Leaning over the railing as the ferry made its way across the water, she watched as Darling Island came up slowly through a haze of blue, the buildings rows of pure white and a few masts of small boats clinking gently. Squinting, Tilly took everything in as Darling sat shrouded in the haze. A lighthouse on the headland to the right, a church spire further inland, an old tram trundling past.
Sighing through the tiredness of a twenty-four-hour cross-planet journey, she felt almost as if she were in a dream. A jumble of roofs trailed up a hill, another old tram rumbled past, and a little queue of cars was waiting on the other side to load. As the chain rattled under the ferry and water slapped softly at the side, a seagull swooped down into the water just ahead of her. Tilly stood at the rail and watched her new home come slowly closer, and suddenly felt something through the fear that she’d made a huge mistake that she hadn't felt for ages: a little bit excited.
You know you've arrived on Darling when you step off The Pride of Darling floating bridge and take a trip up the main street on the tram.
With its beautiful sea mists, flora and fauna, and the sound of the old foghorn in the distance, Darling will hold you in her grasp and never let you go.
Darling Island ~ just off the mainland, so very far from care.
9
Tilly had just stepped off an old timber tram after riding it the length of what she presumed was the main street of Darling Island. The tram ride had fulfilled everything she'd read about the place and then some. Gorgeous old shops had trundled past the window, a conductor had rung the tram's huge old brass bell, and as the fog had cleared, the little town of Darling had looked better and better at every turn. Things were looking up. So far, so good.
Watching the tram rumble away, dragging her suitcase behind her and with her backpack on her back now feeling as if it were a dead weight, Tilly had very high hopes for all things Darling. Consulting her phone and Margery's message, she took an alleyway to the right, pulled her case over cobblestones and was so full of positive vibes that she felt at any moment as if she might break out in song. The hills are alive. Five minutes later, things only improved as she followed the way to Darling Bay. Turning down a road, she stopped as a curved sweep of a most perfect blue greeted her. Stopping dead in her tracks for a second, she vacuumed up the view and smiled. Who needed a tropical island, the Maldives, or a cruise ship on the high seas? Old Blighty on the south coast basked in sunshine and was readyto give anyone or anything a run for its money. Our girl Tilly was there for it.
By now, actually humming for real, Tilly followed around the bay, past a gorgeous old pub she'd certainly be stopping in for a drink, past a row of small whitewashed kiosks each topped with old-fashioned blue and white canvas awnings, and then again turned to a smaller side area behind a row of old fishing huts. Long timber jetties, a shingle beach, a higgledy-piggledy row of cobbled-together buildings, shallow water, what looked like some kind of netted areas and not a soul to be seen. The English seaside sitting there doing its delightful thing. Right at that moment, nothing in the world could possibly do it any better.
Gingerly making her way down a gravel road, Tilly tapped her phone again and squinted. She must have taken a wrong turn somehow. Enlarging the map, she tapped, checked the address, walked for a few minutes and stopped outside an old building with its own dilapidated jetty section not far from a netted area. A little white wooden building lower than the others, sitting slightly out over the water, with a peaked roof, faded bunting, a small wooden, weathered sign at the entrance, the lettering nearly gone, gaps in the boards, lapping blue-green water. A small wooden rowing boat tied up to one of the posts of the jetty. White-painted clapboard walls. A pair of double doors at the front in pale blue with two big sliding bolts and an old brass lock in the middle. A side door, smaller, also pale blue. Windows to the side, the colours washed out to almost nothing.
Tilly wasn’t sure what to think. She might as well have been on Mars. Soldiering on, after a bit of searching, she found the key lock thingy, keyed in the code, wiggled a sea salt-encrusted cover and pulled out a key. Two seconds later, she was around the back of the shed, fiddling with a dodgy lock. Eventually, pushing the door open with a scrape, she coughed and gagged as a damp, seaweed-y, dusty, very peculiar smell engulfed theinside of her nostrils, seeped into her skin and slammed bang onto the top of her head. What even was the murky, musty, dank smell? Tropical flowers in Fiji all of a sudden seemed very attractive.
Gulping, Tilly tentatively inhaled again. Salt, old wood, maybe some kind of food smell. God, was it rotting food? Not sure, but not nice. She watched as another rose-tinted adventure slipped away, tumbling off down the road and crossing on the ferry. Light from the doorway fell across the floor in a long bright slab, and Tilly could see, in the half-dark of the interior, the shapes of things. A long counter at the back, shelves on either side, a very old computer, a wooden chair on its side. So, so, so many seaside accoutrements piled hither and thither: fishing nets, old-fashioned zinc buckets, a set of faded yellow oilskins, coils of thick rope, oyster cages, wax jackets, fishing rods. A jumble of coastal junk of the like she’d never seen.
Letting her eyes adjust, Tilly pursed her lips. It was much smaller than she'd imagined. Smaller, more tired, and it had to be said, grotty. Full of grot. A few things were positive: exposed beams, water views and lovely cladding. A back wall lined with cabinets, a view straight out over the harbour from a window on the other side. Blue-green water, a lighthouse on the headland, the hazy outline of the mainland poking its head up in the distance.
For a good three to four minutes, with her hand cupped over her mouth, taking as few breaths as possible, Tilly stayed rooted to the spot as Margery's words went through her head. The boat shed was real and she’d not been scammed as such, but she did feel as if she’d been swindled, if that was the word. She'd have to find a way to pull out on the double. Not knowing whether to laugh or cry, she turned directly around and gazed at the water. What would her good old dad have said? Closing her eyes, she remembered some of the failing business premisesshe'd accompanied him to. Nothing had ever fazed him in the slightest, and he’d found himself in some hell holes for sure. Roy Bloomwood’s will and onward and upward attitude had been more or less impenetrable. Not even the tobacco shop he'd bought that had turned out to be a marijuana farm had got him down. Tilly certainly needed some of his attitude right there and then.
Looking at piles of terracotta pots on a deck, two old faded Adirondack chairs, old-fashioned glass buoys and many sets of old timber oars, Tilly sighed. A tiny timber stool stood next to a collection of vintage watering cans, and in long, trough-like flowerpots, wigwams of climbing frames and brown dead plants hinted at someone growing things from years gone by. Tilly didn't quite know what to do with herself as the overall shabbiness, unkempt feel and lack of upkeep of the place she’d landed in smacked her right between the eyes. Trying to think about what her dad would have done, Tilly pursed her lips. He would have rolled up his sleeves right away and got on with it. Even when faced with a marijuana farm, he'd tied a scarf around his head as a mask and got stuck in.
With bunting flapping around on loose string, mouldy, weathered boards, moss on pots and filthy windows, Tilly yanked her backpack over the deck and launched it into the back door of the shed. Shoving her suitcase in behind it, she pulled the neck of the jumper over her mouth and nose, switched on a light to the right and walked across the room. To the left, another room led off and didn’t appear to be much better. Piled high with junk and sporting its very own timber clinker boat, Tilly put her head around the door, sighed and left it at that.
Next, she was up a small set of stairs on the right. Margery hadn't lied about the actual bones of the flat because, for sure, it had potential. She’d just omitted to mention its condition. It was a flat in name, and that was about it. Windows looked outover the estuary, a sloping ceiling under the eaves of the roof looked precarious, and floorboards that had once been painted white were scuffed and worn to the wood. A faded blue armchair, a two-seater sofa, so much dust. A little kitchen with a kettle on the worktop and a row of mugs hanging from hooks under a shelf. A small table by the window with two chairs. A bedroom looking over the back with a tiny, narrow balcony sporting chairs on their side and a row of vintage lanterns. A large bed with a metal frame, a striped mattress, no bedding. A wardrobe in the corner with one of its doors slightly open, empty inside. A small bedside table with a lamp on it, bulb and shade missing. A very small en suite bathroom with a bath wedged under a window, a plastic shower head plugged onto old copper taps. The kind of room where you could stand at the basin and look out the window at the sea while you brushed your teeth, if you could get past the smell coming up from the pipes.
Tilly heard her dad's voice, his words, the wisdom.Buy the bones, Tils. Everything else you can fix.
Going back down the stairs, with jet lag and tiredness from the journey making Tilly unable to think straight, she wasn’t sure what to do. Plonking herself down on an old wooden chair in the middle of what felt like a near-derelict building she’d entered into negotiation on via the strength of a Facebook post, half a world away, she swallowed. An image of her dad surrounded by discarded marijuana plants in heavy industrial wellie boots flashed through her mind. She could still smell the stench of the place as if it were yesterday. Her dad had turned it around and made a go of it, why not her? At least the shed wasn't a drug den; there was that.
Shaking her head, Tilly fought back tears as realisation dawned. She’d made a huge, mahoooosive, whopping great mistake. A room in a Budget Inn currently looked attractive, indeed.
10
Feeling almost drunk with jet lag, tiredness and nothing other than a cup of tea via an old teabag from a caddy in a cupboard in the kitchen, Tilly had started to cry, and it wasn't pretty. Years of backed-up emotion made themselves known through tears, sobs, and wails. Old wounds Tilly hadn't even known had been lurking somewhere in the depths of her mind decided they might like to come out and have a little play-play. The control from her ex-husband, Andy, arrived on the scene. How he'd checked the mileometer on her car every day when she'd come home from the office. How she'd hidden an exit plan on her computer on her desk at work. Not telling her mum how he'd controlled her every single movement. Secrets, lies, being controlled. The Australian women in the room. Condom in the bin. Long, thick, heavy, ugly, snorting, gulping sobs.
The pity party and the world's biggest violin had not, however, lasted very long for our Tils. Nup, stuff that for a lark. Tilly Bloomwood would not be beaten by anything at all. Not by a controlling partner, a failed musician or an old shed covered in dust. Oh no, Tilly Bloomwood had been taught by her dad and, well, very well, that whatever one landed in, one had the option to fight one’s way out and come up smelling of roses or shrivelup and die. Sometimes easier said than done, but always an option. Standing in an old shed surrounded by water, with a boat wedged into a room beside her and a whole lot of work to do, Tilly took the roses option and hoped for the best. There wasn’t really anything else for it.
About half an hour or so after stepping into the boat shed, Tilly had ceased the wailing, shoved her hair up on top of her head, secured it with the hotel’s regulation hibiscus clip, and consumed by jet lag, had rolled up her sleeves and got to work. Starting with the bedroom and bathroom, she worked backwards. Head down, bum up, elbow grease in situ. Finding an old Hoover in the airing cupboard, she'd plugged it in, hoped for the best and gone like the clappers. Vacuuming as if her life depended on it, the dust had no chance. Off came the mattress, down came the curtains, windows were flung open and fresh air did its thing. Floorboards were hoovered, cobwebs removed from corners, the old iron headboard was stripped of its complimentary layer of dust and the skirting boards saw the light of day.
The bedside table got a proper seeing-to with Tilly yanking out the drawer and tipping its contents straight into a bin bag from a roll she'd found under the kitchen sink. In went a load of old dog-eared magazines, hairgrips, a desiccated tube of hand cream, a packet of old mints, and so many discarded supplement containers it was untrue. Having no idea what Margery might think, Tilly didn't give a hoot about Margery or her things. This was not a time for mercy, her dad had always said at this time in a takeover, it was golden hour. Make-or-break time in the commandeering of a failing business. As the clock began to tick, you either got on with it PDQ or you made acquaintance with the reason the business had failed in the first place. Tilly had been taught well to grasp the golden hour by the balls. She was on a mission, and nothing was going to stop her.
Wiping down the insides of the bedside table with a damp cloth, she then held a large lamp outside the window, gave it a thwack against the windowsill and watched a small grey cloud puff out and float off on the breeze. The wardrobe doors were flung open, wire hangers jangled in a cheap tinny tune, and a minging forgotten sock crumpled in the corner went quickly in the bag. No stone was left unturned, as Tilly, on her hands and knees, went for her life. Skirting boards, windowsills, architraves, ledges, all zapped with the nozzle attachment, stood no chance by a jet-lagged woman possessed.
The bathroom gave the old hotel staff bathroom in Fiji a run for its money, but Tilly was not to be messed with. A spider the size of a fifty-pence piece had made itself comfortable in the tub, the taps were furred with limescale, the mirror flecked with God-knows-what, and the shower curtain had taken on a life of its own. Off came the shower curtain into the bag, out went the spider and under the sink, long-forgotten cleaning sprays and bleach were a welcome sight. With Tilly Bloomwood scrubbing and scrubbing until her knuckles went pink, she was a woman not to be messed with. One thing wasn’t in question, and that was that at least she would be able to have a bath.
Finally, straightening up, hands on her hips, Tilly surveyed the small damp bathroom and looked through to the bedroom. At any rate, she no longer needed a tetanus injection to have a wee. Catching sight of herself in the newly cleaned mirror, she let out a strange, shriek-like grumbling chuckle. Wild dusty hair with the hibiscus clip shoved in the centre, a smudge of something on her cheek, eyes red from jet lag, a strange grey tinge. Not her best look. What did she give a hoot about her appearance, though? No one was going to see her, anyway.
Straightening up, she vowed to soldier on. She’d get the kitchen liveable, then start to get a new exit plan in place.Looking around, she nodded. There was no way on earth she was going to stay.
11
