скачать книгу бесплатно
Dorothy, who was putting her scarf on, paused. ‘Actually, there is something: I’d love to know more about the history of the house.’
Trevor looked over at his boss. ‘Trish, where would Mrs Carew be able to find out all about the history of the house?’
Trish, who had suddenly developed a keen interest in the contents of her desk drawer, seemed a little flustered as she replied: ‘Well, erm, the library would be the place to start. And, er, we have a very good local museum …’ Then she looked up and met their gaze. ‘Actually, there is something … something you should know. A young girl died in the house. It happened about ten years ago. It’s her sister who is selling the house.’
Dorothy stopped fiddling with her scarf. ‘Died? How? Illness? Accident? Murder?’
‘Oh, nothing sinister! No, no, it was a drowning. Poor thing.’ Trish turned to Trevor. ‘Did you show Mr and Mrs Carew the smugglers’ cave?’
Trevor blushed. ‘I thought I’d leave that to the surveyor.’
‘Smugglers’ cave?’ questioned Henry. ‘Sounds fascinating. Where is it?’
‘The entrance is in the garden. There are steps leading under the house into a cave. At one time there was a passage or cavern that led out on to the beach somewhere. But I think it’s blocked off now,’ said Trish.
Dorothy wanted to know more about the dead girl. ‘Did she die in the cave?’
‘I can’t remember all the details. I believe she’d been playing in the cave when it happened. Either the tide came up or she slipped … I’m not sure. It was in the papers at the time. The library will have copies.’
Henry saw that this news had upset Dorothy. He put his arm round her. ‘Come on, old girl. We’ll make Atlantic House a happy home again.’ He turned back to Trish and Trevor. ‘Right. I think my wife deserves a slap-up meal to celebrate. Where’s the best place to have dinner and stay the night?’
*
Over the following weeks, Dorothy threw herself into researching the history of the house. The coroner’s inquest into the death of fourteen-year-old Claire Clovelly returned a verdict of misadventure. She had apparently hidden in the cave following a row with her family. Nobody was sure exactly what had happened, but the most likely explanation was that she had slipped on the slimy rocks, banged her head and drowned.
‘I think we’d better block the cave up, Henry,’ said Dorothy, fearful. ‘I don’t want Constance or Prudence going down there.’
‘The girls will be fine! They’re far too sensible to mess about down there.’
Dorothy was adamant: ‘Block it up.’
Henry gave no answer. He’d already instructed the builders to open the cave up. With high tide access for a small vessel to sail in and out, it would be the perfect place to put a boat.
*
It took all that summer and autumn for the builders to do their stuff, but by the following Easter the house was reborn. Upstairs had been remodelled so that each of the six bedrooms had its own bathroom. Henry and Dorothy’s room was the grandest, commanding a stunning view from its brand-new balcony.
The next-best was the blue room, which was cool and sophisticated, with double-aspect windows overlooking the beach and the bay.
The yellow room was bright and sunny, but slightly smaller. It had only one sash window that looked out on to the garden and the gate to the cliff path.
The remaining bedrooms were smaller still and looked on to farm buildings and the driveway.
Downstairs, the huge kitchen was once again the heart of the house. Simply done with a scrubbed wooden dresser and enormous table, it was dominated by the scarlet four-oven Aga, which had replaced the rusty old range. The roomy walk-in larder had been retained, along with the original flagstones, which had cleaned up a treat. New French windows had been installed in the sea-facing wall of the kitchen, opening on to the terrace.
They had also knocked through the old walls separating the kitchen from the dining room, which had in turn been merged with the drawing room, creating a glorious flow of light and space.
The study now doubled as a rumpus room for the girls and their school friends, who would join them for summer holidays.
It was the very epitome of eighties chic.
Outside, the ancient back door led to a newly planted herb garden and, Henry’s pride and joy, the renovated smugglers’ cave.
The curious room above ground was cool enough to house his wine cellar and the steep stone steps leading down to the cavern had been made safe.
‘Mind your head,’ he told Dorothy as he led her by the hand, the light from his torch bouncing off the dimpled walls. ‘The electrician is putting lights in next week.’
‘I still don’t like it, Henry. You shouldn’t have wasted time and money on this. It would have been better blocked up. It scares me.’
‘Don’t be silly, old thing. It’s exciting – smugglers and redcoats and all that stuff – a slice of Cornish history, right in our own backyard.’
Dorothy’s concern was writ large across her furrowed brow. ‘I don’t want to be proved right on this, Henry. It’s an accident waiting to happen.’
Henry patted her arm reassuringly. ‘I promise you, there’s nothing to fear, darling. Besides, the children aren’t little any more, so stop worrying!’
The steps took a twist and a turn and then opened out into the natural boathouse under the cliffs.
‘Ta-dah!!’
Henry stretched out his right hand and Dorothy saw something bobbing on the water.
‘What the hell is that?’
‘A 1967 Riva. The best speedboat money can buy. And you see?’ He pointed at the floor. ‘I had the lads concrete a level jetty on the old rock ledge so we can tie her up and get on and off easily.’ The torchlight picked out the jetty and the polished wooden hull. Dorothy could make out cream leather seats and a shiny wooden steering wheel.
‘How much?’ she said in an angry voice.
‘It’s a present to us from the company. We deserve a little toy.’
‘You and your bloody toys! That’s not a board game. That’s a monstrous waste of money.’
Henry was crestfallen. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. I can take you and the girls out for trips around the coast and picnics on secluded beaches.’
‘That’s another thing.’ She rounded on him. ‘Can you even drive the bloody thing?’
Henry smiled. ‘Ah well, yes, you see, I’ve booked the whole family on a seamanship course.’
Dorothy pursed her lips.
‘Don’t you want to know what she’s called?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Look, darling,’ he urged, pointing towards the boat.
She shook her head in disbelief as she picked out the golden letters painted on the stern: Dorothy.
Dorothy scowled. Henry kissed her. She frowned. He hugged her. Finally the beginnings of a smile reached her lips.
‘You’re mad and bad but lovely to know, Henry Carew.’
‘No greater compliment was ever received – thank you.’
*
Henry and Dorothy were very pleased with their newly restored home and loved inviting the locals in to marvel at how the old house was being reborn.
Prudence and Constance had come down to see it during the Christmas holidays and had been less than impressed. Still in the throes of being renovated, the house was barely habitable. The girls were billeted at a local hotel while the damp and mould in the bedrooms was being dealt with.
‘It’s so cold,’ shivered Pru, clad in her new striped dungarees and red ankle boots.
‘And spooky,’ added Connie, shaking her wash-and-wear perm so the corkscrew curls bounced.
Dorothy looked at them sternly. ‘There are no spooks here. And it’s cold because the central heating hasn’t been installed yet. Want to see your bedrooms?’
‘Do we get to choose?’ asked Pru.
‘Well, let’s see.’
Sighing inwardly, knowing that a jealous spat between the siblings was bound to ensue, Dorothy led the way upstairs. The three of them picked their way over the dust sheets, abandoned tools and other builders’ detritus cluttering the landing to the first door.
‘Look at the view, girls!’ Dorothy threw open the door leading to the yellow room. ‘Who wants this one, overlooking the garden and the cliff?’
Assuming their mother was showing them the best room in the hope of winning them over, Pru, who was always quickest off the mark when it came to getting what she wanted, jumped in: ‘I do!’
Connie’s shoulders slumped dramatically. ‘I knew she’d get the first choice. It’s not fair. I really like this room. Pru gets the best of everything.’
Fighting the urge to scream, Dorothy forced a bright smile and kept her voice tone jolly as she told them, ‘Prudence, wipe that conceited look off your face. Connie, please refrain from sulking. I have a super room for you – follow me.’
Pru pushed past Connie, who whispered, ‘You always get the best.’
And Pru replied sotto voce: ‘Tough shit, little sister.’
When their mother opened the door of the blue room, Connie’s mouth dropped open as she took in the double-aspect windows with views of the beach and the bay. ‘Yes!’ she cried, fist punching the air. ‘Yes! This has to be the best room. I love it! Thanks, Mum.’
Pru was now the one who was in a sulk. ‘I thought you said you wanted the other room.’
‘Nope. This is mine and that is yours. Fair’s fair, eh, Mum?’
Dorothy, distracted by the screech of the plumber drilling in the en-suite, answered vaguely, ‘Yes, of course, darling. Sort it out between the pair of you. Off you go.’ Moments later she was lost in a discussion about power showers and hot-water tanks.
Pru glared at Connie. ‘Give me this room.’
‘No. You chose yours. This is mine.’
‘It’s too big for you.’
‘No it isn’t.’
‘The other room suits you much better.’
‘Why?’
‘Yellow is your favourite colour.’
‘No it isn’t. I like blue.’
‘You’re spoilt.’
‘You’re jealous.’
Dorothy wandered back in from the bathroom.
‘All settled, girls?’ Registering the sulky expressions on the girls’ faces, she promptly abandoned all efforts to placate them. ‘Oh, for Heaven’s sake – why don’t you two go and explore the beach before I banish the pair of you to the box room – you’ll have plenty to mope about then, won’t you?’
*
Nothing more had been said about the bedrooms. Not because Pru had given up; she was just biding her time.
The family didn’t visit Cornwall again until the Easter holidays. That first day, both sisters were squashed into the back of their father’s new Range Rover, surrounded by the bedding, kitchenware and other household bits and pieces their mother had packed around them after they’d got in.
Henry insisted on having Radio 4 on for the entire journey, so the girls plugged themselves into their Sony Walkmans, staring glumly out of the windows at the passing traffic.
At Bristol they stopped for elevenses. Moody as hell, Pru and Connie trooped in behind their parents, scowling at the food on offer in the cafeteria.
Dorothy tried to adopt a light, cheery tone: ‘OK, girls, what do you want?’
‘A doughnut,’ said Connie.
‘That’s very fattening,’ said Dorothy, looking pointedly at Connie’s rounded tummy. ‘Have an orange juice and a banana. Pru?’
Connie’s lip wobbled, stung by the suggestion she was overweight.
Pru, still plugged into her Walkman, didn’t respond. ‘Pru!’ her mother asked again. No response. Henry took the headphones off his elder daughter’s ears and shouted, ‘Take those bloody things off and answer your mother!’
Pru stared blankly. ‘What?’
‘Your mother has asked you three times: what do you want to eat?’
‘Nothing. And she only asked me twice.’
Henry took the Walkman and headphones from Pru’s hands and stuffed them in his pocket. ‘Right. I’m confiscating these.’
‘But, Dad!’
‘What do you want to eat?’ he barked again.
‘Nothing,’ she shouted, and stalked off to W H Smith, throwing over her shoulder: ‘This is SO unfair.’
