Chapter 11
It was the next day. In the end, early the previous evening, Tilly had showered, put her pyjamas on, had a packet of crisps and an apple for dinner and fallen asleep on the sofa for no less than eleven and a half hours.
Blinking and squeezing her eyes, it had taken her a minute to remember where she was.
There were no cicadas, no whirring fan above, no air conditioning hum, no signs of Lennixx.
Instead, there was a slap of water against boards underneath and the muffled cry of a seagull.
Somewhere, a slow tick of a clock, wind rattling through old windows, a rustling of trees above.
Sitting up slowly, Tilly pressed her thumbs into her eye sockets for a moment as everything came back to her.
Despite all her efforts of cleaning the day before when she’d decided to get stuck in, in the end she'd run out of steam and, unable to find any sheets, she'd not had the energy to do anything other than sit on the sofa and put new plans in place. After a lot of consideration of what the hell she was going to do, she’d decided that the boat shed, though not what she’d expected in the slightest, was marginally better than a Budget Inn.
She’d told herself she’d stay for a bit, see what happened, and then perhaps move on.
Now the next day had dawned, she had a list as long as her arm and was determined to crack on.
Shivering as she got up, she put her dressing gown on over her pyjamas, pulled on a pair of clean socks from her suitcase, tucked her pyjama bottoms into the socks and shoved her feet in her slippers.
Padding across the floorboards in her socks and slippers, she rinsed out and filled the kettle, switched it on, took a tea bag from a tin on the worktop and, realising there was no milk, decided it would have to be black tea.
Looking out the window as she waited for the kettle to boil, the sunshine of the day before was nowhere to be seen, the old shed was far from warm and cosy, and Tilly had to muster every positive bone in her body to keep the wailing at bay.
What in the world had she got herself into?
Sipping the black tea, she winced at the taste and squinted out the window at a couple of lights across the water.
Directly to her far left, a man in oilskins was walking up a slipway with a coiled rope over one shoulder, a small white van was reversing slowly down towards the water, and the sky over the cliffs in the far distance looked dark and moody.
To all intents and purposes, not quite the rose-tinted Darling Island of her dreams. What was not in question: she was a long, long way from a tropical island in the middle of the South Pacific Ocean.
Taking her tea down to the back door, Tilly slid back a bolt, stepped out onto the decking and braced as cold air hit her slap bang in the chest. To her tropical acclimatised bones, it wasn’t just a little bit chilly, nope, more like freezing-one’s-bottom-off cold.
The kind of good old-fashioned British cold she'd forgotten existed.
She'd been in tropical climes long enough that the reality of a six o'clock English morning had been nothing but a memory.
Now, 6 am on the south coast of England made itself known.
Standing for a moment in her pyjamas with the steam from her tea rising into her face, she was chilly, yes, but also revelled in the fresh air wafting about on the breeze.
Something about the feel, the smell, the damp air told her she was home.
Shivering and with little spots of very fine misty drizzle in the air, Tilly walked back along the deck, found an old bright yellow oilskin sou'wester hat hanging on a hook by the door, plopped it on her head and shuffled back along the weathered planks in her slippers.
With the intention of sipping her tea and planning what the heck she was going to do next, she tottered along to the end of the deck area and plonked herself down on an old bench covered in junk.
As a low tide rippled around her and a sky full of grey muted her surroundings, she watched a small black crab making its way along a little stretch of sandy beach on the right.
Lost in a bit of a world of her own under the gigantic yellow hat and with her dressing gown pulled tightly around her, five or so minutes later, she heard something on the decking.
Turning, she was surprised to see a large, chocolate-brown dog come strolling along as if he owned the place.
Standing four-square on the deck, the dog looked at her as if asking what the heck she thought she was doing sitting on the bench in her dressing gown, huge hat and scarf.
Tilly smiled. 'Oh, hello, hello. You're very gorgeous, aren't you? Who do we have here then?'
The dog wagged his tail twice.
'Are you lost? You’re very, very handsome.
' Pushing herself off the bench, Tilly walked towards him slowly and put her hand out for him to smell.
He sniffed her hand gravely, then nudged it with the side of his head.
Stroking behind his ear, the dog closed his eyes. 'Let's see what's on your name tag.'
A man's voice called from somewhere around the front. It did not sound particularly friendly. 'Stanley! Come on, boy! Where have you got to? Stanley!'
Tilly stayed where she was for a second and looked down at herself.
Pyjamas tucked into pink socks, fluffy slippers, dressing gown, and then there was the gigantic yellow sou'wester hat.
Really, she was in no state to be seen by anyone.
Giving the dog a gentle little nudge, he remained rooted to the spot and absolutely refused to move.
The voice got louder, and she heard the man swear. 'You can't make it up. Who the heck left this gate unlatched? Surely everyone knows the gates down here can't be left open! Stanley. Come on! I've got work to do! Why can people not understand how to close a gate? Really, how hard can it be?'
Nudging Stanley again, Tilly took a step back and tried to sort of lurk by an adjacent old timber chair surrounded by terracotta pots.
Not wanting to be seen by anyone in her current state, she hoped Stanley would toddle off back around the side of the shed, and no one would be any the wiser.
He remained where he was, and a man in a wax jacket and wellies appeared around the far corner of the shed, takeaway cup in one hand, the other shoved deep in his pocket.
Tall, late thirties, fair hair. Not too shabby.
Tilly blinked, looked him up and down and swallowed.
Well, hello there. The man’s wellies were faded and covered in mud, and the wax jacket the kind worn for the weather, not for showing off its I-have-a-house-in-the-country badge.
The hand around the takeaway cup was rough, and steam rose from the top of the coffee into the cold air. Boom.
The man looked at the dog, at Tilly, back at the gate and then scowled.
Squinting as if trying to process what he was seeing, he made a face and swore.
Tilly, fairly sure he was wondering what he was being presented with, made a wincing sound and stepped to the side.
To be fair, she was quite the sight and topped with the enormous yellow sou'wester hat sitting on top of her head, he was probably wondering who the heck she was.
Honestly, though, she didn’t have too much time to worry about her presentation, she was too busy stopping her chin from dropping to the floor regarding what had arrived on the decking.
Well, well, well, what a turn up for the books, eh?
The Darling locals were pretty easy on the eye.
Not bad. Not bad at all. Gorgeous. Broad, fair, a very nice jaw, dark brown do-something-to-me eyes. Oh my gosh. So, nice to meet you.
The dog owner might have been movie star, megawatt handsome, but he was not, in any discernible way, in a good mood. 'Right, Stanley, hurry up!' His voice was not friendly. 'And you are?'
Tilly opened her mouth, but he didn't wait for her to answer.
'This is private property. I don't know what you think you're doing, but it's not happening. We don't do trespassers on Darling. You chose the wrong place to have a go.'
'I, err…'
'I don't give a stuff who you are, what your story is or whether or not you love the environment, the fog, the flora and fauna or whether you think you might find yourself here. We are not in a scene from that book about eating and praying or whatever it was. Just sling your hook. That gate has been left open. There are boats, ropes and tidal hazards down here and rules. There could have been an accident involving my dog, and I need that like a hole in the head. Yeah, and I don’t care if you are doing your thing for global warming and all that old crap. Not interested.'
'Sorry, I'm actually...'
The man put his hand up and barked. 'To be frank, I don't care. What exactly are you doing on here at this time of the morning? No one comes over this side even on high days and holidays, and with the storm coming in, I'm surprised to see anyone, let alone some idiot tourist who thinks they can come by private property and take in the view, if that is what you’re doing.' He stopped and nodded as if a penny was dropping. 'Oh, right, yeah, I get it. You're here to storm watch. Although that's some get-up to have on to watch the storm, you’re wrong too because it won’t be here yet. Nope, not happening, this is private property as I said. If you had half a brain, you’d know the storm won’t come exactly when forecast. It’ll be a while yet.
Come on, Stanley.' He took out his phone. 'I'll call the police.'
Tilly felt her hackles rise. What the actual?
He might be blindingly gorgeous, but he was exceptionally rude.
She'd had enough of that for one life. Not only that, save the sofa snoozing, she'd been awake for the better part of two days, had crossed many time zones, had endured a train, a bus, a chain ferry, a set of keys in a box on a wall and a colossal amount of dust. She'd slept on a sofa and hadn't had a proper cup of tea for days. She was standing on what was, give or take, her own decking in misty drizzle in a sou'wester hat she’d found on a hook and was being interrogated by a man she had never met who’d let his dog come through her gate and was now, apparently, suggesting it was her fault.
He was fit, though, very, very fit. Gorgeous.
He would look lovely in her bed. Objectively, if you were going to be read the riot act at six in the morning, there were worse faces to do it.
But nah, Tilly Bloomwood was going to give as good back.
Shoving the hat further down on her head with both hands, she raised her eyebrows and tutted.
'Nah, not having it! I might ask you the same thing, actually. '
The man blinked. 'I'm sorry?'
Tilly heard her voice rise. 'You let your dog loose without a lead on and let him wander anywhere he likes. For all you know, I could be allergic to dogs. Plus, I don't really like the language you used earlier or, for that matter, your attitude.'
Something happened in the man's jaw. 'You are joking, right?'
Tilly straightened and lifted her chin. The front of the hat dropped down a little bit over one eye. 'I don't think it's funny, so no, last time I checked, I wasn't joking.'
Before Tilly could continue and inform him that she would soon be the new owner of the boat shed if she stayed, the man shook his head, took two steps forward, clipped a lead onto Stanley's collar and shook his head.
'As I said, you'd better scarper, or the police will be here.
' He let out an odd, evil-sounding chuckle.
'Or, actually, no, see what happens down here in the storm and come back to me. We all need a good laugh.'