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16
Lettie
Lettie smoothed down her summer dress before knocking on Florence’s front door. After making such bad first impressions on the elderly lady, Lettie had made an effort with her appearance in the hope that later impressions would be better.
Her hair had been tamed into submission and was pulled into a ponytail and she’d put on a little make-up to hide the shadows beneath her eyes. The fresh sea air had put colour into her cheeks, but she’d slept badly last night. A strong wind had blown through the open Velux window, bringing with it the sound of waves crashing into the cliffs. It had sounded like the roar of a malevolent beast and Lettie’s mind had strayed to the lifeboat.
Were Corey and his crew out on the roiling sea, battling through the waves? When she did sleep, she’d dreamt of strong currents pulling her and Corey under, her hair trailing behind them like seaweed and their limbs entangled.
The storm had blown itself out by morning and the sun today was blazing from a blue sky that looked as if it had been washed.
Lettie took a deep breath. At least Florence was willing to see her, thanks to Corey’s intervention. She hadn’t been sure that he’d tell his grandmother about their meeting but was glad he had. She’d stayed close to Driftwood House all morning, spending time wandering across the cliff top – never too close to the edge – in case Corey rang to say Florence had changed her mind. But there had been no call, so here she was.
Lettie raised her hand to knock again but the door was pulled open before her fingers could tighten around the gleaming brass door knocker.
‘Are you trying to raise the dead? I may be old but I’m not deaf.’
Florence and Claude had a lot in common, thought Lettie, watching the elderly lady, in a brown tea dress with cream spots, walk with her stick along her narrow hallway. With the slightest of hesitations, Lettie stepped inside, closed the front door and followed her into a sitting room.
The room was small but homely with a standard lamp in the corner with a fringed shade, similar to one in Iris’s flat. There was a large stone fireplace with a brass coal scuttle in the hearth, and silver-framed photos on a dark-wood dresser that looked ancient.
The paintings on the wall were all of the sea, except for one in a gilt frame that caught Lettie’s eye. The scene, of trees in full leaf next to a tumbling stream, looked strangely familiar and she stopped to have a closer look. In the corner of the painting, a waterfall fell in a single gushing torrent before breaking into a white, churning mass of water.
‘What are you staring at?’ demanded Florence.
‘I love this painting. Is it of somewhere local?’
‘It’s of Dartmoor, why?’
‘I think… I think my aunt Iris had a photo in a frame in her flat just like this. It looks like the same place.’
Florence paused for a moment before gesturing at an armchair next to the stone-framed window. ‘You’re probably mistaken. You’d best take a seat, Miss Starcross. I don’t have a lot of time.’
Lettie sank into the armchair, trying not to dwell on the painting and how similar it was to the photo she’d looked at countless times in Iris’s flat. She and Florence were the only two people in the room, which smelled strongly of lavender, and a shiver of disappointment ran through her.
As though she could read the younger woman’s mind, Florence sighed. ‘My grandson thought me speaking to you was a good idea, though I’m not so sure myself. He tells me that speaking of painful things can be beneficial, though it’s rather hypocritical of him when he won’t speak about Grace’s—’
She stopped talking abruptly and gave her head a slight shake.
‘Is Corey at work?’ asked Lettie, curious to know more about his ex-wife.
‘He is.’
‘He’s not out on the lifeboat, then,’ she said, trying to make conversation.
‘Not this time. Makes a change with so many grockles around at the moment, thinking they can master the sea. Outsiders who don’t belong round here,’ said Florence pointedly. ‘But at least you’re on time so the tea’s still warm.’ Without asking, she poured Lettie a cup from the china pot beside her and handed it over. ‘The sugar’s still in the kitchen if you need any.’
Lettie assured her she didn’t and took a sip.
‘Have you lived in Heaven’s Cove a long time, Mrs Allford?’ she asked, trying to thaw the frosty atmosphere.
‘I was born in this house almost ninety years ago and have lived here ever since.’
The soft burr of the old woman’s accent rolled over Lettie and was soothing, in spite of the distrust in her eyes.
‘The village seems to have hardly changed in that time. It’s like a living museum.’
‘And that’s a bad thing, is it?’
