The Cornish Escape: The perfect summer romance full of sunshine and secrets

by Lily Graham

  ‘I know,’ I agreed. ‘And you don’t know why no one’s taken it?’

  He shook his head. ‘My uncle told me it’s been on the books for years – no takers, apparently they all think it’s haunted. But now, with one thing and another, we’re having to tie up loose ends, like this.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘My uncle’s closing down the business – he’s been ill for a while now – so I’ve come down to help get everything finalised, settle accounts, that sort of thing. A couple of weeks ago I came across this place in the files. I couldn’t believe it. My uncle said that they’ve been trying to sell it since the seventies. I even went to a few estate agents myself to see if maybe we could get some interest, but, well, no one will touch it. One of them called it “Cursed Cottage”,’ he scoffed. ‘I’ve never heard anything so rid—’ He stopped himself, realising that I might be one of them, and looked a little embarrassed.

  I put him out of his misery. ‘Don’t worry – I’m not from around here. And I agree, it is odd, even for Cornwall.’

  From what I knew, people in this part of the world liked their myths and legends, but they were practical too. I suppose over the years the rumours had just grown until they had a life of their own. I thought of Sue at the Harbour Cafe. ‘Not everyone thinks it’s haunted here.’

  He shrugged. ‘Just most.’

  I couldn’t argue with that. ‘Has the land been sold?’

  ‘Not yet, but a local business owner – owns one of the farms – has said she’s interested.’ His face split into a grin. ‘She’s not from round here either. If she buys it, she said she’ll probably open up a tea garden...’

  My mind started to churn. ‘But she hasn’t bought it yet? It’s still available?’

  He looked at me oddly. ‘Why? You aren’t interested, are you?’ It was half jest, half not. I dangled there in the silence, looking back at him, waiting to hear my dismissal, only to hear myself say, as if from a distance, ‘I suppose I am, actually.’

  Chapter Five

  It should have taken months to buy a house, not days. There should have been a footpath worth of paperwork steeped in sepia-toned ink that led all the way back to 1905, when it was originally built.

  There should have been grand obstacles that I had to work my way around, from hundred-year-old tenancy agreements to disputed council bills and massive structural faults.

  But there wasn’t.

  I should have had all manner of financial obstacles to consider, but with the success of my last biography I had a sizeable royalty cheque that meant that I could just manage it, along with most of the repairs. As the first serious buyer in half a century I’d gotten a rather good deal.

  Still, I was convinced that something would stop me. And then I found myself holding out my hand for the heavy brass key that opened a door that was no longer there, barely a week later. I’m not someone who believes in fate, not really. But even I had to consider that perhaps this was meant to be.

  Mark had been surprised when I phoned to tell him my news. By surprised, I mean completely shocked and furious.

  ‘Have you lost your mind?’ he asked, after I explained that I was buying a house in Cornwall. I left out the part that it was abandoned or that I wasn’t completely sure if it was haunted or not. It was hard to explain how I’d fallen in love with a house that was in near ruins and that the locals believed to be cursed, but I had. It was love and it was all consuming and unconditional.

  ‘This is so typical of you to do something like this. We haven’t even decided what to do about us yet. Christ, you can’t just go and buy a house!’

  ‘I can actually.’ I didn’t mean to sound defensive; I was simply stating the truth. The way we’d set up our finances when we got married meant that we were largely independent – something his lawyers had insisted upon, as back then he was the successful one.

  ‘And when it comes to us, well, I think it is decided, don’t you? Surely it was decided when you told me you were in love with someone else?’ It was hard to keep the bitter note out of my voice.

  ‘I said I thought I might be.’

  I exhaled for some time. ‘Oh yes, silly me.’

  ‘Smudge, look, the truth is that I’m not sure about Jess—’

  I closed my eyes. I didn’t need this – not now. ‘Mark, we’re not good for each other.’

  ‘That’s not true. We used to be—’

  ‘We used to be a lot of things.’

  Silence followed.

  ‘Still, Smudge, I’m saying this out of love, you can’t just throw your money away on some house.’ His tone went brusque. ‘They’re sharks, my love. They’ve obviously sensed that you’re vulnerable and have come after you with this place—’

  ‘It’s not like that. I want this.’

  ‘You can’t be serious. Look, I can come down there, get our lawyers on to this – there must be a way to get you out of this mess.’

  The only mess, as far as I could see, was the one we’d made of our marriage. ‘That’s just the thing, I don’t want to get out of it. I think actually we need to start settling things.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Selling our house. Filing for divorce.’

  ‘Smudge, let’s not rush this. You’re hurting right now.’

  ‘Yes, but even so. Sometimes you’ve got to do what’s right, even when it hurts like hell.’

  Adam, the lawyer, looked at me from across the desk in his uncle’s office in Tregollan. The expression in his blue eyes seemed oddly concerned. ‘Are you sure you want to go through with this?’ he asked, echoing Mark’s words.

  ‘I’m not sure that you’re meant to be talking your clients out of doing business with you,’ I said with a grin.

  He gave me a sheepish smile of his own. ‘I suppose not – but I thought after a few days you might change your mind?’

  Buyer’s remorse for abandoned, hundred-year-old properties would be the normal, sane response, I supposed. But I didn’t want to change my mind. I felt nervous and excited in equal measure. It was the most alive I’d felt in weeks, and the thought that I could perhaps transform Seafall Cottage into what it once was, breathe new life into it, well, it was what was keeping me going. Right now I needed it as much as it needed me.

  ‘It’s in pretty bad shape though,’ Adam continued. ‘It’ll need a lot of work. It’s not like you can actually live there. Not for a long while.’

  ‘Why not?’

  His eyes went wide. He stared at me as if he was waiting for me to say, ‘Just kidding!’ When it didn’t happen he blinked rapidly, like he was trying to locate the necessary part of his brain to explain something obvious in a way that wasn’t too offensive. Then he gave up. ‘It’s derelict. The damp, the roof – most of that needs to be replaced. I mean, there’s no electricity, and it’s absolutely freezing…’

  I shrugged. ‘I’ll figure something out.’

  He shot me a look of disbelief. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Maybe I’ll pitch a tent.’ I stood up, put the paperwork in my bag and made ready to leave.

  Adam stood up as well. ‘Seriously?’

  I looked up, touched by his concern and a little amused. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. Thanks though.’

  All I knew was that I wasn’t going to live in London any more. I’m not sure when exactly I’d decided that – some time between signing the paperwork and deciding to buy the house – but I’d come to realise that this was where I was going to stay.

  I made to leave, but Adam followed me out the door. ‘You can’t sleep in a tent,’ he protested.

  I looked at him. ‘Why not? I’ve done it before.’

  ‘Yeah, but the house will take months before it’s anywhere near even remotely liveable.’

  ‘Are you worried that I’ll freeze to death and prove all the rumours about those vicious ghosts true?’

  He grinned. ‘Well, maybe not ghosts, I suppose, but it wouldn’t look good if we finally sold the property,
only to have the new owner die a few days later.’

  I laughed. ‘O-kay, so it’s just about the firm’s reputation then?’

  ‘Yep. Bad for business, you see.’

  ‘Aren’t you closing it down?’ I pointed out.

  ‘Ah yes, excellent point – never mind then,’ he said with a wink.

  I laughed.

  He gave me a searching look. ‘But seriously, where are you going to stay?’

  ‘I haven’t quite decided yet. I suppose I’ll look at a rental of some kind for the time being.’

  Adam’s eyes lit up. ‘Well, if you’ve got a spare half hour I might have an idea. It’s a bit unconventional…’ His gaze trailed over the Brothers Grimm T-shirt I was wearing beneath my coat. ‘But then, something tells me that might be alright with you.’

  The sun was glinting off the water, the air fizzing with that just-popped champagne colour, when Adam led me to a parcel of houseboats huddled companionably along the river in the small village of Tremenara, ten minutes away from his office.

  The wind brought the scent of water, of seaweed, wet wood and churned earth.

  We walked past an array of floating homes, each different from the last, from big ones the size of small townhouses, modern and sleek, to small ones that ran the gamut between sweet and shabby. Some had little gardens on their roofs with pots of wintry shrubs and herbs and were strung with amber lights. On a navy barge, a salty river dog with springy fur eyed us with solemn black eyes. Adam came to a stop before a small bottle-green narrowboat with the name Somersby painted onto its side in gold lettering.

  ‘I got it a few months ago, when the previous owner decided to become a landlubber.’

  I laughed, ‘Landlubber? You sound as if you disapprove — do you mean to tell me you also live on a houseboat?’

  He grinned. ‘Yeah, mine’s that one down there,’ he said, pointing to a blue and white houseboat about twenty metres from Somersby, called Plain Sailing. ‘I’ve been there for the past six months or so, since I came down to help my uncle out. I saw it for sale one day and decided it would be a great way to get some space. My uncle’s two-bedroom cottage in Tregollan is quaint but tiny. Plus, this way I get to fulfil a boyhood dream.’

  ‘So you liked living on a houseboat so much that you bought another one?’

  He shrugged. ‘Yeah, kind of. I like projects, to be honest, and this one has been great to work on. I’m not a hundred per cent finished with the paintwork, and the kitchen’s really outdated, but it beats a tent. At least there’s heating, electricity, a toilet…’

  I looked at him in surprise. ‘There’s central heating? On a houseboat?’

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘Typical landlubber – of course there is.’

  I grinned. ‘Can I see it?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Adam jumped on board and I climbed on after him.

  ‘It’s a narrowboat,’ he explained. ‘Made for traversing canals and rivers. They come in all sizes, but this one’s pretty decent, mid-level I suppose, at fifty-seven feet.’

  Inside, there was a living room with a porthole that looked out onto the river. It had a wood burner in the centre and there was space enough for a sofa and a small bookcase.

  ‘It’s a multi-fuel stove,’ Adam explained. ‘I just put it in. Makes a real difference in the winter, heats up this place really fast.’

  Just off the living room was a tiny kitchen with a rather sorry-looking stove, which only had one gas ring remaining.

  ‘I’m putting a new stove in – don’t worry. That thing was old when Thatcher was prime minister,’ he joked.

  Below the stove an orange paisley-print curtain pulled aside to reveal storage for pots and utensils alongside a sink and fridge.

  ‘The cabin is pretty good – there’s space for a double bed,’ he added, showing me to the back of the boat – or aft, as I later learned it was called. It was a tight squeeze with the bed, and there was a small shelf that ran along the wooden wall, but there was space for a wardrobe at least. There was another porthole in there.

  ‘You use these at night,’ he said, lifting up a small round cushion that filled the circular space perfectly, like a special padded curtain.

  I looked at him, amazed. ‘I love that!’

  ‘Yeah, they’re great,’ he smiled. His eyes crinkled at the corners. It was the sort of smile that certain men had, the sort of smile that, if it could talk, would come out as a drawl. It was languid and easy and hard to resist.

  ‘So just off here’s the bathroom,’ he repeated.

  ‘Okay,’ I said blushing, realising that I’d been staring while he’d been talking. ‘It’s like a small flat,’ I said in surprise. ‘And there’s plugs!’ Somehow I’d thought that there would be wires crisscrossing everywhere. I hadn’t expected this neat little water home.

  ‘Yeah, I know what you mean. I was surprised the first time I came on one too. The electricity comes with the mooring – although you can also get power with the engine, which runs on diesel,’ he explained.

  I looked around. The wood panelling was sleek and polished. Aside from needing a few minor improvements to the decor, it was rather special; there was certainly something appealing about the idea of life on the waterways.

  ‘What’s it like living on the water?’

  ‘There’s nothing like it – at first it’s an adjustment, but there’s a real freedom to it.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ I said, thinking how incredible it must be to have an estuary for a garden.

  He ran a hand through his dark blond hair, and gave me that same lazy smile. ‘So, like I said, if you’re interested, I thought this might work until the cottage is ready? It’s about a ten-minute drive to the cottage from here, so you wouldn’t be too far away while you’re fixing it up. Just an idea…’

  I looked out the window in the kitchen and spotted a little team of ducks swimming alongside. I couldn’t help but smile. ‘I’m interested.’

  Chapter Six

  I couldn’t avoid London forever. Now that I’d made the decision to move to Cornwall, I had to face our home, not to mention the state of our marriage, even if Mark wouldn’t.

  I wasn’t good at limbo, and that’s what this was. Mark seemed happy enough to leave me dangling until he was ready to decide what he wanted. He might need time to see if what he was feeling for some other woman was real or not, but that didn’t mean I had to be a part of it. I could choose for the both of us, and what I chose was not this.

  Grimly, I set down my things in the hallway of our London house. The last time I’d been here I was barrelling out the door, barely able to see past the haze of tears and the fog of hurt and rage.

  The house felt cold, the air stale and grey, even when I switched on the lights.

  The photographs from our wedding were still on the entrance table. The paintings that I’d lovingly chosen in the nine years of our marriage were still on the walls. The navy sofa in the middle of the room still had its little splodge from the burnt candlewax when we’d decided to try something different in our lovemaking.

  It was all still there. But empty, somehow, as if the soul had gone out of it.

  Though it was only eleven in the morning, I poured myself a glass of whisky and started packing up what I’d be taking with me for my new life, Tracy Chapman on loudspeaker for company. She sang about fast cars and broken promises. There was something soothing about Tracy on days like this. Like you could hear in her sad, beautiful voice that she’d been here too.

  I’d just poured my second glass of whisky when I heard raised voices in the hall.

  I stood in the landing and looked down on Mark and a young woman in the hall below. He seemed to be apologising to her, while also attempting to steer her out the door as quickly as possible. Only she was resisting.

  He must have seen my car before they came in. This had obviously resulted in some panicking, on his part at least. She seemed hell-bent on coming inside. Perhaps she was also curious about the
other woman in his life. With a calm I didn’t feel, I said, ‘Hi.’

  Mark jumped.

  ‘Hi,’ said Mark, looking up, his hazel eyes wide. He ran an awkward hand through his dark hair.

  I looked at the woman my husband had told me he may be in love with. She was young, perhaps in her mid-twenties, and had that thin, lithe type of body that managed to be incredibly petite and curvaceous at the same time.

  Her hair was silvery blonde and she wore make-up like it was art, her face an exquisite canvas. She was everything I was not. Despite the years I had on her, she seemed every bit the grown-up in comparison to me in my faded T-shirt and battered Converse trainers.

  ‘Jess was just leaving,’ said Mark.

  She shot him a look, then gave me an awkward smile. ‘My mother loves your books, she’s a big fan, just wanted to tell you that.’

  ‘Jesus, Jess!’ said Mark, eyes wide.

  She blinked. ‘Maybe that came out wrong, I didn’t mean—’

  I snorted. ‘No, I’m sure you meant to imply that at thirty-two I’m the same age as your mother, which would make you a child, which… Actually, I have no problem believing it.’

  ‘I’m not a child,’ Jess scoffed. She closed her eyes and took a breath. ‘Whatever, I don’t need this shit today.’ She looked at Mark. ‘I’ll call you later?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, sure,’ he said. He flinched when she kissed him goodbye, shooting me a startled, apologetic look. It was almost funny – in the way some things can make you laugh when you’re about to cry.

  I came down the stairs, and when the door closed behind her, said, ‘Kind of fancy for a personal trainer.’

  He sighed. ‘I didn’t know you’d be here.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  He looked like he was gearing himself up for a fight, but I didn’t have the energy, not now, not after seeing my husband with her. Could you have a midlife crisis before you’d reached midlife?

  ‘How old is she anyway?’

  ‘Victoria,’ he said, his tone almost cautionary, like I was heading down a one-way street to disaster.