One minute to. The removal men were satisfied that everything was safely lashed up and covered over. They pulled down the back of the lorry, snapped up the lock.
‘All right?’ the gaffer asked George.
He took in a deep breath and nodded. Lisa appeared round the corner, with a carrier bag stuffed full of sandwiches and mineral water for the trip.
‘Let’s go.’ She smiled, pulling her car keys out of her pocket. They had decided to keep her soft-top Mazda, as it seemed appropriate by the sea. George had sold his car, and to replace it they were going to buy a small van which would come in useful both during the renovations and when the hotel was up and running.
As he opened the door and slipped into the passenger seat, the minute hand on his watch slid smoothly on to twelve. Midday. It was a done deal. No looking back. As Lisa started up the engine and followed in the wake of the removal lorry, George shut his eyes and put his head back, breathing deeply.
‘OK?’ Sensing his disquiet, Lisa looked at him sideways. George nodded, unable to vocalize exactly how he felt – elated but terrified. By comparison, Lisa seemed unfazed by the proceedings. She hadn’t expressed a moment’s regret at selling her house.
‘It’s just a house,’ she’d shrugged. ‘Four walls.’
He wasn’t sure whether to admire her for her lack of sentimentality or pity her.
The further west they drove the warmer the day became. Once they left the motorway, Lisa pulled the roof back and they drove through the rolling Devon countryside, the hedgerows edged with citric yellow gorse, the velvet green fields sprinkled with an abundance of fluffy, bouncing lambs. And as they drove down the tortuous hill that led into Mariscombe, saw the golden crescent of Mariscombe Sands and the shining blue ocean stretched out as far as the eye could see, George found his fears and worries dissipating. As they pulled into the driveway of The Rocks, he smiled. How could this possibly be a mistake?
The removal men stood in front of their van, gawping in awe at the view.
‘Bloody hell, mate. I can see why you’ve bought this place.’
George gave a disparaging smile that disguised how he felt.
‘Yeah, well.’ He tried to keep his voice downbeat. ‘I’ll probably be in debt for the rest of my life.’
‘Who cares, with a view like that?’
Exactly, thought George, but he didn’t want to come across as smug. It didn’t seem fair, somehow, that he had this opportunity, this magnificent outlook to wake up to every morning, while these three guys had to trundle back up the motorway and go home to what were no doubt stifling little boxes on some faceless estate somewhere. But then he was taking a huge risk. If this venture failed, they would be homeless and broke. Their fabulous view came at a price. And the hard work hadn’t even started yet…
He and Lisa spent the next hour directing boxes and furniture into various rooms, then made the removal men a cup of tea – Lisa had made sure to pack a kettle, mugs, tea bags, milk, sugar and a huge packet of Hobnobs into the boot of her car so they wouldn’t be caught out. As soon as the removal van disappeared out of the drive, Lisa picked up George’s hand and wordlessly they walked back inside.
Often when a property is stripped bare of its previous occupants, the new arrivals feel a sense of disappointment as dirt and imperfections are suddenly shown up. Rooms seem smaller or shabbier; pictures make themselves felt by their absence. But once The Rocks had been relieved of the Websdales’ gloomy furniture and plethora of knick-knacks, it seemed to come to life. The atmosphere inside lifted, as if the house felt relieved of its shackles, and it seemed to have increased in size. They walked round silently, almost in awe. Finally, they came into the dining room. The hideous brown curtains had been left closed, hanging off the plastic rail that wasn’t really strong enough to support their weight. The two of them looked at each other and, without a word, each took one end and pulled, until the entire rail collapsed, taking reams of dusty velvet with it. Light flooded the room. Outside, the sun sparkled in a periwinkle blue sky that bent down to kiss a cobalt blue sea.
George felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.
‘It’s even better than I remembered,’ said Lisa softly.
‘It’s going to be fantastic,’ said George. ‘We hardly need to do anything to it. It’s perfect, under all the crap they stuffed in it. Thank God they didn’t put it on the market when it was empty. We wouldn’t have had a hope.’
‘Let’s take our sandwiches down to the beach.’ Lisa held up the carrier bag.
George hesitated. He wanted to look round the house properly, start taking detailed notes about what needed doing. But outside the sea beckoned. He could feel its pull as strong as a rip tide.
‘Come on, then.’
They sat on a rock, dangling their feet in a pool. The water was shockingly cold at first, but they found they got used to it. At the water’s edge, a young couple held their toddler’s hands as he took his first steps in the sea, squealing as the waves rushed in and broke over his toes.
‘Our beach,’ said George with a huge smile on his face, as Lisa stuffed their sandwich wrappers and empty bottles back in her rucksack.
‘Race you,’ said Lisa, leaping off the rock and on to the damp sand.
The tide had gone out quite a way in the time they had taken to eat their lunch, and they were both out of breath by the time they reached the water. They ran along the surf, whooping and hollering with excitement, breath taken away by the cold. Lisa bent down and splashed George, scooping up armfuls of water, drenching herself in the process. He retaliated by grabbing her, lifting her off her feet.
‘No!’ she protested as he held her over the water, then dropped her in. At the last moment she grabbed him and pulled him down with her. Gasping with the shock of the icy water, they wrestled like puppies. George rolled on top of her, smiling. They lay there for a moment in the shallows, the waves lapping over them.
‘Is this really going to be our life?’ she asked him. ‘Can we do this any time we like?’
‘Freeze our bollocks off, you mean?’ he grinned.
‘It’s just brilliant. I feel so happy. When’s the last time we did something mad like this?’
‘There’s going to be some hard work,’ he warned. ‘You won’t always be able to frolic in the surf at the drop of a hat. In fact, we ought to get back. I’ve got a mountain of things to organize.’
He went to get up, but she pulled him back down on top of her.
‘I’ve never made love in the sea,’ she breathed.
George had a flashback to a Caribbean beach, white sand and a black velvet sky.
‘Nor me,’ he lied, effortlessly.
‘Come on, then.’ She smiled up at him.
‘You’ve got to be joking. It’s about the size of my little finger at the moment. Anyway, those cliffs up there are crawling with birdwatchers. There’s probably hundreds of people with their binoculars trained on us.’
‘So what? Personally, I find having an audience a turn-on.’
George looked at Lisa askance. She put her hands up, amused by his apparent prudery.
‘It’s OK. I’m only joking. I’m not really an exhibitionist.’
She scrambled to her feet, still laughing, and they walked back up the beach hand in hand, soaking wet, their clothes squelching, as a gentle sun beamed down. They looked up at The Rocks, towering benevolently over them.
‘Good move,’ said George. Any doubts he’d had earlier in the day had melted away. Even a house in Royal Crescent wouldn’t come close.
At six o’clock that evening, Justin burst in through the front door with a fistful of character helium balloons.
‘Our first guests,’ he announced proudly, tying them to the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. Scooby-Doo, Tweety Pie and Homer Simpson bobbed around happily, looking quite at home.
‘I’ve come to help,’ he went on. ‘And I want you to meet Enid.’
George’s heart sank. Justin had a
habit of scooping up flaky, zany girls who were usually deeply spiritual but hopelessly impractical – trust-fund chicks with elaborate names, like Biba and Ariadne. They were usually great at writing poetry or rolling joints, but unlikely to be handy with a paintbrush. One of Justin’s hangers-on was the last thing they needed now, thought George.
‘Enid?’ he questioned, warily.
Justin pointed outside, grinning. In the drive, next to Lisa’s car, was parked a pristine orange VW camper van. George was relieved, but rolled his eyes in fond exasperation nevertheless. It was typical Justin. Whenever he got involved in something, he had to go the whole hog. Whatever he took up – which over the years had included polo, skiing, sailing and shooting – he bought all the accessories and accoutrements. George imagined the attic at Justin’s ancestral home in Bedfordshire, stuffed with guns and polo sticks and life jackets, all jettisoned when he had moved on to his next craze. Now here he was buying into the surfer lifestyle when as far as George knew he hadn’t so much as stuck his toe in the water. He’d paid one fleeting visit to Mariscombe before he had signed on the dotted line with George and Lisa, and pronounced it paradise. Which from Justin was high praise indeed, as he moved from one international hot spot to the next in his quest for a new scam, a fresh buzz, the latest thrill. Now here he was, decked out in a pair of Hawaiian shorts, his floppy blond hair pushed back by a pair of titanium sunglasses. George grinned to himself. There was no doubt about it. Justin was barking.
‘We’ll make the most of it while he’s interested,’ George whispered to Lisa. ‘I know Justin. He’ll get bored after five minutes.’
That evening, the three of them wandered up the hill to the Mariscombe Arms, a long, low, thatched building painted a jaunty, nautical blue with a labyrinth of interconnecting whitewashed rooms crammed with wobbly oak tables. In the height of summer there was no elbow room, but on a mild evening in early May there were just a few locals.
The landlord was a rather theatrical man with a leonine mane of grey hair. He surveyed the three of them with interest, as George and Justin decided to plump for a pint of cider each and Lisa ordered a Pimm’s.
‘Early holiday?’ he enquired politely, in rich, plummy tones.
‘Far from it,’ joked George. ‘In fact, I think we’ve just started a life sentence. We took over The Rocks today.’
‘Ah.’ Their host digested this news as he pulled the cloudy cider, then faffed about ceremoniously making a Pimm’s for Lisa.
‘You’ve put the cat amongst the pigeons, you know,’ he announced, carefully slicing up an orange.
‘Have we?’
‘Bruno Thorne was after it. The word is he wasn’t best pleased when he lost out to you lot.’
‘Who’s Bruno Thorne when he’s at home?’ asked Justin rudely.
‘Local lad. He works up in London most of the time. Swans in and out of Mariscombe like he owns the place.’ He smiled. ‘Which, technically, he does.’
‘Well, it won’t hurt him to have some healthy competition then.’ Undaunted, Justin took a slug of cider.
‘Rather you than me. Last person that crossed him ended up over the cliff down there.’
He nodded his huge, shaggy head out of the window, towards the spit of land that separated Higher Mariscombe from the village below. It was lined with craggy, unforgiving rocks. Lisa shuddered.
‘That’s awful.’
‘It was his younger brother. So you see, he doesn’t take any prisoners.’
He put Lisa’s glass on the bar top proudly. It was bursting with fruit and topped with a paper parasol.
‘Well, neither do we,’ Justin assured him.
There was a grave shake of the head.
‘He’s a tricky customer. Not averse to the odd backhander. And he’s got a lot of people on his side.’
George looked annoyed.
‘Why are you telling us all this?’
‘Webby said I was to look after you.’
‘Mrs Websdale?’
The landlord nodded, then leaned forward confidentially.
‘Between you and me, I don’t think yours was the highest offer. But she wanted you to have it.’ He nodded his head to Lisa. ‘She said you reminded her of her at your age.’
The look of horror on Lisa’s face made him convulse with laughter.
‘I know you find it hard to believe, but she was a looker once. I’ve seen the photos.’ He gave a lascivious wink. ‘She was the Face of Whitby in 1952. Miss Scarborough three years on the trot. It was only after her hysterectomy that it all went pear-shaped.’
George grimaced.
‘Too much information.’
‘She was a magnificent woman.’ There was a wistful look in his eyes. Then he held his hand out. ‘Anyway, I’d better introduce myself, as I’m sure you’ll probably avail yourself of my hospitality now and again. Leonard Carrington.’
The three of them shook hands with him politely.
‘How long have you been here?’ asked Lisa.
‘Twenty-five years,’ answered Leonard. ‘And I’m still regarded as a newcomer.’ He smiled broadly. ‘Welcome to Mariscombe.’
They sat on a bench in a big bay window and ate huge oval platters of scampi and chips.
‘Bloody perfect,’ said Lisa, squeezing out tartare sauce from a sachet.
George wasn’t so impressed. He prodded his garnish dubiously – cress and a tomato quarter.
‘I don’t think I’ll be poaching this chef.’
‘Pub grub. It’s what people want by the seaside.’
‘Not our guests,’ contradicted George. ‘At least I hope not. I’m after a more discerning clientele.’
‘For God’s sake, George, don’t be so snotty.’ Justin poked him with his fork. ‘You’re a food snob.’
‘Yes. I am. And this isn’t scampi. It’s never been anywhere near Dublin Bay.’
‘Shut up and eat it,’ ordered Justin, squirting ketchup liberally over his chips.
George managed a smile. He didn’t like to admit it, but he was feeling rather daunted by everything that had to be done.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I guess I’m just a bit paranoid about the whole thing. What if I am wrong and people do want padded headboards and Neil Diamond piped through the dining room?’
‘Listen, mate. We can’t go wrong. So long as we market it right. There’s always going to be people who want style and quality. And we’ve got the most fuck-off location. It’s a winner.’
George tried to feel reassured. Justin was always confident. That’s why he was so successful, with even the most madcap of schemes.
‘I’m more worried about this bloke who wanted to buy The Rocks.’ Lisa blew on a hot chip before eating it. ‘Do you think he could cause trouble for us?’
George shook his head.
‘The landlord’s just stirring it up.’
‘You’ll always get someone who thinks he’s top dog,’ added Justin. ‘You just have to show them who’s boss.’
‘Great,’ said Lisa, not convinced. ‘Turf wars already. It’s exactly what I was trying to get away from.’
‘This is Mariscombe. Not Chicago. I think we can handle whatever they throw at us,’ said Justin, with the bravado of one who had once done three months inside, though nobody was quite sure what for. Rumours ranged from non-payment of council tax to driving while disqualified.
Lisa looked over at Leonard and giggled.
‘Do you think he was having an affair with Webby?’
George nearly choked on a chip.
‘Christ. What a horrible thought.’
‘Hey!’ Lisa nudged him with her elbow. ‘If what Leonard says is true, and I am the spit of her when she was younger, chances are I’ll look like she does now when I’m older.’
‘Can’t wait. Remind me to buy you a quilted dressing gown for your next birthday.’
The mood lightened, the three of them had another drink, then wandered back down the hill. By now it was dark and all they c
ould see were the twinkling lights of the village lining the shore below as they made their way down the inky-black road. Justin insinuated himself between George and Lisa and put an arm round each of them.
‘This is going to be great for all of us. You know that?’
‘Are you hanging around, then?’ said George, surprised. ‘I thought you’d be off to Rio or Fiji or Istanbul.’
‘Bollocks to all of that,’ said Justin. ‘I need a rest.’
‘You’ve come to the wrong place then, I’m afraid.’ George shook his head. ‘You got off lightly today. Tomorrow the hard work starts in earnest.’
‘Work,’ said Justin, a certain wonder in his voice. ‘I’ve spent my whole life trying to avoid it. I wonder if I’ll like it.’
Across the bay, Bruno stepped out on to his veranda, breathing in the cool night air, his hand curled round a heavy tumbler of Irish whiskey. He scanned the shoreline, picking out the familiar landmarks, recognizing each building by its own particular configuration of lights. He started with the Mariscombe Arms at the top of the hill, ablaze with multicoloured fairy lights, past Atlantic Heights, the flash new apartment block whose car park was filled at weekends with identical black SUVs, then the youth hostel, then the shadowy outline of the church. Four buildings on, his eyes narrowed. There was a fresh set of lights. He counted down and calculated that it must be The Rocks. For weeks it had been shrouded in darkness, but tonight its sudden illumination reminded him that the new owners must have arrived. He felt a fleeting regret at the missed opportunity. Then thanked his lucky stars that his bid hadn’t been successful. There was no way he could have fitted that into his schedule. Or his budget, come to that.
He took a gulp of Paddy’s, appreciating its warmth, the way it seemed to permeate his muscles straightaway, allowing his shoulders to drop. They seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time up by his ears these days. He drained his glass and whistled to Hector, who shot eagerly out of the sliding door, ready for his bedtime stroll. The two of them made their way down the wooden steps that led from the house straight across the dunes and on to the beach. The long grass whipped at Bruno’s legs; his feet disappeared into the soft sand. Ahead of him he could hear Hector snuffling, no doubt hot on the scent of the hundreds of rabbits who built their warrens in the dunes.
Love on the Rocks Page 12