A Cornish Cottage by the Sea. Jane Linfoot
finally tips it for me, even if it doesn’t for her.
Day 137: Sunday, 18th March
At Periwinkle Cottage
Epic Achievement: Cake on Sunday.
‘So, you can see the stables haven’t been used in a while.’ The bunch of keys Aunty Josie’s swinging is too big to fit in her pocket.
However much I’d intended to get straight down to work, it takes a few days to find my way around. I half expect to open the quirky cottage doors and find Red Riding Hood or Hansel and Gretel hiding behind them. It’s Sunday morning by the time I get out my clipboard and as we make our way towards the outbuildings I’m so intent on business, all that’s missing is my hard hat.
I thought the days might drag here, but since I arrived I’m yawning before it’s tea time. It’s hard to believe I used to be up at four and rarely went to bed before midnight. At least I’m finally getting my wear out of the navy pinstripe PJs Tash gave me as a ‘new job congratulations’ present, as a joke to celebrate my new-found ‘suit status’.
To be fair, up until I moved out of Marcus’s house, the pyjamas stayed firmly in their Net-a-Porter carrier bag because Marcus and I always slept naked. Out of bed he turned a blind eye to global warming and cranked up the heating so I rarely wore more than a teensy vest and shorts. But I could hardly go around like that when I boomeranged back to live with the oldies. Quite apart from the over-exposure, in a family of women, the thermostat is one of the only places where Dad takes control. After Marcus’s, Dad’s running temperature is arctic, and whoever invented those damned Smart meters that flash up how much you’re spending on gas every minute through the day wasn’t thinking of me and Mum.
Aunty Jo is making her way along the horseshoe of stable buildings which border the garden, opening every door and closing them just as fast. Apart from the stiff locks, it’s hard to believe it’s her first visit since she and Harry colour-coded all the keys the day before he died. On the fourth door, when I’ve still not seen anything, I barge my way past her, click on the light and kick into professional mode.
‘Nice switches.’ They’re funky and industrial, but best of all, there’s not a jungle beast in sight. Looking up at the old hewn timbers is spinning me back to the Zinc Inc sites. ‘The roofs are new and the floors feel level, so that’s a good start.’
‘They ran out of cash halfway. That was how we could afford it.’ Aunty Jo gives a sniff of disapproval.
‘They probably blew the budget next door on exotic wallpaper.’ I come to a halt by a newly installed wood-burning stove. ‘So what were they planning here?’
‘Holiday accommodation around the courtyard.’ She frowns. ‘It’s not my cup of tea at all. I like a room to have a dado.’
I already know that. Our house didn’t have those either, and she reminded us every visit. I peer into a tiny room and spot a drench shower head. ‘They haven’t got around to tiling, but at least the wet room fittings are in.’
She sniffs. ‘Very downmarket – my friends don’t look twice if there isn’t a Jacuzzi with steam jets.’
I peer out of a tiny window. ‘A lot of the groundwork has been done. What’s left is the finishing.’ That’s the time-consuming and expensive bit and, with eight units, it’s a good thing she’s not counting her pennies. On the plus side, there’s loads of space and it’s wonderfully airy, even if it is freezing.
‘So there could be dados, after all?’ As she hugs her jacket closer there’s no vestige of the upbeat jovial couple she and Harry once were. I know she’s grieving and sad, but I’ve been here days and I haven’t seen a hint of a twinkle. Though if she has any idea how much work it’s going to take to transform what’s here to luxury accommodation, I can understand why.
It’s my turn to pull a face. ‘We might give dados a miss but we can certainly get the place done.’ It’s time not cash that’s our priority; once I find a reliable builder who’s available, we’ll fly to the finish. ‘And look at that sea view.’ Across the field the clifftop edge is sharp against the grey of the water, which merges in turn with a smoky sky strewn with scudding grey clouds. And the water is the colour of iron, stormy with dashes of cream foam. The truth is, now I’m here scuffing my toes in the building dust, the twang in my chest is about way more than another cloudy day.
I went to Zinc Inc by accident, the summer I was seventeen. I’d fallen out of sixth from after a year of hard partying with an F in every subject, then went to a careers fair because someone told me they were giving away free T-shirts. I ended up at Jake’s mass interview with no idea what interior design even was. Apparently Jake wasn’t looking for raw natural talent with carpet swatches, he chose me because I had all the nervous kids in the group smiling within minutes, and then went on to talk the tea lady into serving us her private doughnut stash. He said a taste for cake and a friendly smile counted for a lot in the building industry, and he wasn’t wrong.
Back then the company mainly worked on upmarket jobs in London. But then loft living took off along with the property market, and every last home owner wanted to rip the guts out of their terraced house and design the arses off their open-plan living spaces. What I loved most was going to see the jobs on site and it turned out I had a natural eye for detail. If Tash’s superpowers are being a brainbox and making ill people well again, mine are noticing stuff and being able to persuade reluctant builders to do what I ask. Before long Jake was sending me out to jolly the tradesmen along on the smaller jobs.
As the business expanded I barely noticed I was taking on more. Then one day Jake came in and announced he was giving me a fancy title I can’t even remember now and a shedload of extra responsibility, which was amazing but is probably also why I never had time to go to bed. And why now I’m not getting up at stupid o’clock and rushing from site to site, angsting about schedules and quality control and progress meetings and one-off disasters and handover dates, I feel like I’ve lost every bit of who I am.
Aunty Jo’s voice cuts in. ‘I know the sea’s still grey, but there’s no need to look that gloomy, Edie.’
I swallow, resist pointing out that she’s in no position to talk about people looking miserable and let out a sigh for everything I’m not doing. It’s not just the status and the sense of satisfaction I miss. It’s the camaraderie, and the banter, and knowing there are a whole load of tradespeople working their butts off to do their best jobs for you. Most of all, it’s the human contact. However much they drove me to distraction on some sites, at the end of any working day I’d have spoken to more people than I could count.
‘There’s something indoors to cheer you up.’ Aunty Josie sounds even gruffer than usual.
‘Really?’ I rub the dust out of my eye and force myself to think of something that’s not Zinc Inc. Not that I’m ungrateful, but please may it not be yet another ballet DVD. I’ve managed to force her out for a walk every day, down the twisty streets to the shop above the harbour – to be fair, we have had earache from the wind – but other than that it’s been wall-to-wall tutus. I never thought I’d be begging to watch Cash in the Attic and reruns of Garden Rescue, or be desperate to sit and listen to my mum saying Charlie Dimmock has let herself go and could do better with her choice of sweatshirts. I’m not being mean, but if home had been nearer and the Uber less expensive, I’d have gone.
‘The Secret Garden colouring book arrived this morning. And some Faber Castell felt tips.’
‘Thank you.’ If she was less sharp I’d say how sweet it was too, but I don’t want to risk her jumping down my throat. Colouring is what I turn to when my head feels like it’s going to burst. Which is usually straight after I’ve been working at my puzzles, which are a lot less fun than they sound. Fitting the pieces together