Читать книгу The Little Cornish Kitchen: A heartwarming and funny romance set in Cornwall - Jane Linfoot - Страница 10

At Seaspray Cottage

Thunderstorms and Surprise Rainbows

Thursday

‘So what do you think, Clemmie? Can you remember any of it?’

Sophie and I are standing outside Seaspray Cottage with our backs to the turning tide as we take in the peeling render, the slender bay windows, and a slate roof that’s shining like hammered silver against the cornflower sky. The paintwork is weathered to the colour of the beach and the letters on the name board are so faded the only way we know we’re in the right place is the balcony above that looks so precarious it could be held up by invisible hooks to the sky. As we make our way towards the front door the slant of the steps makes me stagger.

‘When George said “past its sell by date”, that was an understatement. It’s shot to frigg, end of story. Time to walk away?’ I wasn’t expecting to be proved right quite this soon.

Sophie sounds thoughtful. ‘A lot of people think patina is characterful. In any case, the cottage is bound to get all the weather because it’s placed to get the views in three directions.’

I’m scrunching up my face as I wrack my brain. ‘I don’t remember it being at a dead end.’ Somehow the cottage is marooned beyond the quayside where the road runs out into a small path across the dunes that cuts through to the sea front. With every wind gust the sand’s blowing up the beach, over the low boundary wall, and drifting into the garden that extends back beyond the sides of the cottage. Although it’s small in scale, with its three storeys and repeating windows, it’s larger than it looks at first.

Sophie’s suppressing a smile. ‘As it’s so close to the sea I’m guessing the name is more real than romantic.’

Worse and worse. ‘You mean the water actually blasts against the windows?’ Not that I was enthusiastic to begin with, but imagining cold brine hammering on the glass on stormy days is making my shivers seismic.

She laughs. ‘Don’t worry, it’s only Seaspray Cottage, not Splash House or Tidal Wave Towers.’ Shifting Maisie in her arms, Sophie fishes in her bag for the keys. ‘Now we’ve come this far we might as well go in and see the dereliction inside.’

Instead of the anticipated struggle with a rust encrusted lock, the key turns easily, and the door swings open without a creak. Then as we step into a pale buff hallway filled with splashes of sunlight the familiarity is so jarring my feet stop moving before I’ve stepped off the neat coir door mat.

‘The smell’s just the same. How strange is that?’

Sophie wrinkles her nose and somehow manages not to crash into my back. ‘Fresh salty air … and the beeswax on those ancient floor boards?’

My words come slowly, as if I’m dragging them from very far away. ‘With a hint of rosemary and thyme … because that’s what grew in the herb patch at the side of the cottage. They used to mix the leaves into the polish.’ There isn’t time to wonder how I know that because I’m darting forwards again. ‘And there’s the staircase, at the end of the hall.’ Even though I can’t see past the first flight of steps, I already know. ‘On the way to the top floor it winds so tightly the steps run out to nothing at the edge. And there are creaky bits on the landing where the boards groan.’ Like timbers on an old ship. Wasn’t that what Laura used to say?

Sophie’s giving me a searching look. ‘The paintwork’s better in here too. Are we going for a look?’

My diffident shrug is misleading. The weird thing is, I couldn’t stay away now even if I wanted to. I’m trying to play down that there’s an invisible force drawing me upwards. ‘We might as well. Before we do the sensible thing and leave.’ My fingers are already stroking the silky smoothness of the bannister rail.

I wind my way up two floors so fast that by the time Sophie arrives, panting from carrying Maisie, I’m already at the landing window that opens onto the balcony, staring across the expanse of sand to where the sea is glinting way down the beach.

‘I’m ignoring that stupendous view for now. Here you go … flat six.’ Sophie waves another key, and one click later the door on the left of the window is ajar.

I hold my breath as I tiptoe in. Then as I look around at a room crammed with cosy sofas and tables and shelves full of books I let out a gasp. ‘Oh my, the same furniture’s still here, it’s like I’ve flipped back thirty years.’ Whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t to step into a time warp. Although up until this moment, just like with the thyme, and the creaky stairs, I’d mostly forgotten. And obviously now I’m seeing it as an adult, I’m appreciating the whole arty Bohemian patchwork of the room that I never saw as a child. ‘It’s still got the same cosy warmth, but I never realised it was quite this pretty or perfect.’

Sophie’s patting a threadbare silk cushion, and fingering the corner of a stripy crocheted throw. ‘Somehow I assumed it would be empty. We were wrong about the magnolia too.’

I’m blinking at the paint colours. There’s raspberry and peacock and emerald and purple and orange and turquoise, although they’re so worn and faded they merge like a water colour painting. ‘It’s like someone’s tried every sample pot in the range.’ Although that’s wrong, because every clash works perfectly. I push through a scuffed turquoise door into a tiny hall and on into the next room, where the paint I can see in the gaps between an entire wall of pictures is shades of cerise.

Sophie follows me, nodding. ‘Antique pink for the bedroom, you can’t argue with that. And a high painted brass bedstead covered in silk quilts, how comfy does that look?’

I’m with her on that but I don’t reply because I’ve already moved on to the bathroom. I let out a cry when I see the freestanding bath, then smile at the high cistern hanging on the wall above the loo. ‘I had to climb up on a stool to pull that chain, and then run like the wind because the flush sounds like thunder. And those claws on the bath feet used to give me goosebumps.’ We pass another smaller greener box room, and go back through to the living room.

Sophie’s shaking her head in awe at the mismatched rugs. ‘This makes me want to ditch neutral and be more adventurous with colour.’ Her farmhouse is a mix of understated taste and expensive perfection, all in tones of white. Understandably, it took her and Nate years of effort and shit loads of cash to achieve. It probably only looks so beautiful and effortless and calming and uncluttered because every last knob, cushion and curtain tie has had the arse designed off it. ‘So what haven’t we seen yet?’

My hand’s already on the door knob at the other end of the living room. ‘I think this must be the kitchen.’ Then, as I go in and take in the shelves filled with bowls and bright coloured plates and mugs and dishes, and the rows of hanging saucepans over the range cooker, it hits me. ‘I know what’s missing here today. Laura loved to cook, so the flat was always filled with the smell of fresh baking.’

Sophie shifts Maisie onto her other hip, and leans across the windowsill to peep through one of the round topped windows. ‘Amazing, you can see all the way to the houses at the end of St Aidan bay from here.’ She turns to the rectangular table, squeezed in the centre. ‘And look at those mismatched chairs and those fabulous patterned tiles by the sink.’

I can’t help grinning. ‘George mentioned it was worn out, but you have to love the petrol blue paint, and the hotch potch of cupboards, and the way that apple green dresser is properly distressed from years of use.’ It’s also groaning under the weight of a thousand recipe books. I run my hand over the work surface between the pottery sink and the cooker and shake my head as the memories come rushing back. ‘This was where I used to sit when I helped Laura make butterfly buns in flowery paper cases.’ Although mainly I was interested in licking out the mixing bowl. It’s funny, although it’s decades since I thought about that, I can imagine the vanilla sweetness of the buttercream and the crunch of the hundreds-and-thousands sprinkles as if it was yesterday.

‘Probably the last time you went into a kitchen, was it?’ Sophie gives me a gentle dig with her elbow. ‘Until you stuck those macaroons together yesterday?’ The mermaids never pass up an opportunity to point out how shit I am at cooking, although I get that from my mum. She’s so bad Harry’s in charge at home, and before Harry we relied on stab and zap and pitying neighbours. Even so, when it comes to eating, mum and I are equally enthusiastic. You only have to look at my Insta pics to know that. #gateauxofinstagram. The last four months I’ve made it my business to visit and test out most of the patisseries in Paris. I let out a sigh as I think of those fabulous glazed fruit tarts and my favourite mille-feuille custard pastry stacks, topped with the prettiest feathered icing.

I wander back through for a last look at the living room. As I perch on the edge of a velvet chair and stare out through the double doors that open to the outside from the living room, Sophie sinks down on a sofa bursting with cushions, and drops Maisie onto her knee.

‘Tempted to go out on the balcony?’

‘No chance.’ I peer at the gaps between the sun-bleached planks. ‘I’d rather sky dive, at least that way I’d be falling with a parachute.’ I let out another sigh, because I hadn’t expected to care about some rotten wood, let alone be disappointed at not getting to stand out there and feel the wind whipping through my hair.

Sophie sends me one of those searching glances of hers that pierce right through you. ‘So has coming here made you change your mind about rushing into selling?’

I’m playing for time here, avoiding the issue. ‘Have you noticed how the sea changes colour? It was way greener as we came in.’ Now we’re done, I’m strangely loath to leave. The dreamy part of me would like to forget about going back to give George the keys and sit up here and watch the sea all day. But the firm and practical voice in my head is shouting at me very loudly, telling me to get the hell out of here and leave George to sort the sale.

Sophie frowns. ‘It’s strange. When we arrived, I expected to have to work my butt off doing the hard sell. In fact, I haven’t said a thing, yet there you are in your red flowery dress, looking like you’ve been here all your life.’

I owe it to Sophie to be honest. ‘Actually, now I’m here I don’t know what to think.’ I’ve tried to take an over view rather than zooming in on the small stuff, but now I’m closer I can’t help focusing on the parade of tiny wooden penguins marching along the shelf edge in front of the books. I don’t even feel my arm move, and my hand has landed on the blue painted box next to them.

Sophie leans to see. ‘Is that the musical box you told me about?’

My fingers are already twisting the winder on the back. ‘Remember those musical jewelry boxes with the spinning pop-up ballerinas in net tutus that Plum gave us all when we were kids?’

Sophie laughs. ‘The ones that played tunes from the Sound of Music? Mine was Climb Every Mountain, Nell had Doh a Deer, yours played My Favourite Things, and Plum had Edelweiss. Plum had to keep hers shut because she used to cry buckets every time she heard it.’ Sophie can recall the tiniest detail.

‘And this one is …’ I’m bluffing. Unlike Sophie, I haven’t got the foggiest what I’m going to hear. But I open the lid and the tune comes tinkling out.

She gets it on the third note. Somewhere Over the Rainbow? That fits in perfectly with all the colours somehow.’

Like everything else, now I’m hearing it, it couldn’t have been anything else. ‘And there’s one of those blurry Kodachrome colour photos that makes the world look so old.’ I overcome my reluctance to intrude, but as I pick the photo out of the box I see a blurry dark auburn woman cuddling a toddler with a mass of ginger curls and a blue dress with butterflies I recognise from the picture on my mum’s dressing table. ‘Oh my, that’s me. And I think that must be Laura.’ Laura’s face is so full of love as she looks down on me I’m swallowing back a lump in my throat.

Sophie’s hand lands on my arm and she squeezes. ‘Pictures of generations are lovely. It couldn’t be any more tender, could it?’

I sniff and rub my eye. ‘How could I ever have forgotten how comfy it was to be wrapped up on her knee?’ All that love from years ago, and it’s rushing back, warming my chest.

Sophie’s first sympathetic pat gives way to a triumphant shout. ‘And finally we get to find out where your red hair came from. But jeez, just think, if you’d had your way and had George send in the clearance people straight away, you’d never have found that.’

‘You’re right.’ I’m feeling confused.

She jumps up so fast poor Maisie shoots her arms out. ‘That settles it. You can’t walk away. Not until you’ve had a look through everything.’

I let out a long groan. ‘But the place is rammed.’ The picture is like a gem, but even with the promise of more treasure, the thought of so many rooms packed with someone else’s possessions is overwhelming.

She brushes away my protest. ‘If we all come to help, it won’t take long.’ She’s happily including Plum and Nell in her offer too. ‘This is way more fun than any Bumps and Babies or Singles’ stuff. And once you know exactly what bits of your history are here, then you can make an informed choice about what to keep. And then throw the rest away if you must.’ This is what Sophie’s like. When she gets that dynamic gleam in her eye, there’s no point blocking her. Even if she is pushing me towards the door. ‘We’ll see George now, and take it from there.’

‘Great,’ I say, as I linger on the stairs, meaning anything but. As for this particular bit of history, however heartwarming a picture of me with Laura is, there are other parts where I’d rather not be digging. For every lovely bit the blank parts I don’t know about are way scarier. If I’m feeling ambivalent, it’s because however astonishing the riot of colour and the amazing space is upstairs, it’s not a neutral place. It’s like a step into the unknown because there’s no knowing what will turn up. What’s certain is, if I choose to spend more time here I’ll need to be prepared to be brave. For someone who habitually runs away, I haven’t had much practice at manning up. And I’m not entirely sure I want to start.

Sophie is hanging back, examining the letters on the tenants’ post table. ‘There’s one here addressed to a Mr Hobson.’ There are times when I wish she was less thorough.

‘It won’t be the same one we know.’ My hand is on the door handle, and I’m already looking forward to the breeze off the sea battering my cheeks.

She wrinkles her nose. ‘As Nate was saying, Bay Holdings are getting everywhere.’

Which sounds like one more reason for me to get as far away as I can, as fast as I can.