Edie Browne's Cottage by the Sea Read online

  That was nineties mock, not fifteenth century Elizabethan, and Dad insisted the half-timbering was plastic. But the staircase scored a ten on the Cinderella scale, so as kids Tash and I were smitten. It also had a garden so large it could easily have swallowed up our entire cul-de-sac.

  ‘It could be worse.’ Ignoring the paper, the place looks sound enough.

  ‘Worse how?’ Her voice rises to a shriek. ‘It’s dreary and dirty, it’s practically being blown off the clifftop and the nearest John Lewis is counties away.’

  ‘I’m here now, I’ve got this.’ All I need to do is to make the place fit to sell. ‘We’ll have you back to happy Harpenden before you can say Henry the Eighth.’ I only hope I’m not talking bollocks. Me coming through on this is vital for both of us, then we can both move on. But the great thing is, it’s not like my real job where everything’s too hard. This is stuff I can do, and it’s going to be great to feel useful. I’m going to love it here, with the beach and the sea, and no one to judge what I can’t do. We’re a perfect match – Aunty Jo needs the help and someone to jolly her along. I need a place to stay, some company while I get better. Back to how I was.

  ‘It’s very good of you to come.’

  She sounds so uncharacteristically grateful there’s a lump in my throat. My mum’s always been the sister with the less shiny life, and we’re used to being the shabby relations who get looked down on, not the ones who come to the rescue. We’ve never had to help fix things before, because Josie and Harry didn’t have disasters like the rest of us. But she can relax now; the cavalry has come to Cornwall. Give me a few months, I’ll make sure she’s okay again – or at least as okay as you can be when you’ve lost your life partner.

  ‘I’m happy to help.’ Even if I haven’t the first idea how I’m going to cope with the sludge in the fridge or how stubborn and snobby Aunty Thing can be at times, it’s buying me the time I need to get back to how I used to be, and turning her life around too. ‘You know me, I always like a …’ It’s the one word that always escapes me. I’m Zinc Inc Interiors’ some-kind-of manager for the south-east. How the hell do I not know it?

  The worry lines in her brow deepen as she considers. ‘A quest?’

  ‘Quest. That’ll do. You’re my quest.’ I let out a short sigh because, like so many things in my life now, it’s not quite right. And it’s not completely wrong either. But for now it will have to do. ‘Shall we phone for a pizza?’

  5

  Day 134: Thursday, 15th March

  At Periwinkle Cottage

  Epic Achievement: Getting Aunty Josie back out into the world.

  There’s always a fragment of every morning, as I gently slide into consciousness, when, for the first intake of breath, everything feels like it used to do. And then there’s this frantic scramble as my head catches up with my body and, seconds afterwards, I readjust and remember again. I’m Edie Browne. I’m thirty-two. And my life’s been turned on its head.

  When it came to choosing a bedroom last night I went for the oversized rose and daisy garlands. Waking to giant sprigs was jarring, but the orange birds of paradise next door would have been worse, and it would have been worse again if the sun had been streaming in. As it is, when I realign with reality and look outside today, the sea and the sky are both stony, but it’s definitely light enough to be morning.

  I still wear the watch Marcus gave me, not because I understand the pointers any more but because it was super expensive and he always used to notice if I didn’t have it on. But right now I’m wearing it for me, as my reminder. A promise to myself that I will find my way back to who I was, a talisman to help me find my path back to where I should be.

  When I get down to the kitchen and peep into the day room Aunty Josie is already up, eyes tightly closed, the tartan of her PJ trousers knotted into some cross-legged position. The funny kind of humming moan I could hear all the way down the stairs and through the jungle-papered hallway is coming from her. If I’d been living here I’m not sure I could have lasted all that time with so many monkeys on the landing. They’ll be top of my schedule to go, as soon as she helps me write it. As I cough, her eyes snap open.

  ‘Edie, I’m just finishing my meditation – you might like to join in another day?’

  ‘Woah, I’m not that bendy!’ It’s the first excuse I come to. There are a lot of spaces in my head, but I’m completely certain yoga puts me to sleep. As for meditation, I’d probably have more laughs in a coma.

  The pizza boxes from last night are out on the side, and I help myself to the last piece of my giant Hawaiian.

  Aunty Josie’s wearing her ‘disgusted-of-St Aidan’ face as she pokes at her pizza box. ‘Help yourself to the rest of mine.’ Hers was the smallest, gluten-free with dairy-free cheese and no tomato, and she still only picked at a tiny bit. From the way I wolfed the side salad and both fudge cheesecake slices too, you’d never guess I can’t taste things. But I have to keep fuelled, and I’m always secretly hoping that next bite will be better.

  ‘So is it pizza for breakfast too?’

  ‘I’ve got some delicious juice here, or the milk arrived. There’s Oat So Simple if you’d rather?’ She gives a disapproving shudder.

  ‘That sounds way better.’ Her bean sludge is beyond disgusting. Porridge is beige too, but somehow that’s different.

  ‘I’ll show you how to make it.’ She rips open the packet, then slowly fills it up with milk. ‘Then we can watch Swan Lake while we have breakfast.’

  Crap. ‘You don’t like Piers then?’ Breakfast telly has become a morning ritual for Mum and me, but now I think about it, Josie and Harry only like BBC. As for ballet, I’m not sure I can handle men in tights this early, even if they’re fit. Which reminds me, the guy from next door came down the road in his van just as the pizza delivery was blocking the lane last night. What are the chances? I accidentally let out another, ‘Love you, bye!’ as I scooted off with my stack of boxes, which I minded about less because I could swear I saw him jump.

  ‘I can’t get my head round news these days. The great thing about ballet is it gets the day off on the right foot.’ As Aunty takes the porridge bowl over to the microwave her unflinching expression tells me we’re waving goodbye to any hope of Good Morning Breakfast. ‘Push this button for three pings, Edie. Will you remember three for tomorrow?’

  She’s making a big effort to be helpful so I want to say yes, but I have to stay honest. ‘I’ll try.’ Most probably I won’t.

  It’s not that I’m a party pooper, and I’m not a quitter. But by the time I’m in front of the TV with my breakfast, what with ballet, stripes on the wallpaper, checks on the PJs and purple poppies, I give in. If I’ve eaten porridge wearing shades before I can’t remember. Maybe I did the time Marcus and I went to those huge mountains near India and had breakfast watching the sunrise. But if not, there’s a first time for everything. I jam my sunnies on my nose and settle back to watch the figures in gauzy net leaping across the screen.

  ‘You danced, didn’t you?’ It’s wedged in my head but the details have gone, and I’m half expecting her to tell me off for talking.

  ‘That was years ago.’ Aunty Thing’s abruptness softens. ‘And just once I was on the same stage as Margot Fonteyn.’

  ‘Awesome.’ I’m giving the air a mental punch for unearthing that.

  ‘Harry always made more of it than it was.’ If we’re talking stiff upper lips, Aunty Thing’s is made of steel, so I’m guessing her loud sniff has to be down to how much smoothie she’s still got to get through.

  ‘Do you watch Margot all day then?’ As fast as my heart’s sinking, my panic’s rising. Cosying up in front of Dad’s log-burner with Bridesmaids and Love Actually on repeat was fine, but I’m not up for all-day pas de deux.

  She nods. ‘Dance is very therapeutic.’

  ‘We should go out.’ It’s easy to do, I know. The more you stay home, the more you want to. ‘There must be some classes. Can you look what’s on?’ I nod
at the laptop even though I’m not that hopeful. As remote places go, St Aidan is at the end of the line. As the gale thrashes sand grains against the window, I’m wondering how I ever imagined I’d be sitting on the beach soaking up a winter sun patch.

  ‘Let’s see.’ She pulls her laptop onto her knee and scrolls through. ‘They do them at the Leisure Centre – there’s macramé, or basket-making?’

  Surely that can’t be it? ‘Read them all out, please.’ I’m using the ‘don’t-mess-with-me’ tone I keep for stroppy builders because, to be fair, the most awkward contractor probably has nothing on Aunty Josie when it comes to heels being dug in. Due to my voice recognition software completely failing to understand my West Country twang, brushing up on reading’s what I’ll be concentrating on next. In between renovations, that is.

  ‘Fine.’ Aunty Jo lifts her eyebrows. ‘Woodworking, Car Maintenance, Kick Boxing and Learn Spanish while Making Tapas.’ She pulls a face. ‘The best ones seem to be run by the Singles Group, but we can’t go to those.’

  ‘They might be … er … friendly?’ We are both on our own, in case she’s forgotten. It’s one of my greatest reliefs that I split from Marcus a couple of months before I was ill, because he wasn’t the best with hospitals or looking after people. But in case anyone’s wondering – though I can’t speak for Aunty Jo – a partner’s the last thing I’d be looking for right now.

  One sniff from her says that’s a no to the singles. ‘The ones at The Whole Earth Centre are better. Paint your Own Plant Pot, Molecular Gastronomy, How to Make Vegan Dumplings, Hydroponics for Beginners, Breast Painting, Handstand Masterclass, Play the Ukelele in an Hour …’

  ‘Breast what?’ I have to ask.

  ‘From the picture, it looks like you roll on the floor and paint with your boobs. I’m not sure mine are big enough.’

  Even if mine are, I still shake my head. ‘Keep going.’

  ‘Sew Your Valentine a Pair of Boxers. Oh, no, sorry, that’s gone.’

  ‘Damn.’ I grin at her, but she doesn’t smile back.

  ‘Interior Design … Well, that’s wasted on you. Creative Writing’s not suitable for now. We’d be out of place at Wedding Flowers. Which only leaves Heart Surgeon for a Day, Zombie for an Evening or Goat Rearing.’

  I let out a groan. ‘Who goes to these?’

  ‘Oh, but there’s a Practical page.’ She looks more closely. ‘Dry-Stone Walling or Plastering. With the buildings to finish, either of those might be useful?’

  It’s great she’s so up for this, but with everything else going on, I’m not ready to drop rocks on my feet.

  ‘What about Cupcake Making?’ Cupcake’s another word I can always find. Thankfully. Or Cake Icing would do, so long as it’s the squishy sort.

  ‘Edie, I’m sugar-free. So we’re back to Macramé?’

  I’m a stroke survivor, I could have died. I may not be able to tell the time, but I value every second. ‘Not things from string. Life’s too short.’

  ‘Calligraphy, then? Harry’s mum used to do that, she made wonderful Christmas cards.’

  In my head it’s in the same box as string.

  ‘It says Modern so it must be for young people like you. It’s drop-in, which is good, so you only pay when you go. Tuesday afternoons at The Deck Gallery.’

  ‘Is that it?’ It’s vital to get Aunty Jo out again, and it’ll be great to sharpen up my writing. But I can’t believe I’ve come all this way to end up doing that.

  ‘You can still write?’ She knows because Mum talked to her about helping me with my letters.

  ‘A bit.’ It’s odd that writing’s easier than reading. Tash says they’re worked from different bits of my head, which is why it’s useful having a sister who’s a doctor. She also has a house, a husband and two kids and she’s older and cleverer. Seriously, she’s got all her shit together.

  ‘There you go then.’ Aunty Thing looks pleased. ‘It says Tasty Treats on offer too.’

  Which finally tips it for me, even if it doesn’t for her.

  6

  Day 137: Sunday, 18th March

  At Periwinkle Cottage

  Epic Achievement: Cake on Sunday.

  ‘So, you can see the stables haven’t been used in a while.’ The bunch of keys Aunty Josie’s swinging is too big to fit in her pocket.

  However much I’d intended to get straight down to work, it takes a few days to find my way around. I half expect to open the quirky cottage doors and find Red Riding Hood or Hansel and Gretel hiding behind them. It’s Sunday morning by the time I get out my clipboard and as we make our way towards the outbuildings I’m so intent on business, all that’s missing is my hard hat.

  I thought the days might drag here, but since I arrived I’m yawning before it’s tea time. It’s hard to believe I used to be up at four and rarely went to bed before midnight. At least I’m finally getting my wear out of the navy pinstripe PJs Tash gave me as a ‘new job congratulations’ present, as a joke to celebrate my new-found ‘suit status’.

  To be fair, up until I moved out of Marcus’s house, the pyjamas stayed firmly in their Net-a-Porter carrier bag because Marcus and I always slept naked. Out of bed he turned a blind eye to global warming and cranked up the heating so I rarely wore more than a teensy vest and shorts. But I could hardly go around like that when I boomeranged back to live with the oldies. Quite apart from the over-exposure, in a family of women, the thermostat is one of the only places where Dad takes control. After Marcus’s, Dad’s running temperature is arctic, and whoever invented those damned Smart meters that flash up how much you’re spending on gas every minute through the day wasn’t thinking of me and Mum.

  Aunty Jo is making her way along the horseshoe of stable buildings which border the garden, opening every door and closing them just as fast. Apart from the stiff locks, it’s hard to believe it’s her first visit since she and Harry colour-coded all the keys the day before he died. On the fourth door, when I’ve still not seen anything, I barge my way past her, click on the light and kick into professional mode.

  ‘Nice switches.’ They’re funky and industrial, but best of all, there’s not a jungle beast in sight. Looking up at the old hewn timbers is spinning me back to the Zinc Inc sites. ‘The roofs are new and the floors feel level, so that’s a good start.’

  ‘They ran out of cash halfway. That was how we could afford it.’ Aunty Jo gives a sniff of disapproval.

  ‘They probably blew the budget next door on exotic wallpaper.’ I come to a halt by a newly installed wood-burning stove. ‘So what were they planning here?’

  ‘Holiday accommodation around the courtyard.’ She frowns. ‘It’s not my cup of tea at all. I like a room to have a dado.’

  I already know that. Our house didn’t have those either, and she reminded us every visit. I peer into a tiny room and spot a drench shower head. ‘They haven’t got around to tiling, but at least the wet room fittings are in.’

  She sniffs. ‘Very downmarket – my friends don’t look twice if there isn’t a Jacuzzi with steam jets.’

  I peer out of a tiny window. ‘A lot of the groundwork has been done. What’s left is the finishing.’ That’s the time-consuming and expensive bit and, with eight units, it’s a good thing she’s not counting her pennies. On the plus side, there’s loads of space and it’s wonderfully airy, even if it is freezing.

  ‘So there could be dados, after all?’ As she hugs her jacket closer there’s no vestige of the upbeat jovial couple she and Harry once were. I know she’s grieving and sad, but I’ve been here days and I haven’t seen a hint of a twinkle. Though if she has any idea how much work it’s going to take to transform what’s here to luxury accommodation, I can understand why.

  It’s my turn to pull a face. ‘We might give dados a miss but we can certainly get the place done.’ It’s time not cash that’s our priority; once I find a reliable builder who’s available, we’ll fly to the finish. ‘And look at that sea view.’ Across the field the clifftop edge i
s sharp against the grey of the water, which merges in turn with a smoky sky strewn with scudding grey clouds. And the water is the colour of iron, stormy with dashes of cream foam. The truth is, now I’m here scuffing my toes in the building dust, the twang in my chest is about way more than another cloudy day.

  I went to Zinc Inc by accident, the summer I was seventeen. I’d fallen out of sixth from after a year of hard partying with an F in every subject, then went to a careers fair because someone told me they were giving away free T-shirts. I ended up at Jake’s mass interview with no idea what interior design even was. Apparently Jake wasn’t looking for raw natural talent with carpet swatches, he chose me because I had all the nervous kids in the group smiling within minutes, and then went on to talk the tea lady into serving us her private doughnut stash. He said a taste for cake and a friendly smile counted for a lot in the building industry, and he wasn’t wrong.

  Back then the company mainly worked on upmarket jobs in London. But then loft living took off along with the property market, and every last home owner wanted to rip the guts out of their terraced house and design the arses off their open-plan living spaces. What I loved most was going to see the jobs on site and it turned out I had a natural eye for detail. If Tash’s superpowers are being a brainbox and making ill people well again, mine are noticing stuff and being able to persuade reluctant builders to do what I ask. Before long Jake was sending me out to jolly the tradesmen along on the smaller jobs.

  As the business expanded I barely noticed I was taking on more. Then one day Jake came in and announced he was giving me a fancy title I can’t even remember now and a shedload of extra responsibility, which was amazing but is probably also why I never had time to go to bed. And why now I’m not getting up at stupid o’clock and rushing from site to site, angsting about schedules and quality control and progress meetings and one-off disasters and handover dates, I feel like I’ve lost every bit of who I am.