A Postcard from Puffin Island (Puffin Island #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

‘T hat is the longest screw I’ve had in a while.’

Hearing the gravel path crunching behind her, Verity Callaway felt a blush flood her cheeks. What on earth had possessed her to say that out loud? Spinning around she came face to face with Kev, the local postman.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that; it’s not true at all. Well, actually it is, but I don’t need to overshare my love life, especially now it’s non-existent. Hence the reason I’m off travelling.’

She raised her eyebrows as Kev sang out ‘Hit me baby one more time’ whilst attempting a risky dance move that looked like he was having some sort of spasm.

Alarmed and not quite sure what was going on here, Verity was relieved when Kev pulled out his phone then took an AirPod out of his ear.

Grinning, Kev said, ‘Sorry, Verity, did you say something? I had music blasting. Britney.’

Her smile was bright. ‘If I had to guess your favourite idol, I’d guess Britney any day of the week.’

Switching off the music he slipped the phone back in his pocket. ‘What did you say?’ he repeated.

‘It’s okay, Kev, I was just talking to myself,’ she replied, glad to have been spared embarrassment…for once.

‘What exactly are you doing?’ He looked towards the toolbox lying on the ground next to her.

Verity pointed towards the postbox that was attached to the wall outside the front door of her cottage. ‘The new tenants want it removed. I think their exact words were “It’s an eyesore”. Not that I can blame them. It’s rusty and has been sealed up for as long as I can remember.’

Kev pointed. ‘There may be hidden treasure in there. You never know, maybe you’ll find a letter from years ago telling your grandmother she’d won the lottery.’

‘Now wouldn’t that be the dream?’ Verity sighed wistfully.

‘You’re coming back, aren’t you?’ Kev took a glance over the road to number 50.

‘He obviously just can’t let me go,’ Verity joked, wishing her ex, Richard, lived on the opposite side of the world, not the opposite side of the street. She had discovered his infidelity six months ago, and to add insult to injury, he’d decided just two months later to move into the house right opposite on her street – with the woman concerned, his university sweetheart. If it had just been a matter of sowing his wild oats one last time before their wedding, she might have been able to forgive him in time, but no, it turned out he’d been sleeping with her for a number of years, after they’d reconnected on social media.

Verity and Richard had been together ten years when his cheating was exposed, and suddenly Verity had two choices. She could believe him when he claimed he would give the other woman up and never cheat again, or she could walk away. She had chosen to walk away and she was still questioning if what she had felt for Richard had actually been love. Last year, she’d been happy to marry the man, but now that feeling had turned to contempt. She had been deeply humiliated by his betrayal and hated him with every bone in her body.

‘It beggars belief that she would want to live in the same village as me, never mind on the same street. But not for long! I’m off on an adventure and have six months of not seeing them to look forward to. Remember, Kev, I’m just going to slip away in the early morning tomorrow and you know nothing until the new tenants move in. That’s in approximately two weeks.’

‘My lips are sealed. But I’ll miss you.’ He handed her a couple of letters.

‘Now, you get back to Britney, before I get all emotional. I’m no good with goodbyes.’

‘Have a safe journey and just for the record, Richard was always punching.’ Kev gave her a wink.

‘I can’t argue with you there.’

Verity wasn’t usually the adventurous type, but right at this moment the ferry ride to Amsterdam, where her best friend Ava would be waiting for her, couldn’t come soon enough. She’d been employed at the local vet’s for the last five years and loved her job, but after Ava had talked non-stop for the last couple of months about her upcoming travels, Verity had found herself questioning what was actually preventing her joining Ava.

After Googling ‘International Veterinary Assistants Vacancies’, she’d discovered that there were jobs available all over the world, and with her references in her bag, she knew that, if necessary, she could always find work on the road. She could rely on the rent from the tenants to fund her trip, but a bit of extra cash would certainly come in handy.

Still, she could worry about that once her trip was underway. For now, she revelled in the thought that this town would soon be far behind her. The ferry to Amsterdam from Newcastle upon Tyne was leaving tomorrow and she was going to be on it.

The last few days had been bedlam as she prepared to make her escape to Amsterdam. She had spent the week working her way through a list of things that needed doing for the new tenants: fixing the leaking tap in the bathroom, securing the catch of the upstairs window, undertaking a mammoth spring clean. Now, most of her clothes and personal things were safe in storage, and her rucksack was packed and waiting in the front room.

The van had been her secret project for the past two months. Through blood, sweat and a lot of tears Verity had converted her battered old van into a cosy comfort space of floral quilts and plush rose cushions, inspired by TikTok videos. Verity named the van ‘Hetty’, after her grandmother, Henrietta, who had passed away twelve years ago. She’d had a huge impact on her life and Verity cherished her memories of Hetty with all her heart. She was looking forward to making new memories with Hetty the van.

Verity couldn’t wait for the ferry to leave. Her toiletries and clothes were packed in drawers in the van, along with essentials like a camping stove, kettle and copious amounts of tea. The cupboards were bursting with baked beans, soup and a huge supply of toilet rolls. She didn’t need to think about the expense of hotels; she had everything she needed right there, inside her travelling home.

Turning back to the claret-red postbox covered in rust spots, Verity sprayed WD40 on the tarnished old screws, which soon began to turn. Once the screws were out, she lifted it off the wall. Thankfully, it looked heavier than it was. After taking it into the house she laid it on the kitchen table, then switched on the kettle. Leaning against the sink, she glanced around. The kitchen had never looked so tidy; everywhere was spick and span, ready for the tenants, who’d signed a six-month lease.

The house had been left to Verity’s mother, Alison, in Hetty’s will, and Verity had bought it from her mum seven years ago, when Alison decided on a whim to move to a warmer climate, after continuously watching Escape to the Sun , a TV programme she’d been obsessed with for years. She’d been sunning herself in the South of France ever since, and after meeting Pierre, a Frenchman obsessed with art, she’d never looked back or come back.

Hearing her phone ring, Verity smiled as Ava’s name flashed on the screen. ‘Are you ready to glamp with no glamour?’ she trilled before Verity even had a chance to say hello.

Ava had been her best friend since the age of eleven when they started high school together. Even though they’d clicked straight away, they were like chalk and cheese and nothing had changed in the intervening years. Ava was a free spirit, floated from job to job, and didn’t have any ties except a goldfish that had almost reached the age of fifteen by the time it finally stopped swimming. Ava winged everything and worried about nothing, whereas Verity always liked the stability of a steady job and a home.

‘I’m ready, born ready,’ chirped Verity, knowing she’d heard that line in a movie.

Ava laughed. ‘I can’t quite believe safe Verity has resigned and is coming on a six-month adventure.’

‘Hey, I’m not safe, as that suggests boring,’ she protested, but she didn’t entirely disagree with Ava: she wasn’t usually one for taking risks.

‘You’re never going to look back. We’re going to have the best six months. I promise.’

Verity thought back to how life was six months ago, as she looked around the home she’d thought she’d share with Richard. She now couldn’t fathom why she’d stuck it out with him so long. Maybe it was because of other people’s expectations. Her mother had drummed the conventional way of life into Verity from an early age. Leave school, find a job and a man – it didn’t matter in what order – get engaged, married and then have children. The worst possible outcome, according to her mum, was to end up on the shelf, because then people would start to ask what was wrong with her. Verity had had no idea who these ‘people’ were or why their opinions mattered.

She could still remember her mother’s words when she heard from Verity that the wedding was off, and they rang loud and clear in her ears now. ‘He would never do that. An affair? It must be your fault somehow. You need to find a way to make it work. You’ll never find anyone as good as him.’

All Verity could think now was, thank God she hadn’t listened. Because if Richard was considered ‘good’, she never wanted to date anyone ‘good’ again.

‘Happiness is more about mindset than marriage’ had been Verity’s parting words to her mother. When she was growing up their relationship had always been strained. She had never been her mother’s first priority, and her father was a topic her mother refused to even talk about. When she moved to France it was a relief.

After the disastrous phone conversation when she’d told her mother that the wedding was off, Verity had made a difficult decision. Even though they were related by blood, her mother was no good for her mental health, and it was time to take a step back from their relationship. She’d never encouraged Verity, never shown her any true compassion, and always left her feeling like a huge disappointment to her. Enough was enough. Neither of them had rung each other since that conversation.

‘Hetty is full of petrol, my clothes and food are packed and tomorrow can’t come soon enough.’

‘I’ll be on a different ferry, but I’ll meet you at the port in Amsterdam as planned. Then the world is our oyster. Any plans for tonight?’

‘A long hot shower, as we have no idea when our next will be. Though I have pinched one of those portable pet washers from the surgery. It’s like a huge petrol can that you fill up with water, then you pump the water and it comes out through an attached shower head.’

Ava laughed. ‘If the worst comes to the worst, we can always take a dip in the canal. After all, there is a lot of water in Amsterdam.’

‘Eww, over my dead body! And no doubt there will be a few dead bodies in there along with bicycles.’

‘Twelve thousand bicycles a year on average,’ confirmed Ava, full of knowledge as ever. ‘All we need to do is find a good coffee shop when we get there, and then the rest of the day will be a daze.’ She laughed.

‘You mean drugs, don’t you? I’m beginning to worry I’ve given up my stable existence for a life of body odour and weed,’ Verity joked.

‘One last adventure before we’re thirty and only then should we consider growing up a little.’

‘In my case that’s only a month away!’

‘Then we need to make the most of that month! Our adventure is going to be epic. See you tomorrow!’

After hanging up the phone Verity looked at her reflection in the mirror that was hanging on the living-room wall above the fireplace. She looked tired and emotionally drained. She needed this change of routine and was determined to enjoy every second of this trip. Verity always thought this house would be her final destination in life, but now she was open to the possibility of change. She was grateful for the opportunity to have some fun with her oldest and best friend and take her time planning exactly what she wanted from her future.

She opened the fridge. The shelves were empty except for a ready meal for one, a small bottle of prosecco and a pint of milk for her morning brew. Verity pierced several holes in the film of the ready meal and placed it in the microwave for five minutes. As soon as it pinged, she stared disappointedly at the least appetising meal she’d ever seen. Washed down with the prosecco, though, it was just about bearable.

After she finished eating and washed up, there were only two things left to do: put the bin out ready for tomorrow’s collection then take a shower. Tomorrow would be an early start and a long day. The journey from Staffordshire to Newcastle upon Tyne was over three hours, but with numerous audio books loaded on to her phone, and a playlist of all her favourite songs queued up, hopefully that and the excitement would carry her through the fifteen-hour boat ride she had ahead of her once she arrived at the ferry terminal.

With one last wipe of the kitchen worktops, she left a flask by the kettle ready for the morning. She opened the back door, pulled the bin around the side of the house and left it on the pavement, knowing that when Kev delivered his letters on his round tomorrow, he would kindly put the emptied bin back at the rear of the house. Hearing another bin being scraped along the ground, she looked up and locked eyes with Richard. She quickly looked away without a flicker of acknowledgement on her face. She only had another few hours before there would be five hundred miles between them and he would become nothing but a distant memory.

Back in the kitchen she remembered the toolbox needed to go into the van. It was resting on the floor next to the kitchen table and she was just about to pack it into Hetty when her gaze caught on the rusty old postbox still lying on the table. Kev’s words came back to her and, even though she knew there was probably nothing inside, curiosity was gradually getting the better of her. There was a strong barrel lock on the front, which had rusted over the years, and not having a key, Verity grabbed a screwdriver and managed to prise the door open a little. She then swapped the screwdriver for the claw end of a hammer. With one almighty pull she wrenched the door open, and, surprised, she stumbled backwards.

To her amazement, the postbox contained mail! There were various local business leaflets, from handymen to painters, an outstanding week’s milk bill written in shillings and pence, and, right behind the rest of what she would call junk mail, a postcard.

Holding it in her hand, she took in the colourful picture on the front, which featured two puffins sitting on a rock, looking out over the sea.

‘Puffins!’ she said, smiling, memories flooding back to her. The stocky, short-winged, short-tailed birds with their bright orange webbed feet and white faces, their large, triangular parrot-like bills of bright red and yellow, had been a huge part of her childhood, appearing frequently in the bedtime stories that her grandmother had told her. A natural storyteller who never read from a book, Hetty took her for endless exciting adventures on a place called Puffin Island. Verity could vividly remember the images her granny had described of the quaint island with its colourful cottages and sandy coves.

Verity gave a tiny gasp, feeling her heart beginning to race as she traced her fingers over the gold foil print on the front of the postcard. It had faded but she could still clearly make out the words ‘Puffin Island’. Her granny’s words started ringing in her ears. Puffin Island, where there’s always a good dose of sun, sand, sea air and a puffinry of puffins. As a young child, Verity had always burst into a fit of giggles whenever Granny had said the word ‘puffinry’. She’d thought it was a made-up word until she became a veterinary nurse and stumbled across the word in a textbook. That took her by surprise then, and this took her by surprise now. Verity turned over the postcard and saw the date on the postmark: 1972.

‘Surely you can’t have been stuck in the postbox for over fifty years?’ Verity said aloud before reading the words written on the card.

My Dearest Henrietta,

I know the secret must have been too much to bear but I can’t imagine my life without you.

Always and forever,

W x

Perplexed, Verity turned the postcard over, then turned it back and read the words again. She racked her brain trying to think of anyone in her grandmother’s life with the initial ‘W’. Then it suddenly struck her – she’d seen the picture on the front of the postcard before! She hurried down the hallway to the snug and opened the door. Even though this room had changed over the years, Verity always remembered the sight of her grandmother sitting in her armchair in front of the bay window – her favourite spot – usually knitting and watching the comings and goings of the street. The decor had changed when her mum had inherited the house, and again when Verity bought it, but after all these years her grandmother’s favourite picture was still hanging on the wall. Richard had never liked it, claiming it looked like something out of a junkshop, but Verity had refused to take it down. She loved it and it reminded her of her childhood.

Staring at the framed photo on the wall now, she saw that the image was exactly the same picture as the one on the postcard.

‘W, who is W?’ Rummaging through the drawer of the dresser underneath the photo, Verity found exactly what she was looking for: her granny’s old address book. Sitting down she quickly began to turn the pages, looking for any name beginning with W. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting to find or what she was going to do about it.

When she reached the end of the address book, she sat back, a little disappointed. Sliding the address book back in the drawer, she stood again in front of the framed picture hanging on the wall.

Who was W and what secret was too much to bear? Were they friends, lovers? Taking the photograph off the wall she laid it on the carpet. Carefully bending back the pins, Verity removed the back of the frame, surprised to find a message written on the back of the photograph…in the same writing as the postcard.

The summer of 1972.

W x

Quickly doing the maths, she realised her grandmother would have been twenty-two years old in the summer of 1972. More importantly, her daughter, Verity’s mother, was born in 1973. Verity immediately thought of her grandfather, Alf. She was almost sure her grandparents were married just before her mother was born but she couldn’t be certain. Both of them had passed away – her grandfather twenty years ago from lung cancer, which was not surprising as Verity had never seen him without a cigarette in his mouth, and her grandmother unexpectedly in her sleep twelve years ago. She remembered them as very much in love and inseparable.

So how did W fit into the equation? ‘You’re overthinking it,’ she said out loud, trying to stop her spiralling thoughts. W could be anyone, but the use of the word ‘secret’ on the postcard intrigued her, as did the fact that both the postcard and the picture that had been hanging on the wall in the snug for decades belonged to the summer of 1972. Taking a photo of the inscription, Verity reassembled the picture and hung it back in its place.

‘Puffin Island,’ she murmured, taking the postcard into the sitting room and grabbing her iPad from her rucksack. She typed ‘Puffin Island’ into Google.

‘No way.’ Verity was astonished. According to Google, Puffin Island was a real place!

Puffin Island gives a distinct and spectacular character to the north Northumberland coastline just off the town of Sea’s End. The island is approximately 2.5 miles long and 9 miles around.

Still not believing that this island really existed, Verity clicked on the images and immediately felt the familiar comforting warmth that the childhood stories told by her beloved granny had always conjured. Independent shops lined the charismatic old high street, and charming restaurants and bespoke shops were dotted along the picture-postcard harbour beside a pretty lighthouse. Verity had always been fascinated by the famous rainbow cottages her granny had described, and insisted that when she grew up, she would live at Cosy Nook Cottage on Lighthouse Lane, which was a stone’s throw from Blue Water Bay. With its dramatic coastline, soft stretches of caramel sand and a puffinry of puffins, Verity was inordinately pleased to find that the island was real and not just a figment of her granny’s imagination.

‘You’re actually a place. I can’t quite believe it,’ she whispered, trying to digest the information.

Puffin Island is a tidal island linked to the tiny hamlet of Sea’s End by a long causeway. Twice a day the tide sweeps in from the North Sea to cover the road, affected by the phases of the moon. The causeway crossing times are forecasted as safe, but all travellers should remain vigilant.

Again, exactly what her granny had told her.

Looking back at the postcard, Verity suddenly realised that there was a huge possibility that all the bedtime stories that Granny had told her were true. She racked her brain trying to remember if Granny had ever mentioned any names beginning with W, but no one sprung to mind.