Chapter 2
Chapter Two
After three hours, the train wheezed into Sea’s End station with a final, dramatic sigh, as if even it was exhausted by the journey.
Pippa grabbed her suitcase from the rack, slung the rucksack onto her back, and stepped out of the carriage …
only to immediately question every life choice that had led her here.
Rain.
Everywhere.
Thick, wind-driven, utterly unapologetic rain. This was the sort that soaked straight through her wedding dress and made it cling to her calves. She stood on the platform, rain misting around her, hair already frizzing, trainers already soaked through.
A handful of hardy travellers hurried towards the tiny station exit, collars turned up, hoods pulled tight, waterproofs glistening under the platform lights.
‘Brilliant,’ she muttered, hauling both herself and the suitcase towards the road.
A small sign by the station read: Welcome to Sea’s End – Gateway to Puffin Island.
But there was no gateway. Just puddles, wind, and a slick, shining road, with nothing much else in sight.
She pulled out her phone and opened the Uber app. There were no cars available. Then she tried the local taxi number she’d saved earlier … which went straight to voicemail.
Pippa glanced up and down the narrow lane. A single streetlight flickered in the rain. The wind whipped in from the coast and somewhere in the distance, gulls squawked.
‘Oh, come on,’ she mumbled to herself. Then it hit her.
Puffin Island was accessible only by a narrow strip of road connecting it to the mainland.
A road that disappeared at high tide and no doubt in poor weather conditions like this was totally impassable.
She’d read all about it in an article titled ‘Puffin Island: the remote coastal gem where time stands still’.
Apparently, so did traffic. Now she was stranded, with every B you must be one of the winners.’
‘Yes, I am.’ Pippa caught the crumbs from the muffin as she took a bite. ‘I entered at the last minute on a whim, and now here I am, very grateful to be missing out on a golfing honeymoon in Portugal.’
Clemmie smiled. ‘Have to say, golfing’s not my cup of tea either.
And you’re lucky! Most people never get closer than the front door.
They say it’s untouched inside and perfectly preserved, so it’s like stepping straight into the last century.
Every so often it’s opened for guided visits for people fanatical about clocks, but staying there overnight?
That’s special. It still has all its original features and all the clocks.
And the garden is just beautiful. In summer, Agatha’s roses still grow by the back wall.
’ Clemmie’s voice had swelled as she described the cottage, and she laughed at herself. ‘I sound like a tour guide, don’t I?’
‘I can’t quite believe it myself. When I entered, the internet was stalling, and I mistyped my own email address multiple times, and then the page froze just as I hit “submit” and I wasn’t even sure I’d made it in time.
But then, thirty minutes later … boom! I got an email in my inbox.
I thought it was going to be junk mail again – you know, “Congratulations, you’ve won a lifetime supply of oven cleaner! ” – but no. I actually won!’
‘I’m assuming you like clocks?’
Pippa’s eyes lit up. ‘Like clocks? I love them! I studied clocks at university and I’m now a clock restorer.
They’re little worlds in themselves, tiny universes of gears and springs and patience.
I’ve collected clocks and old clock keys since the age of five – my dad is obsessed too and my parents got me started.
I’d sit for hours in my room, winding them and pretending I was keeping time itself alive.
Everyone else had stickers or Barbies, but I had rusting brass keys and a battered library book about escapements.
’ The words tumbled out in a rush, her voice breathless with excitement.
She grinned, her cheeks flushed. ‘The thing is, clocks don’t just tell the time, they also hold it.
All those hands ticking away, marking the birthdays, the holidays, the heartbreaks.
Every tick is a moment you can’t get back, but you can hear it, you can feel it. It makes life feel … precious.’
She stopped suddenly, realising she’d gone off on one, half a muffin still in hand. ‘Sorry, I must sound like a complete lunatic.’
Clemmie shook her head, smiling. ‘No. You sound like someone who was born to stay in Clockmaker’s Cottage.’
‘It was always on my bucket list to visit Puffin Island. I’ve been obsessed with the Vale Brothers my whole life and I’m finally going to see Horace Vale in the flesh. I can’t believe that after all these years he’s finally doing a talk at the convention.’
‘I think the press will be out in full force – if they can get over the causeway in this weather, that is.’
Outside, the rain was still lashing down, and though the wipers were swishing at a frantic pace, it was difficult to see out of the windscreen.
But Pippa was in safe hands as Clemmie was expertly navigating the causeway even as the sea sloshed restlessly on either side of them, waves licking the road and the van’s tyres in grey gusts.
Lights twinkled in the distance as they drove onto the island.
Clemmie gave Pippa a quick rundown of key places, such as The Story Shop – the quaint bookshop on Lighthouse Lane owned by her best friend Amelia – and the lighthouse – home to famous artist Dilly Waters – and The Sea Glass Restaurant, a converted boat restaurant which was moored at the end of the jetty.
Finally, Clemmie pointed proudly to the pink thatched cottage that housed the café that she owned with her granny.
‘I bet this place is gorgeous when the sun is out,’ said Pippa. ‘You wouldn’t think it’s July.’
‘Every season is special,’ confirmed Clemmie. ‘It’s an amazing place to live, and there’s always something going on, like the convention. I bet that when it kicks off tomorrow we’ll see a lot of men in waistcoats and women with magnifying glasses.’
‘My kind of people!’ Pippa replied, grinning.
‘Clockmaker’s Cottage is up on the hill between Cockle Bay Cove and Smuggler’s Rest Hotel,’ Clemmie said as they followed the drenched bunting that hung between every lamppost.
‘Do you know much about Walter and Horace Vale?’
‘They grew up here on the island and Clockmaker’s Cottage was their childhood home.
Walter’s wife, Agatha, was also brought up here, on Puffin Island Farm.
Horace moved to London at the start of their clockmaking partnership, but Walter and Agatha made Clockmaker’s Cottage their own and stayed in it until their passings.
Horace now owns it, but as far as I know he’s never returned to the island until now. ’
‘I wonder why he’s finally coming back after all this time?’
Clemmie shrugged. ‘Who knows? Here we are.’
Despite the rain, Clockmaker’s Cottage was a picture-perfect dream, the sort of place that looked as though it was straight out of a romcom film set.
Perched just above the cliffs, its weathered stone walls were darkened by the rain, the deep slate roof slick with water, while the crooked chimney pots looked as though they’d been lifted from a children’s storybook.
The wonky old windows, their original wavy glass still intact, shimmered as light flickered from inside, and the front door, painted a cheerful blue, proudly displayed a brass knocker shaped like a tiny clock face.
Pippa stared. ‘Wow! It looks even better in real life.’