Snowflakes Over Holly Cove

by Lucy Coleman

  In some ways, it feels too loved to be a holiday let. Everything here is of very good quality, although simple and minimalist in its presentation. In fact, even the bookshelves downstairs have been carefully, and lovingly, arranged. Both old and new books lined up side by side, according to height. But they are not simply books that have been bought to fill a couple of hours of relaxation time, or a random selection left behind by previous visitors. They appear to be a personal collection including biographies, reference volumes, a wide range of fiction, and coffee table books by famous photographers. I struggle to understand how anyone could leave their prize possessions here, knowing strangers will be passing through.

  Instinctively, my feet head towards the window again and I stare out to sea. A small fishing boat is bobbing about on the waves, which are rather choppy considering it’s such a beautifully sunny day. When I open the window, the light breeze is refreshing. I try to imagine how awesome it would be looking out on a stormy winter’s day, when the rain is lashing down and the turbulent sea generates a frenzy of white foam to crest the steely-grey waves.

  Idly, I wonder whether it’s a commercial boat, or merely a passion which has the added advantage of delivering wonderfully fresh fish to the table. As far as I can tell there’s only one person on board, so I guess it’s unlikely to be a commercial fisherman.

  Oh, how I wish I lived here – experiencing a simple life surrounded by nature. But how do people earn a living wage round here? There can’t be many who can afford to snap up a property and walk away from their busy lives. Maybe this cottage is someone’s retirement dream and renting it out is merely a way of keeping the property ticking over in readiness for a change of lifestyle. It must be awful to own a unique property like this and never have the time to enjoy it. The dream of being able to get away from it all spoilt when you end up having to rent it out until that can happen. I wonder if the property is sad when it stands, cold and empty, unloved between visits from a stream of strangers.

  ‘Hello?’

  A voice filters into my daydream and reluctantly I start to wend my way back down the staircase.

  ‘Just coming.’

  I wonder who it can be. Maybe the landlord has come to check me out. After all, he or she is entrusting their beautiful cottage to a stranger for a whole six weeks. They aren’t to know that I have already fallen in love with Beach View Cottage and it couldn’t be in safer hands.

  Walking into the kitchen I peer through the open sitting room door and see the shadow of a figure pacing back and forth. As soon as I enter the room a rather jolly looking lady turns, smiles and steps towards me, holding out her hand.

  ‘I’m Olwen, Olwen Morgan and I’m your housekeeper.’

  Housekeeper?

  I step forward and we shake. ‘Nice to meet you, Olwen. I’m Tia Armstrong.’

  ‘I’ve been hired to clean through, change the beds and do the shopping. They’ve booked me for an hour, three times a week. If there is anything at all you need, please don’t hesitate to ask.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a surprise. I didn’t realise a cleaning service was included. I can now understand why it’s so beautifully presented.’

  ‘I wish I could take the credit for that, but it’s down to the owner. No, I live in the village and I run a small cleaning business. A London firm contacted me and said you were going to be busy while you were here. They wanted someone to make sure you had everything you needed.’

  Clarissa has arranged all of this for me?

  ‘Well, um, I’m not sure I’m actually going to need anyone to help out. I mean, there is only me and I’m not a messy person.’

  Olwen laughs, her tone reflecting the warmth of that wonderful Welsh accent. Her mop of tight, curly hair bounces around her ears like a hat, as her multiple chins wobble just the teensiest bit.

  ‘Oh, I won’t make a nuisance of myself, I promise. I’ll just keep everything ticking over – shopping, washing and ironing – whatever will help to make your stay as pleasant as possible. It sounds like the company you work for want you to have some thinking time with no distractions, so you might as well take advantage of that. You must be a good friend of Nic’s.’

  I look at her in surprise.

  ‘I don’t know him at all, actually. This was all arranged for me.’

  She does a double-take, her eyebrows shooting up into her curls.

  ‘Really? You are one lucky lady, that’s for sure. My other half, Rhys, runs a holiday lettings business in this area and he’s always trying to talk Nic into renting out this place. A few of the local residents move out for the lucrative spring and summer months, just into cheaper accommodation in the village, or one of the local farm houses. It’s a nice boost to their income, as employment opportunities here are rather limited.’

  Her words are a revelation and I’m rather surprised she’s being so candid with me.

  ‘I was thinking it’s a shame this was a rental cottage, as it’s so beautifully done, but I had no idea.’

  ‘Well, maybe he’s decided that renting out the cottage to supplement his income is a good move. A lot of people around here have several jobs. I also do the mid-morning playground duty at the local school. You see the same faces popping up all the time, you’ll get used to us!’

  She laughs and I can’t help but smile, as her friendliness has certainly relaxed me.

  ‘Well, now I know it’s his home I can only hope he really is happy to allow me to enjoy it for a while,’ I remark.

  ‘Oh, if Nic isn’t happy with you, he’ll let you know. Sometimes we all have to do things we wouldn’t normally do, in order to pay the bills. That’s the price of getting away from city life.’

  She sounds very matter-of-fact and I have to stop myself from asking whether my landlord is a born and bred local, but it would be unfair of me to question her.

  ‘Well, he has no worries with me. I’ll love Beach View Cottage as if it’s my own while I’m here. And yes, I think my boss wants me to focus on work and forget about my troubles.’

  Olwen glances at me, a frown creasing her forehead but she quickly returns to smiley-mode.

  ‘Well, welcome to the Gower coast and Holly Cove. Here’s my card if you need anything urgently, but aside from that I’ll see you the day after tomorrow. I’ve stocked up the cupboards and the fridge-freezer, so you have plenty to keep you going.’

  I nod my appreciation and follow her to the door. As I do, I notice that the boat which was previously bobbing about on the waves is now heading inland towards the cove. What I’d love to do is to take a walk along the sandy shoreline, but I make myself turn back to begin unpacking.

  Day one at Beach View Cottage and already I feel like it’s home.

  4

  Settling In

  I have no idea why it makes such a difference to me that Beach View Cottage isn’t just a holiday rental that is merely a temporary home to a stream of visitors. But for some reason it does. There is a sense of homeliness here that is welcoming and comforting, as if the cottage is filled with positive karma.

  As the light begins to fade and I walk around turning on side lamps, I reflect upon the fact that there is little here I would change if this was my home. Not that I’m ever likely to be able to afford the sheer luxury of a holiday home. Even as an investment. Living in London is so expensive, and the only thing that can even be loosely described as ‘generously proportioned’ concerning my apartment is the mortgage.

  Once the suitcases are empty and my clothes are hanging neatly in the beautifully distressed oak armoire, I need to find somewhere to set up my desk. The office upstairs still has files and paperwork laid out on the desk top in front of the computer. I feel it would be an imposition to clear it off and use that space. I also notice there is no TV here and that’s totally unexpected. I don’t think I know anyone who doesn’t have one, so does that mean he took it with him? Now if I had decided to rent out my apartment then, obviously, I would have taken my IT equipment with me, but not
the TV. Upon further investigation, I finally discover a Wi–Fi modem tucked away in the kitchen. It’s connected to a power source, but not turned on. I flick the switch hesitantly, but within a couple of minutes the whole row of lights are lit, and a sense of relief settles over me. There’s a sticker on the top with the password and I grab my iPad to get connected, mentally ticking off another item on my settling in list.

  There’s a programme I used to watch on TV called Through the Keyhole. As the presenter walked around a celebrity’s home, talking about the contents, a panel of three people had to guess the person’s identity. The clues were subtle but allowed you to build up a picture in your mind of the sort of person who would live there. By the end of the episode it was always fairly easy to guess the celebrity’s identity.

  I finish laying the table and settle down to a cup of coffee and cheese on toast. I’m going to have to find a recipe for Welsh rarebit while I’m here as I’ve heard it’s amazing and the mixture is actually poured over the bread. The well-stocked fridge seems to have everything in there and the Welsh cheese does taste that little bit better, in my opinion. I find myself musing over whose house this is and conjure up a picture of the man Olwen referred to as Nic. I assume that’s short for Nicholas, which is quite a traditional name. As my eyes scan the kitchen, I notice that there aren’t really any distinctly feminine touches. I realise that what I thought of as minimalist, was probably the orderliness of a man who likes to keep things simple. And yet he has a vision and a sense of style that complements the cottage. And he’s an avid reader – everything from crime to humour. I’m guessing he took early retirement, maybe after a failed relationship, or loss of a partner. That thought makes me gulp, as a sense of sadness suddenly rises within me and I have to push it back down. How must it feel to reach a time in your life when you stop striving to make things happen and decide to walk away? A tinge of sadness creeps over me, knowing that I’ve temporarily displaced him, but I focus on the fact that the influx of cash might have relieved a few worries.

  My iPad kicks into life and it’s Clarissa, Skypeing. I quickly brush any crumbs from around my mouth and click the accept button.

  ‘We have a problem.’

  Really? It’s seven o’clock on a Saturday evening. Clarissa’s expression is always the same, probably because of the amount of Botox she’s had and I’m not being bitchy here. It’s a fact. There is never a huge smile, or a desolate frown, just an almost unbelievably perfect, wrinkle–free complexion that belies her age.

  ‘Oh, sorry to hear that.’ And good evening to you, too, Clarissa.

  ‘We are one couple down and I need you to find a replacement. Make them interesting; our readers want to be inspired. Is there anything you need?’

  The question is thrown in as an afterthought and I’m half tempted to ask Clarissa how she discovered this place. I open my mouth to begin, but immediately think better of it. Clarissa merely barks orders; she’s unlikely to know any of the tedious detail, as it’s always someone else turning her commands into reality.

  ‘No, I’m good, thank you. I’m sure I’ll come across someone who is interested in earning a little extra cash in return for their personal story. I, um, haven’t really met anyone except the housekeeper yet.’

  One eyebrow lifts, but it’s hardly perceptible.

  ‘Really? Well, when you find the right person phone their details through to accounts and we’ll send out the standard letter with the small print.’

  Clarissa doesn’t like loose ends.

  ‘Of course.’ My reply doesn’t really register and I can see Clarissa’s mind is already elsewhere. ‘I’ll be in touch once the interviews have begun.’

  She nods and her image disappears, leaving me staring back at myself. I had no idea I looked quite so tired and pale. The frown on my face seems to exaggerate those fine lines in a particularly unflattering way. I probably look at least twice as old as Clarissa, despite the fact that it’s the other way around. But almost a whole day has passed without a morbid thought and that’s an achievement for me.

  I know I should clear the dishes away and then start work. I have a schedule of interviews to plan and a lot of background information to read. But it’s Saturday evening and although I’m well aware I’ve just had a month off work, I need to ground myself. This is my temporary home for a while. It’s important that I adjust to my new surroundings and make myself comfortable, so I can settle down to work. Besides, I’m curious about the owner now and perusing his library of books in more detail might throw up a few extra clues about him.

  *

  I awake feeling refreshed and having had what seems to have been a dreamless sleep. I’m actually excited at the prospect of exploring Holly Cove and the immediate vicinity. Besides, I have to find a suitable candidate to interview and I need to start meeting people, in order to achieve that. So, a quick coffee and toast and finally I can feel the tingle of the salty breeze on my face.

  It’s a gentle incline down towards the beach itself. The wind has driven the sand in between small tumps of dried grasses, but it’s still quite firm underfoot. There’s a crunch as I navigate a swathe of dried leaves, mostly holly I note, which would be very unforgiving on my feet if I wasn’t wearing sturdy shoes. Another few strides and the texture changes completely. Walking out in front of the sheer cliff face to my left, I look back at the cottage. It’s perfectly positioned to take maximum advantage of the view. Surprisingly, though, there’s a signpost saying Private Beach, at the point where the partially-gravelled lane gives way to the area of sandy soil. Within a few yards I’m walking on soft, dry sand and my leg muscles have to work harder as my feet sink lower with each step I take. There’s no one to be seen, but I’m sure it would have been made clear to me if the beach was out of bounds.

  I stand and look along the length of the sandy shoreline of Holly Cove. The beach itself is in the shape of a horseshoe. To my left, it extends maybe two hundred yards and to my right no more than fifty yards. Bordered by sheer, limestone cliffs, a flat ledge projects forward from the base before disappearing beneath the soft sand. As the light breeze whips my hair around my face I dig into my pocket for a hair band. Facing into the wind, I quickly grab and twist the strands, then fasten it in a ponytail.

  Turning my attention to the horizon in front of me, I watch the little white foamy crests as the water ebbs and flows quite vigorously. The breeze is constant and a little bracing at times. It’s a bright, spring day, but whenever one of a succession of big, fluffy white clouds obscures the sun there is a slight chill to the air. I fasten my jacket and begin walking in the direction of what looks like two beach huts, which are set back against the rocky cliff to my left.

  The sand is so soft underfoot that it’s already making my calf muscles ache, so I meander across the beach towards the firmer sand, where large swathes of sea shells and seaweed have been strewn by the tide. As I get closer, I see that they aren’t simply beach huts, but are much larger wooden structures which appear to be dwellings. Rather like wooden chalets, spaced about twenty feet apart. The gap between them has a flat roof and as I stroll by I notice there’s a boat nestling behind locked, metal gates. It appears to be a workshop of some kind.

  Both cabins are of exactly the same size and construction, with an offset door and a panoramic window facing the sea. Sitting on a large, extended concrete base they are raised off the ground by more than a yard, with a set of wooden steps leading up to each door. Rather surprisingly, there are six solar panels on each roof. With a metal flue projecting upwards from the rear of each cabin, I assume the heating is generated by a wood-burner. If these belong to the cottage, I wonder whether the owner is staying here. However, there’s no one around and I walk on, wanting to investigate the shoreline and see if there is another bay beyond this one.

  When I reach the end of the beach I start to clamber over the low, rocky outcrop. Little rock pools are home to an assortment of tiny crabs, limpets and even the odd starfish. With one
hand seeking out handholds on the surrounding cliff wall, I go as far as I dare towards the water line, before accepting that there is no way to see around the projecting headland. It’s easy to see why this is a private beach, quite simply because it’s cut off. Admittedly, the tide is low as it’s clear from the line of shell and seaweed deposits that at high tide it advances much further up the beach. But nowhere near the wooden huts. Reluctantly, I turn back, as the salty droplets carried by the wind begin to turn from a light spray into an almost rain-like assault. I hear a low mumble, barely audible over the sound of the water crashing and lapping against the rocks. As I steady myself ready to turn around, someone grabs my arm. I turn in surprise, but gratefully take the other hand that is extended out to me. It occurs to me that, unaided, there was a real danger I could slip and tumble into the sea. Suddenly, adrenalin is pumping around my body and my heart beat begins to race.

  It takes a while to retrace my steps back across the irregular, rocky surface and myriad of rock pools, even with the help of a sturdy arm to guide me. It isn’t until I have two feet firmly back on dry land that I can acknowledge my helper and my heart rate begins to slow.

  ‘Thank you. I think that my curiosity got the better of me there and that was quite a silly thing to do.’ My trainers are soaking wet and a chill begins to claw its way up my legs.

  My rescuer is an older man, probably in his sixties, with short-cropped silver hair and a matching full beard. His skin is weather-beaten and tanned by an outdoor life and exposure to the elements, but the effect is softened by the gentle, greyish-blue eyes smiling back at me.

  ‘I was a bit worried, to be honest. It’s easy to slip and you wouldn’t be the first. But the beach falls away quite sharply just beyond the rocks and it’s quite deceiving. The current is strong and even a fairly good swimmer would struggle.’