Chapter Two
Vicky felt a small stab of guilt as she walked down the overgrown path to the cottage. Aunt Molly had always been very proud of her garden. Tom had been right to be critical of her. She ought to have made more of an effort to keep in contact over the years, especially recently, when Molly would have been in her late eighties, her nineties, and may have needed help.
Not that she would have accepted help easily. The old lady she remembered from more than sixteen years ago had been fiercely independent, and she didn’t imagine that she would have changed much.
The solicitor in London who had read her the will had given her the key. Pulling it from her bag, she climbed the three stone steps to the front door. The wrought-iron railing beside them was pitted with rust in places, and the terracotta and blue-glazed flowerpots on each step were spilling over with rather bedraggled geraniums in bright reds and pinks.
She hesitated for a moment before opening the door. It felt a little weird to be back here now, as a grown-up. To think that she owned the cottage now — that Aunt Molly wouldn’t be there in her kitchen, ready to greet the family with a beaming smile, a ‘nice cup of tea’ and a plate of warm scones with thick Devon cream.
The key clicked in the lock and turned easily. She pushed the door open and stepped into the kitchen.
It was much as she remembered — whitewashed walls, oak beams in the ceiling, a wood-burning stove in the inglenook fireplace. There was a faint smell of stale drains, but hopefully that was just because the place had stood empty for a while, not a warning of anything serious.
A stripped pine table stood in the middle of the room, with four wooden chairs around it. Half a dozen pots of dead herbs lined the windowsill above the big white butler sink, and the blue paint on the cupboard doors was scuffed and faded — the hinges on a couple of them had come loose, leaving the doors hanging at a slightly drunken angle.
Pausing on the doorstep to ease off her muddy shoes, she set off to explore. Beyond the kitchen was a narrow passageway. To her right a flight of stairs twisted tightly up to the first floor. She opened the door to her left. Yes — Molly’s sewing room.
More memories flooded back. Molly’s old sewing machine stood on a wooden table against one wall. A wicker basket held all her paraphernalia — scissors, tape measure, pincushion, marking chalk. There was a cardboard box full of fabric remnants, and several biscuit tins — a treasure trove of buttons and cotton reels. Vicky used to play with them on rare rainy days, sitting on the floor and sorting them by colour or size.
Next she moved to the room at the end of the passageway — the sitting room. Longer than it was wide, with windows on each side, it was a cosy room, the walls papered in a gold-coloured Regency stripe, the floor covered in a green-and-gold carpet over dark oak floorboards.
A heavy walnut sideboard stood at the back of the room. A recliner armchair and a battered old sofa upholstered in a flowery chintz faced a huge stone inglenook fireplace at the near end. She could just visualise one of those big leather chesterfields, as big as a divan, with a pile of cushions and pillows, in that place.
She smiled at the memory of how Molly had always filled the fireplace with vases of flowers in the summer. Now the vases stood empty and rather sad, just a few withered petals scattered on the stones around them. It would be nice to bring in some roses from the garden later...
Stupid. Impatiently she shook her head. She was letting herself imagine what she would do if she stayed — but she wouldn’t be staying.
A pair of French windows opened onto the back garden. The key was in the lock, so she opened them and stepped outside. Like the front garden it was overgrown, but there was something charming in the way nature in her exuberance had taken over.
At the far end was what looked like a vegetable garden — a frame of bamboo canes for growing runner beans, rows of potatoes, cabbages and rhubarb showing lush greenery in spite of the tangle of weeds fighting them for space. In one corner stood an old apple tree smothered in delicate pale pink blossom.
Closer to the cottage, dog violets and cow parsley, and vivid red campion thrust their colourful heads up through the long grass. The air was filled with their fragrance and the happy twitter of birds, the hum of busy bumblebees, and the twinkling flash of butterfly wings.
She stood for a moment, just breathing it in. So different from London, with its acres of hard grey pavements, looming concrete office blocks, and rows and rows of narrow brick houses. If she had worn a corset, this must be what it would feel like to take it off...
Her phone buzzed, cutting through the moment. Reluctantly she pulled it from her bag.
“Hello.” Jeremy’s clear, well-modulated tones. “Are you there yet?”
“Yes — I got here about ten minutes ago.” She chose not to tell him about running the car into the ditch, nor her enigmatic neighbour.
“What sort of state is it in?”
“Not too bad. As we thought, the kitchen will need to be replaced and I expect several of the windows too. And the garden is a bit overgrown.” She would enjoy getting stuck in to tidying it up a bit — the apartment she shared with Jeremy was very smart and very convenient, but she had always regretted the lack of a garden.
“Okay. Send me photographs of any work that needs to be done and I’ll check that you’re not being overcharged. Don’t forget to get three quotations.”
She rolled her eyes. “I won’t.”
“By the way, has the valuation on the Eastman Road property been completed yet?”
“It’s in the file.”
“Ah — good. Well, I’ll see you in a few days then. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Jeremy . . . I love you.”
“Same here. Goodbye.”
She smiled wryly as she closed the call. ‘Same here’ was about as close as Jeremy could get to saying anything romantic. Well, that was okay — she was used to him.
She had been working for him for four years in the estate-agent office he managed — one of the chain owned by his mother. Dating him for two years, engaged for six months, due to marry him next summer. His mother was already looking at suitable venues. She had the contacts to get a good deal.
She tucked the phone back into her bag and climbed the stairs to the first floor. The stair carpet was a bit threadbare — that would need to be replaced. Jeremy would no doubt tell her that she ought to be recording her notes. If she was valuing the place for sale she would, but she didn’t want to start thinking like that. Not yet.
Up here there were more signs of problems that would need fixing. An ominous dark stain in the corner of the ceiling suggested a leaky roof — or possibly just a loose gutter. Several of the wooden window frames on the side exposed to the sea were going to need more than just a lick of paint.
The bathroom was a festival of Edwardian plumbing, with an enamel roll-top bath — unfortunately badly chipped, but it could possibly be repaired. Those kinds of baths were popular with buyers. But the sink wasn’t worth bothering with, and the toilet cistern was hanging precariously from one bracket high on the wall.
There were two small bedrooms — neither of them looked as if they had been used for years. The smallest was the one she had slept in when she was little. There was no furniture. A windowpane was cracked, there was another mouldy stain on the wall, and the bare floorboards were thick with dust.
In the slightly larger of the two, the only furniture was a double bed with a bare mattress, a heavy old wardrobe, empty, and a rather battered chest of drawers — also empty. Again there was thick dust everywhere.
That left only Molly’s room. Vicky hesitated as she opened the door — she had rarely been in here before. More than any of the others it seemed to hold Molly’s spirit.
This was the room where she had slept, had brushed her hair while sitting at that dressing table, had delicately dabbed the rose-scented perfume she had always worn onto her wrist and throat — its fragrance still lingered in the air.
Auntie Molly... A single tear spilled from the corner of her eye and tracked down her cheek. Impatiently she brushed it away. It was silly to cry — it had been so long since she had even seen her; she had been just a child.
It was a lovely room, if a bit too pink for her own taste. Delicately feminine, with dainty rosebud wallpaper and a lace-trimmed bedcover that matched the curtains. The carpet was a dusty pink, a pink-shaded lamp stood on the bedside table, and a sheepskin rug beside the bed would welcome bare feet when you got up in the morning.
Strolling over to the walnut dressing table, she sat down on the pink-upholstered stool in front of it. Like everything else, the surface was covered with a thin film of dust.
She touched each item lightly with one fingertip — a silver-backed hair brush, a crackled-glass bowl containing potpourri, a pretty enamelled trinket dish holding hair grips, a couple of elastic bands and a pearl button.
The large triple mirror reflected back her own image and the room behind her. She propped her elbow on the dressing table and dropped her chin into her cupped hand. More than forty years Aunt Molly had lived here, according to the solicitor.
Why had she chosen this little village on the pretty South Devon coast? Had she been happy here for all those years? She knew almost nothing about her...
As she gazed at the reflection of the room, something caught her eye — something that seemed jarringly out of place. A painting in a plain dark wooden frame, about eighteen inches high, on the wall opposite the bed. She didn’t recall that she had ever noticed it before.
It was a portrait — sort of. Weird, slightly exaggerated, slightly surreal. The eyes were large and luminous, the lips full and red. But... the features were sharply angular, the skin had the colour and texture of driftwood. And the hair looked as if it was made from shavings of mahogany.
But even more weirdly, it was of Aunt Molly. A much younger Molly, but unmistakeably her.
Vicky stood for a moment, staring at it. It was certainly strange, and yet... as you looked at it, it became oddly beautiful. There was no signature, just a small symbol in the bottom left-hand corner — an M perhaps, or two Ns. Even a pair of rabbit’s ears.
Who had painted it, and when? It wasn’t at all the sort of thing she could have imagined Aunt Molly liking. But then it must have been painted years ago — in spite of the distortion it looked as if she had been maybe in her thirties.
Bemused, she shook her head and turned to go back downstairs to the kitchen. She was tired after her long drive from London, and hungry. She had brought some groceries, so she could make herself something to eat.
But first she needed to make up the bed in the spare room — she couldn’t quite face sleeping in Molly’s room. It would feel like she was... intruding, somehow.
She had brought her own bedding, on the advice of Jeremy’s mother: ‘Her sheets will probably be those awful nylon things that old people like. And anyway they won’t be aired.’
* * *
Sunshine pouring in through a gap in the curtains, and the sweet-throated song of a thrush, brought Vicky gently awake. She lay for a long moment, just breathing slowly. No thunder of traffic from the Shepherds Bush Road a few hundred yards away, no splashing from the bathroom where Jeremy would be showering and shaving.
Peace.
With a luxurious stretch she tossed aside the duvet, rolled out of bed and crossed to the window. The garden looked lovely in the soft early morning light. She could still trace the outline of overgrown flowerbeds, where a few brave rose bushes and japonicas were holding on.
The wooden fence looked as if it was going to need some urgent repairs. Beyond, a long field rolled down to a stand of trees, and over their leafy tops she could glimpse the vivid blue of the sea.
A surge of excitement rose inside her, just as when she had been seven years old and couldn’t wait to run down to the beach to build a sandcastle, to paddle in the waves, to lick a delicious ice-cream cornet — somehow ice cream had never tasted so good at home.
But before she could do that, she needed to ring the garage and get her car sorted out.
Barry from the garage was a little doubtful at first. “Ah, now, I don’t know if I can come out today, my luvver. We get pretty busy on weekends up on the moor, see, what with all the tourists. I might be able to get out to you tomorrow, but Tuesday’s more likely.”
“Oh.” That was a disappointment, though not entirely a surprise. “Tom said you’d probably be very busy.”
“Tom?”
“Yes. He has the farm just up the lane from me. He pulled the car out of the ditch for me.”
“Oh, Tom. Why didn’t you say he’s a friend of yours? I’ll be there in about half an hour.”
“Thank you.” She raised her eyebrows in surprise as she closed the call. Apparently she had said the magic word — ‘Tom’. Well, she wasn’t going to complain — at least she was getting her car fixed.
* * *
True to his word, Barry arrived forty minutes later, reversing a red tow truck down the lane. Vicky grabbed her car keys and hurried out to meet him.
“Morning, my luvver. Let’s have a look at this car of yours, then.”
“Thank you for coming.”
“No problem — anything for a friend of Tom’s.”
“Er... yes.” She rolled her eyes as Barry bent to examine the front wheel.
“You’ve given that a good knock. Ran into a ditch, you say? How’d that happen?”
“I skidded trying to avoid the cows.”
He laughed. “What were you doing on that bit of lane? It’s just an old farm track.”
“I was following my satnav.”
He laughed. “Oh, your satnav.” He appeared to share Tom’s opinion on that. “You’d have done better to have stuck on the main road a bit further and turned down Church Road instead.”
“Yes — so Tom told me.”
“Ah well, let’s get this thing loaded up, then.”
“Will it take you long to fix it?”
He sucked his teeth. “Hmm... That’s going to depend on how much damage there is. Could be just a matter of aligning the wheel, but if you’ve done in the steering or the suspension... Might be tomorrow, so long as we’ve got the parts.”
“That’s great — thank you very much.”
She stood for a moment watching as her little car was hooked up to the tow truck and trundled off up the lane. Then she turned and strolled back into the cottage. She could make a start on listing the work that needed to be done — or she could take a walk down to the beach. Get a feel for the location.
She remembered it from when she was little, but those memories might not be reliable. As Jeremy’s mother had pointed out, access to a good beach would be a big selling point for someone looking for a holiday home.
Swinging her bag onto her shoulder, she checked that she had her door keys and set off.
At the corner where the lane reached the road down to the village — the road she should have taken instead of the earlier turning and that stupid rutted lane — she paused and looked back at the cottage, nestled in the fold of the hill, sheltered by a small copse of leafy beech and ancient oak trees.
Yes, it would make a perfect holiday home.
She felt her heart grow heavier as she gazed at it. It was stupid, but she didn’t want to part with it. Unfortunately she had no choice — there was going to be a hefty bill for the inheritance tax, which she would have to pay within six months or it would start to accrue a very unhealthy rate of interest.
And anyway, how could she spend more than a few weeks of the year down here? Even if she could persuade Jeremy to take his quota of annual leave, it would be even more difficult to persuade him to come to Devon instead of jetting off to somewhere with fascinating architecture and lots of high culture.
In truth, she didn’t just want the cottage as a holiday home — she wanted to live here. But that was even more stupid. There was the small matter of money to live on. A job. The nearest estate agent was probably in Exeter or Plymouth — even if she wanted to continue with that career. Which she wasn’t sure she did.
With an impatient sigh she shook her head. Dreams were all very well, but they rarely came true in the real world. Reluctantly she turned away and walked on down the hill.
It was a pleasant ten-minute stroll past a row of cottages with neat gardens. Past the church, past a few shops — a small convenience store, a hairdresser, and a shop that sold second-hand furniture and household items. That one might be useful when she began clearing out Molly’s cottage.
On the other side of the road were several large Victorian houses, most of them converted to bed-and-breakfast establishments, with names like ‘Sunny Dene’ and ‘Bay View’.
On past the clock tower and the memorial garden, with its neat lawn and colourful flowerbeds and spiky dwarf palm trees, and down to the rather grandly named Esplanade.
A wave of nostalgia flowed through her. It had changed little in sixteen years. The amusement arcade on the corner, the chip shop, the shop selling rather tacky souvenirs and trinkets — did anyone actually buy that stuff these days?
And of course the beach shop, with its stands of postcards, and nets of brightly coloured beach balls swinging in the breeze, wire baskets of frisbees and paddleboards and buckets and spades ranged along the pavement outside.
But it was the beach that drew her. The sand was a reddish-gold, large-grained crunching beneath her feet as she stepped from the sloping ramp down from the Esplanade.
Though it was still only early May it was busy — excited children building sandcastles and digging long canals from the sea to fill the moats, just as she’d done all those years ago, while their parents watched benignly from deckchairs or stretched out on towels.
But the true owners of the beach were the seagulls, flashes of white against the blue sky, shrieking as they swooped over the waves, strutting arrogantly about on the sand, snatching discarded crisp packets or unguarded sausage rolls.
The tide was almost out, leaving a long stretch of damp sand glistening in the sunshine, lapped by lazy frills of white foam. The sea was a vivid blue. Far out in the bay a white sail scudded westward, while on the hazy horizon she could just see the grey shape of a large ship — whether an ocean liner or a cargo ship she couldn’t tell.
To her right, where the beach ended in a jumble of rocks, a slope of reddish sandstone covered in scrubby bushes climbed to the elegant fa?ade of the Carleton Hotel. It had been one of their holiday treats when she was little — tea and scones on the wide stone terrace overlooking the bay.
How had the place fared over the years? Had it been taken over by one of the big hotel chains, rendered anonymous in the name of maximising corporate profit? Or had it slid into a state of dignified neglect, struggling to attract guests in the teeth of competition from cheaper holidays in Spain or Greece?
She strolled along, past the row of gaily painted beach huts — miniature homes-from-home for the families clustered at their doors, with their picnics and crossword magazines. On the far side of the bay, half a dozen rows of white caravans curved around the rising ground.
The soft breeze from the sea was ruffling her hair and she could taste salt on her lips. She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in the pure, clear air, the tang of damp seaweed, listening to the soft, sleepy whisper of the waves.
The sun was warm on her shoulders. Maybe she should have thought to bring some sun cream with her? Never mind — that little shop on Church Road that she’d passed on the way down probably sold some. She could pick up some milk while she was there.
* * *
The shop was small, but seemed to stock the whole gamut from groceries to newspapers and washing powder, several shelves of pharmacy goods and even a post-office counter.
The selection of sun creams wasn’t extensive but they had her second favourite brand. She took a basket and picked out a few other items — milk, eggs, a bunch of bananas — and took them to the counter.
“Good afternoon.” The ruddy-faced woman behind the counter beamed in friendly welcome as she began ringing up her purchases.
“Hello.” Vicky smiled back — it was rare to get such a pleasant greeting in her local supermarket back home. “It’s lovely weather.”
“Oh, ah, ’tis that. Are you enjoying your holiday?”
“I’m not actually on holiday.” She fished in her bag for her purse. “I’ve come down to see about my Aunt Molly’s cottage.”
“Molly? That’s six pounds twenty-eight, please. You mean Molly Marston?”
“That’s right. She was my aunt — well, great-aunt.”
“Well I never!” The shopkeeper chuckled. “Ah, she was a one, old Molly. The way she used to race around on that old motorbike and sidecar of hers.”
“Oh, heavens, yes! I remember that.” Vicky laughed. “I was always begging to have a ride in the sidecar, but Mum wouldn’t let me.”
“I never knew she had any family.”
“No, well... we used to come down for a few weeks every summer when I was little, but I’m afraid we rather lost contact with her after my dad died.”
The shopkeeper nodded. “It happens . . .”
A door slammed open and from a back room behind the counter a teenage girl slouched out, not lifting her eyes from her phone as she steered on autopilot towards the shop doorway. Long brown hair framed a face that would have been pretty if it hadn’t worn such a sulky expression.
“Bethany?” The shopkeeper’s voice was sharp with impatience. “Where are you going? Have you finished all your homework?”
The only response was a grunt.
The shopkeeper sighed and shook her head, turning back to Vicky. “Kids!” An awkward laugh. “So she’s left it to you then, the cottage? We all wondered who it would go to.”
“Yes.” Vicky smiled to herself as she tucked her shopping into her bag. She’d always thought it was just a cliché that in a small village like this everyone knew everyone else’s business, but it seemed to be true!
Someone else had come into the shop and was wandering down the back aisle, but the shopkeeper was still intent on gathering as much news as she could for the village grapevine. “So you’re going to be moving in, then?”
“Of course she isn’t.”
Vicky turned sharply as a cold voice spoke behind her. Tom.
“She’s a city girl. Why would she want to bury herself down here among us country bumpkins? She can’t wait to sell it off to some London dude who’ll come down for Easter and three weeks in the summer.”
The shopkeeper’s smile faded. “You’re going to sell it?”
“You know how much people will pay for a nice little cottage down here.” His voice was heavily laced with sarcasm. “Who wouldn’t sell it? And after all, that’s just what we need around here, isn’t it, Brenda? Another place standing empty for most of the year. Or maybe a holiday rental. Certainly nothing that anyone around here could afford.”
“Yeah.” A glare that could crack rocks. “Like we don’t have enough of those.”
Vicky felt her cheeks flame scarlet. Clearly the friendly welcome had been rescinded. Well, why should she care? She’d be back in London in a few days. Tilting up her chin with all the dignity she could muster she picked up the rest of her shopping and stalked out of the shop.
She had started to walk up the hill, but stopped and turned back. As Tom came out of the shop, she confronted him.
“What did you do that for?” she demanded. “I was having a nice friendly conversation, until you came along and put your oar in.”
“So?” A cold sneer curled his hard mouth. “Why would you want to make friends? You’ll only be here long enough to flog Molly’s cottage for as much as you can get.”
“That’s beside the point. And it’s not Molly’s cottage now — it’s mine. I can do what I like with it.”
Oh Lord, where had that come from? She sounded just like the grasping bitch he clearly believed her to be. But he was way over the line. How dare he speak to her like that?
He didn’t even bother to answer — he just stepped past her and strode off up the hill.
Huffing out a sharp breath, she set off up the hill behind his receding back. At least he was walking so fast that there was no danger of her catching up with him. She’d really like to throw something at him, but she didn’t think a banana would do much damage.