Edie Browne's Cottage by the Sea Read online

  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.

  4

  Day 133: Wednesday, 14th March

  Periwinkle Cottage

  Epic Achievement: Finding the kettle.

  ‘This way, Edie.’

  I’m following Aunty Josie as she pushes through a picket gate at the far end of the house, trundling my biggest case behind me. Round the back of the cottage there are weeds between the stone setts and the pale tangle of last year’s grass, but at least we’re sheltered from the worst of the wind. I pause to take in the pale grey stone of the cottage wrapping around a pretty courtyard, a walled garden beyond, small paned window frames crying out for paint. As we head past a painted conservatory to a door in the far corner, it’s easy to see that the ship’s bell is so far away from here I might as well have rung it out at sea. I follow her into the back porch, let go of my bags, then dip in for a hug.

  ‘Well, Aunty Josie, it’s great to be here at last.’ As I go in to rub my cheek against hers I wonder if she still smells of Nina Ricci.

  L’Air du Temps. In pale lemon packages. With the prettiest frosted flying doves on the bottle tops. When we were kids Tash and I used to fight to sit at her dressing table. It was so exotic compared to our mum’s, and always rammed with fancy fragrances. That happens when your husband travels for work and heads for the shop in every airport he passes through, and never forgets a birthday or an anniversary. Unlike our dad, who rarely flies and doesn’t know what day it is, even though he’s great in other ways. Which was a good thing, because I can’t ever imagine Aunty Josie buying perfume for herself. As I squeeze her into a hug I can feel every rib through what I’d swear are striped pyjamas.

  I smile at her. ‘It’s a lovely place you’ve got here.’ Or it could be, with some TLC, which is where I come in. I’m looking at the outbuildings beyond the garden wall. ‘Are they yours too?’

  ‘Yes, all ours. Or rather, all mine.’ She gives a sigh. ‘Harry had such big plans.’ His whole working life Harry dreamed of living by the sea. Him dying within weeks of them getting here was tragic. For both of them.

  I pull her in for another hug. ‘You were lucky to find it.’ In this corner of the world where the coastline wiggles around the harbours and villages, everyone wants outbuildings and a view of the sea.

  ‘There’s so much to do, I’m holed up in one room.’ Which probably explains all those closed blinds and blank windows too.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ As I squeeze her arm I realise it’s a change to be the one doing the comforting. As I drag my bags and follow her inside, the sight of the kitchen makes my mouth drop open.

  ‘Let’s have some tea.’ As she fills the kettle she disappears against the riot of hydrangeas on the wallpaper. Only her feet, in first position in silver pumps, give away where she’s standing.

  ‘Someone liked flowers.’ It’s what’s known in the trade as migraine wallpaper.

  She shakes her head. ‘The wallpaper was how we managed to buy it – most viewers didn’t get past the hall.’

  ‘I’ll get the milk.’ I’d make a grab for my tinted glasses but I don’t want to upset her, so I head for the soothing white of the fridge, hoping to find a sugar hit too. As I swing open the door I realise my double whammy mistake. Not only is there no milk; unless you go for colourless smoothies, nothing in there actually looks edible.

  ‘Will green tea be okay? It’s great for your yin and yang.’ The set of her mouth tells me this isn’t up for discussion. My mum does the same thing, but she’ll throw in a smile too. When I think about it, the joking around always came from Harry, but it’s a bit late to remember that now.

  ‘Have you gone low-fat?’

  ‘There’s a milkman. I’ll get him to call again now you’re here.’ She brushes an invisible crumb off her knee. ‘I’m actually eliminating this week.’

  Which explains why the milkman lost the will to live. ‘That wrecks my plan to cheer us up with a fish supper.’

  She pushes a steaming cup towards me. ‘I could take off the batter and you could have my chips.’

  Chips. Of course. That’s what they’re called. So far I’ve reconnected with the words ‘chocolate’, ‘cake’ and ‘custard’ without difficulty. Now she’s reminded me, I’m feeling the gap where my stomach should be.

  ‘You’ve still got your car?’ Mum already checked. I know I’m here for the peace and quiet, but this would be a nightmare place to be stranded without one. If we zoom we could be down to the fish shop in no time.

  ‘It hasn’t been out for a while.’ The corners of her mouth dip even further. ‘But when we do get it started, you will do the driving?’

  Shit. ‘Sorry, Aunty – Aunty …’

  ‘Josie.’

  ‘I’m not driving. That’s why I came in the Uber.’ Aunty Josie. I need to get that in my head. As for my licence, we’re all hoping I’ll get that back in a few months. Or maybe a bit longer. Which reminds me. ‘Does the man from down the lane bother you?’

  Her nostrils flare. ‘It’s fine – the delivery drivers all know to leave the lane clear, I don’t often see him.’ Which is the best news yet.

  Deliveries. The alarm bell clanging in my head is louder than the one outside. ‘When did you last go out?’ I watch her pull her top around her as she works it out.

  ‘I’ve been up to visit your mum every couple of months, you know that.’

  ‘But you do get dressed apart from that?’ She has to.

  ‘I never go without undies.’ She drags in a breath and sits up very straight. ‘Your mum and I both have a soft spot for Cath Kidston sleepwear. I expect you’re the same?’

  ‘You got navy and red stripes from Cath Kidston?’ Loungewear used to be my first choice, but lately pyjamas in the day make me feel too much like an invalid. And I might be confused, but I’m damn sure those stripes aren’t a colourway I ever saw in the Bath shop.

  A flash of guilt crosses her face. ‘Actually these are Harry’s.’ Her hands are in the pockets and as she winds the jacket tight around her hips her nose goes up in defiance. ‘They’re warm. He had so many pairs I might as well get my wear out of them.’

  ‘Great.’ I’m sounding the kind of bright that goes with pretending that her wearing my dead uncle’s pyjamas is entirely expected and everyday normal. Considering it’s off-the-scale bonkers, I have to ask. ‘So, when did you last put your coat on and pop into St Aidan?’

  ‘It was the first meeting at Trenowden’s Solicitors, to deal with the will.’ She pauses and winds the wedding ring that’s loose on her finger. ‘George from there has been very good. Since then he’s brought things to me.’

  ‘But that has to be ages ago?’

&nbs
p; ‘Only a year and a bit.’ Her tone brightens. ‘You know what it’s like. Harry was the extrovert, I’m hardly going to go out on my own when I don’t know anyone.’

  This is way worse than any of us thought.

  She takes a sip of her tea. ‘Anyway, enough about me. You’re looking well.’

  I don’t tell her how often I hear that, or how it makes me feel like a pretender every time. ‘I’ll show you my magic secret.’ I smile and whip out my make-up bag.

  She comes in closer. ‘Laura Geller Balance-n-Brighten? How does that help with your brain?’

  I can’t help laughing. ‘It’s not for my head, just for my cheeks.’ My make-up bag’s never been so full. When other parts let you down, how you look matters more. That’s another reason I’m welded to my pink and black dogtooth coat and my Audrey Hepburn slim tailored slacks.

  ‘You mean for contouring? I’ll have to try some of that.’ She gives a knowing nod. ‘I might not have bothered with proper clothes, but however bad I’ve felt, I’ve always put my face on.’

  ‘You didn’t run out of powder?’

  She shakes her head. ‘You must have heard of Amazon Prime? It’s well worth the extra, they deliver all the way to the French windows in the day room.’

  ‘Is that where we’re going now?’ I dump my tea down the sink, then follow her into a space where the giant poppies and ferns furling between black bars on the wall make it feel like being locked in a cage in a hot-house.

  She edges onto a cream linen sofa. ‘You’ll be used to lavish decor like this with your work?’

  I didn’t ever work on the designs as such, but we never let our statement prints get out of control like they are here. How can I put it without being downright rude?

  ‘Our designs are … less in your face.’ Less likely to make you gasp for all the wrong reasons.

  ‘A crumbly cottage by the sea was Harry’s dream, not mine.’ Her frown drives the last of her lightness away. ‘I’d swap back to my Harpenden Tudor in a heartbeat if only I could.’