Hidden Treasures

Don came back rubbing his hands together with pleasure. ‘Spoke to Neil up at the estate agents and he’ll meet you there in half an hour. I’ll draw you a quick map. It’s only a couple of miles, but the signposting isn’t good. In fact, there isn’t any. A cup of coffee while you wait?’

It took her twenty minutes to find the village. The lanes all looked the same, but when she finally found the small village green with a sign saying Pendruggan, and saw the granite cottage with the FOR SALE sign, it was love at first sight. The front drystone wall of Gull’s Cry had a wonky gate that drooped on to the brick path and over the years it had worn a groove in the clay. Lavender lined the path to the cottage and the huge pots of tall agapanthus either side of the front door were heavenly. She stooped to look through the brass porthole set in the middle of the door but couldn’t see much besides dusty floorboards.

Neil took out the huge old metal key from his pocket, put it in the lock and they stepped inside. It smelled of dust and disuse, but no damp.

‘It’s been empty a couple of years. The old lady who lived here, Miss Wingham, was in a nursing home till she died. The estate have had it on the market ever since. Too expensive for the local first-time buyers and too small for the upcountry folk who want holiday lets.’

He let her walk round the kitchen, through to the sitting room. She tried to lie down in the wide window seat. Not quite long enough, but perfect to curl up in with a book. Or a cat? She opened the far door, which led to the stairs, and made her way up. Polished oak with a circular bend bringing her out to the landing and two bedrooms. The view from the bedrooms was to the front, overlooking the village green, while the window on the stairs gave a view of the garden and the church. After a quick tour of the overgrown garden, she and Neil retired to the Dolphin to discuss terms.

When her offer was accepted by the executors, Dorrie poured them all a large glass of vodka and cranberry to celebrate.

The vodka left Helen feeling unsure about driving, so Don invited her for supper upstairs in their private bit of the pub. ‘Dorrie’s got a chicken in the oven for tea. There’s plenty to go round.’

Completely seduced by her new house, the village and its people, she followed him upstairs. She had never seen the landlord’s accommodation above a pub before, but this was certainly not what she expected. It was like something out of a glossy magazine. Light and airy with a beachy feel to it, the colours were cream and café au lait. The bleached floorboards were strewn with richly coloured rugs, one wall was adorned with a fabulous painting of boats in a harbour, all broad strokes and bright colours. There was a pile of driftwood by the wood-burning stove, and a coffee table made entirely of wide planks. The sofas were deep and squashy and scattered with slightly crazy cushions, each embroidered with a single rose-pink seagull and embellished with real feathers.

‘Wow! This is amazing! And look at the view. You can see the sea and the cliffs.’

Don looked embarrassed. ‘Dorrie and I worked on it over the winter. Do you like it? The floor’s a bit wonky, but after I sanded it we decided it looked all right.’

‘It’s fabulous! What the London women I know wouldn’t give for this! Where’s the coffee table from?’

‘That? I made it from some old scaffold boards I found. Rubbish really.’

‘You did it? Don, I want my cottage to look just like this! Will you do it for me?’

3

Don and Dorrie had sorted out all the building and decorating after that, while Helen set about packing up her old life. She couldn’t wait. The London house was lovely, but it held too many memories. The good she could file away, the bad she would delete.

Sean thought she was mad.

‘Ma, what on earth do you think you’re doing? Lots of older people get an idea in their heads to retire to the seaside, only to find they miss their old life and end up dying lonely.’

‘Sean, I am forty-seven. Not quite in my dotage, thank you very much! In fact, still young enough to give you a little brother or sister, if I cared to.’

‘Ma, what a revolting idea. And what are you doing with that pile of vintage comics?’

‘Throwing them away.’

‘They’re worth a lot of money. Hang on to them for me, would you?’

‘Nope. All your stuff is yours from now on. Take it away or never see it again.’

Within an hour Sean had salvaged what childhood possessions he could fit into his absurdly small car and driven off in a huff.

Chloe had been more understanding. She understood that her mother had had enough of a painful marriage, but she adored both her parents and hoped that somehow they would get back together again.

On her last day, Gray came round to give her a bunch of flowers and a hug. They walked round the old place together and it felt right. He helped her pack her last few things in the car, slipped a wad of notes to the removal men as their tip, and together they shut the front door for ever.

‘Bye, old girl. Give me a bell to let me know you got there OK.’

‘I will.’ She kissed him briefly and with only a quick glance in her rear-view mirror, pointed the snub nose of the Mini in the direction of the M4.

*

And now here she was. Ten days later and everything settled. No looking back and certainly no regrets.

Don called to her, ‘Helen, I’ve set the timer and the thermostat.’

He tried again to explain the procedure to her, but although she nodded at the right moments, she didn’t understand it at all. It didn’t matter, he’d said she could call him again if she had any trouble.

As he was leaving, she said, ‘You don’t do gardening as well, do you?’

‘Nope. Don’t like worms. Ask Queenie, she’ll know someone.’

She’d been planning to nip into Queenie’s in any case, so she gathered up her things and a few minutes later she was ducking through her low front door. From force of habit, she turned to lock up, then decided instead to leave caution to the cautious. Nobody seemed to lock their front doors in Pendruggan and cars were never locked either.

Don had laughed at her when he had caught her frantically looking for her keys on first moving in: ‘Leave them where they’re meant to be, maid. Either in the front door or in the ignition. You’ll never lose them then.’

*

Queenie’s Post Office and General Store was the centre of village life. The day after Helen arrived in Pendruggan she had gone in for a pint of milk and Queenie, thrilled to find new blood in the village, had immediately launched into her life story. She had originally come to Pendruggan as an evacuee from London’s East End, but when her parents were tragically killed in the Blitz, the Cornish family with whom she’d been billeted took her under their wing. She stayed with them until she was eighteen, when she left to marry the local farmhand she’d fallen in love with.

‘I was married to Ted for fifty-two years, until he died of emphysema in 2000,’ Queenie sighed and lit a small roll-up cigarette.

‘The only way I’ll be leavin’ ’ere is in a box. My daughter Sandra wants me to move up to Coventry to be near her, but what do I wanna do that for? This is me ’ome and this is where I’ll stay until the day comes when I can rest next to my Ted in the churchyard. Would you like a pasty, duck?’

‘Yes, please. They look delicious.’

‘Homemade, they are! I do fifteen a day to order. When do you want yours?’

‘Can I have one now?’

‘No, duck. To order, like I said. Shall I put you on me regular list?’

‘Oh, I see. Yes, please. Can I have one tomorrow?’

Queenie took a gnarled pencil from her ear and pulled out a thumbed red exercise book. ‘What’s your name, dear?’

And Helen found herself telling Queenie her own life story in return.

‘That ex-husband of yours sounds like a right bastard, and no mistake. Still,’ Queenie adopted a look of wisdom, ‘that’s men for you.’ She paused. ‘And now you’re ’ere in Miss Wingham’s old ’ouse. She was a lovely lady, you know. Very old-fashioned in her ways, and ever so intelligent. She came ’ere to live before the war, you know. Lived in Gull’s Cry for seventy-seven years. She was on her own for all of ’em, no fella or nuffink. She never told me, but I fink she lost the love of her life in the war. She never said in so many words, but I could tell. Loved ’er cats too. Her last one was called Raven. She named ’em all after birds – I dunno why. Died peacefully in the nursing ’ome aged ninety-seven. She’ll be ’appy to think you’ve brought the old place back to life. Will you be doin’ the garden? She loved it. I’d like to get Alan Titchmarsh down ’ere to give it a going over. If you see ’im, you tell ’im!’ She laughed, then coughed a crackly cough that had been cultivated over decades of dedicated smoking.

Now, Thursday had become Pasty Day, and Helen was looking forward to another chat and a chance to browse the shelves, which were lined with greaseproof paper and red gingham. Queenie’s stock was extraordinary. Replacement suspenders for corsets and Blakey heel caps sat amongst the more mundane requirements. There was a well-stocked magazine rack, which Queenie devoured – showbiz gossip could have been her specialist knowledge on Mastermind – reading at the counter by the dim light of two bulbs suspended from the ceiling, the standard lamp with its pink shade by the freezer and the Tiffany lamp next to the till.

Queenie greeted Helen warmly as she entered. ‘Hallo, duck. I ain’t seen you much this week – you OK?’

‘Yes thanks, Queenie. I did a bit of a shop at Tesco in Trevay yesterday.’