body caused Mrs Bennet to shriek in alarm, “Mr Bennet!”

Catching sight of him over the windshield and assured it was not a ghost, she proceeded, most anxiously, to quiz him.

“What do you mean you have been chatting with Mr Bingley?”

“I mean I have been chatting with Mr Bingley. A delightful young man who will be joining us for a barbeque this evening!”

This was too much for Mrs Bennet to take in all at once! Joy overwhelmed her, and words for once failed her. Instead, she leapt up and, to the delight of the beach, as one onlooker said, “gave the poor chap a right smacker!”

Chapter 3

Mrs Bennet and the girls spent the morning discussing what the barbeque would consist of, only to be quashed in their enthusiasm by a message received on Mr Bennet’s phone from young Mr Bingley, informing them he had made a diary error and would in fact be in Dartmouth that evening and unable to join them. Mrs Bennet was most vexed and commented that she hoped he was not going to be one of those young men who was constantly flitting from one thing to another and could never be trusted to make up his mind. Her anxieties, however, were assuaged when Mr Bennet read out the remainder of the message.

“Soz, Mr Bonnet, but will be back 2 Salcombe 2morrow with friends on 62ft yacht Pemberley. All invited for drinks. Bingley.”

“A sixty-two-foot yacht! He must be a very wealthy young man!” exclaimed Mrs Bennet in delight, quite forgetting her anxiety about his flightiness.

Discussion now transferred from the barbeque to what one should wear for drinks at noon on a sixty-two-foot yacht.

“I shall wear like my new pink sundress from Fat Face,” declared Kitty. “Although I have only worn it like once, I have seen many a young man turn their heads to stare at me.”

“In horror,” concluded Lydia.

“Beast,” retorted Kitty tearfully. “Mother, tell Lydia not to be so mean.”

“I think you look most fetching in pink, Kitty dear,” said Mrs Bennet, “and, Lydia, you must wear your yellow satin with the little matching bandanna.”

“Yellow, Mother? Joke on!” retorted Lydia. “No, I will wear Kitty’s pink. I look so much more glamourous in it than she does!”

“What! Have you, like, dared to try it on?” Kitty sat up in horror.

“Only once—and it suited me perfectly.”

“Really. How childish you girls are,” interjected Mary. “I, for one, will not be taking up such an invitation. I have my physics and my future to consider.”

“Whateva,” snorted Lydia, and the conversation continued in such a vein for some time.

The eldest two Bennet girls took the opportunity to slip away and enjoy a deep, meaningful conversation while strolling along the beach.

“How Lydia and Kitty go on,” laughed Jane.

“They drive me to distraction,” replied Lizzy, picking up a smooth, flat pebble and skimming it across the calm sea. “But you, Jane, why, you have the patience of an angel.”