by Liz Eeles
He’s got a point. The walls in here could do with a freshen-up coat of paint and the back door is scuffed from Storm kicking it closed. But the Aga still cooks up a mean full English and our guests could eat at the solid oak table.
‘I’m sure it would be all right if we tarted the place up a bit. We could convert the dining room into another bedroom and then have two couples staying at the same time to bring in regular income.’
‘But what could we offer people?’
‘Good Cornish home cooking, fabulous views of the cliffs and the harbour, bracing sea air, a local pub, Poldark.’
‘Poldark?’ splutters Josh.
I shrug. ‘The house was built using the proceeds from tin mining so we can spin a Poldark connection. And you do look rather brooding and swashbuckly.’
Josh raises his eyebrows. ‘Will I be required to stride around in boots and breeches with my shirt off?’
I give myself a delicious moment to fully picture this while Josh laughs and pours us both an orange juice from the fridge. The back door and windows are wide open and a cool breeze is snaking through the house.
‘Plus, the village is pretty,’ I continue, ‘and the view from the cliffs is awesome and there’s a beach.’
‘Yeah, if people want to break their necks scrambling down the cliff path to get there.’
That’s true. Guests hurtling off the Path of Doom wouldn’t be great publicity.
‘OK, maybe we don’t mention the beach. But Salt Bay has lots of day-trippers and I’m sure some of them would like to stay in the village overnight.’
When Josh stays quiet, I wrinkle my nose at him. ‘Do you think it’s a daft idea?’
‘No, not really. But it’s not going to bring in loads of money so finances will still be tight if we don’t sell the place. And there are rules and regulations about B&Bs. You can’t just open them willy-nilly and the authorities won’t be too happy if our roof’s about to fall in.’
‘But it’s not. The roof’s been patched up and will be fine for ages,’ I say, crossing my fingers behind my back.
‘Hhmm. You have more faith in this house than I do.’
Josh is being infuriatingly practical but how frustrating will it be if we need income from the house to keep it going and save up for a new roof but we can’t get that income until a new roof is on? I slurp my orange juice and drum my fingernails on the table.
‘Anyway, I thought you were coming round to the idea of selling to Toby,’ says Josh gently. ‘It grieves me letting him have what he wants but I can see it’s probably the most sensible option.’
‘So can I but I don’t feel sensible. I feel guilty because Alice left her beloved house to me and selling it feels like going against her wishes. And I feel sad that she’s not here so I can explain and ask her if she’d mind. And I feel awful that I’m messing you about and behaving so… Ugh, what’s the word I’m looking for?’
‘Emotionally?’
‘Yep, you probably think I’m being all emotionally incontinent again. I bet you wish you’d chosen someone else now. Someone not so—’
I was going to say ‘mental’ but that’s what the kids in the school playground used to call Mum when she turned up to collect me in poncho and slippers. As her bouts of illness progressed, her fashion style got even more eccentric until she didn’t turn up to collect me at all.
‘I don’t want anyone but you, Annie. And I get why you’re all over the place at the moment.’
Hhmm. I wouldn’t have put it quite like that but whatever.
Josh sips his orange juice and looks at me across the kitchen table. ‘You’re still grieving for Alice and reeling from the shock of inheriting this house and the responsibilities that come with it so it’s hard to know which decisions are the right ones. Look, why don’t we leave Toby dangling for a bit longer and you can check out your B&B idea to see if it’s a go-er?’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Why not? It’s good to look at other options before Toby gets his hands on the place. And anyway, having to wait for an answer will drive him demented.’
‘Then I’ll check out the planning rules and see what we’d have to do. I bet we can get round things… and don’t people round here say you should never underestimate the Trebarwiths?’
‘I wouldn’t dare,’ murmurs Josh, scooting round to my side of the table, putting his hands on my cheeks and lifting my face for a kiss. ‘If anyone can sort things out, you can, dodgy roof or no dodgy roof.’
Which is lovely and all that but, without a nifty thirty grand in my back pocket, I’m not one hundred per cent sure that I can.
Fifteen
Kernow Coast Council has a planning application advisory service which is tucked away at the rear of a soulless office block, a few streets from the sea.
‘Here you go, dear.’ A woman in a green trouser suit holds open the door for me and an acrid smell of sweat hits me when I duck to get under her arm. Her face is pink and shiny and the man behind the front desk is equally frazzled. He’s called Warren, according to his lanyard, and looks about twelve years old. At first I take him for a work experience lad but his lanyard is dated six months earlier. Oh, great! I’ll soon be commenting on how young the police look these days, like Jennifer does whenever the local community support officer calls in to discuss her shoplifting complaints.
‘Air conditioning has packed up,’ says Warren by way of greeting. ‘All they’ve given me is that.’ He points at the small fan next to him which is wafting humid air from one place to another. ‘It’s probably illegally hot in here. Anyway’ – he snaps back to what he’s supposed to be doing – ‘how can I help you?’
‘My name’s Annie Trebarwith and I’m here about my property, Tregavara House in Salt Bay.’
‘Ah, yes,’ says Warren, reaching for a big brown box file on the shelves behind him. ‘There’s already some info about that. I think you spoke to my colleague about it a few days ago.’
Before I can disagree, he pulls out a piece of paper. ‘Here we are. You wanted to know what permissions would be needed to demolish the property and build flats for holiday usage on the site. Or to retain the house and convert it into flats.’
‘Ugh, no.’ I stare at Warren and shake my head. ‘That wasn’t me.’
‘It says Trebarwith on here which is an unusual name.’ Warren stares at the paper and then starts gnawing his lip. ‘Ah, but it wasn’t you who saw my colleague. Sorry about that. You said it was your property?’
‘Yes it is,’ I say, trying to read upside down but Warren stuffs the paper swiftly back into the file. It doesn’t matter. It could only be Toby contemplating knocking down Tregavara House to build holiday flats. How could he?
I thought Toby had some feeling for family tradition and wanted to maintain links with his past, but I failed to spot the pound signs in his eyes. I’m such an idiot! Just because my cousin is trying to forge a relationship with his daughter doesn’t mean he’s gone all family-friendly.
‘So how can I help you?’ asks Warren, folding his arms and then unfolding them when he realises it’ll just make him hotter.
‘I’m here to ask about changing Tregavara House into a B&B and what I would need to do.’
‘It depends. You might need planning permission for change of use and then there are building regulations to consider as well. I’ve got some info here about it.’
He roots in his desk and hands me a leaflet that I flick through. ‘Do you get a lot of people in here asking the same thing then?’
‘Uh, yeah, ’cos tourism is one of Cornwall’s main money-spinners. We’re overrun with German tourists at the moment – they can’t get enough of the place. Do you speak German?’
I shake my head, wishing I’d paid more attention in language lessons at school. Getting my head around ‘le’ and ‘la’ in French was fine but discovering German words could be neutral as well put the kybosh on it for me. That was far too complicated when I had more pressing things in my life
, like whether Mum was mentally well enough to get up and dressed.
Warren pulls the fan closer to him. ‘It doesn’t matter much anyway. They all speak English better than we do.’
I push the leaflet into my bag to study it later. ‘Hypothetically, Warren, if I did fancy knocking Tregavara House down and building flats there, would it be allowed?’
Even asking the question feels horribly disloyal to Alice and the many generations of Trebarwiths who preceded her.
‘Probably not because it’s listed and Salt Bay lies in a conservation area. But that wouldn’t necessarily stop it from being converted into flats as long as the right permissions were sought first.’
That’s good to know, but it doesn’t really matter whether Toby would be able to go through with his grubby plans or not. It’s obvious he has no intention of letting us stay at Tregavara House and he doesn’t give a monkey’s about the building.
He must never get his hands on it.
Sixteen
On the way home, I call into the Whistling Wave for some brash Aussie advice from Kayla. This is a bold move because the art of people-pleasing has passed my friend by. But her forthright opinions are often right, and I’m putting off telling Josh about Toby because he’ll totally go off on one – and he has every right.
He and Toby have forged a fragile peace for the sake of Freya but their old enmity runs deep. It was Josh who picked up the pieces when Toby abandoned pregnant Lucy and left her family to bring up Freya. That’s one reason why he’s so strapped for cash now. And more proof that my cousin is a duplicitous toad will push the Toby Trust Swingometer straight to Total Git.
Kayla’s dislike for my cousin is less entrenched – or so I thought until she launched into a two-minute rant. I switch off after thirty seconds as swear words rain down thick and fast but I get the gist. To paraphrase, Kayla believes Toby is behaving appallingly, Alice would be turning in her grave if she had one, and Toby’s parentage is questionable.
Once she’s spent, Kayla slumps next to me in a window seat, fanning herself furiously with the bar menu. The window’s open and a strong breeze is moving the horse brasses on the bumpy white walls. But the low-ceilinged pub is gloomy even though it’s so bright outside.
‘What are you going to do then?’ Kayla demands, waving at Tom, who’s just come into the bar. ‘You definitely can’t sell Tregavara House to him now, even if the roof blows off and you’re totally destitute. Though’ – she adds, glancing at my ashen face – ‘that is so not going to happen, like ever.’
‘Let’s hope not. But whatever happens, there’s no way I can let him get his hands on Alice’s house.’
‘Your house,’ Kayla reminds me, shaking her head as Tom wanders round the pub like a lost soul. ‘He keeps coming in to check if Emily’s here. That boy has got it bad, poor lovesick loon.’ She turns to me. ‘Anyway, what were you doing at the planning place?’
‘I was checking out maybe bringing in some money by turning Tregavara House into a B&B.’
‘Hhmm, that’s not the worst idea you’ve ever had and you might make enough to keep the house, for longer at least.’ Kayla beckons at Roger, who’s currently propping the pub door open with a huge chunk of grey granite. ‘What do you reckon about Annie’s idea to run Tregavara House as a B&B then, Rog?’
Roger wipes his sweaty hands down his grease-spattered T-shirt before answering. ‘I’ve never fancied taking in paying guests myself – they’re far too much trouble. But it might work if you can be arsed to be on your best behaviour all the time.’
‘What might work?’ Oh, no. Arthur and Fiona have just come through the door with their labradoodle, Pickles, who’s the closest thing I’ve ever seen to a living teddy bear. Roger sniggers at Pickles, who he reckons is ‘not a dog for a real man’, and grabs three empty glasses from the table next to us in one huge hand.
‘Annie’s setting up a B&B at Tregavara House. Bedrooms overlooking the sea, home-cooked food, excellent pub just up the road…’
‘Um, it’s just an idea at the moment. Nothing’s settled,’ I squeak, but Arthur’s arms are already folded.
‘Well, I don’t know about that. A bed and breakfast establishment isn’t really in keeping with the village.’
‘What, a village that’s full of emmets all summer?’ snorts Kayla, rolling her eyes at me. ‘The place is heaving with them every day and the Whistling Wave would go tits up without them buying loads of beer and chips. No offence, Roger.’
‘None taken. Tourists are damn annoying, but we can’t do without them.’
The young couple bowed down with backpacks, who are waiting to be served at the bar, give Roger a filthy look but he’s too oblivious to notice.
‘Exactly. Having tourists here during the day is fine,’ snorts Arthur. Fiona gives me a sympathetic smile and I smile back. The poor woman has to put up with Arthur being bombastic every single day. ‘But tourists leave Salt Bay when the sun goes down and that’s just how we like it. We don’t want the village overrun with them all evening as well.’
‘It’ll be even worse if Toby—’ Kayla blurts out but stops mid-sentence when she spots my expression. Arthur’s comments on my cousin’s plans are so not needed right now.
‘The village wouldn’t be overrun because we’d only be able to accommodate two couples at most,’ I explain to him, but he shakes his head.
‘No, no, no. It’s a slippery slope, Annie, and what’s next? Muggings on the cliffs, black masses at the church, raves on the beach?’
‘We’re talking about a small B&B in Salt Bay, Arthur mate. Not the fall of the Roman bleedin’ Empire,’ says Roger, puffing out his cheeks and making me grin.
‘It’s not a laughing matter,’ huffs Arthur, pulling himself up straight. ‘What experience do you have in the hospitality trade, anyway? You can’t just sling people in your spare room and get them to muck in with the rest of you. There are rules and regulations to be followed and you’d need to observe other businesses and see how they do it.’
‘Absolutely, Arthur. I’m thinking of staying in a B&B somewhere to get a feeling for it. Somewhere different but still by the sea. Maybe Southwold or Morecambe. Or Rhyl.’
Oh, I know I shouldn’t and Kayla is looking at me as though I’ve lost my mind. But Arthur is seriously getting on my nerves with his litany of complaints before my B&B idea even gets off the ground. If people round here don’t like the thought of a B&B in Salt Bay, heaven help Toby’s holiday flats.
Arthur’s eyes narrow when they meet mine, then he grabs hold of his long-suffering wife’s hand. ‘Come along, Fiona. Let’s get a drink and sit outside so Pickles can have a run around.’
‘Silly old fool can’t bear change,’ mutters Roger loudly as Arthur drags Pickles towards the bar. ‘If he had his way, we’d still be sending kids up chimneys and using leeches to treat infections.’
‘I guess he’s got a point. Not about the leeches or the village being the wrong place for a B&B. But about me having no experience of this sort of thing. Josh and I might jump through all the hoops but still be awful at it.’
‘Or you might hate having strangers in your home,’ Kayla butts in. ‘You wouldn’t be able to walk about with your bits out after a bath. Though some guests might appreciate that kind of service.’
‘We have to cover up anyway with Emily and Storm about.’
‘Ooh, ooh, I know!’ says Roger, his belly bouncing up and down when he does a little jig. ‘What you need is a dry run and I might know just the thing. Hold on.’ He lumbers behind the bar while I sip my lemonade and Kayla aims a surreptitious V-sign at Arthur’s back.
‘Here it is!’ Roger has arrived back at our table, clutching a scrap of paper. ‘I had a call from some French bloke a couple of days ago asking if I did B&B. When I said no, he insisted I take down his details and get back to him if I could think of anywhere nearby. He seemed very keen on staying in the village if possible. So why don’t you put him up for a few days?’ He waves the sc
rap of paper in my face. ‘His name is Jack Boo-something. He spelled it out for me. He was quite a forceful bloke.’
The till receipt has ‘Jacques Bouton’ written in Roger’s scrawl across the back, along with a phone number.
‘But we’re not a registered B&B yet.’
‘Whatever,’ says Kayla, with a dismissive wave of the hand. She leans forward, her green eyes bright with excitement. ‘That is a surprisingly good idea from Roger. You can tell that Jackie bloke he can stay with you as long as he contributes towards the food which is, like, £50 per day.’
‘Blimey, I’m not planning on feeding him foie gras.’
‘Nah, you can just serve up your usual slop – oops, sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude about your cooking. But it’ll get around the whole charging him to stay thing.’
‘I don’t know. Having a stranger to stay would be a bit weird.’
Running a B&B seemed like a good idea – a helping hand out of our financial problems – but the nitty-gritty is suddenly hitting home. I’ll need to share my beloved Tregavara House. With some random French bloke called Jacques. But it’s better than selling up to treacherous Toby.
‘Sunshine.’ Kayla grabs my hands and swings me round to face her. ‘The very nature of a B&B is that loads of strangers come to stay. It’s really no different from when you took in Barry and Storm last year. You’d never met them before and they were freaking awful back then.’
Eek! I can’t cope with guests like my father and half-sister, who caused chaos when they turned up announced just before last Christmas. I’d never met Barry until he arrived on my doorstep and I was clueless about Storm’s existence. Getting rid of them was my sole aim, but now… now, I love having them in my life.
‘What was this Jack bloke like?’ Kayla asks Roger.
‘I dunno. French. Good English. Bit bossy. Said he ran a bakery business.’
‘There you go then,’ says Kayla. ‘He sounds just right to be your first guest so, Rog, you can ring Frenchie Jack back and, Annie, you can launch into your new career as a B&B-er. Simples.’