It didn’t bother her at all. There was an ancient drystone wall between her and the dead and she had plans to stud it with primroses and ferns.
At the bottom of the stairs a latch door opened straight into her sitting room. The tall and deep open fireplace cradled last night’s ashes, which were still gently smouldering. She stirred the coals, added a firelighter and some kindling, then walked across to the door leading into the kitchen. The September sunshine bounced off the shiny lids of the Aga and made the red roses of the Cath Kidston curtains appear to glow. She filled the kettle, and set it on the hob. Collecting the newspaper from the front-door mat, which was at the opposite end of the kitchen from the back door, she glanced at the front page as she made her tea. Then she loaded everything onto a tray and carried it to her favourite armchair. Plump, patchworked and multicoloured, it sat by the fire and was a startling piece of modern design in her otherwise sedate interior. She added a few lumps of coal and a log to the revived flames and settled down to profligately, deliciously, waste an hour with the headlines, the crossword and her tea.
The warm drink and crackle of the fire made her eyelids droop. Soon she was dreaming that she was back in her old life; Gray had just arrived home bad tempered and hungry, demanding supper. While he poured himself a glass of wine, she rushed around preparing his favourite dishes only for him to announce: ‘I had that for lunch. Isn’t there anything else? On second thoughts, forget it. I’ll have a shower and nip to the pub …’
For the second time that morning, the phone woke her.
‘Bloody hell,’ she complained.
‘Darling, it’s me. How’s life with the pirates?’ It was Gray.
‘I’ve been pillaged several times and am waiting for the parson to bring the baccy.’
He laughed. ‘I worry about my mate, you know. I do miss you.’
‘No you don’t. What do you want?’
‘Selina is driving me mad. She’s filled my flat with her belongings and I need to get out. Can I come and see you?’ he wheedled.
‘I only have one bedroom, so you’ll have to stay in the pub up the road or the Starfish in Trevay.’
‘What do I need to do that for? I can bunk in with you. Good God, woman, I slept with you for a quarter of a century – what’s the problem?’
‘It’s the Starfish or the pub. What time is it?’
‘Eleven o’clock.’
‘Oh hell. I’m expecting Don.’
‘Don who? Don Juan? Are you having a little romantic tryst? Darling, you’ll make me jealous.’
‘You were enough to put me off men for good. Let me know when you’ve decided where you want to stay. Speak later. Bye.’
*
Upstairs, she ran a quick bath in her luxurious bathroom. Don had done a marvellous job. The Cornish understood what folk from upcountry liked. Years of accepting wealthy second-home owners into their communities meant they were acquainted with all the latest design fads. Helen would have been happy with a B&Q job, but Don soon persuaded her that what she wanted was a limestone tiled floor, huge white sink, a bath with space-age taps and a shower with a head so big its pressure was like a riot hose. This was now her favourite room in the cottage.
Don had said that he’d be with her at just after eleven to take a look at the new boiler and set the thermostat and timer, which was completely beyond her.
By 11.15 a.m. she was bathed and dressed. Her shoulder-length brown hair was still wet and her face free of make-up. She hadn’t put make-up on for days. In West London it was considered rude to be seen without it. Here it was considered rude to be seen with it.
Don eventually rolled up at 12.15 p.m.
‘Hello, Helen.’
‘Don! Hello, I expected you an hour ago.’
‘Yeah. I got here directly. By the way, do you want any bass or lobster? My mate’s going out in his boat later. I could drop it over?’
‘Well, yes. How much are they?’
‘Nothing to me, maid. Don’t worry about that.’
‘Well, thank you. Anything that’s going, please. Shall I put the kettle on?’
‘Wouldn’t say no. This colour’s lovely in ’ere, isn’t it?’
Don had his head through the door into the sitting room. Four months ago, when she first got the keys to the Gull’s Cry, she had a vague idea of chintz and Laura Ashley, but it was Don who steered her to the soft pastel emulsions and barley-coloured painted floorboards, and it was Don who pushed her into buying her patchwork armchair.
‘That’s what designers call a hero piece, that is.’
She had met Don when she first came house-hunting in Pendruggan. It had been at the end of May and she had driven her soft-top Mini through the sun-dappled lanes with the roof down. The smell of the wild garlic and salt on the breeze brought back childhood memories that had her hugging herself with joy and excitement, feeling sure that she was going to find her dream home any minute. However, the first few houses she’d looked at were too dark, too damp or too expensive. When she’d seen them all and the sun had gone in, giving way to a few spits of rain, the smile had gone and she needed something to cheer herself up. According to her map, she was somewhere between Trevay and Pendruggan. Hungry and needing to regroup, she stopped at the first pub she saw, the Dolphin. It was a proper pub, probably three hundred years old and granite tough. Parking her Mini in the empty car park, Helen walked past the tubs of jolly geraniums, stepped in to the dark of the bar, and immediately liked what she saw. An open fire gently burned in the large grate, a huge copper punchbowl full of perfumed peonies stood on the bar and half a dozen candles flickered in thoughtfully placed bell jars. She ordered a tomato juice and a crab salad from the hand-written menu, then took her drink to a table with two ancient leather chairs and sat down thankfully. When the barmaid brought her the cutlery, she noticed the pages of house details that Helen had placed in front of her.
‘House-hunting, are you?’ the woman asked.
‘Yep. But no luck so far,’ Helen said glumly.
‘Don,’ the barmaid called, ‘is Gull’s Cry still for sale down in Pendruggan?’
A man with the build of an ex-boxer came through the door behind the bar. ‘Old Vi’s house? I think so. Why?’
‘This lady is lookin’, that’s all.’
Don, pulled the tea towel from his shoulder and pushed it on to the bar. ‘Oh yeah? Needs a bit doin’, mind. Is your ’usband good at that stuff?’
‘I am looking for myself, actually. I’m thinking about moving down here from London.’
‘Holiday ’ome, is it?’
‘No. A home home.’
‘Pendruggan is a lovely place mind, but the cottage is small. People want lots of bedrooms, see. To let out.’
‘How big is it?’ she asked.
‘Just a little two-up two-down. Wanna look at it? I’ll call Neil, the agent who’s selling it, if you like.’
‘Well, I’m here so, yes!’
Don disappeared back into the gloom behind the bar and the barmaid introduced herself. ‘I’m Dorrie. Me and Don ’ave been here for nearly twenty years. There’s not much we don’t know about round here. In a good way,’ she added, seeing Helen’s face. ‘We look out for each other here, you see. A bit different from being in London, I expect.’
Helen took in the surf-blonde short hair, sawn-off denims and lime-green hoodie with its washed-out, illegible message. She reckoned Dorrie