She was a small, thin, elderly woman with a slight stoop. Her iron-grey hair was styled in a shapeless bob while her thick fringe, unusually short, had probably been cut by herself.
She had sharp little black eyes, framed by rectangular, steel-rimmed spectacles, and was wearing a brown tweed skirt, a white blouse buttoned up to the neck and sensible, mannish brogues.
Despite her age, Chabela decided that she could most likely walk the length and breadth of Britain if she had to, without complaining, and put younger women to shame.
A strong scent of cooked eggs and bacon filled the air and the table was laid for just one person with silver cutlery, a linen napkin and pots of honey and jam. Chabela didn’t mind being the only guest – she was used to eating alone – and she was relieved when Maria disappeared to fetch the coffee, closing the door firmly behind her.
Having helped herself to a generous pile of scrambled eggs on toast, Chabela sat down, placed the napkin on her lap, pulled a letter out of the pocket of her trousers and spread it on the table beside her plate.
‘Querida Señorita Penhallow,’ she read – Dear Miss Penhallow – and at the bottom: ‘Cordiales saludos, Simon Hosking’ – Kind regards, Simon Hosking.
Her stomach fluttered and she wasn’t quite sure why. The letter was polite and formal, with nothing in it to raise doubts about its provenance or authenticity, yet still the prospect of meeting the Cornishman for the first time made her anxious.
Taking a forkful of eggs, she idly scanned the script for the umpteenth time. Small, pointy and quite difficult to decipher, it seemed to her to come from the hand of someone private and insular, just as Bramble and Matt had suggested.
Picking the letter up, she held it to the light, noticing with what heavy pressure the writer had applied the pen. There was something intense about the dense black letters and narrow spacing between each word, as if he had been concentrating very hard, totally focused on the task in hand and unaware of what was going on around him.
He was most likely an introvert, she decided, and perhaps quite rigid in his thinking. No, they almost certainly wouldn’t get on.
The eggs were delicious – pale yellow, light and fluffy, though she would have preferred them done the Mexican huevos rancheros way, with tortilla, refried beans, hot chilli sauce, feta and guacamole on the side.
Right now she rather wished that she had brought her own supply of chilli, although that would have gone against her intention to immerse herself in the Cornish way of life.
The food here wasn’t bland, but it wasn’t spicy either. Bramble had told Chabela that they sourced most of it locally and you could tell. The wholemeal toast was dense, hearty and packed with nutritious seeds, as if every bite would do you good, while the butter, straight from the farm, was thick, yellow and creamy.
Chabela loved eating, but often did so on the go during the week and didn’t give as much thought to her diet as she might. Who knew? Perhaps a spell in Tremarnock would change all that and she’d arrive back home super-fit and bursting with vitality.
Maria returned with a pot of coffee and a jug of hot frothy milk and left Chabela to pour it for herself. Three cups and the entire plate of scrambled eggs later, she felt positively bloated; it was just as well that she had an appointment or she might have been tempted to sneak back to bed with her book and wait for the uncomfortable fullness to subside.
After cleaning her teeth and collecting her coat and bag, she headed out into the crisp morning air. Her feet crunched on the gravel as she walked across the drive to her jolly, rented Polo, and the bright blue sky overhead seemed to lighten the weight in her stomach as well as her spirits.
The winding road leading down to Tremarnock was empty, save for a lean, Lycra-clad male cyclist on a racing bike who pedalled past in the other direction, helmet lowered, legs pumping furiously to propel him up the hill. He was clearly in tip-top condition and Chabela was impressed; there was no way that she’d make it up to the summit without having to stop and push.
Bramble had advised her to leave the car in the centre of the village and walk the final section of the journey; there was very little room for parking near Simon’s cottage and besides, the road was perilously steep and narrow. Clutching a battered map that Matt had given her, Chabela strolled along the seafront and turned left along Fore Street, before taking a sharp right just past a big white building called Ashley House, and up a narrow set of steps that she hadn’t noticed before.
The crumbling brick walls on either side were very tall and silky-looking, with dark green moss growing between the cracks. The light faded as she started to ascend and there was a damp, musky smell. She held tight to the wobbly iron rail and kept her eyes focused on the ground, fearing that she might stumble on a wet or uneven tread and fall.
Once or twice, when she did look up, all she could see ahead was a formidably sharp incline with a tiny, round, but very welcome circle of light at the top.
She was panting hard as she climbed and her thigh muscles started to protest, but she didn’t stop. Descending soon became a more daunting prospect than continuing in the same direction and she managed to distract herself by imagining that she was on a magic ladder. What awaited her at the summit? A giant, a fairy, or the secret, perhaps, to her Cornish ancestry?
Up and up she went until she reached the very last step, where the walls came to an abrupt end. She passed through a short row of gnarled, dense trees before finding herself back in the open air, where she paused to catch her breath and scan her surroundings.
She was quite high up now on what appeared to be a rocky promontory. To her right was the wide, grey-blue ocean and to her left, a row of higgledy-piggledy cottages, perched sideways in a slightly awkward manner, as if they were struggling to keep their balance. A pebbly, weed-strewn path lay ahead.
After pulling the map from her back pocket, she put her finger on the spot where she believed herself to be and followed the track for some little way until it appeared to peter out and come to an abrupt end at the cliff edge.
She was wearing trainers, comfortable red trousers, a cream sweatshirt and padded navy gilet, but still she felt chilly and exposed; the wind was stronger up here and although the sun was shining, it was still only half nine in the morning and she hadn’t yet acclimatised to Cornish temperatures.
It crossed her mind that if anyone wanted to commit the perfect murder here, it wouldn’t be difficult. One big shove and she’d probably teeter, fall and be dashed on the rocks below. There’d be no witnesses and most likely no one would hear her either, as the wind and waves would drown out her cries.
A welcome waft of woodsmoke coming from the chimney of one of the nearby cottages calmed her down. She’d been reading too many scary books, she decided, picking up her pace again now that her breathing had returned to normal. Folk were minding their own business and no one was remotely interested in murdering her; she was just being silly.
The ground was uneven and she had to take care not to catch her foot on a stone or root or slide on the loose pebbles. The low, scrubby bushes on either side were prickly too, and once or twice she had to raise her arms above her head so as not to get scratched.
Simon Hosking had certainly chosen a remote dwelling place. She would much rather live in the thick of things, close to the shops and pubs, but he probably preferred nature to people.
The path started to narrow even more and soon, just as she was beginning to feel anxious that she’d misread the map, she found a gap in the bushes to her left with a track leading downhill. It was fairly steep and flanked by high rocks, which she leaned on occasionally for support. She couldn’t fathom where it might end other than on the beach. Hombre! Did the man live under an upturned rowing boat or in a cave?
Thinking that she must surely reach sea level again soon, she was surprised and relieved to come to a fork on her right, which opened into a smooth, curved trail that was cut into the lower half of the cliff.
Not too far below wa
s the mighty ocean, while on her right was a row of darling little mismatched cottages that seemed to demand the best of both worlds – snuggled as they were into the craggy rock face whilst enjoying magnificent views in front.
A sign outside the first house said Karrek Row. Chabela took a deep breath. By hook or by crook, she’d reached her destination. She was quite proud of herself, a city girl more familiar with satnav than a map, and more accustomed to driving than going on foot.
Each cottage had its own name – Gwel Teg, Seabank, Wild Rose, Crafty, Farthing, and finally, on the very end of the row, Kittiwake. This was it.
Before arriving in the UK, Chabela had studied online images of Cornish cottages as well as local beauty spots. The picture that she’d formed of Simon’s house was of a once delightful, now distinctly dilapidated bachelor residence, perhaps with a leaky thatched roof and an unkempt garden.
It was thus a pleasant surprise to behold a modest but charming, solid, whitewashed stone property with a smaller outhouse attached that could once have been the stable. There was a neat wooden porch, with a pair of green wellington boots tucked inside, a bright blue front door and blue-painted windows that almost matched the colour of the sky.
Just to the left of the door, beneath the front window, was a wooden bench positioned in a perfect, sheltered spot facing the ocean. On either side were tubs filled with lush, spiky plants and the garden itself was a riot of colour – vivid yellows, pinks, purples, whites, oranges and reds.
The roof wasn’t thatched, but slated, with patches of rough, orangey lichen growing across, and a row of washing hung on a line, flapping furiously, like a crowd of angry protesters.
Amidst the browns, tans and greys, Chabela was amused to see three flimsy white sleeveless vests, presumably to put on under shirts. She thought that such items had gone out of fashion; certainly Alfonso didn’t wear one.
Instead of opening the garden gate and going straight in, she skirted around the bend, where she hoped that she wouldn’t be seen, and paused for a few moments, taking in the scenery and collecting her thoughts.
The grassy headland on which she was standing sloped rapidly down between rocky outcrops before reaching the curved, sandy beach. The tide had retreated quite far out, exposing long trails of seaweed and interesting-looking rock pools that must be teeming with crabs and other sea creatures.
To the right, some way off, the crescent shore came to an abrupt end when it reached a stack of huge boulders, which seemed to loom large, grey and formidable over the rest of the cove, stretching long, bony fingers far out to sea.
Chabela shivered. Although the house and its neighbours were quite protected from the elements, she thought that if you lived here you might never feel completely safe. When the wind whipped and the sea roared, you might fancy that the cliff was in a bad mood and you’d better watch out.
As her eyes slid left to right and back again, she found herself thinking of some of the other awe-inspiring places that she’d visited around the globe – Venice, the Grand Canyon, Niagara Falls, not to mention home-grown beauty spots such as Tulum, Chichén Itzá and Oaxaca.
How come she hadn’t heard of this? If it wasn’t already a World Heritage Site, it should be. Wild, raw and dramatic, it almost took her breath away.
‘Miss Penhallow?’
She was jolted from her thoughts by a low voice and spun around to find a man of medium height and build standing on the other side of a low hedge.
At first glance he looked very brown: he had short brown hair, brown tortoiseshell glasses, a beige sweater and sludge-brown trousers. Chabela couldn’t see his shoes but was certain that they’d be brown too.
Self-conscious suddenly in her red lipstick and bright red capri pants, she could only nod and smile at him tentatively.
‘Simon Hosking,’ said the man, extending a hand. ‘I saw you out of the window and then you disappeared. I thought you might be lost.’
‘Oh no, I was just admiring the view. It’s so beautiful.’ Chabela swept her arm across the panorama and he grunted something that might have been agreement in return.
‘That’s Old Charley,’ he then said, pointing to the imposing cliff on their right. ‘Legend has it that he’s a giant who was put under a spell thousands of years ago by a wicked witch. He went to sleep and never woke up. He sometimes has bad dreams and when he rolls over, the sea becomes rough and restless, but he’s not a malevolent sort. He mostly protects the locals from the worst of the weather and he doesn’t mind children and adults climbing over him.’
Chabela tipped her head to one side and frowned. ‘He looks fierce to me, but maybe it’s all show.’ She sounded doubtful. ‘I wouldn’t want to mess with him.’
Simon scratched his scalp quite hard, as if he wasn’t sure how to respond. Either that, or he had nits. She hoped it was the former.
‘You should go up there sometime,’ he went on, still scratching. ‘That is, if you like walking. Do you walk in Mexico?’
She was about to answer when he slapped his forehead a few times with the fleshy part of his palm. ‘Silly question. I mean, of course you walk. Everyone does. Unless they have some sort of disability.’
His eyes widened in dismay, then he shrugged one shoulder several times, seemingly involuntarily, and jerked his chin in the other direction. It was quite alarming to watch and, unsure if he was aware that he was doing it, she pretended not to notice.
‘Not that there’s anything wrong with having a disability…’ he went on, giving another shrug and then a jerk, quite a violent one this time. ‘I’m not suggesting… I mean…’
He seemed to be tying himself in knots and Chabela came to his rescue. ‘It’s all right,’ she interrupted. ‘As it happens, yes I do walk, though not so much in Mexico City. I walked here today.’
‘Ah.’
To her relief, the fret lines on her host’s forehead smoothed out and the shrugging and jerking stopped.
‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘Glad you arrived safely. It’s not easy to find us, not easy at all.’
Quite whom he meant by ‘us’ was a mystery, but Chabela didn’t have time to ask because before she knew it, he was attempting to push down the stumpy hedge in front so that she could climb over.
‘Shall I use the gate instead?’ she suggested, looking doubtfully at the sharp, bristly twigs and leaves, but he was insistent.
‘No, no, this’ll be quicker.’ He proffered a helping hand, which she took, whilst stepping gingerly across the divide. ‘Come inside. I’ve got something for you that I think you’ll find rather interesting.’
Chapter Four
Soon, she was following him across the lawn, through the porch, past the wellington boots and into a small, low-ceilinged room at the front of the cottage. A very tall person would have had to stoop, but both she and Simon could move about freely.
‘Will you have tea – or coffee?’ he asked, as she unzipped her gilet. He hesitated, scraping his fingernails back and forth again across his scalp. Scritch, scritch scratch. She wished he wouldn’t do that; it made her itchy, too.
‘How rude of me!’ He shrugged involuntarily again. ‘How presumptuous! I just assumed we’d converse in English. Would you prefer Spanish? I’m happy with either.’
Chabela, who was doing her best not to appear unnerved by his strange spasms, shook her head. ‘No, I like talking in English. I need the practice. In fact it’s my aim not to speak a word of Spanish all the while I’m in Cornwall!’
She was only joking, but he took her comment at face value.
‘Very well,’ he said seriously. ‘I’ll do my best to make sure no word of Spanish crosses my lips.’
While he went to make coffee, she seized the opportunity to have a good look around. She loved exploring strange houses and was hoping for some clues about this one’s owner, as she hadn’t yet worked him out.
He was odd, certainly, just as she’d expected. He spoke just as he wrote – in a rather formal, uptight way – and
he looked as if he’d walked straight out of the pages of a slightly old-fashioned men’s clothing catalogue.
In fact, if someone had asked her to imagine what an unmarried schoolteacher from a remote corner of provincial England would look like, she might have described Simon Hosking exactly, complete with nervous tics.
But he seemed friendly enough in his stiff, awkward way. He’d hurried from his house a moment ago to find her, and he’d welcomed her in like a long-lost relative or an old pal.
Another upside was that his cottage was lovely, inside as well as out, and not at all the sort of dishevelled place that she had feared. In fact, if anything it was almost too tidy, the sort of home where, if you put something in the wrong place, it might just get whisked away before you knew it.
The room she was in had clean, parchment-coloured walls and a polished wooden floor with a hessian rug in the middle, on which sat a big old pine chest with wooden handles. Now used as a coffee table, there was a heavy, dark blue book on top with the words, ‘The Compact Edition of the Oxford English dictionary, Volume 1, A–O’ written in gold letters down the spine.
She supposed that her host had been browsing through it before she arrived, otherwise it would surely have been put back with its sister, Volume P–Z, on a shelf.
On either side of the chest were two plain but comfortable-looking sofas, one grey, one blue, with matching standard lamps beside them topped with pale, wide shades. On the far wall was an unlit, cast-iron wood-burning stove with a basket nearby stacked with neatly cut logs. She could imagine that the place must feel very cosy in winter.
To the left of the wood burner was a smallish oil painting of some half-cut melons with green skins, sweet, orange flesh and glossy black seeds. She liked the image, which added a welcome splash of colour to its otherwise understated surroundings, and the fruit looked good enough to eat.
Tall shelves on either side of the chimney breast were laden with books of all different shapes and sizes, and the sea was clearly visible from the smallish, ocean-facing window.
The Girl Who Came Home to Cornwall Page 4
