by Anna Reader
The grotto, for the uninitiated, was a small cave near Mason’s Cottage where the twins had played since they were children. It held an irresistible lure for the pair of them – and had played a significant part in fuelling their shared love of pirates, tales of shipwrecked treasure, Algie’s fascination with geology, and, more recently, rum.
“Doubtless an erudite band of smugglers,” Lord Alverstock replied with a twinkle. The twins had been very vocally enchanted by the idea of free-traders since their childhood, and both had on occasion threatened to run away to join them whenever a family argument had escalated to the requisite heights.
Now, smuggling had supposedly ended in Cornwall decades before, but Purdie for one had never been entirely convinced by stories of its demise. Her father may have been joking, but the local pub called The Plough seemed to sell a great deal of rum and shrub. Which was evidence of only one thing, as far as she was concerned.
“We shall all have to close our windows tonight,” Lady Alverstock said with a small shudder. “And whoever goes to bed last had better make sure the door is locked after them – I will not have smugglers raiding the pantry.”
“I don’t think smugglers are terribly interested in pork pies, Ma,” Purdie said, leaning forward to squeeze her mother’s arm comfortingly. “If anything, we should pop down tonight and see if they’ve got anything to sell.”
“You shall do nothing of the sort, you little toad!” Lady Alverstock declared, not entirely trusting her instinct that her daughter was pulling her leg. “I shall be extremely upset if I find you’ve gone anywhere near the cave tonight. My skin has gone all prickly just thinking about it.”
“Don’t worry, Mother,” Algie chipped in. “I intend to spend the evening in the pub tonight. And since the first round is on Em, she will be accompanying me.”
“Only because you cheated,” Purdie fired back, helping herself to a thick slice of Bakewell tart.
“Children, please,” Lady Alverstock said, rather enjoying resuming the role of mediator between her rambunctious twins.
The family fell silent, each staring out at the white horses cresting the tops of the waves; but for the sound of the sea and the cry of gulls, everything was still. After the incessant roar of London, it was absolute bliss.
“I thought we might pop into Chettleforth tomorrow,” Lord Alverstock said at last. “I believe there’s going to be a cricket match to mark the beginning of the fete. It should be rather jolly, if the weather holds.”
“Love to, Pa,” Algie replied. “According to the Times, one of Hardy’s manuscripts is going on display ahead of his appearance at the fair, which I’d very much like to see.”
Purdie propped herself up on an elbow. “Which one have they chosen?”
“A Pair of Blue Eyes. Deeply depressing, if you ask me. Catching a train with a corpse? I know our rail service ain’t up to much, but that seems a bit steep.”
Purdie’s imagination spun into action, fuelled by the clean sea air and the sardines. If her father was set on Chettleforth, then it seemed highly likely that the manuscript was his next quarry. She was minded to agree with her brother about its subject matter – it certainly wasn’t her favourite of Hardy’s novels – but that hadn’t stopped Lord Alverstock from stealing a diamond bust of Shakespeare’s head. Good taste did not, she mused, appear to be one of Lord Alverstock’s core motivations.
Purdie closed her eyes against the sun and let her mind wander. How would I feel about filching one of Hardy’s actual manuscripts? And what does one do with a hot work of classic literature, once one has it? Pop an alternative dust-jacket on it and leave it on one’s bookshelf? Tuck it in a drawer? I wonder what Peter thinks about Hardy…
For his part Lord Alverstock slipped into a dignified silence, trying not to betray the pain he felt in his bones as he tapped his pipe against the palm of his hand. With a spouse’s intuition Lady Alverstock noticed that the colour had drained from her husband’s face, and wordlessly removed the pipe from his hand to pack it with tobacco.
“I think a trip to Chettleforth would be a splendid treat,” she added brightly. “For now though, could you two please help me pack this lot away? You’re beginning to catch the sun, Emmie – and you know how grumpy you get when you start to freckle.”
“A tad put out, maybe,” Purdie replied, burying the crushed end of her cigarette in her paper napkin. “However, I should hope I am never juvenile enough to seem grumpy, Ma.”
Algie snorted and began gathering up the plates. “It’ll be sundowners before long anyway,” he said, shielding his eyes and staring out at the flaming horizon. “I propose that we bring our cocktails down to the beach and watch the sunset.”
“Seconded,” Lord Alverstock said, accepting the pipe from his wife and raising it in salute.
“Let’s get these things back to Woods, then,” Lady Alverstock commanded. “You know how she hates it when we linger unnecessarily between meals – it throws out her system, apparently. And she’s already been moaning about the stove, so we mustn’t give her any more ammunition to threaten desertion.”
“Oi,” Purdie hissed, yomping across the sand to catch up with her brother, her hands full of plates. “Do you think Pa intends to steal that manuscript?”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” Algie replied, peering over his shoulder to make sure that their parents were a fair distance away. “Seems a bit fishy, though. Walter Scott, maybe, but what would he do with A Pair of Blue Eyes?”
“I’m not sure Pa even knows who Thomas Hardy is,” Purdy mused, narrowly dodging a jet of water from a buried razor-clam.
“Maybe it’s got something to do with that cricket match,” Algie whispered, once again looking back over his shoulder without a shred of discretion.
“You’d be a horrendous spy, you know,” Purdie observed. “Oh, heck. Look out – Woods is on the prowl, and she’s wielding a rolling pin.”
The harassed housekeeper was indeed marching towards them, a martial look in her eye.
“And what time do you call this?” she demanded, tucking the flour- covered rolling pin under one cavernous arm-pit and seizing the dirty cutlery. “It’s almost five o’clock, that’s what it is. How am I supposed to keep to any kind of a timetable if you insist on eating like Italians, that’s what I’d like to know.”
Invoking the eating habits of Italy was a serious matter for Mrs Woods. None of the Purdews knew where this fear had come from or why it affected her so profoundly, but their housekeeper was obviously convinced that a kind of lawless anarchy reigned supreme in an Italian kitchen. Algie had once had the audacity to request a pasta dish for supper, and Woods hadn’t spoken to him for a month.
“Sorry, old thing,” Algie said, looking his most repentant. “Time ran away with us, rather. Tempus fugit, and all that.”
Woods sniffed, and turned on her heel. “Don’t you speak French to me, young man,” she said. “If supper’s ruined it won’t be any fault of mine, and that’s the last I’ll say on the matter.” And with that she stalked back towards the house, muttering darkly about spoiled custard and the imminent collapse of world order.
Two hours later, having washed the salt from their hair and placated Woods, the quartet sat in their easy chairs in the sand as the sun made its way beneath the ocean’s edge. They each held a cocktail – a potent combination of Algernon’s invention which he liked to refer to as the Tear-Jerker – and looked out as the gloaming crept across the water.
“Is that someone rowing towards the cave?” Purdie asked, sitting up in her chair and peering down at the sea in the half-light. “I’m quite sure I can see a boat.”
“They’d be jolly foolish if they are,” Algie replied, trying to follow the direction of his sister’s gaze. “It’s lethal down there in the dark. I shouldn’t like to attempt it, and we grew up swimming these waters.”
Purdie felt a shiver of excitement ripple down her spine. It may have been the vast quantities of vermouth in the Tear-Je
rker, but the image of smugglers stashing casks of brandy under the light of the moon was intoxicating. She didn’t, in all honesty, think that the early-evening rower was actually a cryptic-crossword solving smuggler – free-traders didn’t generally choose cocktail hour to conduct their business – but it was pleasant to daydream. Now that she had tasted a life of crime, she also felt that she was very nearly initiated into their number, and contentedly imagined herself being welcomed into their midst like the piratical rogue she had always believed herself to be.
Lady Alverstock looked down the beach and anxiously tried to make out any moving shapes. “Perhaps it was just a seal,” she said hopefully, trying to thrust the thought of murderous gangs bursting into the cottage from her highly impressionable imagination. “Or a piece of drift-wood?”
“Let’s ask at the Plough later,” Purdie suggested, conscious that she oughtn’t to exacerbate her mother’s alarm, whilst at the same time not being entirely ready to relinquish her dreams of romantic nautical adventure. “If there is someone camping down there, the regulars will be sure to know.”
“Arggghh,” Lord Alverstock added, with his best smuggler’s growl, “that they will.”
The sound of the dinner gong in the cottage being struck with vigour suddenly pierced the dusky silence, as Woods summoned the family like a fearsome culinary siren.
“She really does have an exceptional right hook,” Algernon observed, as the group gathered their glasses and made for the house.
“That ought to comfort you, Ma,” Purdie added. “If there is someone dwelling in the cave, we can have no better defence than Woods. Absolutely lethal with a frying pan.”
“You know, in a strange way, it does make one feel better,” Lady Alverstock conceded, suddenly searching for her husband’s arm with some urgency as the Tear-Jerker took full effect. “What did you say was in that drink, my love?” she asked, feeling deliciously woozy.
“A magician never reveals his tricks, Ma,” Algie replied with a grin. “Come along, old girl.” And with that he gallantly took his mother’s other arm and helped her towards her supper.
After a sumptuous meal of fresh mackerel, spring greens and sponge pudding with custard, the twins wended their way down the narrow country path by the light of their cigarettes, chatting companionably.
“I’ve rather missed you in Cambridge over the past few weeks,” Algie admitted, as the sound of a lowing cow drifted towards them on the night breeze. “It’s been terribly dull, you know. I even went to a lecture the other day.”
“How ghastly,” Purdie replied sympathetically. “You must take better care of yourself, Algie. First it’s a lecture, then before you know it you actually start handing in work…it’s a slippery slope. Look what happened to Peter Purvis – he was the life and soul until he ventured into the College library one afternoon in search of a bit of light fiction. He was never the same after that – I heard he’s on track for a first.” Purdie shuddered. “Too awful.”
“Well, I hope that alone encourages you to come back soon,” Algie replied. “No one keeps me on the straight and narrow quite as effectively as you, Em.” He dipped his shoulder lightly into his sister’s, who pinged across the lane with a gust of laughter.
As much as she loved her exquisite London wardrobe, Purdie was never happier than when she was romping about in Cornwall in a pair of slacks and her plimsolls. Her curls blew freely across her forehead, her cheeks were flushed with the fresh air and exercise, and her immaculate scarlet lipstick had been abandoned in favour of her natural hue. A rider trotted past them on an evening jaunt, cast blue in the moonlight, and tipped his hat as they edged around the final corner leading to the Plough.
It was a truly excellent pub, by anyone’s measure. A neatly thatched roof above a wattle and daub exterior gave way to a sawdust covered floor; thick, ancient oaken bar; and a row of gnarled regulars drinking flagons of warm ale drawn from a barrel in the corner of the room. Apart from Purdie, women were never found in the Plough – the very idea was sacrilege to the men who used the place as somewhere to escape their wives. She was the solitary exception – most of these farmers had known Purdie since she was a naughty little girl, and were well aware that she could hold her ale with the best of them. If they had ever seen her in London, in her smart dresses, fashionable hats and flawless make-up, then their attitude would no doubt have undergone a radical transformation; however as far as they were concerned, Purdie was just another connoisseur of Peter’s home-brew.
Speaking of which, “Hallo, Peter!” Algernon cried, spying the landlord behind the bar. “How are you keeping?”
“Allycumpooster,” the short, sun-baked man replied, cryptically, with a toothless grin. “You two been ‘ere long?”
“We arrived this afternoon,” Purdie said, smiling at the gathering in greeting. “And came as soon as we could.” This was met by a handful of grunts and wheezes from the bar – the Plough’s equivalent of a very warm reception indeed.
“You’ll be wanting a pint, then,” Peter replied, drawing two tankards down from the shelf and shuffling across the bar to fill them with the ale. “There’s a seat there for ‘ee, b’y.”
Algie and Purdie perched on a pair of stools by a sturdy looking wooden table next to the bar, and waited expectantly for their drinks. This was always a deeply exciting moment for both of them – very few things in life came close to the pleasure found in Peter’s Cornish ale.
“Peter,” Algie said, smacking his lips in appreciation once the tankard had arrived, “this is even better than the last batch. What have you done to it?”
“Some aglets, some bilders, few other things I catched in the browse,” Peter replied enigmatically, winking back at him. “Helps keep those there black flies off the milky-dashel, so they say.”
Purdie nodded sagely, having made a point of becoming fluent in Cornish dialect during her youthful summers. Some of what Peter said was utterly impenetrable, of course, but that was largely due to his penchant for coining off-beat aphorisms on the hoof.
“It’s really top drawer, old man,” Algie declared, wondering about the mechanics of shipping a cask back to Cambridge.
“Ayes,” Peter said, accepting this praise without question – he was a master brewer after all, and knew when he had created something special.
The pair were half-way through their second pint and having an increasingly animated conversation about cricket with the local butcher, known to his friends as Scrowling Sam Stoggs, when the door was flung open and a vast man with thick, silvery whiskers, tweed cheese-cutter and heavy wax overcoat stomped in, clutching a pheasant in either fist.
“Tom,” Peter said in his Cornish drawl, nodding his head in greeting. The man heaved the carcasses onto the bar with a thud, and grunted in return.
“Been down in the woods again, then,” the landlord continued, pressing a tankard of ale into Tom’s huge paw.
Another grunt. Spying Purdie and Algernon down the bar, Tom picked up one of the birds and stomped towards them.
“‘eard you was ‘ere,” he said, dropping the dead bird between them, leaving its limp neck dangling off the end of the table. “I was fossicking down by the yearlings, and found this ‘ere bird. Thought the Lord and Lady might like ‘im for their tea.”
“Tom!” Purdie cried, rising from her chair to plant a kiss on the giant’s sun-scorched cheek. “You darling – thank you. Ma will be so touched.” There wasn’t generally much kissing in the Plough, but the drinkers were prepared to indulge Purdie from time to time. After all, who would begrudge a friend a kiss from such a bonny maid?
The twins had spent a great deal with Tom Mortimer over the years, exploring the secret dells by the cottage. He was the finest poacher in the county and had taught Algie and Purdie to tickle trout, beat for pheasant, and pluck partridges almost before they could walk. They were all inordinately found of one another - although Tom for one would never say as much - and he was one of the area’s main attractions fo
r the pair. Even Lady Alverstock - who knew enough to understand that Tom operated in the liminal borderlands of illegality - held him in the greatest affection, and had spent many a happy hour pottering around the garden with him, learning about the local flora and fauna.
“Another round please, Peter,” Algie said, moving his stool around so that Tom could sit down with them.
“Tom,” Purdie said, leaning in and resting her hand on his arm, “we must ask you – do you know anything about a campsite in the grotto by the cottage? Algie and I found the remains of a fire earlier today, and I’m fairly sure I saw a boat rowing into the cove at sunset.”
“You shouldn’t be poking around in the towans just now, Miss Emmeline,” Tom said gravely, his eyebrows bristling. “There’s been tell of lights down at the beach, of late, though no one knows what for. I haven’t seen any m’self, mind, but it’s been a catchpit for rogues for years.”
“Rogues?” Purdie repeated, her eyes shining. “Smugglers, do you mean?”
Tom chuckled and drank drinking deeply from his tankard. “You’ve been readin’ too many of your stories, Miss Emmeline,” he said at last, emerging from the vessel. “There haven’t been smugglers round these parts since I was a babe. Even so,” he said, suddenly circumspect, “you mind ‘ee. Until we know what’s scuttlin’ down there, you leave the beach well alone after nightfall.”
“Alright, Tom,” Algie said, slapping his old friend on the back, “we’ll steer clear. Probably best not to mention this to Lady Alverstock for the time being, though – you know how jittery she gets.”
“She won’t hear nothing from me, the little fussock,” Tom said fondly.
“Good man. Now, let me tell you the story of how Emmie got sent down from Cambridge…”
TWELVE
It was a fine spring day, the kind which filled the heart of every Englishwoman with a profound affection for her country. Purdie flung back her curtains to see a pair of swifts playing in the garden, their wings silhouetted against the glorious morning sun, and the waves lapping against the shore of the beach. She dragged on a pair of slacks, gym shoes, and one of Algie’s old cricket jumpers, and tied a red ribbon through her curls in a jaunty bow. Clattering downstairs with an exuberance she would be unlikely to reveal in London - except perhaps with Pongo - Purdie burst into the dining room in search of breakfast.
