A Match Made in Devon

by Cathy Bramley

  The whole row had been built for fishermen and their families. The families who had lived and worked here were the lifeblood of the community.

  ‘With the exception of Big Dave, fishing in Brightside Cove is just a hobby now. Such a shame,’ said Jude. ‘I want us to build businesses for ourselves, facilities for our young people, our families and the elderly. Services that benefit us, not tourists. Because otherwise in ten years’ time what will we be? Not a community, that’s for sure. The kids will cause trouble through boredom, just like I did, and then as soon as they’re old enough they’ll leave and never come back. I’ve got another client, Mrs Thompson, wondering what to do with her huge farm because her grown-up children can’t be tempted home.’

  His passion and enthusiasm was so heartfelt. How could the council refuse him? I was won over already.

  ‘And the lifeboat house? How do you think that will help?’

  His eyes glittered. ‘Brightside Cove doesn’t have a village hall any more since the chapel and its outbuildings were sold off by the church for residential development. We need a place for kids to hang out, somewhere for the elderly to have a hot lunch once a month, the mums and little ones from the council estate a few miles away to get together, have coffee, play on the sand. Zumba classes, drama club …’ He lifted his palms up to the sky. ‘The possibilities are endless.’

  ‘And expensive,’ I put in, ‘the building is very quirky and lovely but it will take money to make it fit for the sort of activities you’re talking about.’

  ‘It’s not that bad.’ Jude looked affronted. ‘It’s got running water. Well, one tap.’

  I looked at him, amused. ‘Whoop-e-do.’

  ‘Minor detail.’ He laughed. ‘The main thing is to not let it fall into the wrong hands. It belongs to Brightside Cove and I want it to stay that way. I need to get support. And quickly. It’s not long until the auction so I need to get in there quick and persuade the council to lease it to us cheaply before a load of cash-rich investors get wind of it.’

  ‘How are you planning on doing that?’

  A flicker of doubt appeared for a second before he grinned. ‘Still working on that. But I’ve told Nora and Ned and they’re right behind me. And now you. So that’s three supporters.’

  ‘Word of mouth is great,’ I agreed, ‘but we need to come up with a quicker way of spreading the message. I’ll give it some thought.’

  His smile lit up his face and my insides tweaked with longing for a repeat performance of yesterday. I edged my feet closer so that we were almost touching.

  ‘So you’ll definitely help?’ he asked.

  I nodded, lifting my eyes to his.

  ‘And be the face of the campaign?’

  There was something so honest and true about Jude. And I liked the way he was taking action about this. How could I not want to help him? We’d reached the gate at the bottom of the drive leading to Driftwood Lodge.

  ‘Happily.’

  ‘Thank you. You’re a pal.’ Jude grabbed my face, kissed my cheek roughly and ran off down the road yelling something about petitions and posters.

  A pal, hey? I thought with a sigh. Well, it was a start.

  My thoughts were cut short by the slow approach of a car. It was a taxi. I stood to the side to let it pass, waving madly when I recognized Maxine’s profile through the tinted glass of the front passenger window. I ran to meet her as the car came to a halt in the courtyard.

  ‘Maxine!’ I yelled, opening her door. ‘Welcome!’

  She thrust a briefcase at me and scowled as she climbed out of the car.

  ‘You could have warned me,’ she hissed, pushing her long grey curls hair from her eyes.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Him.’ She jerked her head to the other side of the car.

  A big jowly man in his sixties with a thatch of white hair under a trilby hat and a bristly moustache unfolded himself from the back seat and flicked his eyes over me from head to toe.

  ‘I’m Carmichael, Campion Carmichael,’ he said archly. ‘And you must be Miss Penhaligon?’

  My mouth went dry. What the hell was Cecily’s father doing in Brightside Cove?

  Chapter 25

  So much for Eliza taking Brightside Cove to London; it seemed London had come to Brightside Cove.

  ‘Mr Carmichael, this is a surprise.’ I scurried to his side of the car to try to shake his hand.

  ‘It shouldn’t be,’ he said sourly, ignoring my outstretched hand.

  ‘It bloody well was to me,’ Maxine said, unloading her luggage from the boot of the taxi. She gave me a look that implied I had some explaining to do.

  As did she. I vaguely remembered her mentioning some shared history, but I was curious to know what he could have done to invoke such animosity from the usually unflappable director.

  Sorry, I mouthed with a grimace.

  The booking had been written down as a ‘Mr Carl Michael’. Mr Carmichael. It was an easy mistake to make and Theo would have been distracted taking the call yesterday morning after Kate had phoned and I’d done a runner. It would have been panic stations at Driftwood Lodge.

  Still, I was here now. And so was Mr Carmichael. Although goodness only knew why. Perhaps Cecily wanted to wreak revenge … I gave myself a little shake; I didn’t want to think about why just yet. First I had duties to perform. No one was going to say that at Brightside Holidays we gave anything less than the warmest of welcomes. No matter who turned up unexpectedly. No matter how much my heart was hammering with nerves.

  ‘The cottages are ready for you both,’ I said breezily, ‘and I’m sure you’ll find everything to your satisfaction.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ said Mr Carmichael.

  ‘Getting the last word as usual, Campion?’ Maxine flicked her hands over the creases in her black wrap dress.

  There was a small kerfuffle while both guests insisted on paying for the taxi and asking for receipts and tipping the driver, giving me a moment to catch my breath.

  The taxi drove off, leaving the three of us staring at each other in awkward silence. Maxine looked like she’d cheerfully commit murder; I hoped I wasn’t to be the victim. I looked around for Theo to come and help with the bags, his van was here but there was no sign of him. He’d muttered something about a gardening project earlier, so perhaps he was round the back of the house where he couldn’t hear cars arriving.

  ‘You haven’t brought an easel with you, Mr Carmichael,’ I observed. In fact, judging by the size of his tiny bag, he couldn’t have brought more than a change of clothes and a toothbrush.

  ‘Give the girl a banana,’ Mr Carmichael said with a sniff, picking up his bag. ‘I’ve brought a camera.’

  ‘I see.’ I nodded gravely. I didn’t see at all; I thought he was an artist, not a photographer.

  ‘Campion paints landscapes from photographs,’ Maxine explained, struggling to loop her various bags over her shoulders. ‘He finds a flat emotionless image easier to cope with.’

  ‘You remember?’ Mr Carmichael cocked an eyebrow, making no effort to help with her luggage.

  ‘Oh, I remember all right.’ She fixed him with an icy look. ‘I remember everything.’

  This exchange was loaded with subtext; unfortunately, I didn’t understand a word of it.

  ‘Well, if you’d like any tips on exploring the area, do ask,’ I said cheerily.

  Another awkward silence. The two of them were still giving each other daggers. I cleared my throat.

  ‘If you’d like to follow me,’ I said, including both of them in my warmest smile, ‘I’ll show you to your cottages.’

  I wrestled one of Maxine’s bags from her and led them across the courtyard.

  ‘I understood there to be afternoon tea served on arrival?’ said Mr Carmichael, stalking ahead with his long legs and almost baggage-free arms. ‘I’m ready for cake. I hope it’s freshly baked.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, mentally sifting through the remains of the cakes fro
m the weekend. ‘I’ll bring you a selection on a tray to Kittiwake’s Cabin. That’s the middle one of the three, Campion.’

  ‘Mr Carmichael,’ he corrected me.

  ‘Middle?’ Maxine almost screeched. ‘So we’ll be neighbours? Oh no.’ She stopped dead in her tracks, dropping her case again. ‘Nina, this is the limit. No. I’m sorry, we need to be at opposite ends.’

  Mr Carmichael sighed dramatically and scooped up her case. ‘I can assure you I shan’t be paying you any unwanted attention during my stay. What do think I’m going to do, attempt nocturnal break-ins to try and seduce you? I gave up that sort of thing in the Seventies. And so, if I remember correctly,’ he added snidely, ‘did you.’

  Maxine roared with frustration and stomped off towards the cottages. ‘This was meant to be a relaxing break!’

  Mr Carmichael laughed mirthlessly. ‘Always was easily rattled.’

  I dashed after Maxine and caught her arm. To my horror her eyes sparkled with tears of frustration.

  ‘It will be relaxing, Maxine,’ I promised. ‘I’ll make Penguin’s Pad up for you, it won’t take long. Take a seat at the patio table for a moment. I’ll put him at the opposite end of the row.’

  I didn’t know what his game was, why he was here or what must have happened in the past to set Maxine so against him. But whatever it was, I was on her side.

  ‘So you’ll be in here,’ I said, waving him up the path of Beaver’s Barn.

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘Have you hoovered the ceiling?’

  ‘Not still scared of spiders?’ Maxine sniggered across the wall from the terrace at Penguin’s Pad.

  ‘All done,’ I confirmed. I pushed open the door and handed him the key, swapping it for Maxine’s case. ‘And it won’t take me a moment to remove the bedroom curtains.’

  Mr Carmichael stepped over the threshold and peered inside. ‘I’d like afternoon tea immediately.’

  I nodded. ‘Tea or—’

  The door slammed in my face.

  ‘Tea, then.’

  I exhaled with relief and looked across the cottage gardens to Maxine.

  ‘I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck,’ she said, shaking her head.

  I crossed to Penguin’s Pad and tentatively held out my arms. To my relief she stepped into them for a hug.

  ‘I take it you and he aren’t the best of friends?’

  She pursed her lips. ‘Coffee for me, please.’

  Message received and understood. I patted her arm gently. ‘Coming right up.’

  Later on, I went to join Theo who was digging down at the bottom of the garden.

  ‘There you are,’ I called as I got closer. ‘I’ve brought you some tea.’

  ‘Wait there!’ He abandoned his spade and jogged to meet me. ‘Don’t look!’ He spun me around so that the tea slopped over the edge of the mug.

  ‘Okay,’ I laughed, holding the dripping mug at arm’s length. ‘I’m off to Molly’s in a minute. But I wanted to update you on our guests.’

  He sipped his tea while I told him that I’d remade Penguin’s Pad with the clean linen from Kittiwake’s Cabin and that Mr Campion Carmichael, the renowned landscape artist, was in residence in Beaver’s Barn and not Mr Michael as he’d thought.

  ‘Another artist,’ he said, nodding happily. ‘Word must be spreading about how good the light is here for painting.’

  ‘Possibly, but this is too much of a coincidence.’

  I reminded him of the incident with Cecily Carmichael that had brought me to Devon in the first place and wondered aloud for the first time whether her father had come to exact some sort of revenge.

  Theo stiffened. ‘He’ll have me to answer to if he tries anything.’

  I assured him that wouldn’t be necessary and that I’d be capable of fighting my own battles.

  ‘The other odd thing is the connection between the two of them,’ I said with a frown, wiping a smear of mud from Theo’s forehead. ‘I’m dying to know what the story is behind Maxine and Mr Carmichael.’

  ‘Some stories can be painful to tell,’ he said knowingly. ‘A good friend will be ready to listen but will never insist.’

  ‘You mean like you telling me about Ivy?’

  He nodded. ‘While Kate was here I felt a constant pressure to get over losing our baby. But I didn’t want to get over Ivy. I wanted her in my every waking thought. I wanted to wallow.’

  ‘And now?’ I asked, looking at him: his eyes bright, his face, knees and boots covered in mud, his nose sunburned from being outdoors all day.

  ‘She’s still here.’ Theo tapped his head and then his heart. ‘And in here. But I’m ready for a new chapter and I want Kate to be in it.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. And on that note,’ I said, pressing a swift kiss to the cleanest bit of his cheek, ‘I’m off to give my side of the story to your wife. Wish me luck!’

  Further north, just along the coast from Brightside Cove, was a village that seemed to consist of about a thousand mobile homes clinging to the cliffs, a short parade of nondescript shops and a housing estate where Molly lived with her son. I checked the address Theo had given me and turned his van into Molly’s road.

  Her Skype call with Kate was due in an hour. She’d invited me round early for cake.

  ‘Come in!’ Molly threw back the door to let me enter. She looked like she was dressed for yoga in a vest top and stretchy pants.

  ‘Thanks. I smell chocolate cake,’ I said, sniffing the air.

  ‘Go through to the kitchen,’ she said, nodding towards the back of the house. ‘And you’ll see why.’

  I walked through the sparsely decorated living room ahead of her. There was a grey two-seater sofa and an armchair facing a tiny television. Cupboards and shelves had been built into the alcove along with two rows of books: one of well-thumbed crime novels and another of children’s picture books. There was a crate of toys in the corner but no pictures, no mirrors, and apart from a vase of red tulips on the window sill and red scatter cushions adding a pop of colour, very neutral.

  ‘Boring, isn’t it?’ said Molly, following my gaze. ‘You can say it. I couldn’t face taking on a mortgage when we split up so we’re renting. And the landlord is a bit pernickety when it comes to touching his precious walls. I’ll make it more homely eventually.’

  ‘It’s already a home,’ I argued. ‘Don’t put yourself down.’

  ‘My ex’s flat is like a show home. Mind you, they are architects …’ Her voice faded into a sigh.

  ‘You should be proud of what you’ve achieved on your own,’ I said. ‘Besides, I have never felt strongly enough about a place to call it home. So you’re one up on me already.’

  ‘Not even Brightside Cove?’ She pulled a surprised face. ‘How could you not fall in love with it here?’

  I grinned. ‘Admittedly, it’s growing on me.’

  Molly reached for the kitchen door and cocked an eyebrow. ‘It or him?’

  My stomach flipped. ‘I thought we’d established that Theo and I were just—’

  ‘You were spotted on the beach,’ she continued, her brown eyes glinting mischievously, ‘with Jude Trevone. You’ve succeeded where half of them have failed. He’s a tough nut to crack that one, and believe me, many have tried. All the football mums are jealous; it’s all over WhatsApp.’

  ‘Football mums?’ I said.

  She pressed a hand to my face and pretended to flinch with the heat of it. ‘He coaches the kids most Sunday mornings. Including …’

  She pushed open the door to the kitchen. ‘My own budding David Beckham. Ellis, say hello to Nina.’

  Kneeling up to the worktop on a stool, in a red plastic Disney apron with Lightning McQueen on the front, was a little boy with glasses and a cloud of shoulder-length curls as red as his mum’s. He looked up from arranging chocolate buttons on top of a cake. His face was mostly covered in chocolate buttercream. He was possibly the cutest child I’d ever seen.

  ‘Hello. Cooking is for boys too,’ he s
aid solemnly.

  ‘Of course it is,’ I agreed.

  Molly looked like a proud mother hen. ‘I want him to be at home in the kitchen. Not like some men I could mention,’ she added in a low voice.

  ‘Daddy’s girlfriend doesn’t like cooking either,’ Ellis piped up perceptively.

  She winced at being so transparent. ‘I’ll make us a drink and perhaps Ellis will let us have some cake too.’

  ‘Milk goes best with chocolate cake,’ he said in a voice that brooked no argument. He picked up a pot of chocolate sprinkles and shook it liberally over the top of the cake, filling in the gaps between buttons.

  ‘Ice-cold milk and chocolate cake, yum,’ I agreed, patting my tummy.

  Ellis pressed the sprinkles into the icing with both hands. ‘Finished.’

  Molly replaced the kettle, her lips twitching. ‘Milk it is.’

  The kitchen was a long thin room. At the far end was an industrial-sized washing machine and in front of it, a huge steam contraption set up on an ironing board. There was a mounded basket of laundry waiting to be ironed and a neat pile of folded bedlinen ready to be collected. The door to the garden was open and in front of it stood a clothes horse hung with pillowcases.

  Ellis insisted on being the one to cut us all wedges of cake as he was the chef. He took his through to the living room with his milk. We cleared a space at the worktop and settled on to stools. Molly set up her laptop ready for Kate’s Skype call while I started to eat.

  ‘Great cake,’ I said, after just one mouthful. ‘I don’t know about David Beckham, but Ellis can certainly give Gordon Ramsay a run for his money.’

  ‘He’s multi-talented. Gets it from me.’