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At Seaspray Cottage

Thunderstorms and Surprise Rainbows

Thursday

‘So what do you think, Clemmie? Can you remember any of it?’

Sophie and I are standing outside Seaspray Cottage with our backs to the turning tide as we take in the peeling render, the slender bay windows, and a slate roof that’s shining like hammered silver against the cornflower sky. The paintwork is weathered to the colour of the beach and the letters on the name board are so faded the only way we know we’re in the right place is the balcony above that looks so precarious it could be held up by invisible hooks to the sky. As we make our way towards the front door the slant of the steps makes me stagger.

‘When George said “past its sell by date”, that was an understatement. It’s shot to frigg, end of story. Time to walk away?’ I wasn’t expecting to be proved right quite this soon.

Sophie sounds thoughtful. ‘A lot of people think patina is characterful. In any case, the cottage is bound to get all the weather because it’s placed to get the views in three directions.’

I’m scrunching up my face as I wrack my brain. ‘I don’t remember it being at a dead end.’ Somehow the cottage is marooned beyond the quayside where the road runs out into a small path across the dunes that cuts through to the sea front. With every wind gust the sand’s blowing up the beach, over the low boundary wall, and drifting into the garden that extends back beyond the sides of the cottage. Although it’s small in scale, with its three storeys and repeating windows, it’s larger than it looks at first.

Sophie’s suppressing a smile. ‘As it’s so close to the sea I’m guessing the name is more real than romantic.’

Worse and worse. ‘You mean the water actually blasts against the windows?’ Not that I was enthusiastic to begin with, but imagining cold brine hammering on the glass on stormy days is making my shivers seismic.

She laughs. ‘Don’t worry, it’s only Seaspray Cottage, not Splash House or Tidal Wave Towers.’ Shifting Maisie in her arms, Sophie fishes in her bag for the keys. ‘Now we’ve come this far we might as well go in and see the dereliction inside.’

Instead of the anticipated struggle with a rust encrusted lock, the key turns easily, and the door swings open without a creak. Then as we step into a pale buff hallway filled with splashes of sunlight the familiarity is so jarring my feet stop moving before I’ve stepped off the neat coir door mat.

‘The smell’s just the same. How strange is that?’

Sophie wrinkles her nose and somehow manages not to crash into my back. ‘Fresh salty air … and the beeswax on those ancient floor boards?’

My words come slowly, as if I’m dragging them from very far away. ‘With a hint of rosemary and thyme … because that’s what grew in the herb patch at the side of the cottage. They used to mix the leaves into the polish.’ There isn’t time to wonder how I know that because I’m darting forwards again. ‘And there’s the staircase, at the end of the hall.’ Even though I can’t see past the first flight of steps, I already know. ‘On the way to the top floor it winds so tightly the steps run out to nothing at the edge. And there are creaky bits on the landing where the boards groan.’ Like timbers on an old ship. Wasn’t that what Laura used to say?

Sophie’s giving me a searching look. ‘The paintwork’s better in here too. Are we going for a look?’

My diffident shrug is misleading. The weird thing is, I couldn’t stay away now even if I wanted to. I’m trying to play down that there’s an invisible force drawing me upwards. ‘We might as well. Before we do the sensible thing and leave.’ My fingers are already stroking the silky smoothness of the bannister rail.

I wind my way up two floors so fast that by the time Sophie arrives, panting from carrying Maisie, I’m already at the landing window that opens onto the balcony, staring across the expanse of sand to where the sea is glinting way down the beach.

‘I’m ignoring that stupendous view for now. Here you go … flat six.’ Sophie waves another key, and one click later the door on the left of the window is ajar.

I hold my breath as I tiptoe in. Then as I look around at a room crammed with cosy sofas and tables and shelves full of books I let out a gasp. ‘Oh my, the same furniture’s still here, it’s like I’ve flipped back thirty years.’ Whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t to step into a time warp. Although up until this moment, just like with the thyme, and the creaky stairs, I’d mostly forgotten. And obviously now I’m seeing it as an adult, I’m appreciating the whole arty Bohemian patchwork of the room that I never saw as a child. ‘It’s still got the same cosy warmth, but I never realised it was quite this pretty or perfect.’

Sophie’s patting a threadbare silk cushion, and fingering the corner of a stripy crocheted throw. ‘Somehow I assumed it would be empty. We were wrong about the magnolia too.’

I’m blinking at the paint colours. There’s raspberry and peacock and emerald and purple and orange and turquoise, although they’re so worn and faded they merge like a water colour painting. ‘It’s like someone’s tried every sample pot in the range.’ Although that’s wrong, because every clash works perfectly. I push through a scuffed turquoise door into a tiny hall and on into the next room, where the paint I can see in the gaps between an entire wall of pictures is shades of cerise.

Sophie follows me, nodding. ‘Antique pink for the bedroom, you can’t argue with that. And a high painted brass bedstead covered in silk quilts, how comfy does that look?’

I’m with her on that but I don’t reply because I’ve already moved on to the bathroom. I let out a cry when I see the freestanding bath, then smile at the high cistern hanging on the wall above the loo. ‘I had to climb up on a stool to pull that chain, and then run like the wind because the flush sounds like thunder. And those claws on the bath feet used to give me goosebumps.’ We pass another smaller greener box room, and go back through to the living room.

Sophie’s shaking her head in awe at the mismatched rugs. ‘This makes me want to ditch neutral and be more adventurous with colour.’ Her farmhouse is a mix of understated taste and expensive perfection, all in tones of white. Understandably, it took her and Nate years of effort and shit loads of cash to achieve. It probably only looks so beautiful and effortless and calming and uncluttered because every last knob, cushion and curtain tie has had the arse designed off it. ‘So what haven’t we seen yet?’

My hand’s already on the door knob at the other end of the living room. ‘I think this must be the kitchen.’ Then, as I go in and take in the shelves filled with bowls and bright coloured plates and mugs and dishes, and the rows of hanging saucepans over the range cooker, it hits me. ‘I know what’s missing here today. Laura loved to cook, so the flat was always filled with the smell of fresh baking.’

Sophie shifts Maisie onto her other hip, and leans across the windowsill to peep through one of the round topped windows. ‘Amazing, you can see all the way to the houses at the end of St Aidan bay from here.’ She turns to the rectangular table, squeezed in the centre. ‘And look at those mismatched chairs and those fabulous patterned tiles by the sink.’

I can’t help grinning. ‘George mentioned it was worn out, but you have to love the petrol blue paint, and the hotch potch of cupboards, and the way that apple green dresser is properly distressed from years of use.’ It’s also groaning under the weight of a thousand recipe books. I run my hand over the work surface between the pottery sink and the cooker and shake my head as the memories come rushing back. ‘This was where I used to sit when I helped Laura make butterfly buns in flowery paper cases.’ Although mainly I was interested in licking out the mixing bowl. It’s funny, although it’s decades since I thought about that, I can imagine the vanilla sweetness of the buttercream and the crunch of the hundreds-and-thousands sprinkles as if it was yesterday.

‘Probably the last time you went into a kitchen, was it?’ Sophie gives me a gentle dig with her elbow. ‘Until you stuck those macaroons together yesterday?’ The mermaids never pass up an opportunity to point out how shit I am at cooking, although I get that from my mum. She’s so bad Harry’s in charge at home, and before Harry we relied on stab and zap and pitying neighbours. Even so, when it comes to eating, mum and I are equally enthusiastic. You only have to look at my Insta pics to know that. #gateauxofinstagram. The last four months I’ve made it my business to visit and test out most of the patisseries in Paris. I let out a sigh as I think of those fabulous glazed fruit tarts and my favourite mille-feuille custard pastry stacks, topped with the prettiest feathered icing.

I wander back through for a last look at the living room. As I perch on the edge of a velvet chair and stare out through the double doors that open to the outside from the living room, Sophie sinks down on a sofa bursting with cushions, and drops Maisie onto her knee.

‘Tempted to go out on the balcony?’

‘No chance.’ I peer at the gaps between the sun-bleached planks. ‘I’d rather sky dive, at least that way I’d be falling with a parachute.’ I let out another sigh, because I hadn’t expected to care about some rotten wood, let alone be disappointed at not getting to stand out there and feel the wind whipping through my hair.

Sophie sends me one of those searching glances of hers that pierce right through you. ‘So has coming here made you change your mind about rushing into selling?’

I’m playing for time here, avoiding the issue. ‘Have you noticed how the sea changes colour? It was way greener as we came in.’ Now we’re done, I’m strangely loath to leave. The dreamy part of me would like to forget about going back to give George the keys and sit up here and watch the sea all day. But the firm and practical voice in my head is shouting at me very loudly, telling me to get the hell out of here and leave George to sort the sale.

Sophie frowns. ‘It’s strange. When we arrived, I expected to have to work my butt off doing the hard sell. In fact, I haven’t said a thing, yet there you are in your red flowery dress, looking like you’ve been here all your life.’

I owe it to Sophie to be honest. ‘Actually, now I’m here I don’t know what to think.’ I’ve tried to take an over view rather than zooming in on the small stuff, but now I’m closer I can’t help focusing on the parade of tiny wooden penguins marching along the shelf edge in front of the books. I don’t even feel my arm move, and my hand has landed on the blue painted box next to them.

Sophie leans to see. ‘Is that the musical box you told me about?’

My fingers are already twisting the winder on the back. ‘Remember those musical jewelry boxes with the spinning pop-up ballerinas in net tutus that Plum gave us all when we were kids?’

Sophie laughs. ‘The ones that played tunes from the Sound of Music? Mine was Climb Every Mountain, Nell had Doh a Deer, yours played My Favourite Things, and Plum had Edelweiss. Plum had to keep hers shut because she used to cry buckets every time she heard it.’ Sophie can recall the tiniest detail.

‘And this one is …’ I’m bluffing. Unlike Sophie, I haven’t got the foggiest what I’m going to hear. But I open the lid and the tune comes tinkling out.

She gets it on the third note. Somewhere Over the Rainbow? That fits in perfectly with all the colours somehow.’

Like everything else, now I’m hearing it, it couldn’t have been anything else. ‘And there’s one of those blurry Kodachrome colour photos that makes the world look so old.’ I overcome my reluctance to intrude, but as I pick the photo out of the box I see a blurry dark auburn woman cuddling a toddler with a mass of ginger curls and a blue dress with butterflies I recognise from the picture on my mum’s dressing table. ‘Oh my, that’s me. And I think that must be Laura.’ Laura’s face is so full of love as she looks down on me I’m swallowing back a lump in my throat.

Sophie’s hand lands on my arm and she squeezes. ‘Pictures of generations are lovely. It couldn’t be any more tender, could it?’

I sniff and rub my eye. ‘How could I ever have forgotten how comfy it was to be wrapped up on her knee?’ All that love from years ago, and it’s rushing back, warming my chest.

Sophie’s first sympathetic pat gives way to a triumphant shout. ‘And finally we get to find out where your red hair came from. But jeez, just think, if you’d had your way and had George send in the clearance people straight away, you’d never have found that.’

‘You’re right.’ I’m feeling confused.

She jumps up so fast poor Maisie shoots her arms out. ‘That settles it. You can’t walk away. Not until you’ve had a look through everything.’

I let out a long groan. ‘But the place is rammed.’ The picture is like a gem, but even with the promise of more treasure, the thought of so many rooms packed with someone else’s possessions is overwhelming.

She brushes away my protest. ‘If we all come to help, it won’t take long.’ She’s happily including Plum and Nell in her offer too. ‘This is way more fun than any Bumps and Babies or Singles’ stuff. And once you know exactly what bits of your history are here, then you can make an informed choice about what to keep. And then throw the rest away if you must.’ This is what Sophie’s like. When she gets that dynamic gleam in her eye, there’s no point blocking her. Even if she is pushing me towards the door. ‘We’ll see George now, and take it from there.’

‘Great,’ I say, as I linger on the stairs, meaning anything but. As for this particular bit of history, however heartwarming a picture of me with Laura is, there are other parts where I’d rather not be digging. For every lovely bit the blank parts I don’t know about are way scarier. If I’m feeling ambivalent, it’s because however astonishing the riot of colour and the amazing space is upstairs, it’s not a neutral place. It’s like a step into the unknown because there’s no knowing what will turn up. What’s certain is, if I choose to spend more time here I’ll need to be prepared to be brave. For someone who habitually runs away, I haven’t had much practice at manning up. And I’m not entirely sure I want to start.

Sophie is hanging back, examining the letters on the tenants’ post table. ‘There’s one here addressed to a Mr Hobson.’ There are times when I wish she was less thorough.

‘It won’t be the same one we know.’ My hand is on the door handle, and I’m already looking forward to the breeze off the sea battering my cheeks.

She wrinkles her nose. ‘As Nate was saying, Bay Holdings are getting everywhere.’

Which sounds like one more reason for me to get as far away as I can, as fast as I can.

4

In Laura’s flat at Seaspray Cottage

Bacon and salty dogs

Friday

A lot can happen in a short time when Sophie’s on the case. When we get back to the office, George advises leaving it a week or two before I make a final decision on the flat. One wise man, and the pressure’s off me. Then I spend Thursday afternoon doing a trial on the front desk at Trenowden, Trenowden etcetera. In fact, the name is misleading because it makes the office sound way more busy than it is. As soon as I’m on the other side of the desk I discover that in the St Aidan office there’s only George, me and whoever is in for appointments. By five thirty I’ve learned how to push enough buttons to work the phone system – three – and managed to convince George I’m not going to frighten his clients away. He offers me enough hours to keep me in takeaways and we agree to flexible temporary, with a day’s notice on either side. For someone as wary of commitment as me it’s a comfortable arrangement. Luxurious even.

I turn up and keep his chair warm for the whole of Friday morning, discover three hours’ commitment is do-able, then nip to the bakery to buy a BLT cob for lunch and wander along the quay to Seaspray Cottage. I’m planning a quiet afternoon of pottering, then the girls are popping in later, after work.

This time I manage not to fall up the steps on the way in and second time around it’s way less unnerving letting myself into the flat. I grab a plate from the kitchen and find my favourite velvet chair. Then because it’s so warm I unlock the window leading onto the balcony, and open the door a crack.

I’m basking in my sun spot, trying how it feels to be somewhere so huge with so much lovely stuff that’s entirely mine. For someone whose lived out of a backpack for the best part of fifteen years it’s an alien concept. And yet with the luminous light and the vibrant colours and the beautiful fabrics it’s a wonderful place to be. The kind you never want to leave. It’s a bit like the time we all went off to a high-end spa in Bath for Sophie’s hen weekend. The suite we booked into was so blissful we were pinching ourselves to make sure the downy four posters and palatial bathrooms were actually real. At the flat, while I’m tingling because there’s so much space, it’s also deliciously cosy and familiar. As I soak up the warmth and the place wraps itself around me, in my head I’m testing out how it would feel to stay here forever. Then I crash back to reality and the ton weight of responsibility that comes with it. The live-in rooms that come with my jobs are usually tiny, but the up side is that the bills and the leaky showers are someone else’s problem. When the most I’ve ever had to maintain is a suitcase, five rooms and a hall is a lot to get my head around. And that’s before I even get on to service charges. I’m mulling and agonising, munching on my sandwich stuffed with salt ’n’ shake crisps, having occasional panic spasms every time I think about meter readings, and watching the walkers down by the water’s edge when a sudden scrabbling outside makes me almost drop my baguette. By the time I’ve licked the mayo off my fingers there’s a big grey dog scratching at the door.

‘Where the heck have you come from?’

Short of being dropped from a helicopter, I can’t think of an answer to that, although it crosses my mind he’s living dangerously. There have to be less precarious places in St Aidan to stand. From under his grey floppy fringe he’s staring at me with the kind of brown soulful eyes that melt your heart in two seconds. Or maybe less.

‘Hey, mate, eyes off my lunch.’ However much I’m melting, I’m too hungry to share.

He bounds, barks, slobbers on the glass. Then he starts barking again, except this time in a crazy ‘won’t take no for an answer’ way.

I’m yelling over the din, shaking my head at his Bambi legs and scrabbling claws. ‘Watch out, the planks are rotten, please stop jumping or you’ll fall through.’ I put my plate on the side table, and as I wrench the door open he bounds straight past me. ‘Nooooooo.’ I let out a wail as he heads for my sandwich but I’m too late. His nose is practically at elbow height, the table might have been made for him. Two gulps later, the plate is empty and my sandwich is ancient history. Then he flops down in the doorway and rests his chin on his paws.

‘Hey, don’t go to sleep there, I’m really not up for a rescue dog.’ I’m staring down at him, working out my next step, when a pair of bare human feet come into view. ‘You might not want to walk there. Those boards could collapse at any moment.’ Feeling like I’m stuck on repeat, I follow the jeans upwards, and hit a soft checked shirt. Then as I come to a rough jaw and some very crinkly dark eyes, I let out a long sigh. ‘Charlie Hobson, what the …?’ Of all the guys on all the balconies, and this one had to turn up on mine. Or rather, Laura’s.

‘Clemmie, what a surprise. I hope Diesel isn’t making a nuisance of himself.’

I take a moment to let my galloping heart rate subside to normal. ‘Not too much but he’s just arrived. So far he’s only wolfed my lunch.’ I’m working hard at making my smile ironic when it hits me if gravity gets the better of him, he could disappear too. ‘Unless you’ve got a death wish maybe you’d better come in …’ He’s the last person I’d choose to invite into the living room, but it has to be a better option than scraping him up off the garden wall in pieces.

One hop, he’s over the dog and we’re standing on the same rug.

As the delicious scent of expensive body spray drifts up my nose, I take a big step backwards. ‘Now you’re both safe maybe you can clear up why you were risking your necks on my balcony?’ As soon as it’s out, I’m cursing the slip.

Charlie’s narrowing one eye. ‘Your balcony? We’re from the flat next door, the balcony’s shared. Do I take it from this you’re the mysterious absentee landlord?’ He shakes his head. ‘George is a dark horse. He could have told us we were going to be neighbours.’

I try not to baulk at the word and put on my best ‘office’ voice, which is still way lighter than his. ‘In a place as small as St Aidan, confidentiality is crucial.’ George gave me ‘the talk’ when he took me on, along with a complementary tube of super-glue to apply with my lip gloss. If this was anyone else, I’d let my smile go. Faced by Charlie’s humourless expression, I stay tight lipped. ‘Apparently, the tiniest piece of information in the wrong ear will be around the town faster than you can say “compromising situation”. And obviously, we can’t have that.’ It would have been useful for me not to be so much in the dark here too. At least then I might have avoided the heart attack I almost had when Charlie invaded my space.

Charlie pulls down the corners of his mouth. ‘If you’ve landed the job at George’s, we’re going to see a lot of each other, I’m in there seeing George most days.’

I try to look less disappointed than I feel at that news. And in line with company policy I don’t press him to find out why the heck he needs to spend so much time visiting his solicitor. ‘Just don’t expect me to talk to you at the office. With George’s list of banned topics, “Hello, can I offer you a coffee?” is the most I’m allowed to say.’ Which is probably damned useful given he’s not exactly easy to talk to.

Charlie’s eyes are boring into me again. ‘So you won’t be asking me how many sugars then?’ If there were the merest hint of a smile, it could be jokey. But there isn’t.

I don’t smile back. ‘Nope, that’s definitely off-limits.’

‘Two.’ He gives a sniff. ‘Just so you’re prepared. Keep that on file, please.’

I can’t ever remember not smiling for this long. Even the pharmacy queue is jollier than this when I’m waiting to pick up Maude’s arthritis medication, and that’s full of ill people. ‘Sweet tooth?’ Although I already know that from the way he hit the macaroons the other evening.

He pulls a face. ‘I’m anyone’s for a piece of cake.’ Then he lets out a sigh. ‘That’s why Diesel was confused before. We used to pop in here most days for tea with Jenny, your former tenant. Her rocky road slice was spectacular, that’s the reason Diesel was hell bent on battering the door down.’

‘You actually knew her?’ I’m intrigued, because thanks to George and his obsession with discretion, I haven’t even got as far as extracting her name from him. Although it’s hard to imagine anyone as tense and gaunt as Charlie ‘popping in’ for ‘cosy chats’.

‘Jenny was an author, but she was more an old friend of your grandmother’s than a tenant. She lived over near Rosehill, but she never stayed over, she just came here every day because the views helped her write. The arrangement suited them both. Jenny used the place until you grew up, and the peppercorn rent went towards any repair costs.’ Despite the sullen expression Charlie is as open as George is guarded.

The more he says, the more my mouth drops open. ‘Go on …’

‘The building wasn’t ever in the greatest shape.’ There’s a questioning frown playing around his forehead as he grinds to a halt. ‘But surely George will have told you all this?’

I give a sudden beam to cover up how much George hasn’t said. ‘Absolutely. But it’s always helpful to get another viewpoint. And she left because …?’

Charlie’s long sigh is presumably for the loss of his friend, not her cake. ‘She was getting on, the two flights of stairs became too much, and she moved south to be closer to one of her sons.’

He rubs his chin. ‘The balcony is perfectly safe by the way. It runs all along the front of the building, so both our flats open onto it. It was repaired before I moved in last year, it’s all in George’s files, the cost was shared between us. You do know about that?’ He’s giving me a searching stare. ‘Believe me, I wouldn’t forget a bill that big.’

‘Too damned right.’ I try to look the right amount of appalled. Which is hard when I don’t know if I’m reacting to a hundred pounds or a hundred thousand. ‘Remind me to go out there and party. Very hard. I need to get my money’s worth before I leave.’

He seems to give a jolt, but a breath later he’s back to reaching over for my empty BLT wrapper. ‘Did you say Diesel ate your sandwich? Give me a minute, I’ll make you another.’

All I have to say here is ‘No’ and I can wave him off along the balcony and out of my day. I know I should be jumping at the chance, if only to let my heart rate get back to normal. Even if he looks grave enough for a funeral plan brochure when he sways he’s still disarmingly close. Another step back, and I’ll topple onto the sofa. On the other hand, the growls coming from my empty stomach are loud enough to have come from Diesel.

However he doesn’t allow me to squeeze in even a two-letter word before he bashes on. ‘I don’t have bacon, but there’s thin sliced ham on the bone, homemade plum and sultana pickle, and some kind of crumbling cheddar matured in a slate cavern. There’s crusty cobs too, and salad. I could throw a ploughman’s picnic together for us.’

I try not to make too much noise as I suck back my drool. Then just as I’m gritting my teeth, resolving to say ‘No’ I catch a hint of a smile playing around his lips and my mouth is moving on its own. ‘Great. Sounds brill.’ And that’s that.

I hold my hands up and admit I’m a slave to my stomach. I also know he’s way too decorative, serious and sure of himself for me to ever hang out with. And I might be a teensy bit of a hypocrite too, accepting snacks from strangers I’d rather run a mile from in normal circumstances. But however off-hand he appears, Charlie Hobson has spilled a pile of proverbial beans, and I can’t help thinking there could be more he can tell me about my grandmother.

But by the time I’ve worked this lot out, Charlie’s long gone. And Diesel has relocated to the sofa with the best view down the beach.