‘Brilliant, thank you.’
‘You’ve not long missed the bus though. It went through about twenty minutes ago, and they’re only every two hours.’
‘Oh, great.’ The journey has gone well so far; something had to go wrong at some point.
‘It’s only about half an hour on foot and it’s a lovely walk.’
I glance in the direction he points, wondering how lost I could manage to get on this walk because the chances are pretty good that I’ll never be seen again. But the weather is gorgeous and I have been sat on a train for the past three hours, and the station behind me looks like you’d struggle to occupy five minutes in it, let alone an hour and forty of them.
‘You’re Pearlholme’s second tourist this week,’ the man says. ‘They must be doing something right.’
I can’t resist asking. ‘Was the other one a tall guy with dark hair?’
‘Indeed he was. If you’re looking for him, he’ll be on the beach doing up the old carousel that’s been found. From The Sun & Sand, you can either take the back road into the village or the front road along the promenade and the beachfront. You can’t miss the carousel from there.’
Wow. Nathan was right, they really do know everyone around here. ‘Thanks.’ I give him a smile because of how much he reminds me of where I grew up, where you couldn’t walk up the road without someone asking where you were going and why you were going there.
‘It’s beautiful at this time of year,’ he says. ‘Gets a bit busy once the summer holidays begin, but this time of year is ideal. You’re not staying at The Shell Hotel, are you?’
‘I managed to get a room there at the last minute,’ I say, smiling again.
The man visibly cringes and I feel my face fall. ‘Why?’
‘Oh, nothing, nothing. I’m sure it’ll be lovely.’ He gives me a smile that looks completely false.
‘That question did not have an “I’m sure it’ll be lovely” tone to it …’
He huffs and his shoulders slump. ‘The village itself is exquisite, but the hotel … not so much. I best not say more than that, love, I don’t want to put you off.’
‘All the cottage rentals were full. I thought I was lucky to get a room at the hotel.’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Lucky.’
He doesn’t sound like he means lucky. Or like he’s going to enlighten me any further.
I thank him for his time and buy a newspaper because it seems like the polite thing to do, and set off in the direction he points me in, after assuring me that it’s a straightforward road.
I feel like I’m cutting school as I drag my suitcase down the wide pavement, like when you used to go on an errand for your teacher and walk through the empty school grounds when everyone was in lessons. It always felt a little bit naughty and a little bit thrilling, and it always made you feel a little bit more grown up than everyone else.
The road gradually shifts from residential houses to a tree-lined country lane, branches heavy with white flowers hanging across the pavement, hedgerows spilling over with pink wild roses, and the odd pretty cottage dotted among them. There’s hardly any traffic, and the occasional car that does pass is pootling along so slowly that I can overtake them on foot. I’m enjoying the walk so much that I’m surprised how quickly the time has passed as the pub comes into view.
I stop and read the blue lettering on a sand-coloured board above the door. The Sun & Sand. Even the name makes it sound nice. There are tables and chairs outside, a wide green lawn, and two huge but neatly trimmed trees on either side, weighed down with not-yet-ripe green cherries. It looks like the kind of image you’d see on the front cover of a romance book about a woman who moves to a tiny village to run a pub and falls for the handsome builder who comes to mend the roof.
It would be so easy to take the front road and walk along the seafront and find the carousel and Nathan, but I decide to be sensible and head to the hotel first. It’s not even two p.m. yet. There’s plenty of time for that when I’ve had a quick wash and change after travelling all day.
There’s a woman trimming the hedge outside The Sun & Sand who calls over as I go to walk away. ‘Where are you looking for, love?’
‘The Shell Hotel?’ I say, not used to this number of people keen to help you find your way around.
She makes the same face the newspaper man made. ‘Are you an inspector come to shut them down?’
‘No, just a guest.’
‘Oh, lovely.’ She sounds just as false as the newspaper man. What is it about this hotel?
‘It’s that way.’ She points down the second road that clearly heads into the village. ‘It’s right on the other end of the village, just follow this road and go downwards when you come to the fork. You can’t miss it.’
‘Thanks.’ I set off before the idea of this hotel sends me running straight back to the train station.
‘Come back anytime,’ she calls after me. ‘We do the best chips in Pearlholme! The fish and chip shop on the seafront will tell you otherwise, but we all know which one of us is right!’
It makes me smile as I wheel my suitcase behind me, through a narrow, cobbled street that seems barely wide enough to allow even the smallest of cars. This street must be the main residential street, and its rows of brick cottages fit perfectly with the uneven cobbles of the road. Each cottage looks like it could tumble down at any moment, but they all have perfectly neat front gardens, separated from the cobbled street by a haphazard brick wall covered in trailing purple aubrietia flowers. Each one has a path of stepping stones up to their door, a neatly trimmed lawn, and borders full of flowers. Even the birdhouses on tall stands at the end of each garden are miniature replicas of cottages, and birds who are happily pecking at seed inside their tiny bird cottages fly off in groups as I walk past, my suitcase bouncing along the cobbles behind me.
There’s one house on the street that’s a bit different. This one still has a freshly mowed lawn and the scent of cut grass is strong in the air, but in the window is a ‘Post Office’ sign, and instead of flowers in borders, there’s a bright red postbox outside, a chalkboard advertising fresh milk and bread, a newspaper board with today’s local headline, which is blank, and I wonder if that’s indicative of how quiet it is around here. Zinnia would’ve told them to make up a story about someone being mauled by a starfish to sell more copies.
Even from what Nathan said on the phone the other night, I didn’t realise quite how picturesque it would be. Every house has window boxes brimming with a rainbow of flowers and trailing hanging baskets on either side of their bright-painted front doors. It’s like a picture-perfect film set, the kind of village that you see artists painting in watercolour.
At the end of the main row of houses, the road forks – the left fork curves down towards a battered-looking old barn, and the right twists up a shallow slope towards green hills and a handful of little cottages that must overlook the beach. I’d rather take that road, but the woman outside the pub did say to go downwards, didn’t she? And I’m sure there’s something written on that old barn …
As I walk towards it, only the side is facing me, peering above rusty black railings. The back garden is hidden behind overhanging trees that have overhung so far they’ve gone for a scramble through the blackberry bushes behind the building. It looks more like an overgrown graveyard than any kind of hotel, but as I cautiously walk round the front, I realise that’s exactly what it is. The Shell Hotel is in big letters across the front of the building, but the S has gone wonky and dropped down, looking like it’s hanging on by a thread.