Chapter 4
My brain is addled – from a combination of the long drive, the unseasonably wet, cold weather, the spooky pirate’s cave – and the general state of my life.
I don’t need to trick myself that on top of all that, I’ve seen a ghost ship out the window.
One that only appears as a harbinger of death and doom.
Nonetheless, I feel shaky and lightheaded as I pull the curtains closed, tucking them behind the ship in a bottle.
The charge in the air disappears – or maybe it was never there at all.
I hurry out of the room, distracting myself by helping with the luggage.
I deposit Bridget’s suitcase outside her door and bring mine to the room next door – as far as possible from Bess’s room.
Connor explores the rooms one by one and eventually chooses one with twin beds in the attic, reached by a narrow servant’s stair hidden behind a panelled door.
I’m surprised and quite a bit relieved when Cliff pops his head through the open door of my room and flips a switch. An electric light comes on.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Electricity.’
‘Of course.’ He looks at me like I’m daft. ‘Couldn’t run an inn in this day and age without it, could we?’
‘Well… no.’
‘The mains switch just needed a fiddle. It’s down in the cellar along with the boiler. The key’s above the lintel. The museum’s got its own power supply.’
‘Thanks for doing that. And… um, does that mean the kitchen appliances work? I brought a bag of food with us, and I can make some pasta.’ The idea makes me almost giddy.
My so-called vision could easily have been caused by low blood sugar – it’s been hours since McDonald’s.
Although part of me wants to mention the ghost ship to Cliff, if only for him to tell me that I’ve lost the plot, I’m worried that he’ll do the opposite.
Tell me that I’m doomed – which is another thing I don’t need to be right now. ‘You’re welcome to stay,’ I add.
He shakes his head. ‘No thank you, ma’am. I’m off to visit a lady friend.’
‘Oh…’ I say. ‘In that case, have a good evening. Will you come back round tomorrow?’
‘Maybe, maybe not.’ He shrugs. ‘I’ll see you when I see you.’
Cliff wends his way to the front door and lets himself out. I feel a mixture of relief that he’s gone and trepidation that we’re by ourselves in this place. We could just leave… I remind myself. But given that the rooms seem at least habitable, I really can’t face trying to find somewhere else.
While the kids are unpacking, I brave the kitchen and find that it’s actually not in bad nick.
Once the lights are on, the appliances are plugged in, and a bag of smelly rubbish is placed outside the door, I unpack the bag of food essentials we brought, find a drawer of pots and pans, and make pasta.
When it’s ready, I call the kids down, and the three of us huddle around the table.
Bridget tries unsuccessfully to coax a mobile signal; Connor doodles on a notepad found next to an old-fashioned dial phone with a squiggly cord.
Victoria may not have gone in for mod cons, but she wasn’t completely cut off from the world.
As I serve up the pasta, part of me wishes I’d persuaded Cliff to stay.
With the strange mixture of tidy rooms, rooms overflowing with clutter, and a museum of curiosities and smugglers’ cave on the premises, I’m intrigued to know more about the relatives I never knew I had.
Why did Victoria leave me an old inn? And now that she has, what am I supposed to do with the place?
We eat in silence. Even Connor seems unenthusiastic about the prospect of a night in the house, and Bridget looks one step away from a full-blown attack of tears.
I can’t blame her. When we’ve finished dinner, I suggest that we all get an early night.
At this point, Bridget does start to cry, rushing out of the room and up the stairs.
With a long sigh, I put my head in my hands.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say to Connor. ‘I had no idea it was going to be like this.’ I go to the sink to do the washing-up.
‘It’s OK, Mum,’ Connor says. ‘I like it here – it’s interesting.’
I smile faintly. ‘I’m glad to hear it. And thanks for being a good sport.’
‘No worries,’ he says. ‘I want to explore the cove tomorrow. Cliff said there’s old mine works, smugglers’ caves and pirate lairs all around here.’
‘Did he? That sounds…’ Dangerous? ‘Exciting.’
‘You could come too.’
‘Well… I’ve got a lot to be getting on with here at the house. I need to start going through Great-Aunt Victoria’s things.’
‘OK.’ He sounds a little disappointed. ‘I get it.’
A familiar dart of guilt pierces my chest. I used to be a fun mum – at least, I think I was.
Once, a long time ago, I was a mum who took the kids to the seaside, and played frisbee and catch, and hung their crayon drawings on the fridge.
But I haven’t been that mum for a long time.
Bridget is a young woman, and Connor – my little boy – he’s in double digits.
Is it too late? Almost certainly. But is this ‘new start’ a chance to make things better… ? Maybe.
‘How about this,’ I say. ‘You go exploring tomorrow morning, and then after lunch, you can show me around.’
I’m rewarded with a smile.
‘Sure, Mum. I can’t wait.’
‘Me neither.’
I finish the washing up and together, Connor and I go upstairs.
There’s no sound from Bridget’s room, so at least she’s not crying.
I give my son a goodnight hug, and we go to our separate rooms. As I’m undressing, I find the useless key ring from the solicitor in my pocket.
The silver key is too small for a door lock, I realise, and I’ll probably never find out what it opens.
I stick the key ring in the drawer of the bedside table, out of sight, out of mind.
Before getting into bed, I risk peeking through the curtains.
The sky is black, the moon obscured by clouds.
No ship on the horizon, ghostly or otherwise.
* * *
I’m not expecting to sleep. The unfamiliar room, the creaks and groans of the house, the relentless sound of breaking waves – none of them are conducive to a good night’s rest. And yet, when I next open my eyes, light is leaking in from around the edges of the curtains.
The sound of waves is muted, punctuated by the cry of sea birds.
My body feels heavy and languid after what must have been a deep sleep.
Shivering in the morning chill, I get out of bed, put on some tracksuit bottoms and a hoodie, and go to the window, drawing back the curtains.
The view is glorious, exhilarating, inspiring.
The bay is a sparkling sapphire blue, the cliffs a dark pewter topped by dew-drenched emerald grass.
Sea birds duck and dive to unseen nests, and from somewhere nearby, a dog barks.
The blue sky is marbled with white, fluffy clouds turning to haze in the distance.
I can’t see a beach, which must be below the cliffs.
I also don’t see any boats or watercraft.
The horizon is empty as far as the eye can see.
Above me, I hear the sound of Connor’s footsteps as he bounds out of bed and runs down the backstairs.
‘Mum,’ he calls out, bursting into my room. ‘It’s sunny. Can I go outside?’
‘After breakfast.’
‘Aw, come on.’
‘Breakfast first,’ I say sternly. ‘I’ll make pancakes.’
That satisfies him. I pull on my Ugg boots and go downstairs to make it happen. We’ve got milk, but I’ll have to hope that Great-Aunt Victoria had flour and baking powder that are still usable. Maybe it’s the fine weather, but I feel optimistic that one way or another, I’ll make it work.
I find the ingredients I need, but while I’m mixing up the batter, I hear the door slam.
‘Connor,’ I mutter under my breath, but I know it’s futile.
He’s gone. I finish making the pancakes and call up to Bridget.
There’s no response, but that’s not unusual.
I sit down at the table to eat and get used to my new surroundings.
The kitchen is a large room with two walls of original brick, a gaping fireplace cluttered with copper pots, and a bread oven at one side.
The thick wooden mantel is set with horse brasses and displays a row of bone china dishes painted with nautical scenes.
The kitchen units and appliances are dated, but perfectly functional.
There’s a Welsh dresser that’s stuffed to the gills with papers – I decide I’ll start there in going through Victoria’s things.
Hopefully, I’ll find some clues as to how she found me and why she left me the inn.
I eat slowly, my eye drawn to the view out of the kitchen window.
The blue expanse of sea is now ornamented with two white sailing boats.
I’ve never been much of a boat person, but I have to admit that in this place, sea, sky and land seem conjoined, and I feel an odd yearning to be out on the water.
By the time I’ve finished breakfast and washed up my plate, there’s still no sign of Bridget, though I can hear water running upstairs. I decide not to brave one of her morning moods and leave the plate of pancakes on the counter for her to fend for herself.
I’d almost forgotten the bombsite of the rest of the ground floor, but as I leave the kitchen and make my way through the maze towards the front door, my good mood begins to ebb.
Should I hire a skip? I’ve always hated the idea of books being pulped or thrown away, but Victoria’s haul looks like it would fill an entire charity shop.
And what of this Elspeth? Will she want some of Victoria’s things?
I’ll need to speak to her before throwing anything out – in which case, why get started now?
Instead, I go outside. After yesterday’s storm, the air is fresh and clear.
Though it’s chilly, the sun warms my face, and I’m eager to explore the place in daylight.
My car is parked in a cobbled yard off the road that leads to the beach.
On the far side of the yard, I make out a cluster of outbuildings – several run-down sheds and an old barn partly obscured by gorse and nettles and a windbreak of spindly trees.
A sign demarcates an overgrown public footpath that apparently leads to Penglas Cove.
The inn itself is a rambling, higgledy-piggledy stone structure, crisscrossed by huge wooden beams like those of a ship.
The windows are formed of hundreds of rectangular glass panes, the leading bowed and uneven, catching the light at odd angles.
The structure is two stories high with a peaked roof and gabled windows, and at either end, huge stone chimneys buttress the building like bookends.
The L-shaped structure that houses the museum is made of wattle and daub, and was probably an extension to the original building.
The inn is perched on a grassy precipice that stretches several hundred metres and then abruptly ends.
Beyond, the sea stretches out to the endless horizon.
I walk around to the back of the inn. Outside what should be the common room, there’s a cobbled patio area with a few sun-faded tables and chairs.
Although the seat is dewy, I sit down in one of the chairs and stare out at the vast, blue expanse in front of me.
The horseshoe-shaped bay looks relatively calm, the waves lapping gently below.
The last tendrils of morning mist rise up from below the cliff and I can taste salt on my tongue.
I enjoy the view, but in truth, the proximity of all that power below me makes me a little uneasy.
I’ve never been a person who enjoys ocean swimming and being buffeted by waves, and the sea air holds a sharp chill.
It’s undeniable, however, that I’ve inherited a property with a view that’s to die for.
The place may be underutilised, but there’s infinite untapped potential.
Which is kind of exciting.
With my architect’s hat on, I consider the options.
The building is grade II listed which will limit the alterations that can be made to the main structure, but there are things that might be possible with the outbuildings and the museum wing.
And structural changes aside, there’s no doubt that the inn’s interior needs a major refresh (not to mention a good Wi-Fi signal) and then, who knows?
With some publicity, the inn might become a moneymaker. For someone…
It’s not something I’ve ever aspired to.
I already have a career, even if it’s currently in tatters.
Aiden used to say that my biggest strength was my vision – my eye for design and potential for a building or a space – and that I was less good at the practical side of things.
At university, where we met, we’d often collaborate on our assignments, with me doing the designing and him doing the boring bits required to bring the vision to life.
It was a collaboration that we continued when we got married and started our practice together.
We lived together and worked together; we created together, which made it special.
Our future looked shiny and bright: like a new home with a fancy kitchen, immaculate bathrooms, tasteful fixtures and fittings, with lively pops of colour strategically placed to provide that wow factor.
But somewhere along the way – probably around the time we had kids – the balance shifted.
I took on the mundane tasks of motherhood which required a huge amount of practicality and organisation.
Without even realising, I lost myself in the boring bits.
Our lives became ‘lived in’ – like a tired family home with stained carpets, worn linoleum, musty curtains, and dog hair on the furniture.
Is that why he fell into the arms of someone younger and more exciting?
Someone with a youthful vision, untarnished by years of marriage and adulthood?
Maybe. I’ve been upset for months by what happened – of course I have – I’ve moved by degrees from shocked to hurt to angry, to betrayed, to resigned – I’ve beat myself up and spent hours and days pondering what ‘should’ have been and how I could have missed the warning signs that were right under my nose.
But out here, with the wind in my face and the endless sea stretching before me, all of those emotions recede into the distance.
The past was painful and the future is uncertain but in this moment, I feel a strange and unexpected connection to both the time and the place.
That I’m somehow meant to be right here, right now.
It almost feels like enough.