Letters from Lighthouse Cottage

by McNamara, Ali

  She grins. ‘Right, I think there’s one more box left in the cottage, and that’ll be it for now. I’m going to come back for the rest tomorrow when your dad is free to help me lift the heavy furniture. I wonder how he got on at that auction down in Fakenham? I wish I could have gone, but the family wanted this doing as soon as possible. Did I tell you Mabel especially requested we do her house clearance?’ Mum tells me proudly, for the third time.

  ‘Yes, Mum, you did. Isn’t that a bit odd though, making arrangements for someone to clear your things?’

  ‘I guess some people like to be organised. She seemed to know the end was coming, even though she was in good health when I spoke to her. I suppose that is a bit odd.’ Mum looks away from the small cottage we’ve been clearing, up at the imposing lighthouse that stands next to it. ‘What a shame there will be no proper keepers living at the lighthouse any more,’ she says, looking fondly at the tall, white-brick cylinder that, at the angle we’re viewing it from, appears to soar up into the clouds above, then disappear. ‘Since they built that new one down the coast, our little lighthouse has been rendered useless. Mabel was the last keeper to live here in Lighthouse Cottage.’

  ‘Things have to move on, Mum,’ I tell her. ‘Progress equals change.’

  ‘I know, but I’ve never been very good with change. Maybe that’s why your dad and I went into the antiques business – so we could hold on to the past a bit longer, eh?’ She smiles at me, then turns away from the lighthouse and looks up towards the huge Tudor manor house that stands high up on the hill behind us. ‘Do you know the hall is being sold too?’ Mum says with a tinge of sadness. ‘The owners can’t afford to run it any longer, so they’re being forced to sell and move elsewhere. Such a sad state of affairs; in the past the owners of that house owned the whole of Sandybridge – the houses, the shops, the lighthouse even’ – she gestures up at the building next to us – ‘but the years rolled by, and bit by bit they had to sell off the estate. Until the only thing they owned was the house, and now that’s going too.’ Mum shakes her head. ‘I’m all for progress, Grace, but if it’s at the expense of our glorious country’s historical past, then I’ll happily pass on it.’

  I look up at Sandybridge Hall behind us. It suits its name well; even on this cloudy June day, the pretty golden yellow and terracotta red bricks make the house look warm and welcoming as it stands, stylishly surrounded by its own moat, at the top of a long tree-lined driveway.

  ‘I bet you’d have loved to get in there, Mum, amongst all that antique furniture and paintings. You’d have been in your element clearing that one!’

  ‘Oh no, that would never happen. The interiors of Sandybridge Hall are worth far too much to be sold in a house clearance,’ Mum insists. ‘Some of the paintings are of great historical significance, and they have odd bits of furniture in there dating back to the sixteenth century. There’s even a rumour they have a quill pen that Mary Queen of Scots used to write a letter when she visited the manor.’

  ‘Ah…’ I say, turning my gaze towards the house again. None of this interests me in the slightest.

  ‘Anyway, I can’t be worrying about that now.’ Mum rubs her forehead with the back of her hand, and a few strands of blonde hair fall out from under the scarf she’s wearing to protect her hair from dust. ‘I have my own treasures to sort through when I get this lot home. Mabel had some lovely pieces – we should do well from this clearance.’ She jumps up into the van. ‘Grace, be a dear and get that last box from the cottage while I finish arranging these ones.’

  ‘Sure,’ I reply, pleased I won’t have to talk about old things any more. History and preserving the past was definitely Mum’s favourite soapbox topic, so it always came as a relief when she stepped down before getting into full flow.

  I head through the gate of the white picket fence that surrounds the cottage’s little garden, push open the wooden front door and go inside to find the last box. But it’s not where I expect it to be, in the sitting room where we’d stacked all the other full boxes. So I go through all the rooms of the cottage to see if I can find it.

  There’s nothing in the old kitchen, only empty wooden cupboards with paint peeling from the doors, and an oven that looks like it’s seen better days. The hall is too tiny to hide a box, so I run up the stairs, almost hidden in the hall by a curtain hanging at the base of them, to take another look upstairs. Nothing in the three little bedrooms, apart from some furniture that Dad’ll come and collect later. The bathroom is empty too – save for an old white roll-top bath, and an old-fashioned toilet and sink. So I return downstairs for one last look in the sitting room in case I’ve missed something. But all I see is a wrought-iron fireplace standing magnificently at the end of the room, and some of Mabel’s old furniture.

  This could be quite a cosy little cottage if someone were to buy it and do it up nicely, I think as I continue to search. I expect it will be sold to someone who will do it up to rent to the holidaymakers who’re beginning to flood into Sandybridge. Since the town underwent a complete overhaul a couple of years ago and started putting money into the seafront and promenade, it’s been attracting not only new businesses but people too. Now Sandybridge is re-establishing itself as a resort, almost as popular as it had been in Victorian times.

  ‘Hmm, what’s through here?’ I ask as I turn the handle on a small door I’d not previously noticed, tucked away at the end of the hallway, near the front door. ‘There you are!’ I exclaim, as I find myself in a tiny room that the old lighthouse keepers probably used as an office. There are bookshelves, now empty of the books or papers they were built to hold, and a well-used writing desk that Mum and Dad will no doubt work their magic on, restoring it to its former glory before selling it on. But what I’m interested in at this very moment is sitting on top of the desk: my missing box.

  I immediately head over to the desk and attempt to lift it.

  Whoa! I hastily set the box down when I feel how heavy it is. What has Mum put in here? I wonder. I prise open one of the cardboard flaps and look inside.

  ‘Oh, it’s only a typewriter,’ I say to the empty room. But the typewriter is one of those really old black ones, with long round keys. No wonder it’s so heavy. These things were made to last. I’m about to close the lid and try to lift it again when I spot a typewritten sheet of paper wound on to the black roller. I reach into the box and unwind the paper so I can read it.

  Dear Grace,

  Congratulations on finding me. I knew it would be you that did.

  Please take Remy (that’s what he likes to be known as) home with you and look after him well. He will be a great help to you in the future, as he’s been to so many people in the past.

  I must warn you, though, there are a few rules to owning him:

  You can’t write letters on Remy, only read them.

  The advice Remy gives can only help guide you in your endeavours; he can share no detailed information. Dates and names, for instance, are forbidden.

  You are always free to choose to ignore him! It does happen. But remember: he will always have your best interests at heart.

  When it is time to pass Remy on to a new owner, you will receive instructions on how to do so.

  Good luck.

  Love, Me x

  ‘What on earth?’ I mutter as I read the letter over again. ‘Remy? Why would you name a typewriter, let alone call it Remy?’ I glance into the box. ‘Oh, Remington! Now I get it,’ I say as I see the brand name REMINGTON etched in ornate gold font across the top of the machine. ‘But still… slightly weird. And why address the letter to me?’ I shake my head. ‘I never knew old Mabel was a bit batty! What is she going on about? How can an old typewriter give you advice? And why write a letter to me on it? I suppose she must have known I’d help Mum with the house clearance.’

  ‘Grace!’ I hear my mother call from the hall. ‘I’ve found that last box now. Time to go.’

  But…? I look suspiciously at the box sitting in front of me on the
desk, then I hurriedly stuff the letter inside, close the lid, and with huge effort manage to lift the box out of the study and carry it out to the van.

  ‘What have you got there?’ Mum asks as I struggle to hoist the box into the back of the van with the others. ‘I thought we had everything?’

  ‘I found it in the study, it’s a typewriter.’

  Mum looks in the top, then wrinkles her nose. ‘Beautiful as those old things are – and I’d say that one might be forty to fifty years old – we just can’t sell them. People are only into those computers nowadays – you know, Amstrads, Commodores, that kind of thing.’

  I do; there’s a newly installed computer suite at school that we get to use once a week. There are even rumours that we’ll be getting a Sinclair ZX Spectrum soon. But I’m speechless to discover Mum knows anything about computers, let alone the leading brands.

  ‘What shall I do with it then? It’s on the van now.’

  ‘Would you like to keep it?’ she asks. ‘Could be worth something one day. Look on it as a thank you for helping me out.’

  ‘As long as it’s not instead of my wages, then fine. I guess it might still work. Maybe I could do some of my homework on it.’

  ‘Of course it’s not instead of your wages!’ Mum puts her arm around my shoulder and gives me a hug. ‘You do know how much Dad and I appreciate all your help, don’t you, Grace? We couldn’t run the business without you.’ She kisses the top of my head. ‘You’re a good girl, always have been.’

  Not for want of trying, I think, but I allow Mum her moment without making a fuss.

  ‘Come on then, let’s get this stuff back to the shop,’ Mum says, releasing me and heading around to the driver’s side of the van. ‘Then you can get ready for your party tonight.’

  ‘It’s not a party,’ I tell her. ‘I’m just going to a mate’s house to watch footie.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Mum says, climbing up into the seat. ‘But you never know who you might meet, party or no party…’

  Two

  Sandybridge’s long seafront is home to many gift shops, which all seem to sell pretty much the same thing: picture postcards of Sandybridge in various guises, souvenir china, plastic buckets and spades, and brightly coloured children’s windmills, which spin noisily round in the sea breeze this evening as I walk by. There’s an amusement arcade, rows of bed and breakfasts that never seem to have any vacancies, two tea rooms – one of which is closed at the moment, but as I pass by I notice there’s a sign in the window stating Under New Management – Reopening Soon. We have a really good fish and chip shop, which right now has a long queue of hungry people winding its way through the door and outside on to the pavement, and as I get a whiff of frying chips, I almost join it.

  ‘No, Grace,’ I tell myself sternly, ‘you need to cut down. You’ll never get into those size 12 jeans if you don’t. Plus you already had that chocolate bar this afternoon. Tonight you must be good.’

  I’m always worrying about my weight, as are most of the girls in my class, judging by their conversations. While I’m not exactly fat, I’m too round to be happy, which is why I’m constantly having to fight my natural inclination to love and enjoy food.

  With a growl of my stomach, I continue walking past the chip shop and on towards Duncan Braithwaite’s house. To take my mind off my hunger I think about Sandybridge, asking myself why people would choose to come here for their holidays when there are so many other exciting places they could go in the world. True, we have two gorgeous beaches – a sandy one that lies a little way out of town, next to the lighthouse, which you have to cross a small bridge to get to – hence the town’s name; the other, the one I am currently looking at, runs alongside the long concrete promenade and is completely covered in grey, white and brown pebbles.

  It never used to be busy like this. Before the refurbishment, we’d been a quiet little seaside town, a bit run down, but charming in our own way. Now, we’re what those travel programmes on telly would call a ‘bustling little seaside resort’.

  ‘When I’m old enough, I’ll get away from here and see the world’ – I tell myself the same thing every time I walk along the prom, gazing out at the never-ending horizon where sky meets sea. Although many people seem to be attracted by my home town’s charms, there’s no way I want to be stuck here on the north Norfolk coast, forever looking out at the same skyline the way some of Sandybridge’s older residents have done all their lives. The world’s a big place, filled with strange, interesting and exciting things, and I want to see and experience all of them.

  But what could be stranger than the typewriter I’d brought home with me from Mabel’s house earlier today?

  When we’d got back to the antiques shop, I’d helped Mum offload the stuff from the van, as I always did, then I’d hung around outside while Mum checked in with Doris, the lady that helped us out part-time, to see what had gone on in the shop this afternoon and whether she’d sold anything.

  I never spent any longer in the shop than I had to. Old stuff held no joy for me; the future was where it was at, not the past. The shop was cute, I guess, if you liked that sort of thing; ‘quaint and cosy’ we’d been described as when the local newspaper did a feature on us. But at fifteen, quaint and cosy wasn’t my thing. So while Mum went in, I’d hung around outside the shop with one of those new chocolate bars, a Wispa, to keep me company.

  When Mum had finished with Doris, we’d got in the van and driven home. Then Mum helped me lift the heavy black typewriter up to my bedroom, where I’d placed it on top of my chest of drawers – after pushing a load of unwanted rubbish I hadn’t got around to clearing away yet on to the floor. Mum didn’t even flinch; although she’s super tidy around the rest of our little Victorian terraced house, she lets me do what I want in my bedroom and I’m grateful to her for that.

  After Mum had left, I’d lounged around on my bed for a while, staring up at the Back to the Future and Breakfast Club posters I’d got from our local cinema, and my various pictures of A-Ha, desperately looking for some guidance from Michael J. Fox or Morten Harket about what I should wear tonight. I’d told Mum it wasn’t a party, and that was the truth, but I still wanted to get my outfit right. Danny Lucas would probably be there, as he was mates with Duncan, and – as hard as I tried not to – I couldn’t help fancying Danny.

  I didn’t want to. Danny wasn’t really my type at all, if I had such a thing. He wasn’t in any of my classes; I was in the top sets for all my subjects, and he always seemed to be put in the lower ones. So except for PE, where to my horror Danny would always see me at my absolute worst – bright red, out of breath and with my long brown mousey hair all over the place as I tried to keep up with the sporty girls who seemed to do everything effortlessly – I never got to see him much at school. But when I did, my tummy would fizz like a SodaStream, and my mouth would go all dry, and if Danny should ever look my way, to my annoyance I would feel my cheeks flush redder than Ferris Bueller’s Ferrari. So tonight was my big chance. I wasn’t sure to do what exactly, Danny probably wouldn’t even look my way, but I’d be content just to get a smile from his gorgeous mouth, or even one of his infamous winks, that he usually reserved for the sporty girls who would prance and giggle in front of him.

  It was after I’d taken a shower and returned to my room to get changed for this evening’s festivities that I noticed it – a freshly typed sheet of white paper in the centre of the typewriter’s roller.

  ‘But how… I mean what…?’ I stuttered as I stopped towel-drying my wet hair, and went over to the chest of drawers. Before I’d even had a chance to pull the paper out, I noticed the first line:

  Dear Gracie,

  What!

  I quickly wound the rest of the paper out of the typewriter and began to read.

  Dear Gracie,

  You don’t even recognise this as being you, do you?

  At the moment everyone knows you as Grace. But very soon you will meet someone who will call you Gracie – and you w
ill like it.

  Treasure this person, for he is the one who will make you happy, and who will always be there for you, no matter what.

  Love, Me x

  I read the letter three times in total.

  How had this happened? How could a typewriter type without anybody being in the room?

  Ah, then I realised. ‘Mum!’ I called down the stairs. ‘Have you been in my room?’

  No answer. So I dropped the towel that had been wrapped around my body, pulled on my dressing gown and hurried down the stairs.

  ‘Mum!’

  As I entered the kitchen, I saw a note on the table.

  Just popped to the shop to get milk – back in a few mins. Mum x

  Weird… I dashed back up the stairs, picked up the paper and read it again. How could this have happened? And why was it calling me Gracie? This was mad; typewriters couldn’t type on their own. If the first letter was typed by Mabel, then who’d typed this one?

  I shook my head, told myself, ‘Grace, you haven’t got time for this now. However weird it is, you have to get ready.’ So I tossed the paper on my bedside table on top of my Walkman, and began choosing the outfit that was sure to get Danny Lucas to notice me.

  As I’m rounding the corner of Wendell Close where Duncan lives, I spot a young guy heading the same way as me. He’s wearing tight black stonewashed denim jeans, a matching denim jacket, and a red-and-black checked shirt. Nothing wrong in that; stonewashed denim was a trend most of the boys went for, and on any normal occasion I’d have thought nothing of it. Except, to my absolute horror, his choice of outfit is an exact match for mine! The only difference being instead of jeans I’m wearing a short black denim skirt with opaque tights, and in the place of his Adidas trainers, flat black patent pumps.

  I’m about to turn the other way, hurriedly trying to work out if I’ve got time to go home and change before kick-off, when the guy calls across the street to me.