by Lily Graham
I’d stocked up on trash bags and cleaning implements, bringing in buckets, brooms, and garden shears, oddly grateful for the work and the distraction it afforded.
There was so much to do, but cleaning seemed a good place to start – before I attempted to cut away the vegetation that twisted across the walls of the living room. I wore an old checked shirt, my most battered Converse trainers and an old cap, not relishing the idea of getting spiders in my hair later on.
There’s something about physical labour that helps to chase away any lingering internal demons. I dragged things outside while I listened to the Rolling Stones on my iPod, and ignored what I knew would be aching, tired muscles come the morning.
By midday though, I’d barely scratched the surface. I pulled out the old, worn mattress in the little room just off the kitchen and got to work on attempting to remove some of the furniture cluttering up the stairs.
A heavy mahogany armoire took up most of the space. Piled on top of it were solid wooden chairs and what looked like a steamer chest. I took the chairs down and got to work on shimmying the chest down the stairs, pulling on a brass handle on the side, balancing one end on a knee and another on the corner of the staircase. But before I knew it, gravity took over. I jumped aside as it fell and landed with a deafening clatter, taking a sizeable portion of the wooden steps with it and raising up a cloud of dust in the process. I coughed, grateful that it hadn’t landed on my foot. I brought my sleeve up in front of my mouth and nose and waved a hand in front of me to clear the air.
In the fall, the chest had fallen open, spilling its contents all down the staircase. There were scraps of fabric, spools of thread, shears, botanical prints with names in Latin, spare bits of paper and a clutch of letters tied up with sea-green thread.
I bent down to gather them up and took a seat on the bottom step. The letters were held together with the same ribbon that had bound Tilly’s diary.
I felt my pulse begin to quicken as I untied the bundle and found a collection of around twenty letters in thick, creamy envelopes. I pooled them onto my lap, wiping the dust on my fingers onto my shirt, and turned each one over. They were all addressed to the same person: Michael Waters.
I slipped the first letter out of its envelope, my heart beating fast, but then a sound from outside made me look up in surprise. The old man from before was staring at me through the window. I stood up quickly.
As soon as he saw me get up, he was off again.
‘Wait!’ I cried. This time though, he was the trespasser. I didn’t relish the idea of having to tell him that. I couldn’t help wondering if he lived on the property. Maybe in that empty shed?
I jiggled the door open that led to the veranda outside and the long fall to the churning ocean below. My knocking knees remembered their fear all too well as the wind whipped my hair back from my face. I took a shuddering breath, making sure I didn’t look down while keeping close to the wall until I was on firm ground and in the kitchen garden again.
‘Are you there?’ I called. ‘Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble or anything… I just think we should talk. I’m not sure if you know about me? Well, I just bought the cottage…’
I walked around the small, walled garden. This time, though, there was no light on in the shed. I wondered how he’d got the light in there the first time when there was no electricity. Battery? I entered the shed but it was cold and empty, apart from a few garden implements that looked almost new.
Back in the garden, I found a packet of seeds on the floor, next to a set of small seedling trays. I picked the packet up and read the label. Lobelia. Pretty, I thought, looking at the old-fashioned illustration on the front of a delicate blue flower.
In the days since I’d been here last, a few shoots had come up in time for spring. I’d assumed the garden was the usual sort of kitchen garden, but noting the early blooms, perhaps not.
Unusual, I couldn’t help thinking. Had he planted these?
I looked everywhere, but couldn’t find him. I put the seed packet in my pocket and went back inside the house.
When I got inside, the letters were gone.
My skin prickled. Had the old man taken them?
A mad search ensued. I looked behind the chest, in amongst all the fallen debris – nothing. I stood up and frowned. Why would he have taken them? I hated to think that I might need to call someone. I couldn’t have him stealing things, could I?
I sighed. I would make a decision on that some other time. For now, I was bone-tired and looking forward to a hot shower back on the boat. I rubbed my neck, and caught sight of something on the mantelpiece across from me. The mantelpiece that had been empty following my thorough clearing away of the collection of dead insects and fallen twigs. Yet right there in the middle, propped up on the marble, was a single envelope. My heart skipped a little as I neared it. Like all the others, it was addressed to Michael Waters.
Chapter Ten
The letter sat unopened on my small coffee table for most of the night. Each time it caught my eye, I wondered if I should just put it away.
My neighbour, Angie, was partly to blame. When I’d got home, she’d popped over with a ‘welcome to the marina’ gift of a bottle of wine. As it was a bottle of really great wine, I felt that it would only be right to invite her over for a glass.
‘You know, it’s really strange to be here – it’s been years since I’ve been on this boat,’ she said, stepping aboard and following me into the living room.
‘You’ve been here before?’
She nodded. ‘Years ago. It’s really changed.’ She started to laugh when she saw the kitchen. ‘Except for that! My LORD, that curtain!’
‘Yeah, it’s a bit retro,’ I said, feeling ever so slightly offended. I mean, it was hideous, but still…
Her shoulders were shaking. ‘I’m so sorry – I shouldn’t laugh. Only it’s my fault. I mean, I picked it.’
I looked at her in surprise.
She gave me a guilty sort of look. ‘The, er, owner of the houseboat before Adam, well, he and I had a bit of a summer romance in the seventies… This was the first houseboat I ever lived on.’
I looked at her in surprise and wonder. The seventies, on a houseboat – it sounded brilliant. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah, it was a million years ago now. I would have thought he’d change it, but he was always a bit set in his ways, old Stevie.’
‘You two still friends?’ I asked.
‘Yeah. Well, it’s been years now, he’d moved on long before I came back… Was really strange to see the old houseboat still here. It’s nice to know there’s someone on board now.’
‘You know, maybe I should keep that curtain after all…’
She nodded. ‘Yeah, still looks pretty good, actually.’
I suppressed a grin. Angie’s long grey hair hung to her waist, she had on a tie-dyed T-shirt that said ‘Born This Way’ and a pair of mustard-coloured bellbottoms.
The geranium that Adam had given me was looking a little droopy, so I took it through to the kitchen and gave it some water.
‘Pop him by the window,’ was Angie’s advice.
‘Him?’ I asked.
‘Looks like a him to me.’
I gave the geranium a thoughtful look. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ I laughed. ‘I so want to be the type of person who has a garden, who grows beautiful things, but I can’t even seem to keep this one alive. And it – he – was a gift.’
‘Give him a name – it might help. My mother used to name everything – the trees had personal names, as did some of the flowers. I used to think she was mad, but I had a fern that was dying so I gave it a try, named it Frances, and would you know, the next day she perked right up? I think she’ll outlive me now.’
I laughed. ‘Really?’
‘Yup.’
I looked at the geranium; he looked ever so slightly like a fussy little man. ‘Gerald,’ I decided.
She grinned. ‘Good name.’
I cleared m
y research off the table, popped it into my backpack, and poured us some wine.
Angie took a seat at the sofa and scanned the small bookcase opposite. ‘Quite eclectic taste you’ve got there,’ she said with approval. I’d brought only my most cherished books with me – with so little space I’d had to be a bit cut-throat. There were children’s paperbacks, well-worn and loved, as well as all the Brontës, mixed in with a few Agatha Christie novels and Doctor Who serials. I’d also brought a few of my own biographies. It was a habit I’d gotten into since my first book was published; I used the bottom shelf for the things I had created myself. It wasn’t vanity, exactly, but on those days when I’m feeling low, I can look at them and think, I made those. Lately, I’d been having more days where I needed that reminder.
‘Victoria Langley?’ she said, peering closer, which wasn’t hard to do, as the room was tiny.
I hadn’t factored on company in my little water home, so I felt a little embarrassed. I hadn’t introduced myself properly beyond first names.
She picked up my last one, about Janet Suzman, the anti-apartheid and women’s rights activist. ‘Oh, this was good. She’s got a really great style of writing. You know, I’ve heard she was working on something in the county – Daphne du Maurier.’
I closed my eyes when she picked it up and flipped it over. My photograph was on the back. She looked at it and gasped. ‘It’s you? Oh my goodness! And here’s me prattling away like an idiot.’
I was beetroot red. ‘I’m sorry – I should have said. Well, at least I know you like them,’ I joked.
She started to laugh. ‘Aye, thank heavens! That would have been dead embarrassing.’
‘No, not at all. Like I said, it’s my own fault for not introducing myself properly.’
She laughed. ‘That’s true. So what are you doing here? I thought you lived in London?’
I explained that I had been doing research for my latest book, and she was thrilled to hear that she was right – it was on a new biography of the author of Rebecca. ‘I always thought Daphne du Maurier was incredibly interesting. Well done you to put so much effort into your research. I never realised that it required you to actually relocate.’
‘Ah – not always,’ I said, reluctant to go into too much detail or to explain why I was really here in Cornwall now – the failure of my marriage. ‘It depends on the level of research involved.’
She had very solemn eyes and they seemed to see so much. She’d glanced at my wedding band but hadn’t said anything. Had she guessed? I wondered why I was still wearing it.
To fill the silence, and perhaps to stop myself from telling her about Mark, I found myself talking about Seafall Cottage.
‘You’ll think I’m mad, and maybe I am, but the truth is, I think I decided to move here the day I came across Seafall Cottage.’
She looked at me in surprise.
‘I was out walking when I saw it. It’s this half-forgotten cottage in the rock cliffs not far from here. I didn’t see it at first, and then when I did, I got curious.’
Her eyes were large. ‘I can imagine.’
‘It’s tucked away high above the rocks, and looks like it’s ready to fall into the sea.’
She looked at me, and then blinked as if she was realising something. Her face cleared. ‘Is – is it near the cove?’
‘Yes – you know of it?’
She nodded. ‘Yeah, I mean, we all do, you know, growing up round here. Some of the old folks still call it “Cursed Cottage” because of what happened there.’
I nodded. ‘Yeah, I’d heard that, about the owners, the Aspreys. Apparently there was a rumour that they kept someone locked up there. But it’s hard to believe that. Not when you’re there,’ I said, thinking of the roses, the beautiful view, the garden. It had been someone’s home, I was sure of that, at least.
Angie took a sip of wine, frowning. ‘The Aspreys?’ she said, looking at me in surprise. She shook her head. ‘They never owned that cottage.’
‘What? But what about the estate – Idyllwild? I mean, they had to have.’ I faltered. ‘That’s why I was able to buy it – because the Aspreys abandoned it.’
She whistled, eyes huge. ‘You bought it?’
I nodded. ‘Yes, I just couldn’t bear to see it demolished.’
She blinked. ‘So you decided to buy it.’
‘Sounds mad, I know.’
‘So that’s how you met Adam,’ she said, as if piecing together a puzzle. ‘And moved here…’
I nodded.
She frowned. ‘But didn’t Adam explain anything about it?’
‘Well, yes, of course he did. He told me he’d also heard about the rumours. But he’s new here too.’
‘But still… Why did he let you think the Aspreys owned it?’
I looked at her in surprise. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, didn’t you wonder why Adam’s family had the deed? Why they could sell it in the first place?’
My mouth gaped open slightly. ‘Because it was abandoned…’ I said, but I was beginning to see what she meant. What I’d overlooked. It hadn’t really been abandoned. If it had, it would have been handed over to the council and purchasing it would have been a lengthy process, the way I’d first imagined.
‘That cottage has always belonged to the Waters family,’ Angie explained.
‘Adam’s family?’
Angie nodded.
‘But why do people think it belonged to the Aspreys? Is it just because it was on their land?’
Angie took a sip, considering the question. ‘I think it’s more than that, really. It’s because John Asprey built it for them.’
‘He built it for the Waters? Why would he do that?’
‘That’s the thing – no one really knows. From what I heard, he wasn’t the type who was prone to that sort of thing either.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He was a hard man, so they say. Tough, business-minded. It wouldn’t have been in his interest to do something like that.’
‘Why do it then?’
‘I’m not sure.’
I couldn’t help wondering why Adam hadn’t told me that the house had belonged to his family. Perhaps he thought I knew. Perhaps it was one of the reasons why he’d offered me this place.
‘But if it belonged to them all this time, and they’ve lived here all along, why was it left to go to ruin like that?’
Angie’s eyes darkened. ‘Ah, well… now that’s where the Aspreys do fit in. I don’t know the full story, but I think it had to do with all the rumours that John Asprey used that cottage to keep someone away from other people. The Waters didn’t want to touch it afterwards, I suppose. People said they used to hear all sorts of noises from that cottage. We all grew up hearing the stories, you understand? They said that if you passed the cliff road you could hear someone screaming. I’ve never heard it myself.’
I told her that I’d heard similar rumours from Gilly at the Black Horse Inn.
She nodded. ‘Many believe it, but I think it’s just hogwash. I went there once, years ago now, when I was still a teenager. It was a local party, there was a bonfire in the back garden. I went inside and saw this beautiful round window—’
‘It’s still there,’ I said.
‘I’m glad. I remember thinking that it was quite special, and that it was such a shame the house had been left like that. I’m glad you’ve bought it, especially if you’re going to fix it up.’
I nodded. ‘That’s the plan.’
It was refreshing to hear her approval. I had wondered if she might think I was mad for having bought a place most locals thought was cursed. It was difficult to explain how I’d come to love it as intensely as I did – despite the rumours that surrounded it, or perhaps a little because of them. Maybe Seafall Cottage and I would prove them all wrong. I didn’t know why, but my instincts told me that, yes, this was a house that had known sorrow, but it had also known love, real love, too. I felt it every time I was there, li
ke it whispered out from the walls. But I didn’t know how to say that aloud without sounding like I was crazy.
So we spoke of my plans to restore it, and she said that she’d love to come see it one day, and I told her she was welcome any time.
After she left, I sat for a while, thinking about the cottage. I picked up the letter, felt the smooth creamy paper as I slipped it from the envelope addressed to Michael.
The old man had wanted me to find this particular letter. Why else would it have been left on the mantelpiece for me to find?
I unfolded a single sheaf of loose, creamy paper. It was covered in black ink in a tight, slanted script that I recognised from the diary. Except this letter wasn’t written in code.
Dearest Fen,
I thought I knew who I was before I met you. But now I know that that isn’t true. Before I met you, I was a girl in waiting. Waiting for life to take the shape it always does for girls like me, while I quietly rebelled, hiding away from Celine as much as I could. My days were long, often spent in the shadows, listening to other people live their lives, wishing that I had been the boy that my parents wished for, so at least life would have been less predictable.
Sometimes I even wished that I could be like Rose, as she, for all her ‘Roseness’, didn’t seem to recoil like I did from her life.
After I met you, everything changed. It was like the world opened up and suddenly there was space for me in it. When I found you and dear Arthur down by the creek that day, I found myself too. I realised I could be something other than the daughter of a baron. I could be, well, anything I wanted in that moment. Maybe you’ll just shake that raggedy mop of hair of yours and call me a goose for saying that, but it’s true.
How can I go back now? How can I go back to being the girl I was before? Spending her days hiding away from her governess behind the curtain in the library? That’s what they want. Mother most of all. I’ve never been the daughter she wanted, not like Rose, but after I became friends with you, it’s like whatever affection she had just shrivelled up and died. I don’t know why I’m so shocked that they are such snobs, but I am. Especially Father – he’d called your father his friend, too, after all. I won’t stand for it, Fen. I will not let them try to persuade me that what we have is wrong. The only thing that is wrong, I’ve come to realise, is that people who have money seem to think that they have rights over others as a result.
