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15
Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen
After dreaming of a family, my second fantasy was to live in a typical village by the sea. It would have a quirky name and Narnia lamps in the street and an old Anglo-Saxon church with a backdrop of green countryside. It would become snowy white in the winter, especially in time for Christmas Eve. If I could have called that place my home instead of busy London, I’d have been the happiest child on earth.
And today, by some strange twist of fate, here I am, in the little village I dreamed of without knowing it really existed. It’s like a living Christmas card.
Leaving Starry Cove at my back, I pick my way down a private lane to a fence with one of those old-fashioned country stiles. I gingerly climb the three steps leading up and then down the other three on the other side, careful my wellies don’t slide in the mud. Another full five minutes of walking, or rather, skidding and hopping to the grassy patches for purchase, takes me to a clearing by the sea.
I saunter up to the double-fronted building, frowning. If ever a name was apt for a home, certainly Stormy Cottage was befitting for this abandoned Cornish property. But it could also have been Windowless Abode, Hole in the Roof, Leaking Walls or, why not, perhaps even Barely Standing.
Placing the large iron key in its lock, I try to turn it, but nothing happens. I try again, but still nothing. I look around me, seeing if maybe I could use a rock to smash it open.
‘Need a hand?’ comes a voice at my elbow.
I whirl round to see a man walking his dog, a beautiful Border collie. The man is a dead-ringer for the actor Sam Elliott, with the same shock of white hair and black eyebrows. You know how they say that dogs resemble their owners? Well, in this case they had the same colours. And both had very kind faces.
‘Oh! Thank you. I just can’t seem to—’
‘Here, let me,’ he volunteers, twisting the key while pulling the door to him and then pushing it.
It gives like a puppy heeling.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Bill. Just call me Bill. You the Weavers’ daughter?’
I guess that the funeral was my unwilling debut into this society. ‘Yes.’
‘Condolences on your loss.’
‘Oh. Thank you.’
‘But also, congratulations on the inheritance. It might not look like it right now, but it’s a solid house.’
If you say so…
‘Survived thousands of storms, it has. In any case, if you need help, you can call my boss. She’s based in Truro but lives up the coast. She truly is the best.’
‘Oh, thank you, I will,’ I promise, about to ask for a name, when he whips out a card.
‘Here – Faith Hudson, interior designer. I’m sure we can sort you out.’
‘Oh, I know Faith. Would you like to… come in? Are you busy?’
Bill rubs his collie’s head. ‘Daphne doesn’t mind if we come in for a spot, do you, sweetheart? But if you don’t mind, I’ll go first. You never know what kind of stuff can fall from the ceiling. Technically, we’d need hard hats.’
‘I’ll be careful,’ I promise as I follow him and once inside, I immediately wish I hadn’t.
There’s a heap of seagull poo all over the floor, as if all the seagulls in Cornwall have designated this very entrance for their bodily functions. And the stench is unbelievable!
I skirt round the heap and make my way into what looks like a living room to my right. I blame the presence of a torn settee for my audacious assumption. There’s also a green felt-covered card table that stands (barely) in the corner, surrounded by odd chairs.
To the left is another huge reception room, but completely bare except for a fireplace and a broken curtain rod dangling to the ground. At the back there’s a large kitchen the width of the entire cottage, but it’s falling apart under the weight of its years.
Upstairs it’s even worse. There are four bedrooms, all in a shambles. The furniture has practically rotted, alongside something else that I dare not investigate.
‘Don’t worry,’ Bill says. ‘Beneath all this rubbish, the house is solid. It just needs a little love.’
