A Perfect Cornish Escape

by Phillipa Ashley

  Chapter Two

  ‘Oh f-f—’ Tiff Trescott bit off an expletive just before the old couple reached her. She was flat on her arse on the cobbles of the quay opposite the Harbour Café. Several people had seen her go over on her ankle and crumple to the floor but the pensioners had reached her first. The other locals, two teenage girls in wetsuits, were too busy laughing themselves silly.

  ‘You all right, my maid?’ An elderly man gazed down at her.

  ‘You went a right purler.’ A lady with a walking stick reached her, voice full of concern.

  The old man offered a gnarled hand to her.

  ‘Thanks, but really, I’m fine,’ she said, catching sight of her trolley case which was teetering perilously close to the harbour wall. ‘I must rescue my bag before it falls in the water.’

  ‘I’ll get it,’ said the lady, making off at a surprising speed towards the suitcase

  Tiff tried to get up but her ankle protested, shooting a sharp pain up her leg. She let out an audible wince and the smooth soles of her heeled boots struggled to gain purchase on the stones. She groaned inwardly; the last thing she’d wanted was to draw attention to herself but there were now half a dozen people watching the little scenario from the terrace of the nearby pub. Clearly, she was the best entertainment they’d had in months.

  The old man’s hand was still extended. He winked at her. ‘Come on, before you go arse over tit again, eh?’

  Interesting turn of phrase, thought Tiff, finally accepting his help and finding herself surprised at how easily he pulled her to her feet. She felt rainwater seep through her jeans. Oh great, wet knickers as well as a twisted ankle: just what every woman wanted.

  Despite feeling slightly shaken, not to mention her sore ankle and damp bum, Tiff put on a brave face. ‘Thanks. Very kind of you.’

  ‘No bother, maid. Happy to help a damsel in distress.’ He let out a cackle.

  Tiff didn’t think she’d ever been called a ‘damsel’ and at thirty-nine, she felt she’d long passed the stage when even the most generous of people would describe her that way, not that she’d ever really been the delicate-lady type.

  ‘Here’s your case. None the worse.’ The old woman passed her the suitcase.

  ‘Thank you so much. I don’t know what I’d have done if it had ended up in the harbour.’

  ‘It’d have gone straight to the bottom, very likely,’ her husband chortled.

  ‘But it didn’t, Troy,’ the lady said in some exasperation. ‘So all’s well that ends well … I couldn’t help noticing the label on your bag, my dear. Are you Tiffany Trescott? Marina’s Tiffany?’

  ‘Tiff to my friends,’ she said, staking her claim early to be known by her new nickname.

  ‘I’m Evie, by the way. I know Marina pretty well. We both do.’

  Troy whistled. ‘You’ve been away a long time, maid.’

  ‘I haven’t been back too often,’ Tiff replied, which was an understatement. She’d only been there a couple of times in a decade.

  Her parents had moved away from Cornwall when Tiff was still in nappies, to a large house in Oxfordshire where her father had become a surgeon. Her mother had been a barrister and Tiff had been packed off to school from the age of seven, only coming back to Porthmellow for some of the school holidays.

  She had fond memories of the times she’d enjoyed there with Marina. Even though her cousin was a few years younger, she seemed to have more freedom than Tiff did. They’d wandered around the village, the beaches and coastline. Marina had loved to hear about Tiff’s shopping and theatre trips to London while Tiff had enjoyed the gossip about the local boys and eyeing up surfers on the beach. She might have kissed one or two, as well …

  Although she’d only been back to the town twice since childhood, she’d seen Marina from time to time in her London home. Her ex London home. It was only a tiny one bed in an unfashionable suburb, but it had been her haven from the cutthroat world of journalism.

  ‘I’ve been living in London for a very long time,’ she explained.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Evie said, as if Tiff had confessed to having been in Wormwood Scrubs.

  ‘Eh. You don’t know Foxy Seddon’s cousin, do you?’ Troy asked. ‘She lives in London.’

  Evie rolled her eyes. ‘Course she doesn’t, Troy, there are millions of people there.’ She peered at Tiff. ‘I do remember you though. You used to stay with Marina’s family in the school holidays sometimes, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’ Tiff maintained the smiley eye thing but braced herself. She’d known a few locals would remember her but she hadn’t anticipated meeting a couple who knew her background, and probably every detail of her childhood, within five minutes of arriving in Porthmellow.

  ‘Nice to see you back,’ Evie said. ‘Is this a holiday?’

  Evie was so innocently direct that Tiff couldn’t be offended by her question.

  ‘Sort of. I’m here to recharge my batteries and visit Marina.’

  ‘Ah, yes, come to think of it, she did mention you were coming for a break. Well, she’ll be glad of the company after that terrible business with Nate.’ Evie sighed. ‘Anniversary of his disappearance comin’ up too … I can hardly credit it’s nearly seven years.’

  ‘Time certainly flies,’ Tiff replied crisply. She couldn’t believe it had been so long since Marina’s ex had vanished either. Even though Tiff had thought Marina’s marriage had been heading for the rocks, her cousin had naturally been devastated when Nate had disappeared, feared drowned.

  ‘I warned him not to take that fishing kayak out, not with a storm brewing up,’ Troy said gloomily. ‘But he wouldn’t listen. He thanked me and smirked; thought I was an old fart probably, but I know these waters like the back of my hand. I work for the Harbour Commission, you know.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Tiff, picking up her bag again. She suspected Troy was about to relate his life history and she was eager to reach Marina’s and relax with a hot bath and a cool glass of wine. She’d warmed to the couple already, but she didn’t really remember them and certainly didn’t want to reveal too much about herself as she guessed they were lynchpins of the harbour town and knew everyone’s business and history. Luckily, Evie unwittingly came to her rescue.

  ‘We have to go, Troy, or we’ll miss the arrival of the birthday girl.’

  ‘Girl? Daisy Seddon is eighty-five, Evie!’

  ‘She can still be a girl. We all deserve to be girly from time to time, don’t we?’ Evie chuckled, sharing the joke with Tiff, who warmed to her all the more.

  The chimes of the clock tower rang through the air, and Evie let out a squeak of horror. ‘Oh, it’s already seven. We’ll be late for this birthday party. Come on.’

  ‘Yes, best be off,’ Troy agreed. ‘Oh, Tiff, are you off up to Coastguard Terrace now?’

  ‘Yes …’

  ‘Would you mind taking this up to Dirk ’n’ Stormy’s for me? It’s on your way to Marina’s place.’

  Tiff wasn’t sure she’d heard right. ‘Dark ’n’ stormy?’

  Evie’s eyes crinkled in delight. ‘Dirk ’n’ Stormy, my love. Dirk Meadows, he’s the lifeboat mechanic, you see. Don’t worry, only post it, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Right …’ Tiff didn’t see at all. ‘OK, I get the Dirk part … I presume the “stormy” is because he’s on the lifeboat crew?’

  Evie giggled. ‘Oh, Lord no. It’s because he can be a bit up and down. Tumultuous, you might say.’

  ‘A moody bugger,’ Troy put in.

  ‘Oh, go on, Troy, he’s not that bad.’ Evie smirked. ‘He’s always more than civil to me and he fixed our car for nothing. Kept cutting out, it did.’

  ‘It was the turbo sensor. The local garage was flummoxed and our son was in Scotland on business or he’d have done it. Dirk stepped in; what he doesn’t know about a marine engine you couldn’t fit on the back of a stamp,’ Troy said, in wonder.

  ‘And there’s plenty of women who’d be more than ready to put up with his moo
ds if they could only get close enough. He’s a bit of a hunk,’ Evie added mischievously.

  ‘He needs a shave more often. Scruffy bugger,’ Troy said, with a raucous cackle that echoed around the harbour.

  ‘He lives two doors down from Marina’s place at number nine. It’s a little white cottage near the end of the row,’ Evie said. ‘So if you wouldn’t mind putting it through his door, it would save us hauling our ancient bones back up there. It’s a pack of flyers for the fundraising day we’re holding in aid of the lifeboats and the Wave Watchers.’

  ‘The Wave Watchers? You mean the volunteer group who run the coastal lookout station?’ Tiff said.

  ‘Yes, Marina’s lot,’ Evie replied.

  ‘Of course I’ll deliver them,’ said Tiff, figuring that by posting a few leaflets, she could help out Marina and get herself down in everyone’s good books as a nice, helpful person.

  ‘Grand. Mind you, go easy in those high heels. It’s steep and slippery.’ Troy grimaced at Tiff’s boots as if they were glass slippers.

  Tiff hesitated then smiled. She wanted to fit in, and anyway, she instinctively liked Evie and even Troy had a weird kind of rustic charm. ‘I’ll be extra careful.’

  ‘Thanks, you’re a star. See you around very soon, then.’

  Off they went, leaving Tiff gingerly making her way up some steep steps to the top of the town. Her boots were wet through and the soles were as good as ice skates on the cobbles. She made a mental note to buy something more practical as soon as possible – not only because she’d break an ankle if she didn’t, but also to make herself more unobtrusive.

  The suede boots, a well-loved sample from a shoe designer, were a vestige of the old Tiffany, one she couldn’t quite bear to part with, but she might have to resort to trainers or flip-flops from now on. Or, God forbid, Crocs. The idea sent a shiver of delighted horror through her. She shuddered at the thought of herself in chunky rubber clogs. She wasn’t sure she could go that far.

  Puffing like a steam train, she dragged herself and her case up the steps between the houses, finally emerging on a lane high above Porthmellow. She paused to get her breath; no amount of skipping up and down the stairs in the Tube could have prepared her for the lung-busting climb from harbour to top – and no amount of imagination on the train here could have prepared her for the view spread out below her.

  It was picture-book perfect, and luckily for her the rain was clearing away to the west. The harbour was unusual, with two square basins – an inner and an outer. Three of its sides were lined with pastel-coloured cottages, gift shops and eateries.

  The cobbles glistened in the shafts of sunlight, and the cries of seagulls, and halyards clanking on the masts of fishing boats and yachts were clear even from her lofty viewpoint. Beyond the harbour entrance, whitecaps danced on the sea. No wonder Marina loved this place.

  Tiff hadn’t expected to be so transfixed. Down below, she’d felt pissed off and tired by her journey, irritated by her inappropriate footwear, and disgruntled at having to be in Porthmellow at all.

  The climb to the top had probably boosted her serotonin levels and – ha – given her a fresh perspective. Beyond the houses tumbling to the steep sides, the rest of the Penwith peninsula stretched out to Cornwall’s far west, blurring in a blue haze of sea and sky. Wait a minute … She pulled her polarising sunglasses from her bag. There was a white shed-like structure perched on the top of the cliff about half a mile away towards the east.

  Was that Marina’s lookout station – where she and the other ‘Wave Watchers’ hung out? At the thought of why Marina had re-opened the station, Tiff told herself to grow a pair. No matter what had happened to Tiff herself, Marina had endured far worse and was still going through the mill because Nate had never been found. He was dead, of course, Tiff thought grimly, but what a horrendous thing to have to face up to. Tiff wasn’t sure she could have handled any of it.

  The realisation made her all the more determined not to be an added burden on Marina. She’d make herself useful, try to be cheerful company and then leave her cousin in peace once the heat had died down in London. As it would, she was certain … then she could find a new job on a decent newspaper and get on with her life.

  With her breath almost back to normal, she bumped her case onto Coastguard Terrace and wheeled it to the end, looking for number nine. A third of them didn’t seem to have numbers, preferring unfathomable names like ‘Chy an Mor’ and ‘Kerensa’. And, to further complicate things, several of the cottages could be described as ‘white’, the shades ranging from mucky dishrag to celeb tooth. Some even had numbers: a fourteen, an eleven with a ten next to it, which totally defeated all logic of odd and even being on opposite sides. In the middle of the numbered cottages was a pallid dwelling with a wonky sign that read ‘Sod Hall’.

  How hilarious, thought Tiff, regretting her agreement to be a good Samaritan. She could, of course, always post the envelope in a post box, with ‘Dirk ’n’ Stormy, Porthmellow’ on it, though it wasn’t stamped which meant Dirk would have to drive miles to the sorting office and pay extra postage.

  The idea of riling the mythical beast of Porthmellow made her smile and brought a satisfying image into her mind. She pictured Dirk: craggy, with days of stubble, in greasy overalls, a wrench or some other tool of choice in his hand.

  He sounded like a kind of pound-shop Heathcliff … and she had no idea where his lair was.

  ‘Ah.’

  She’d already wheeled her case a few metres when she spotted it. The cottage was almost at the end of a row, but on the ‘wrong’ side of the street for the odd numbers, and calling it white was pushing it. Tiff would have described it as grey-ish, like a storm cloud, and, judging by the oily pong, it had been very recently re-painted.

  There was no number but that didn’t surprise her as it had probably been removed while the masonry had been re-rendered. However, a number nine had been daubed on the wheelie bin along with a peeling Lifeboat sticker. Tiff didn’t need to have been a top newshound to sniff out that this was Dirk ’n’ Stormy’s lair.

  She deposited her bag on the gravelled strip of front ‘garden’ and took out the envelope before climbing up the stone doorstep. Now, if only she could locate a letterbox … or any orifice in which to deposit the envelope and accomplish her mission.

  OK. She could accept that Porthmellow didn’t have any logical sequence to its house numbers, but no letterbox? What was this? Some kind of initiation test that incomers had to pass before they could be allowed into the local pasty shop?

  ‘Oh, for f—’

  The door was wrenched open, taking her by such surprise that she almost fell backwards. Classical music drifted out of the hallway; the ‘Flower Duet’ from Lakmé, sweet and lilting – quite the opposite of the face that glared down at her.

  ‘Can I help you?’ it growled.

  A figure filled the doorway, his dark hair almost brushing the lintel. It was clear he wasn’t her man because instead of mechanic’s overalls, he wore black tux trousers and a white dress shirt which was gaping open to reveal a tanned chest, sprinkled with dark hair … and, good God, one nipple was pierced by a discreet silver ring. In one hand he was clutching a black silk bow tie, the real kind that comes undone under eager fingers.

  ‘Yes?’ he said, his brow furrowing as Tiff teetered on his doorstep, clutching the manila envelope to her chest.

  ‘I’m looking for Dark. I mean Dirk. Mr Meadows,’ she said firmly.

  His indigo eyes took her in with one sweeping glance. ‘Good for you but if it’s double glazing, I’ve got triple, if it’s loft insulation, I’m warm enough. If you want to convert me, you’d have better luck with Satan.’

  ‘In that case,’ she said, deciding she’d definitely keep hold of the letter, ‘I clearly have the wrong house. Sorry to have disturbed you.’

  ‘You have disturbed me.’ The voice was a bit growly but definitely not Cornish, more RP.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, but it was a
genuine mistake. I’ll leave you to …’ Tiff took the opportunity to give him a head to toe stare, as he’d been so ungracious. ‘Do whatever it is you’re doing.’

  ‘That’s exactly the problem. I wasn’t doing it. I can’t do it.’ He waggled the bow tie in front of him, obviously agitated. ‘I can’t get this bloody thing to work, you know, tie up. Got so hot doing it that I unbuttoned my shirt.’

  ‘No. They can be tricky. If you’re not used to wearing black tie,’ she added wickedly.

  ‘I think it’s fairly obvious I’m not. This get-up is hired.’

  She raised her eyebrows dramatically. ‘Wow. I’d never have guessed.’

  Was that a bead of perspiration glistening among his chest hair and the evening sun glinting off his nipple ring? While annoyed by his rudeness, she was irritated by her reaction to him even more. Since when had she been so easily thrown off kilter by a handsome face? She’d met better-looking men in her former life, though never one who seemed so little aware of it.

  ‘Well, good luck with it. Thanks for your time.’ Reluctantly, she tore her eyes from his impressive torso and turned away, still holding the envelope. ‘I was hoping to deliver this envelope to Mr Meadows, but it looks like I’ll have to drop it in the nearest post box, which is a shame because I don’t have any stamps—’

  ‘Wait a minute!’ he called after her. ‘What’s your business with this Dirk Meadows?’

  Ouch, that was direct, she thought, but then, she was used to people being ‘direct’. Unless someone was chasing her down their drive, screaming expletives, she was rarely intimidated.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,’ she said sweetly. ‘It’s personal.’