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8
Lettie
Well, that hadn’t gone very well. Lettie sighed. So far, in her bid to clear up the mystery surrounding her great-aunt’s key, all she’d managed to do was cause Florence to rush away, and Claude to more or less run her off his property. She glanced back at Lobster Pot Cottage but the door was firmly shut and there was no face at the blank window. Claude was rather alarming, with his long salt and pepper hair and bushy beard. And he’d been less than welcoming. But there was something fascinating about him, and she was itching to get her hands on his archive.
Lettie had loved history ever since she was a child. She loved the fact that it was cut and dried and couldn’t be changed. The future was shadowy and rather scary, but the past was fixed – a treasure trove of real-life stories that could teach those in the present so much.
Over years of poring over history books and visiting museums, Lettie had realised her favourite thing in the world was spotting fascinating human stories in historical tomes, and in objects that looked unprepossessing at first glance. There was something about Claude that gave her the same goosebumps, the same prickle at the back of her neck at hints of hidden depths just waiting to be discovered.
It was a shame she’d never found a way to spend more time doing what she loved, or turn it into something useful. Plans to do a history degree in Birmingham after leaving school had been ‘put off for a while’ when her dad needed heart surgery and her mum was uber-stressed. Lettie had stayed to help out and – she wasn’t quite sure how – the degree had ended up being permanently shelved, even after her dad had recovered.
She walked to the edge of the quay and looked across the sea. Farther out, it was pale blue with darker stripes where the water deepened. But here, the gentle waves lapping against stone were clear. Tiny fish darted in and out of the rusted metal rings secured to the stone and a child’s dropped sandal rested beneath the water, on the sand. Above her, a seagull was swooping and calling out as it flew towards a fishing boat coming into harbour.
It would be peaceful here, if it weren’t for the excited shouts of children coming from the ice-cream parlour and the hum of traffic negotiating narrow streets. It must be so much calmer out of season, even when storms swept in across the sea and churned the dark water into towering waves. Lettie shuddered and moved away from the quayside.
She wandered through the village and bought an ice cream from the parlour that stood next to a fishmonger’s, whose pavement outside was littered with shards of ice. The locally made ice cream tasted delicious, of bananas and cream.
In spite of her run-in with Claude and having no idea what to do next about the mysterious key, Lettie was feeling calm. This pretty, historic village was having a soothing effect on her, she decided. Everywhere she looked there were echoes of lives lived – old cottages, cobbled streets, fishing paraphernalia. She wondered how much the tourists thronging past her took notice or if they were too busy dragging reluctant children who’d rather be playing video games.
She walked on past what looked like an old church, an imposing building made of local stone with a pitched roof. A wide ramp led from its huge red doors into the sea. Intrigued, Lettie got closer and realised it was the local lifeboat station.
A laminated sheet pinned to the wall outlined the latest call-outs. Lettie was browsing through them when a woman ran past and disappeared into a small door in the side of the building. Then, she spotted Corey running hell for leather down the hill. His long legs raced across the cobbles and his arms pumped by his side, as his dark hair flew in the breeze. He didn’t notice Lettie as he rushed into the building too.
Intrigued, Lettie sat on a stone wall and finished her ice cream, wondering if someone was in danger far out at sea. The thought of being lost with nothing around you but water made her shudder.
Suddenly, the red doors opened and a boat, painted blue and bright orange, rolled down the slipway and into the sea with a huge splash. The crew was dressed in yellow and Lettie craned forward to see if Corey was amongst them. She thought she saw him standing near the bow of the boat, but soon the vessel disappeared from sight around the headland.
‘Be safe,’ murmured Lettie, wiping drips of ice cream from her T-shirt. The thought of them all putting themselves in danger made her heart beat faster. For all his bad temper and bluster, Corey Allford was brave, rushing across the waves into the unknown. Whereas she was a coward, who could barely go for a paddle, let alone race across the sea to rescue someone else.
With a sigh, Lettie stood up and started wandering away from the busy front and up the hill. The cobbled street was steep, and Lettie had almost reached the top when she spotted a woman struggling to pull a shopping trolley. It appeared to have lost a wheel and the three remaining ones were catching on the cobbles and making the whole thing unstable.
The lady was puffing and panting and, as Lettie watched, she stumbled.
‘Hang on,’ cried Lettie, rushing forwards. ‘I’ll give you a hand.’
It was only when the woman steadied herself and turned that Lettie realised it was Corey’s grandmother, who’d given her such short shrift at their last meeting.
Oh, perfect.
Lettie approached her with trepidation, sure that her offer of help would be rebuffed, and Florence’s face did nothing to allay her fears. The elderly woman glared at Lettie, her hands on her hips and her trolley listing at a drunken angle.
‘You’re the Starcross girl,’ she said, accusingly.
‘That’s right, but I wondered if you might need some help.’
‘I’m sure I can manage, thank you.’
When she turned and started hauling her recalcitrant trolley farther up the hill, Lettie caught a glimpse of her own great-aunt: self-sufficient, proud and bloody-minded. And so different from the shell of a woman she’d become in her final days. The memory of Iris in her prime made Lettie smile – the first time she’d smiled when thinking of Iris for a long time.
‘Damn it!’
Florence watched helplessly as a cabbage escaped her listing trolley and started rolling down the hill. Lettie stopped it deftly with the side of her foot and picked it up.
‘Here you go.’ She placed the cabbage back in the trolley. ‘You’re going to lose more shopping if I don’t give you a hand. And you seem to be limping.’
Florence stared at Lettie, her eyes lively against her furrowed skin. Young eyes in an old face. She gave a curt nod.
‘That would be helpful. My cottage is that one.’
