Summer at Coastguard Cottages

by Jennifer Bohnet

  *

  Sunday afternoon and Wills was in the sitting room watching the British Grand Prix. Two dozen sausage rolls were baking in the oven ready for him to take to that evening’s sundowner. Karen, in the kitchen, was trying not to think about recent events and taking her frustration out on the bread dough she was attempting to thump into submission.

  It was impossible to stop thoughts about Derek selling the house crowding into her mind, though. How far did he mean to downsize? Smaller house in the same area? A flat on the coast? A cottage in the country? A house each out of the proceeds? Was that what he was really telling her by putting the house up for sale without her knowledge? That this trial separation could truly be the beginning of the end?

  She banged the dough down hard onto the board and pushed her fist into it. He’d known she wanted to talk to him and had deliberately ignored her request, something that made her more determined than ever to confront him over the state of their marriage. If Derek thought he could continue to bully her into doing things his way, he was in for a shock.

  Pushing the dough into a baking tin before leaving it to rise, Karen wondered what exactly had prompted this latest move from Derek. He’d always been jealous of her owning The Captain’s House. Was that it? Or was there something else? Financial trouble?

  The oven’s timer, alerting her to the fact the sausage rolls were ready, broke into her thoughts and she took them out of the oven.

  ‘Do they need testing?’ Wills said, coming into kitchen.

  ‘Too hot. Who won?’

  ‘Not finished yet. The safety car is out,’ Wills said, risking his fingers and burning his mouth as he ignored her warning and lifted a sausage roll off the cooling tray. ‘Mmm, hot, hot, but seriously good.’ He fanned his mouth.

  As Wills wandered back to the sitting room, Karen began to clear up. Wiping the work surfaces down, she thought about her options. Derek acting behind her back might be just the push she needed to stop letting things drift. Magazines and newspapers these days were full of women her age proudly telling the world how they’d forged a successful new life for themselves after children and husbands. She just had to work out what she wanted – which direction she wanted the rest of her life to go in. Derek and the children had consumed her life for so long, she’d all but forgotten her own dreams and desires.

  With no possibility of talking to Derek face to face until he arrived for the short stay he’d talked about – if, in fact, he came – she had a couple of weeks to try and at least sort things out in her own mind; decide what she wanted; be ready to fight her corner. If Derek’s secret agenda was to end their marriage then she needed and intended to have her own plans in place for the future.

  Her half-share when the house sold would give her some money to invest in another, smaller property for herself. Would she need a mortgage, though? If she did, how would she pay for it? After nearly twenty-five years of marriage, what exactly was she qualified to do? Running a household and working in a charity shop were unlikely to make much of an impression on a future employer. Maybe she should think about retraining for something. Exactly what, she had no idea.

  Could she do what Bruce was planning and move down here permanently? At least she’d have a roof over her head while she sorted things out with Derek and waited for the house to sell – which might, of course take for ever.

  As she placed the risen bread in the oven to cook, the thought ‘The Captain’s House would make a wonderful bijoux B&B’ sprang uninvited into her mind. Every summer the house was full of family and friends, and she worked hard looking after them. It was something she enjoyed doing. Why not widen the net and charge people for the privilege of staying?

  Would it earn enough for her to survive on? It wouldn’t have to be open just for the summer; spring and autumn down here were beautiful. Even winter had its good times. How would Wills and Francesca react to sharing the house with strangers while down on holiday? In truth, did it matter? They were hardly likely to be here for the whole summer in future years. As an idea, turning The Captain’s House into a B&B had to be worth exploring. It would give her something positive to do with her life with very little expenditure needed. It would also finally make bona fide use of that long-ago cordon bleu cookery course her parents had paid for.

  After dinner on the terrace that evening, Karen sat enjoying the view and watching the swallows performing their aerobatics around the headland, catching insects. Laughter and conversation drifted towards her on the night air from Bruce’s. Earlier, Wills had persuaded her to go to the sundowner tonight, insisting she’d enjoy the company and pushing aside her protests. He appeared now carrying a bottle of wine.

  ‘You ready, Mum?’

  Karen stood up. ‘Yes. I’ll fetch the sausage rolls.’

  As they pushed open the wooden gate to The Bosun’s Locker, a silence fell and they stood still, watching Simon lower the Union Jack that had been flying all weekend in honour of the Grand Prix.

  ‘Good race this afternoon,’ Bruce said as he unclipped the flag and put it to one side to be dealt with later. Within minutes Simon, Wills and Toby were having a good-natured discussion about the driving skills, or lack of them, of the current world champion. Not that any of them had any real knowledge of racing.

  ‘I’ll fix you a drink while you meet my new friend, Girly,’ Bruce said to Karen, indicating the dog watching everyone from the safety of the sitting room.

  ‘She’s beautiful. When and where did you find her?’

  ‘Guy from No. 3 found her on the coast path. She’s a bit traumatised and weak, but nothing some good food and kindness won’t mend.’

  ‘She’s lovely,’ Karen said, stroking Girly. ‘Beautiful eyes.’ She glanced up at Bruce. ‘So you’ve finally met Charlie’s friend, the elusive stranger.’

  ‘Nice bloke,’ Bruce said. ‘I’m hoping he might join us for a sundowner soon, now he’s broken the ice with me.’ He handed her a glass of wine. ‘Cheers. Nice to have Wills back. Derek didn’t stay long.’

  ‘No,’ Karen said. ‘Did he tell you his news about the house?’

  Bruce shook his head.

  ‘Without consulting me, he’s put it up for sale. Downsizing is needed, apparently. Only thing is, I get the feeling I’m not so much being downsized as downgraded to ex-wife.’

  ‘Oh, Karen, words fail me. I’m so sorry to hear this. I always thought you and Derek were like Gabby and me – rock solid.’

  Karen shrugged. ‘The ironic thing is I was planning to talk to him this summer about the state of our marriage. Now I’m going to spend it trying to adapt to the fact that my life is probably about to change irrevocably. And making sure I get a say in those changes.’

  There was a gentle tap on the glass door and they both turned.

  ‘Hi, Bruce. Thought I’d come and see how Girly was settling in, and finally meet some of the neighbours,’ Guy said, looking at Karen.

  ‘Girly is good. Karen, this is Guy from No. 3, who found her. Guy, Karen owns The Captain’s House.’ Bruce stopped talking as he saw the look of astonishment on Karen’s face. And the smile on Guy’s.

  Karen’s laugh broke the silence. ‘When you said the guy from No. 3 had found the dog, I didn’t realise you meant Guy!’

  ‘You two know each other then?’ Bruce said.

  ‘Oh, yes. We definitely know each other,’ Guy said, stepping forward and enveloping Karen in a breath-squeezing hug. ‘It’s great to see you again after all these years.’

  ‘You too,’ Karen said, wondering just how much of her conversation with Bruce he’d overheard.

  *

  Guy shouted ‘You bastards!’ so loudly and violently that he came to with a shock. For several minutes he lay there taking deep breaths, forcing the last of the shocking images out of his mind and waiting for his heartbeat to calm down.

  He’d been sleeping better recently – the whisky certainly helped there. He rarely woke on a sweat-drenched sheet these days, the duvet no longer a
tangled, mangled heap he’d strangled into submission during the night.

  Lying there, he tried to rationalise his thoughts; work out what had triggered the nightmare. For sure, he’d started to read the latest bestselling horror novel before bed, but the nightmare had been a familiar one involving the café, Paris, his camera and… Guy swung his legs out of bed. 5.45 a.m. No point in trying to sleep. He’d go for a long run – treat himself to breakfast in town.

  Not in a mood to notice anything, Guy failed to hear the dawn chorus as he closed the cottage gate, took a deep breath and began to run. Concentrating on the rhythm of his breathing and the regular beat of his feet hitting the earth path, he shut the world out.

  The footpath away from the cottages, hemmed in by tall Devonshire hedges, took a circuitous route along the headland and out into the country for a mile or so before bearing right and heading back towards town via a little-used road.

  It took Guy three quarters of an hour to reach the road leading into town, by which time he’d run the distress of the nightmare out of his system and was able to think rationally again. The view out over the town down to the river was spectacular and he stopped to admire it for a few moments before his stomach rumbled and he realised he needed food.

  The café he discovered fifteen minutes later, on a road set back from the main hub of town, was a welcome find. Open very early in the morning, its breakfasts were clearly popular as several of the empty tables were quickly taken by young men he guessed were yachties, judging by the gear they were wearing and their behaviour.

  Guy chose a table near the entrance where he could sit with his back to the wall and people-watch, both the passers-by in the street and the café’s customers.

  He ordered the cooked breakfast with two lots of toast to follow ‘And please keep me topped up with coffee,’ he said to the young waitress taking his order.

  A cafetiere was soon placed on the table, together with a mug. As the waitress went to place milk and sugar alongside he waved them away. ‘I drink it black without sugar, thanks.’ The coffee was hot, strong and life-affirming. By the time the waitress returned with his food, he’d drained the pot and asked for another one to accompany the huge plate of food she’d placed in front of him.

  The cooked breakfast was superb, one of the best he’d ever eaten. He was almost too full for the extra toast he’d ordered but couldn’t resist sampling the creamy Devonshire butter and artisan marmalade with its hint of ginger on one slice. Finally, he sat back. A perfect breakfast. Except for one thing. Being alone to eat it.

  He should be used to that by now, but sometimes, like this morning, he really missed Melissa. The old Melissa that was, the one before the skinny, calorie-obsessed stick insect she’d become in the last year, who would have loved the ambience of this place. The new Melissa would have sat opposite him, poking at, but not eating, half a grapefruit and berating him for every delicious mouthful he took as she constantly apologised.

  He’d lost count of the number of times she’d said, ‘I’m sorry, we didn’t mean it to happen.’ As though that was any consolation. Saying the word ‘No’ wasn’t that hard. One of them should at least have tried to say it. Now it was too late.

  He signalled to the waitress for the bill. Time to go. He didn’t want to think about Melissa right now. Or the fact that she was waiting to hear from him with his answer to solving their predicament. The problem was, he knew she wanted the opposite of what he currently felt was inevitable. And he was scared about what her reaction would be.

  *

  After she left the A38 at South Brent, the sat nav guided Carrie through so many narrow, twisting lanes with high hedges that she began to lose her own sense of direction. Was she simply going round in circles? Just when she was beginning to think the sat nav had seriously malfunctioned and she was lost, she glimpsed the village sign almost covered in a tangle of honeysuckle and ivy at the side of the road.

  Carrie drove slowly through the picture-book village with its thatched cottages, hanging baskets, ancient church with its lichen-covered graves, the mandatory new estate and its upmarket houses built in the shadow of the old school. Granite troughs either side of the entrance to the pub were filled with a mass of tumbling geraniums and petunias; hanging baskets with more of the same hung from every conceivable beam. The only thing missing to complete the idyllic scene was a duck pond on the village green.

  Robert Trumble’s house, when she found it down a short drive on the far edge of the village, was a surprise. Not at all the kind of house she’d been expecting. Not that she could have described what it was she’d been expecting, except that it wasn’t this beautiful old house she’d parked in front of. Taking a deep breath, she got out of the car.

  Unlocking the oak front door, Carrie stepped into a flagstoned hallway. A small, highly polished refractory table stood against one wall and there was a hall stand with a jumble of hats perched along its top. A silver, spotted mirror hung between empty coat hooks, while several umbrellas and walking sticks were jammed into a side space.

  Doors led off the hallway: dining room to the right with a large octagonal table and twelve chairs arranged around it; sitting room to the left – two deep burgundy chesterfields separated by a large wooden coffee table, a red enamel wood burner in the huge fireplace. Full bookshelves lined the whole of one wall. A grand piano, several silver-framed photos standing on its top, was near the French doors that opened on to a terrace with granite steps leading down into the garden.

  The large kitchen was at the far end of the hallway and Carrie’s immediate thought on seeing the large oak table with its cushioned benches either side was how much she’d enjoy holding supper parties here. An archway led to a conservatory overlooking a different part of the garden with a stream bubbling its shallow way over rocks.

  Uncarpeted wooden stairs in the hallway led up to a small landing with a stained-glass window before a second short flight turned to reach the first floor. Three bedrooms, all with en-suite bathrooms. The fourth room contained an antique desk with a large-screen computer placed in the centre, bookshelves packed with books, an old-fashioned winged chair by the window and a dog basket.

  Carrie sighed. The house had such a good feel to it. Hard to explain but she felt it had been a happy place. The house should have been a wonderful family home. Why hadn’t Robert Trumble filled it with a wife and children? Had he ever felt lonely as he rattled around in his single existence? What was she going to do with it?

  A loud knocking on the front door, followed by a shouted ‘Who’s there?’ jolted her out of her thoughts and she ran down the stairs.

  ‘Who are you? If the agents sent you to look around – forget it. Place is sold. I suggest you leave now.’ The man standing in the hallway glared at her.

  Carrie swallowed nervously. Was she in trouble here? The hostile man in front of her looked fit, in more ways than one if she were honest, but his belligerent attitude was a definite personality defect. Her tiny 5’ 2” frame wouldn’t stand a chance against him if he attacked her, though. Even so, she wasn’t about to let him bully her. Verbal attack was probably her best form of defence. Probably.

  ‘Who are YOU? What right have you to barge in here threatening me? And for your information the place can’t possibly have been sold as it hasn’t even been placed on the market.’

  ‘And you know that because you are…?’ The man leant against the door jamb before folding his arms across his chest and regarding her with a disdainful look as he waited for her answer.

  ‘It doesn’t matter who I am. I have the key and I suspect I have more right than you to be here, so please leave now.’ Was she imagining it, or had the man relaxed slightly as she asserted her right to be in the house.

  ‘I didn’t for one moment think you’d broken in – solicitors give you the key, did they?’

  ‘None of your business, Mr...?’ To her surprise, this time he told her.

  ‘Anthony Trumble. Tony to my friends, but you can
stick with Anthony.’

  ‘You’re a relation of Robert Trumble?’ Carrie tried to stop the surprise showing on her face while her insides quivered. She’d guess Anthony Trumble was in his mid thirties, despite his grumpy-old-man attitude and an obvious desire to put her in her place. ‘But I was told…’ She stopped.

  ‘Common surname around these parts. Maybe in the dim and distant past there was a link but not these days. Robert was a good family friend.’ Anthony regarded her thoughtfully. ‘What exactly were you told?’

  Carrie shook her head. ‘It’s not important.’ She took a deep breath and held her hand out. ‘I’m Carrie Penfold.’

  The hand that shook hers was strong and threatened to crush her fingers before letting go. The hard look Anthony gave her as she said her name would possibly have scarred a child for life.

  ‘Right. I’ll be off then. Make sure you lock up securely when you leave.’

  Carrie stared at him in surprise. He was leaving just like that? Why the sudden change of attitude?

  ‘I tell you my name and suddenly you’re not worried about who I am?’ she said, narrowing her eyes at him. Did he know about her? Had he and Robert been close enough friends for Robert to have mentioned having an illegitimate daughter to him?

  He shrugged. ‘You’ve got a key. I’ve made a note of your registration number and by now half the village will be keeping an eye out. See you around.’

  Carrie watched him stride to the Land Rover parked alongside her car, where he was greeted with a bark and a face-lick by a terrier-type dog. A hand was raised in farewell as he drove down the lane and turned right on to the village road.

  Carrie gave a deep breath. Well, that had been an interesting interlude. Right. She needed to do as he’d suggested and lock up – after she’d retrieved her suitcase and the box of groceries from the car. She hadn’t driven all this way just to take a quick look at the house and leave. For the next week or two she was here to stay and to try and get some answers to the questions that were breeding in her mind about Robert Trumble and his bequest.