Buch lesen: «A Cornish Cottage by the Sea»

3

Day 133: Wednesday, 14^th March

St Aidan, Cornwall

Epic Achievement: Finding Cornwall.

‘Periwinkle Cottage, first on the left down Saltings Lane – this is the one!’

I’m looking at a rambling stone cottage next to the lane, its shiny slate roof and chimneys etched against the sky, one windy field back from the cliff edge, but the latticed front porch we’ve pulled up at is just like it looked in the pictures Mum showed me. I’ve been repeating the address under my breath since we left Bath this morning and my woozy head feels like I’ve crossed continents not counties. It’s the furthest I’ve travelled in a while, but it was important to hold out and stay independent on this one. Thanks to Dad’s mate Hal, an Uber driver, I’ve dodged the embarrassment of being a thirty-something getting dropped off by my parents. For the first time in ages I almost feel like a fully fledged adult again.

As we drove into St Aidan along the seafront there was time to take in the long stretch of the bay and the strings of lights being blown around between the blue painted lamp posts. As the sea spray lashed across the taxi windscreen and I peeped out at the clusters of random cottages with their pink and white render clinging onto the hillside, the tiny butterfly flutters I’d had in my stomach all the way here turned to flapping. We passed the neat harbourside houses, the lines of boats bobbing along the quayside, the cockle sellers’ sheds shut up against the winter winds, then wound up the narrow cobbled roads, where emporiums full of surfboards and neon-coloured T-shirts rubbed shoulders with patisseries and cafés and even a gorgeous upmarket wedding shop. We passed houses with small paned windows and bright front doors, and with every corner the car swung around there was a new glimpse of sea between the rooftops. And then we came out onto the top of the hill to find fields edged with rough stone walls, and as we turned into the lane the narrow tarmac road became a rough track, and the first cottage on the left was the one. And now I’m actually here there’s an entire flock of seagull wings battering my chest.

As I jump out and wrestle the taxi door closed I can’t help notice that the bright Cornish sun my mum promised is missing. When I turn to gasp at the hugeness of the sea over the cliff edge beyond the next field, instead of being blue and sparkly the water is blacker than the wide, stormy sky. But for now I don’t give a damn that it’s nothing like the azure postcard views in my head – what matters is I’m here, I’ve done it! And, better still, for the first time since the day I jumped out of that plane, I’m feeling a wonderful lift of achievement. That has to be a good sign.

‘My bags will be fine here. Thanks for everything, Hal.’

I know he’s rushing off to his next job, so I clamber over the pile of abandoned paint pots and stepladders heaped in the porch, give the ship’s bell by the door a loud jangle, then step back to wait.

Ideally I’d like to get off the lane as soon as possible so no one sees how much crap I’ve brought with me, but also because I try to keep my mum’s bags on wheels under wraps at all times. When Marcus and I split he kept all the designer cases, probably because they were all his. Wacky neon luggage might be great at baggage collection for someone my parents’ age, but as far as style goes I’m dying here. Not that I’m one of those ‘must have every label’ people, but a woman has to have some standards.

Hal’s already back in the car and I’m still here next to my bag pile, so I give another tug on the bell rope and wave him off. By the time he’s pulling out onto the main road again I’m remembering Mum mentioning my aunt and her afternoon naps, and how I had to go straight on in if no one answered. So I turn the door knob, giving it a shove, then, when it doesn’t move, I try the bell again but this time I ring it much harder and longer and even louder. Hal said we made good time and my aunt might well have nipped out to get something tasty for tea. Knowing how chatting runs in the family, I could be here all day.

But I’m on a roll here. This is the new, brave, Cornish version of me – I’m not going to let anything as small as a locked door stand in my way. When my mum talked about the fabulous healing sea air in St Aidan she somehow missed out that it would blow my face off. I clamp my hands on my scalp to save the last of my messy up-do, step out into the wind and take in the long stone cottage. I run my gaze along the higgledy row of salt-spattered windows to check for a light shining into the late afternoon gloom, but there’s no flowers or plants on the windowsills and most of the blinds are down. My gaze stops at a narrow sash window where the central bars don’t quite line up. It’s a sure sign that the latch isn’t on, and as my fingers close on one of the stepladders on the porch the choice is clear. I can wait down here until I get blown out to sea – which will probably happen in the next few seconds, given the gale – or I can nip in through the window and have the kettle boiling in time for when the cakes arrive. The message was to let myself in, and that’s exactly what I’ll be doing. The only difference will be that I’ll be arriving through an upstairs window instead of the downstairs door. So long as I whip off my shoes the moment I’m through, my aunt won’t have anything to grumble about.

The window is at a half level so it’s not even that high, and the ladders are light and extendable. A few seconds later I’ve shimmied up to find it’s as I thought – the catch is off, and as I push on the bottom sash it trundles upwards. As I launch myself off the ladder and into the gap it leaves, what I’m thinking most is that I’ll have to tell my aunt to be more careful to lock her windows in future. But then something more important takes over.

You know those times when you pick up a pair of jeans in a shop and they look big enough, massive even. Then you get in the fitting room and try to pull them up, but somehow there’s a complete mismatch between the size they appear and the size they actually are and, no matter how much you wrench, they’ll only come up to your knees. That’s what happens with me and the window. As I dive for the hole it looks plenty big enough, but I plunge as far as my waist before sticking fast. There’s plenty of room above, so it’s my width that’s wedged. And right at the moment my ribcage sticks, something else not so good happens too – I look down the wall inside and realise the window’s way above the floor in a double height hall, so even if I did flip in like a seal as planned I’d be hurling myself into thin air rather than onto some wonderfully sturdy floorboards.

And just when I’m kicking my legs against the wall in a wild attempt to get free, thinking how things couldn’t possibly get any worse, there’s a shout from outside.

‘WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?’

It’s a guy and, unless my aunt arrived out of nowhere, he has to be talking to me. I freeze as I try to think of some words to explain but I’ve only got as far as a whimper when he starts again.

‘BREAKING AND ENTERING. SCARING THE ELDERLY. YOU’RE NOT GETTING AWAY WITH THIS!’

My aunt would be mortified to be called elderly, and she’s being so kind having me to stay, so I’m already bristling on her behalf. I manage to screw my head around and catch sight of some shoulders down below, bursting out of a beaten-up denim jacket, and yell down a reply. ‘What the hell’s it got to do with you?’

‘Ever heard of Neighbourhood Watch? Well, I’m from next door.’

I feel my chest implode, although it can’t have deflated too much as I’m still stuck. ‘Okay, Mr Nosey-Neighbour, thanks for the concern. I rang the bell but no one came, the front door was locked, so I’m letting myself in.’

The deep notes of his voice turn high with disbelief. ‘Digging yourself in deeper with every word. EVERYONE knows the front door’s round the back – this part of the house is shut up.’

And damn that I didn’t work that out for myself. ‘But I’m visiting my aunt.’ I meant it to be less of a wail.

‘Good luck to her with that if this is how you carry on.’ There’s a moment’s hesitation, then he goes in for the kill. ‘So which aunt would that be?’

‘I … I … I …’ I remembered the name of the cottage all the way. ‘I’ll know … as soon as she reminds me.’

‘Nice try.’ There’s a loud snort. ‘We’ll see about that once you’re on the ground – let’s have you down that ladder NOW, please.’

‘There’s nothing I’d love more …’ if only I wasn’t squeaking ‘… but I’m stuck.’

‘Now I’ve heard it all.’

There’s a scrape of the ladder on the wall, the creak of metal, then a sharp yank on my belt. Next thing, the gale is lashing my ears and my ribs are free, but now I’m being crushed between the ladder and what my bestie Bella would call a ‘hard, hot human’.

Strictly speaking, when a woman says a guy is ‘hot’ it’s shorthand for him having eleven key qualities; stuff like empathy and generosity count just as much as looks and muscle definition when it comes to heat. When I grab a quick glance behind me, all I’m taking in is some tousled brown hair, eyes that match and a seriously sexy voice, even if it is coming out with all the wrong words. Enough to say, from what’s accidentally pressing against my back, we can mark him down as fit and ripped enough for Bella. Between us, her ‘hot’ only has about three tick boxes – she’s never that fussed about integrity or a sense of humour.

As for me, I’m avoiding every kind of guy until I get back in touch with my fast comebacks and my ‘old’ self is as I used to be. In any case this one’s just seen my two worst assets – my bum and my luggage – so I’d be a lost cause even if he wasn’t out of my league.

So, for my next trick, all I have to do is to work out how to disentangle myself here and reach the ground without falling off the ladder and making even more of an arse of myself than I have already. Further down the track I can see a boy kicking the grass on the verge, hands rammed in the pockets of a blue puffer coat. A small dog skittering at his feet. And suddenly there’s another figure too, rushing forward, hand shading her eyes, peering up at me as she shrills, ‘Edie? Is that you?’

‘Aunty …?’ She doesn’t even look like she’s dressed and, worse still, there’s no sign of any bags of cake at all.

‘I’m Aunty Josephine – you remember me, don’t you?’ If you leave a gap where a word should be, someone will usually fill it in for you. As for remembering her, it’s only a couple of weeks since she visited us in Bath, so who knows what she’s implying with that. ‘What on earth are you doing up there, Edie? And why have you come with a window cleaner?’

‘He’s not a …’ The details are too confusing; I need to skip to the important bit. ‘When you didn’t answer the door, I thought I’d come in through the window.’

I stick my chin out and stare down at the crinkly bits at the edge of those dark chocolate eyes just below me. ‘Aunty JOSIE – is that the answer you were looking for? Maybe now you can stop banging on about breaking and entering?’

His hand on the ladder has wide knuckles and broad thumbs and, worst of all, it’s still there, making my insides fizz a little when it should be moving downwards. He’s staring at me through narrowed eyes. ‘Great, so now we’ve sorted that, what’s your status, exactly?’

I might not always remember what my mum’s sister is called, but I know the answer to this one. ‘I’m happily single and determined to stay that way, thank you. Why?’

‘That makes two of us then, but I’m not about to propose.’ There’s a twist to his lips. ‘All I meant was, are you a tourist or a local? You’ve got a hell of a lot of luggage if you’re only here for a weekend. Unless that’s your swag pile down there?’

It’s good he cleared that up then. No need for the ground to open up and swallow me at all. If he’s going to take a life history, I’d rather he did it when my butt wasn’t rammed against his chest.

‘Actually I’m here to … er … help with this place.’ Three hours of hanging onto the name and now it’s gone. ‘I’ll be here for a while.’

‘Wonderful, well, if you’re a long-stay prisoner remember there are barns further along and the delivery lorries are extra wide.’ He stops to let that sink in. ‘So best not park on the lane if your car is shiny or precious.’

‘Thanks for that.’ I’m not going to share that my car is both of those things, but that sadly it won’t be here to get in his way. ‘You might like to think about yellow lines for next season then?’ I’m proud of myself for remembering those enough to toss them in here. Apart from anything, it’s a dirt track. The paint would never stick.

He pulls a face. ‘Forget yellow, in summer this lane has virtual double reds. You’ve no idea how much time we waste towing trippers’ cars into the yard so they don’t get demolished out here.’ His eyes narrow again. ‘How about I help you into the house with those cases?’

I’d rather expire than accept his help after how aggressively he came on just before. ‘Thanks all the same, where I’m from women carry their own bags.’ And are red lines even a thing? That’s the trouble with mind blanks; they make it harder to sort the truth from bullshit. ‘Are we done here – can we get down now?’

He finally shifts, springs to the ground with one jump, gives a whistle, and the dog’s legs start to scrabble in the dirt. As I ease my own way down the ladder and step off the bottom rung into the mud I grin at the child, but all I get back is the barest flicker of an eyebrow. I’m ransacking the filing cabinets in my brain for the best way to say ‘goodbye and get lost’ to someone who accused me of robbing my relative. But he isn’t leaving at all. He’s off up the ladder again.

‘Excuse me, what the eff are you doing now?’

He gives a shrug as he heaves the sash back down. ‘Just closing the window so we don’t get any more random intruders making opportunist raids.’

I’m shaking my head. ‘It was NOT random. I was actually trying to put the kettle on.’

He’s down again and swinging the ladder back onto the ground. ‘You’ll need to lock that from inside. And next time you’re at the door and desperate for tea, I suggest you take a look around the back first.’ Patronising doesn’t begin to cover it. ‘If you’re here to stay, no doubt we’ll be seeing you.’

On balance, I’m thinking totally not. The words ‘over my dead body’ just popped into my head, and I’m liking the way that sounds. But my mouth is moving all by itself. Lately it has this Tourette’s tendency and, even though I try to stop it, I come out with the kind of things that are at best a surprise and at worst downright embarrassing, with no input on my part.

‘Love you, bye then.’ There you go! I swear that had nothing to do with me. It’s a catch phrase from a phone-in I used to listen to in the car driving between building sites. They used it to get the callers off the line. Totally indiscriminate, moderately cringey, but it was worth saying if only for the shock in his eyes as he turns to leave. But if it got rid of him I’ll take that as my first result! I’d rather not have an audience as I stagger off dragging Day-Glo bags as big as ponies.