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If you were swept away by Liz and Ben’s story, you’ll loveThe House at Magpie Cove. Mara has inherited her mother’s tumbledown beach house on the wild Cornish coast, and uncovers a secret about her family that will change everything…
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THE HOUSE AT MAGPIE COVE
A GRIPPING AND EMOTIONAL PAGE-TURNER FULL OF SECRETS AND SECOND CHANCES
The Cornish beach house creaked in the salty sea wind and, from the weathered wooden porch, Mara watched a lone magpie circle above. It was silly to think that her mother's spirit was still with her, but Mara felt as if there was something keeping her here. A secret that needed to be told...
PROLOGUE
The beach house swayed and shook in the wind. There was a storm coming in. The grey clouds off the Cornish horizon sat heavy like judges in a court, pendulous and dark over the silver sea. Suddenly, a clap of thunder echoed across the beach and startled a flock of magpies nesting in the ruined roof of the house. They flew out, chattering like a scolding mother in the silence.
Abby watched the rain come, wondering why the house looked so different to how she remembered it. She knew it so well: the slightly off-kilter balance of the wooden floor in the lounge; the wide front door, its paint badly flaked so it was hardly blue anymore, revealing a cracked cream undercoat peeling off in the salt air.
Upstairs, Abby knew where the landing would creak, and where to walk around the edges to avoid waking up her parents; she knew how far it was from the back door to the hidden slip of rock that appeared at low tide. If you clambered over the rocks, exposed sand led you to a private hollow, unlooked-over by anyone walking by. She knew the smell of the salt air and the sea purslane that grew around the beach. She knew this place well: Magpie Cove, where she had lived all her life until she was seventeen.
Abby knew that she was dreaming. And as the storm rolled in, she knew what it brought with it. In the dream, she turned to run from the shadow that always came; the shadow that chased her along the beach, away from the house. She ran and ran, her breath ragged in her throat, but it was no good; now, like she always did in this dream, she fell, catching her ankle on a rock hidden in the sand. And she begged the dream to let her wake up, because she knew what was coming for her. Abby knew what was in the storm, and she woke up screaming.
ONE
‘No one’s lived here for a time, by the looks of things. Fair amount of work to be done.’ The solicitor handed Mara the house keys and gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘Not quite the luxury beach retreat, I’m afraid,’ she added.
‘This is it?’ Mara looked around the deserted beach; it was the only house on this cove, though there was a small wooden shack at the other side, and she could see the roof of another house beyond a promontory that reached into the Cornish sea. She knelt and zipped up her son John’s coat against the wind, and beckoned her daughter Franny back to pull a purple knitted hat down over her black curls.
Her nine year-olds were the kind of twins that were so close they sometimes spoke in an incomprehensible secret language; they were growing out of it, but they were still an island, the two of them, a unit which didn’t include her. Mara was sometimes allowed into their secrets, but often not. She wondered what it would have been like to have just one child, or for John and Franny – Frances, not that she ever answered to it – to have been born a few years apart. Would they have shared their secrets with her then? It seemed that Mara’s family was full of secrets; perhaps it was in their DNA.
This house, it turned out, had sheltered generations of her family. As close to DNA as a wooden house aged by salt and wind could get, it had creaked under the feet of Hughes women since 1900. And yet, today was the first day Mara had ever seen it.
The solicitor, a woman perhaps her own age, was dressed practically in a sky-blue rainproof parka with the hood up and some tough-looking lace-up shoes. She had introduced herself as Clare in a no-nonsense but kind voice. Mara appreciated the kindness and Clare’s straightforwardness; both were in short supply in her life right now.
‘This is it,’ Clare agreed. ‘Shame it’s been so neglected. Might have been a boarding house once, I s’pose, given the size, but it’s hard to say. Must have been rebuilt a fair few times to still be standing all these years.’
‘Hmm.’ Mara peered up at the wooden roof: it didn’t look strong enough to hold up to the wind. ‘How many bedrooms has it got?’
Clare looked at the paperwork and shook her head.
‘Doesn’t say here, but I’d say maybe four or five? Big place, just needs some love.’
‘Mummy, can we explore?’ John pulled against her, impatient to get away. Mara pointed to the house.
‘Stay where I can see you. Don’t go behind it,’ she instructed, pulling her own long, loose coat around her. It was August – thank goodness it was still the summer holidays, because she didn’t know whether she’d have to find another school for the twins or not – but it was windier than she expected next to the sea.
Mara pressed the keys into her palm. ‘I didn’t know it existed until last week.’
‘Oh?’ Clare raised her eyebrows enquiringly, but Mara didn’t elaborate any further. ‘Well. It’s yours now! The deeds are here.’ She handed Mara a thick envelope, bound with a blue rubber band. ‘I’ll be in touch about the rest of your mother’s estate. There’s not much, as you know.’ She turned her gaze to the house, frowning. ‘You’re planning to sell it, then?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Mara watched the children as they raced in circles on the sandy beach: Franny’s hat had blown off towards the sea and was caught on the wet rocks that led to the water. Her daughter was explaining something in detail to her brother. Mara wondered absently what it was this time – the life cycle of a clam, common seaside birds and their nesting habits, or an old favourite, perhaps the story of the first woman to go over Niagara Falls in a barrel?
She didn’t have a choice about selling it, not now. Gideon’s words reverberated in her mind:She’s moving in. It’s over between you and me. You need to leave. Her husband of twelve years had thrown her out; he’d offered to keep the children, though he hadn’t objected too strongly when she’d insisted they come with her. Straight-backed, she’d walked out of the house she’d thought was her forever home, one hand in John’s and one in Franny’s. It wasn’t even her crime: Gideon had been unfaithful. He’d been sleeping with his executive assistant for the past two years.
Every time Mara thought about it, she felt sick. She’d felt even sicker when she’d had to explain it to the twins. She had to keep explaining, too. Today, John had wanted to know why Dad wasn’t coming to see the beach house with them, and yesterday, Franny wanted to know if they’d see Gideon at the weekend. She felt awful trying to justify the fact that Gideon was spending all his free time with his new girlfriend – she wanted to saymistress, it had more of the sense of betrayal in it – and hadn’t made time to sit down with Mara to talk about access.
‘Right. Well, good luck!’ Clare shook Mara’s hand. ‘Can I give you a lift back to town?’
Mara shook her head.
‘I’ve got a car.’ She smiled, tiredly. ‘My husband let me keep that, at least.’
