Chapter Four
She had been about to set off but driving angry wasn’t smart so she took a quick turn around the car park. Her phone pinged and, ready for round two, she saw with relief it was another GIF from Aster. This time Leonardo Di Caprio was raising a champagne glass to her. Aster was the queen of the perfect GIFs and knowing exactly what was needed and when.
Laughing, Paddy’s bad mood had passed as quickly as it had arrived and she got in her car heading towards Cornwall.
The phone rang again and just as she was preparing to throw it out the window, she saw it was Billee BB. Wilhemena Barbara Bains had been a model who had successfully transitioned over in the film and TV work. A wicked gossip, with no filter and bags of ego she was always good for a fun time, even if she couldn’t be relied on when things went south.
‘Hey BB,’ said Paddy smiling.
‘Girl. Is it true? Are you really going to Cornwall?’
‘Driving there as we speak.’
There was a squark down the line.
‘Oh my God. You’ll love it! Didn’t I always says that you and Cornwall were made for each other?’
Paddy remembered no such thing but she didn’t contradict her friend as she ploughed on.
‘Cornwall is a dream. I mean they have no shops but other than that it’s amazing.’
‘I’m pretty sure they have shops.’
‘Not real ones.’
By real ones, Billee meant shops that sold handbags for thousands of pounds.
‘And you’ll have total anonymity. It’s incredible. The Cornish are so cool, they totally ignore you. I was saying to Tom the other day, Cruise, not Hanks, how incredible it is. He’d been on holiday and he was only asked for his autograph once and that was by a tourist. Isn’t that incredible?’
‘Incredible.’ Paddy wasn’t required to add much to the conversation. She just smiled and nodded along, agreeing or disagreeing at the right time.
‘Even I found the same thing when I was on holiday last year.’
Paddy smiled to think that Billee considered herself more famous than Tom Cruise but no one would ever accuse Billee, The Nation’s Sweetheart TM as having a small ego.
‘I swear I was out walking Buster, and the only things people said to me was to ask if I had poo bags, where the car park was, and could I hold the gate! Incredible!’
‘Incredible.’
‘I mean, obviously they knew who I was but they were so chilled. They even ignore the Prime Minister when he comes down here. They just understand that we need a rest.’
Paddy wondered if the Cornish were that caring or whether living in a media bubble you just get used to being surrounded by fans, sycophants and trolls.
‘You’re going to love it. I bet they don’t even recognise you.’
Paddy rolled her eyes. Billee didn’t mean to sound insulting, she just simply didn’t have a conversation where she wasn’t the most important person in the chat. As they carried on chatting Billee told her all about her new role in a remark of Casablanca and Paddy said she was going to be a huge success.
‘I know, right? But honestly, I watched the old version the other day. Tell me babes, am I making a mistake? Ingmar Bergman was so cool. I’ll never compare.’
And here was the other side of her monstrous ego, Wilhemena Bains was a colossal bag of insecurities. Paddy suspected that this was the true reason for her call and she began to reassure her friend.
‘Why would you want to compare yourself? You’re Billee effing BB. You bloody rock girl! You are going to walk on that film set and do it your way and that way will be epic. Who are you?’
‘Billee effing BB,’ laughed Billee nervously down the phone.
Who?’ shouted Paddy, laughing.
‘Billee effing BB,’ roared Billee and as the two girls started laughed their conversation returned to matters mundane before Billee had to leave for a press junket. Hanging up, Paddy was once again reassured that she was making the right call by leaving the modelling industry and she knew that acting would be the wrong choice for her. But what was she going to do?
Whilst they had been talking the sun had just set and to her left, she saw a lone group of trees clustered around the top of a hill. They were striking and there seemed something very romantic in their beauty and isolation. Ten minutes later she drove past the county sign for Cornwall and breathed a sigh of relief. Nearly there, she thought. An hour later she wondered just how big Cornwall was, as she still seemed to be driving. However, the phone was beginning to give instructions more and more frequently. It was now fully dark and she had long since left the wide-open moors that the A30 had cut across, and she seemed to be driving along lots of impossibly small roads, her headlamps carving out tunnels through the tall hedgerows looming over the little car.
She turned down a road that was signposted to Tregiskey and also labelled as a dead-end. It appeared that she had driven to the ends of the earth. At least a no-through road meant she had to be very close. Just as the phone told her she had arrived she drove past a large driveway and reversed back. It was just as the agent had described: there was a lay-by to the side of the road and then two large white painted gates. The gates were solid, allowing no view from the road, but tonight they were wide open and Paddy drove through, following the drive around to the front of the house.
In the dark she was aware of it looming over her, her headlamps illuminating a perfect lawn hedged by bushes swaying in the wind. It was only eight o’clock but she was shattered. The porch light was on and, finding the key, she unlocked the front door and walked in. Mr Chadwell had also left the hall light on and she was grateful for the kind thought. Heading back to the car, she unloaded her overnight bag, locked it and then locked the front door behind her. The front hall was comfortably wide and long and took her past a couple of doorways and then opened up into a crossroad of passageways and an elegant Georgian staircase. She could easily picture a photoshoot here with some models leaning against the wall, others sitting holding onto the spindles of the balustrade.
The lights continued up the stairs and into the first bedroom, where the light was on; further down the corridor was another pool of light and so Paddy found the bathroom and her bed for the night. Brushing her teeth she mentally thanked the land agent for turning the heating and lights on. It was a thoughtful gesture. She was prepared to bet there would also be milk in the fridge but for now she just wanted to sleep.
She set her alarm clock and opened the curtains, an old trick that she employed to make sure she woke early; the last thing she wanted to do was oversleep. Pushing up the large sash window to let some of the heat out of her room, she decided that Cornwall was definitely warmer than London or Norfolk. A cool breeze passed across her skin and she slid into bed. In the dark room she lay under the heavy duvet and listened to the wind in the trees outside. As the wind lulled, she thought she could hear the sea and wondered if she had already fallen asleep. Was it possible that she could hear the waves from here? Imagine being able to live this close to the sea? Smiling hopefully, she fell asleep.
***
Paddy heard the gravel crunch outside and she went to open the front door. She was dressed in a smart pair of flat leather boots, indigo jeans and an oversized linen blouse. It was the only change of clothes she had as she waited for the rest of her luggage that would be arriving today. She wanted to impress the land agent and show him that she was going to be a safe pair of hands. First impressions were everything and she was already concerned that her sisters had unintentionally undermined her with their phone calls yesterday.
Standing on the doorstep was a smartly suited man in his fifties. He was tall and skinny and his suit fitted him like an afterthought; looking at it she thought it might have been at least twenty years old. As much a part of him as his shrubby eyebrows. He smiled and stuck out his hand.
‘Lady Patricia? Malcom Chadwell. Pleased to meet you.’
Paddy welcomed him into the house and settled down for a second brew. Thanking him for his thoughtful gestures with the milk, heating and lights she then apologised again for her sisters.
‘They just get a bit overprotective.’
‘Big sisters are like that. I have two of my own and they still phone me up to check I’ve done things. Have I seen the forecast, did I remember Rosie’s birthday, did I get a flu jab? I’m afraid it’s just a burden we have to bear.’
Paddy nodded and listened to this man chatter on as she drank her coffee in silence. She wasn’t sure how to start so she thought she would let him take the lead.
‘Right then, enough of my going on. Have you had a chance to explore yet?’
Paddy shook her head. ‘Honestly, I’m not long up. Yesterday’s drive was quite a long one. I feel like quite a slugabed. Why don’t you show me around?’
Built in the 1800s Kensey House was designed to be a summer home for the de Foix family. Most people settled for a caravan, thought Paddy, as Mr Chadwell closed the door on yet another bathroom.
When Paddy had first seen the house from the outside she wondered if there was a latch on the side where she could open it up and look inside. The house was built like the prettiest doll’s house. It was a large Queen Anne design, five windows wide, three windows tall in perfect symmetry. Decorative brickwork ran in two columns on either side of the front portico, up to the slate roof which housed the third row of dormer windows. A pair of simple chimneys sat at either end of the property, again in perfect symmetry.
The pair of them wandered down elegant hallways, through tall gracious rooms, and Paddy felt completely out of place. Nothing about it was homely. It felt like some perfect film set or holiday let, which is exactly how it had been used for the past few years. Every room had wall-to-wall carpets but instead of making the rooms feel cosy, they felt claustrophobic, despite the tall ceilings and large windows. Many of the rooms at Hiverton Manor were even larger but somehow, they felt honest and lived in.
After their tour of the house, including a surprise chapel tacked on to the back of the building and accessed via a private door, from the house, or an outside porch on the other side, they headed back inside for a discussion of the village itself and what responsibilities were involved.
It wasn’t onerous; each house or cottage had been well maintained over the decades. Tenants took care of their properties, enjoying the peppercorn rents and the idyllic location. Tregiskey was more a hamlet than a village; it led down to a sheltered cove and a popular pub, sitting just above the beach. Kensey House sat on the hill overlooking the small cluster of cottages.
‘Sounds like it runs like clockwork then?’ said Paddy, as Malcolm explained how the rents were managed.
‘Pretty much. Did you plan to introduce yourself to the villagers? I could send out a letter to them. They already know that a new heir inherited last year.’
‘To be honest I’d rather stay on the down-low. The QT?’ She paused, looking at his blank face. ‘I’d rather be here incognito for a bit, just whilst I find my feet. Is that acceptable? It all seems to be running fine so I don’t want to come swinging in, throwing my weight around.’ She stopped talking and plumped up a few cushions before continuing. ‘If I’m honest, I’m a little bit nervous about them. Plus they aren’t really my tenants, they’re Ari’s.’ She drew breath feeling a little foolish. ‘Is that okay?’
Malcolm smiled at her. ‘Of course it is. You find your feet first and then say hello. Mind you, in a place like this everyone will already know someone is staying up in the big house. But no one’s likely to come and knock on the door. You’ll find the Cornish are friendly but not forward.’
‘Sounds like heaven. But while I’m getting into the swing of it, I’ll start reading through all this paperwork.’
Nick had already received all the financial details for the property and the village and had found it to be one of the more profitable arms of the Hiverton Estate. Now Paddy and Mr Chadwell continued to look through some of the bookings that were in place for the house, including some film shoots.
‘Will I live here whilst they are filming, or do they need all the space?’
‘Ah, now that’s something else. There is a smaller property that I thought you might like to stay in whilst they are here. Let me show you.’
They got into his car, and he drove down a steep driveway hidden behind the main house. She hadn’t noticed it before as it was tucked to the side behind some towering shrubs. As they drove down Paddy was delighted to see that the drive ended at a small beach. Sitting alongside the cove and just up from the gently lapping waves, sat a perfect cottage. They were about to head off and explore the property, when Mr Chadwell received a call. His son had fallen off a swing and had been taken to casualty. He had to go. Paddy agreed but was also surprised: she was used to a more business-oriented world where family concerns were second place. Malcolm offered her a lift back up to the house but she waved him on saying she would explore by herself.
As he left, he leant out of the window, calling out to her. ‘The Grotto is up the steps behind the cottage. Well worth exploring!’ and with that he was gone.
Smiling, she waved him off and turned back to the sea. How lovely this place was, where the family, not the job, came first. She did hope his lad was going to be okay and made a note to send him a card and a bar of chocolate. She thought a boy would prefer that to grapes or flowers.
A slight breeze caught her hair and rustled the trees behind her. Nudged out of her thoughts she headed towards the cottage. She’d go and see what he meant by a grotto after she had explored her temporary home.
The porch of the little cottage was lined in cockleshells pressed into plaster. All three walls of the porch were covered in the pretty white shells although in patches some had broken or fallen off. Paddy made a note to start collecting shells from the beach to repair it. Turning the key in the lock she smiled at the idea of it being little. It had three bedrooms for heaven’s sake! Walking in through the door she found a small room on her right overlooking the garage/boat shed. Paddy thought that this room might work as a study. Ahead of the front door was the staircase and to the left, the rest of the house had been knocked through to offer one large living space. The kitchen sat closest to the staircase and its windows looked back towards a small garden before the land rose steeply, covered in rough-looking shrubs, as the cottage was tucked into the hillside. She opened the window to let some fresh air in and was suddenly engulfed in childhood memories as the scent of coconut filled the room.
Like all the kitchens on the terraced street where Paddy grew up, Bhupi Aunty’s kitchen was small and made smaller by all the neighbourhood children crowding around Aunty’s feet waiting for a chance to scrape out the bowl, whenever she made Coconut Ice. Growing up, Paddy was used to spending as much time in her friends’ kitchens as her own. The London terraces where she grew up were busily being gentrified, but as a kid they were full of large families all spilling out on the streets and into each other’s houses. Sharing a room with one or more sibling was so commonplace that having a room to yourself was considered an oddity. Now she had a whole house. She smiled again.
Leaning out of the window, Paddy discovered the smell of coconut was coming from the yellow flowers covering the hillside. She would go and cut some in a minute and put them in a vase, although the smell was so strong she probably didn’t need to.
The rest of the lower floor was a large open plan living room with a big fireplace to the right and an end wall that had sliding patio doors leading onto a wide slate lined terrace. Heading onto the patio, she looked over the sand and water and thought she had found heaven. Taking in a deep breath she laughed. The unexpected noise caused a flock of birds to fly up, keening as they went. With a grin she looked around and discovered a second lower patio. This led out onto the rocks and at high tide she assumed that the small ladder would take her straight into the water. Looking back at the house she knew right down to the marrow in her bones that this was going to be her home. Not the big house on the hill.
Smiling, she returned inside and ran upstairs. The three bedrooms were of a similar size and there was a single bathroom. It was very gloomy and as she investigated, she realised that she would need to open all the external storm shutters. Plus, she needed to find some dusters and then sweep the seaweed off the patio, as she walked around the cottage, she was making a list of all the things she needed to do and felt an excitement begin to bubble up.
From the back bedroom she saw some steps and remembered the grotto. She dashed back downstairs and headed outside. Behind the garage she found a small gate leading to a flight of heavily overgrown, slate-lined steps, winding up on the right-hand side of the hill. Leaning over to pick some of the yellow flowers she was quickly defeated by an intense array of thorns. Her fingers were covered in scratched and her notion to fill the house with these sweet, scented blooms was quickly vanquished.
Climbing up, licking the blood off her fingertips, she was soon looking down on the roof of the cottage and out to sea. The path turned and she came to a small flat area, and built into the hillside was a small stone building. All she could see was a door and two wooden shutters on either side. Underneath these stood two stone benches looking out to sea. She unlatched the metal bars on the window shutters to reveal two un-glazed apertures. Opening the wooden door with a bit of a push, she blinked waiting for her eyes to get used to the gloom. As the light filled the room, she could see it was larger than she expected. It was about seven-foot square and utterly festooned in shells and decorative stones. Unlike the little simple cockleshells on her cottage porch, the shells in here were large and elaborate. Clam shells were overlapped in the shapes of flowers with little periwinkles in the gaps between, long razor clams fanned out under a ceiling dotted with large conch shells. Wherever she looked she could see beautiful shapes and motifs made out of shells. The ceiling was lined with what looked like icicles made out of long pointed shells, the floor was a swirling pattern of cobbles laid in intricate patterns. All along the edge of the walls ran a bench, presumably so that when it was raining you could sit inside in your magical little grotto and look out to sea.
Again, some patches of the walls were bare and shells and rubble lay broken on the bench. Here, like the cockleshells around her porch, was another project she could get her teeth into. Although the shells in this grotto seemed to come from around the world and some of the shiny yellow and blue stones looked semi-precious.
Making everything secure she walked back down to the cottage. Grinning to herself she headed up the drive to Kensey House just in time to direct the delivery driver down the lane to offload the rest of her suitcases. She didn’t know what else she was going to do but at least for now she had found where she was going to live. Her own little cockleshell cove.