by Kate Ryder
‘More or less,’ he says. ‘I’ve got a couple of people to stay with but I don’t like to plan too rigidly. I prefer the let’s see what life brings approach.’
How free he is! She used to be that way… once.
‘Well, OK, then. Let’s catch the train together.’
As they walk across the concourse following signs to the airport rail link, Johnny asks, ‘If I came to Cornwall, where would I find your gallery?’
Cara considers him. There’s nothing to suggest trouble. He’s just a young man embracing all that life has to offer. Just like Christo… ‘Porthleven, on the south coast beyond Helston.’
‘What’s its name?’
‘The Art Shack.’ Inadvertently, Cara cringes. Greg thinks it’s so quaint and has suggested she change it. But, so far, she’s dug her heels in. She gives a small frown, disappointed at letting Greg’s opinion make her doubt her original choice. The gallery’s name has served her well up to now.
‘I like that,’ he says. ‘It conjures up images of it being on the beach.’
‘Almost,’ Cara says, silently thanking him for bolstering her flagging self-belief. ‘It’s in a courtyard just off the harbour.’
‘Sounds great. Think I’ll definitely look into making a detour while I’m here.’
The rail journey to Paddington passes quickly with Johnny chatting about his forthcoming travels. On the point of going their separate ways, he says, ‘Thanks, Cara, for making the start of my year’s sabbatical memorable.’
She laughs. ‘And thank you for making my journey home from New York enjoyable.’
He grins. Picking up his rucksack, he hoists it onto his back and turns to walk away, but hesitates. ‘See you in Porthleven.’
‘There’ll be coffee waiting,’ she says, ‘and, you never know, I may even splash out on a Cornish pasty!’
‘An offer I can’t refuse. See you soon.’ He smiles at her before disappearing into the crowd.
Checking the departures board for the Penzance train, Cara sees she has only minutes to spare. As she hurries towards the platform her mobile phone rings. She ignores it; if it’s important, whoever it is will leave a message. Hauling her suitcase onto the train, she stows it in the luggage compartment and walks through the carriage to a window seat. She makes herself comfortable and looks around, half expecting the young American to reappear. She smiles to herself. He was pleasant company and helped pass the time, but if she accepts Greg’s offer, occasions like this won’t be allowed to happen. Her smile slips. His offer is good, she reminds herself. It assures her of a future for her children. It will, however, mean being Greg’s partner in the true sense of the word. Maybe, with time, she will get used to his physical demands. She closes her eyes to the distasteful vision of Greg making love to her. Suddenly, Oliver’s face swims into view. Aargh! Stop thinking of him! Why is it that whenever she feels compromised her mind strays to him? Sighing deeply, Cara opens her eyes and takes out her mobile. A voicemail from Morwenna.
‘OMG! Phone me. He’s coming!’
Cara immediately phones her friend.
‘Oh, Cara, thanks for phoning back so quickly,’ says Morwenna. ‘I’m beside myself. Tas is coming to Cornwall!’
‘When?’ Unwittingly, jealousy threatens to derail Cara. She’s not jealous of Tas, but the whole Tas, Oliver, ‘summer of love’ she and Morwenna experienced.
‘This Friday! What am I going to do? I’ve got at least two stone to shift,’ Morwenna says in anguish.
Cara laughs. ‘Mo, calm down. You’ll give yourself a heart attack.’
‘Too late, I’m already having one.’
‘Take deep breaths. Tas will accept you just as you are. Where’s he staying?’
‘Don’t know. I forgot to ask. I can’t believe it. It’s so long since I saw him!’
‘You will take it slowly, won’t you?’ says Cara, feeling like the older sister.
‘Yes. If there’s any chance at all, I don’t want to blow it this time,’ Morwenna says, steadying herself. ‘I’m sorry to call you about this,’ she adds, remembering Cara’s reaction the last time she mentioned Tas, ‘but there’s no one else I can share it with.’
‘That’s OK, Mo. I’m pleased you called me.’
‘OH MY GOD!’ Morwenna shrieks, making Cara hold the mobile away from her ear. Suddenly curious, she asks, ‘Where are you?’
‘On a train.’
‘What are you doing on a train?’
‘I’ve just got back from New York.’ Cara hears the sharp intake of breath.
‘New York?’
‘Yes. Greg arranged a fleeting visit to show me his world.’
‘Well, that’s nice… I think,’ Morwenna says hesitantly. ‘Was it?’
‘It was interesting and exhausting, but I can’t wait to be back in the cove.’
‘He’s not trying to lure you away from us, is he?’
Cara squeezes her eyes shut. ‘He was just showing me New York and his home in the Hamptons.’
‘Well, as long as that’s all he was doing, because, Cara, you’d never be happy living in the States with Greg. I know he’s smooth, sophisticated and moneyed but he’s old enough to be your father, for God’s sake!’
‘He’s only twenty years older, Mo.’
‘Exactly. I rest my case.’
Twenty-nine
The car rattles over the cattle grid and Zennor tightens her grip on the steering wheel. Turning right, she follows a farm track towards a bank of tall Scots pine trees in the distance.
‘Ticks two of your boxes,’ she says, glancing at Oliver. ‘Secluded and private.’
Flanking each side of the track, stone-walled paddocks give way to wild cliffs that stretch for miles. As the car passes under the trees, a slate roof comes into view. Oliver eagerly studies the emerging property. From the corner of the cottage, a ruddy-faced, silver-haired man watches the car come to a halt.
‘OK. Let’s see what delights the old coastguard cottages have to offer,’ Zennor says, pulling on the handbrake. She opens the car door and steps out. ‘Mr Richardson, I presume?’
The man nods. ‘Ms Stacey, I presume?’
‘Yes.’ Zennor turns towards Oliver. ‘May I introduce my client, Oliver Foxley.’
‘Call me Philip,’ the man says, shaking Oliver’s hand. ‘So, you’re looking for a property on the Lizard?’
‘Yes. It’s kind of you to let us view at such short notice.’
‘Well, it’s not often that we’re graced by acting royalty, and Ms Stacey asked so nicely it was hard to say no!’
Oliver smiles. ‘She has a way…’
Zennor laughs nervously. Glancing at Oliver in embarrassment, she pulls herself up to her full height.
‘This is a magnificent spot,’ Oliver says, steering the conversation in a different direction. He glances around clifftop gardens fringed by a deep blue sea. In the distance, a cargo ship leisurely crosses the horizon.
‘It is. There are fourteen acres of clifftop gardens leading down to the private beach, plus the pasture paddocks that flank either side of the track you drove down to get here. Approximately twenty acres, in total.’
‘Do you live here?’ Oliver asks.
‘No. This was my wife’s grandfather’s home. The old boy lived in number one for most of his life. She inherited it when he passed away. We did it up and have been renting it out to family and friends for holidays. Two years ago we bought the other three cottages, but we’ve done very little with them. Here, let me give you a guided tour.’
Oliver and Zennor follow the man around the side of the property. From their elevated position, the eighteenth-century stone cottages enjoy expansive views eastwards across Falmouth Bay towards the Roseland Peninsula and beyond. Immediately in front, a level lawned area soon gives way to wild cliff and a stone-chipped path leads tantalisingly towards the edge before disappearing over. It’s an untamed, rugged landscape. All is silent, apart from the merest whisper of a breeze rustling throu
gh the pine trees behind the cottages. At once, Oliver is struck by the air of seclusion in this peaceful, rural setting.
‘It’s very tranquil,’ he says.
‘It’s always like this,’ says Philip, observing the actor. ‘The most drama we experience is when an easterly blows, but you never lose that sense of solitude. It’s far away from the stresses and strains of life, which I think would appeal to you. It’s also a haven for flora and fauna. We often see pheasants and deer on the lawn and in the meadows, and we’ve seen seals and pods of dolphins breaching the waves.’ Looking back at the cottages, he adds, ‘Number one is cosy with modern-day comforts. When we took it over, the old boy hadn’t done much with it. I can tell you, it was basic! We put in a traditional farmhouse kitchen, installed a Rayburn and exposed some of the walls and beams. There’s also an inglenook and a log fire. The other three cottages, however, will need a fair application of elbow grease.’
‘That’s fine,’ says Oliver. ‘Ms Stacey is determined to find a project for me!’ He grins at Zennor with a twinkle in his eye.
Zennor blushes and quickly comments on a rustic wooden pergola in the garden.
‘Yes, we’ve had many happy gatherings there,’ says Philip. ‘It’s a wonderful spot to watch the sun go down. Sunrises and sunsets can be spectacular.’
Oliver turns and studies the old cottages. Number one is of natural stone and obviously well maintained, but the other three are in need of major TLC. Fallen render has exposed large areas of stonework to the elements, and the wooden windows are in dire need of urgent attention. He glances up at the roof. Surprisingly, the ridgeline is straight, but there are many slates missing.
‘They need a bit of money spent on them,’ says Philip, noticing Oliver’s scrutiny. ‘Shall we take a look?’ He turns towards the renovated cottage and Zennor follows.
Oliver doesn’t immediately join them. As he glances around the clifftop garden he imagines the planting he’d carry out to create a magical, wild and secluded, secret land. He would have to research which were salt-tolerant plants and trees, but he can already envisage visiting the various gardens Cornwall is so famous for. With a sudden thrill, Oliver realises he’d enjoy creating a garden that would make the plant hunters of old proud they had undertaken expeditions all over the world to discover new species to bring back to Cornwall. He can already see rhododendrons, azaleas, giant tree ferns, lavender and rambling roses tumbling over each other as they hug the cliff side. In his mind’s eye, he follows intriguing pathways as they weave their way down to the private beach. Maybe this is exactly the challenge he needs, now that his energies are no longer diverted into acting. Perhaps that Ms Stacey does have a point!
The fresh, salt air is touched with the heady scent of pine and Oliver takes a deep breath. Dragging himself away from the enticing view – both the one before him and the one in his imagination – he steps through the open doorway into a bright entrance hall with a gleaming slate flagstone floor. The cottage is furnished with a shabby-chic nod to the sea and charming details abound. In the kitchen, handmade oak units house a Belfast sink and in the centre of the room is a wooden table and chairs. Against one wall is a large Cornish dresser and on the opposite wall is a smart, powder-blue, oil-fired Rayburn. Floorboards overhead creak as Philip and Zennor move about upstairs. Oliver enters a light and airy, beamed lounge with a large inglenook fireplace housing a log-burning stove, and a stable door opens onto the garden. Oliver absorbs the atmosphere. It’s not a spacious cottage but it feels comfortable and safe. Instinctively, he knows this would offer Jamie the security his son craves.
‘Isn’t it exquisite?’ says Zennor, appearing in the doorway.
Oliver nods. ‘Small but perfectly formed.’
‘Just you wait until you see upstairs. There are fab views from every window.’
‘I’d best go up, then,’ Oliver says with a smile.
She’s right. Many of the windows frame perfect pictures – views over the open sea, or Falmouth Bay to the opposite headland, or across the wild clifftops and an open landscape of farm fields towards Porthallow and beyond. He checks the bathroom, which is well appointed with a restored Edwardian claw-foot bath in one corner. From a feature porthole window Oliver watches a yacht emerge from the mouth of the Helford and head out to open water, its sails billowing as they catch the breeze. Who’d have thought a small, cosy cottage would give such a sense of release?
Descending the stairs, he joins Zennor and Philip in the lounge.
‘I’d be interested to see the other cottages,’ Oliver says in response to the property finder’s enquiring look.
Even though Philip warned them, still the interiors come as quite a shock. The years have passed the cottages by and they are stuck in a time warp. Each is the same configuration: two downstairs rooms, with an inglenook housing a rusting Cornish Range, and a small galley kitchen to the rear. A steep, narrow staircase rises to two bedrooms and a small bathroom, little more than an oversized cupboard. Heating is minimal, with an old-fashioned night-storage heater in the main room only. As Oliver glances around, he takes in the rotting wooden window frames, the plaster falling off the walls and the ceilings on the point of caving in. There’s also a suspiciously strong smell of damp.
‘It’s hard to believe people lived here up until the eighties,’ Philip comments. ‘The occupants were of the alternative type and did very little other than grow vegetables and smoke wacky backy, but they did make unusual garments to sell in the market.’
‘Why have the cottages remained empty since?’ Oliver asks.
‘A family from upcountry owned them. They never lived here but I don’t know why they abandoned renting them out. Probably couldn’t get decent tenants. Anyway, they were passed down to a son who lives abroad, but he had no interest in them. That’s why we were able to buy them.’
‘Why are you considering selling them now?’ Oliver asks.
‘We feel it’s the right time. I’m not getting any younger and my wife is not in the best of health.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Oliver says genuinely. ‘I’ll just step outside and check the surrounding area, if I may?’
‘Of course,’ says Philip. ‘Take all the time you want.’ He gazes around the dilapidated room. ‘We had such hopes…’
Oliver walks towards a front door barely holding onto its hinges. Zennor follows him outside.
The area surrounding the derelict cottages is rough and unkempt. Weeds abound and bluebells struggle to poke their heads above the overgrown grass. All Philip’s energies seem to be focused on keeping the income-generating cottage up to scratch. Spying a small building a short distance away, Oliver walks towards it. As he opens the door, which leans alarmingly on its rusting hinges, he laughs. An outside privy; the oak seat still intact.
‘If nothing else, it’s a room with a view!’ Zennor says, peering over his shoulder.
‘Where exactly are we?’
‘Just south of the Helford. Gillan Harbour is over there.’ Zennor points to her left. ‘See that boat?’
Oliver nods. In the distance, a white speedboat emerges from the mouth of a wide river. As it roars away from constraints of enforced speed restrictions, its wake leaves a wide scar upon the surface of the deep blue sea.
‘That’s the entrance to the Carrick Roads,’ Zennor continues, ‘and there’s Pendennis Point. On the opposite shore is the lighthouse at St Anthony’s Head.’
Under a sun now high in the sky, the sea sparkles, as if someone has carelessly strewn a smattering of glittering diamonds across its surface. Wispy clouds dot the horizon. Oliver gazes down upon the world, appreciating the dramatic and exhilarating vista. As with Cara’s brushstrokes, the scene before him soothes his troubled soul. It’s as if this wild, unkempt clifftop offers solace to his inner demons. Although life has not given him his beautiful golden girl, it is offering an alternative peace.
Behind them, Philip clears his throat. ‘Do you have any other questions?’
‘Do you get WiFi here?’ Oliver asks, turning.
‘Yes, and television connection too. Would you like to see the private beach that comes with the cottages?’
‘Indeed, I would,’ replies Oliver.
The man turns onto the path leading to the edge of the cliff.
‘So, what do you think?’ Zennor asks Oliver, as they follow a short distance behind.
‘The cottages are unlike any other property you have shown me.’
‘Sorry.’ Zennor grimaces.
‘That’s not a negative, Zennor,’ Oliver says, glancing at her. ‘The main cottage is charming. The fact that the other three are uninhabitable presents me with the opportunity to put my stamp on them.’
Zennor takes a sharp intake of breath. ‘So does that mean there isn’t a “but”?’
Reaching the edge of the cliff, Oliver gazes down at the waves breaking on the shingle and sand shore below. It’s a timeless scene; one that gives perspective to the madness his life is fast becoming. Set high above the sea, looking down on the world, the old coastguard cottages offer sanctuary and an escape.
He turns to Zennor. ‘I do believe, Ms Stacey, you are about to start earning your money.’
Thirty
‘I trust your flight went without a hitch?’ Greg’s voice is silky smooth at the other end of the phone.
‘Yes, very comfortable, thanks, but you really shouldn’t have spent so much on me, Greg. I would have been very happy to travel economy.’
‘Dearest Cara, I wouldn’t hear of it,’ Greg says in amusement. ‘You must raise your game.’
Cara squirms. Why does she always say the wrong thing with him?
‘No longer are you the unknown hippy artist living in some far-flung corner of the earth,’ Greg continues. ‘You are a prize-winning artist with an image to cultivate and maintain. You must never lose sight of that, Cara. You can’t simply revert to your previously unsophisticated ways as soon as your feet touch the sand.’
‘I was just saying—’
Greg interrupts her. ‘Just saying is not good enough. That’s when you trip up. People constantly judge. It’s what comes out of your mouth and how you present yourself to the world that creates the impression. You must be aware of that, at all times.’