A Cornish Cottage by the Sea. Jane Linfoot
Sick of This Shit book. Mum went storming off when she saw that one. But it was actually great for me because it meant Bella totally gets where I am. It fits, because we’ve been besties since we met in junior school. Even when she was seven Bella had that same effortless Kate Moss fabulousness. In the least posh part of Bath where we lived, with her purple nails and her denim ra-ra skirts embroidered with sequin appliqué she stood out like some exotic flower. Back then her mum worked at Tammy Girl and provided Bella with a non-stop supply of strawberry lip gloss and lemon sherbets. Bella’s heart is so big, she gave the sweets away. Mostly to me. I still run best on sugar, even now.
Lately my tears have a mind of their own. They come gushing down my face and the first I know is when my shirt is soaking. Or my thick woolly scarf that I use to wrap up against the cold. Like it is now.
‘Oh, dear, crying won’t do, Edie – if anyone knows that it’s me.’ Aunty Jo is holding me at arm’s length, staring at me with an appalled scowl. ‘Come on, dry your eyes. I’ll show you the big barn where Harry was going to have his main workshop.’
Somehow I’m still holding a handful of her coat sleeve. ‘I was going to give you a hug. For the book?’
‘There’s no need – one click, that’s all it took.’ She’s pulled away.
‘It’s a nice coat.’ I’m not letting her off, if she won’t have a hug she can have a compliment. ‘It makes you look like Paddington. Or one of those men who save people from the sea.’
She pulls away, frowning. ‘Oh, dear, it’s my first ever anorak. Don’t lifeboat men wear red, not yellow?’
‘No …’ I know this one. ‘Fire engines are red, yellow shows up in the sea.’ And mostly Paddingtons are blue, but Tash had a yellow one so we could tell them apart and didn’t fight. Except she used to steal the wellingtons from mine because she liked the blue ones better than the red ones. She also stole the massive middle chocolate from inside the big doors on my advent calendar one year too. It’s lucky for me I can still remember that, because I never let her forget it either.
‘The yellow’s too much, isn’t it?’ Aunty Thing’s staring down at herself.
I’m kicking myself for making her doubt. So often I can’t find any words at all. Then the wrong ones have this awful habit of tumbling out before I can stop them. ‘It’s great – yellow’s big this year. And it’s got fur.’ I definitely know this one. ‘It’s a parka. That’s good too.’
‘You’re right there with your colours and your fashion.’
‘Too right.’ There’s no need to panic about the future. I could always try a Saturday job in H&M for a bit. Obviously I’d have to brush up on my cash skills and sort out my numbers first, but whatever.
I follow Aunty Josie beyond the stone-flagged courtyard towards a monumental stone building with huge wooden barn doors with a small door at the centre. As we push through into a vast space I’m pulling my sunnies down off my head.
‘Wow, looking at this you can see why people say barns are like cathedrals. I can see why Harry loved it.’ In spite of the grey day there’s light flooding from windows in the high roof and, with its massive hewn timbers, it’s as big as a village hall. So long as you overlook the monster piles of old planks dumped in random places across the floor, it’s a lot more finished than the stable spaces even though it’s not clear what its use is. I move across to a huge glazed doorway on the other side and take in the next group of buildings beyond a strip of grass. ‘Are they yours too?’
‘No, thankfully, only the field. Those buildings are let out – there’s a caravan factory and a few others.’ She’s about to turn back when she stops. ‘Who’s this?’ There’s a boy hugging himself back against the door frame, staring at us through the glass.
When I push up my shades to get a closer look, the blue jacket is familiar. ‘He was on the lane with a dog the day I came, remember?’ Kicking the mud, just like he is now. Before I can remind her that he hangs out with Mr Nosey-Neighbourhood-Watch she’s turned the key and pushed the door open.
‘Can I help you?’ Her tone is so stern he shrinks so far into his jacket his face almost disappears. ‘Aren’t you too little to be out on your own?’ If she meant to prod him, it’s worked.
‘Actually I’m not small, I’m six.’ As he stands up straighter he ages inch by inch. ‘Have you got any cake at your house?’
‘Cake?’
He’s wrinkling his nose. ‘I’m having some later, but I’m actually hungry now.’
I laugh at how direct he is. ‘Sorry, I ate the last piece for breakfast.’ I’ll pick up more when we finally brave the cold and go down to the harbour later.
His eyebrows shoot up. ‘You can’t have cake for breakfast.’
I find myself back-pedalling under his scorn. ‘It’s not every day. Well, hardly ever. Only because we ran out of oats.’
Aunty Josie clears her throat. ‘Actually we have got cake at the cottage.’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘But you’ll have to wipe your feet before you come in.’
‘You bought cake?’ I didn’t mean to shriek so loud. But what the heck happened to sugar-free? And where the hell’s she hiding it? I might have had some after lunch if I’d known, that’s all.
‘There’s no need to sound so shocked, Edie. It’s Sunday.’
‘So?’
‘It’s a ballerina thing. If you’re careful what you eat every other day of the week, you can eat whatever you like on Sunday.’
‘That’s what you do?’ Apart from it being a million years since she danced, I’m not sure if I’m gobsmacked at the deprivation or relieved she’s breaking out.
‘Of course. I wouldn’t have a figure like this if I didn’t.’
She’s half the width of my mum and me, but we just assumed she had different genes. ‘So what have you got?’
She gives a cough. ‘Carrot cake – it arrived this morning.’ Which explains how it’s escaped my cupboard raids. She turns to the boy. ‘If you’d like some, we’ll be in the cottage next door. You’d better ask your mum first. Or your dad. Or whoever’s looking after you.’ She gives a sniff. ‘Or not looking after you.’
‘That’s Barney.’ He’s already running.
She calls after him, ‘Come around the back. Tell Barney he can come too. We’ll make some tea.’ She turns to me. ‘That must be the window cleaner.’
I clamp my sunnies firmly back on my nose. ‘Barney? Really?’ If that’s the same guy from the lane he’s the last person I’d want to serve tea to. Unless it was green. ‘And, by the way, he doesn’t actually clean windows.’
‘Like you say, it’s good to get to know people.’
‘It is.’ Anyone other than him.
Day 137: Sunday, 18th March
At Periwinkle Cottage
Epic Achievement: Discovering a carrot patch in the vegetable rack.
I’m not sure if it’s the thought of guests or the excitement of an all-you-can-eat day, but as soon she’s delivered my new colouring book Aunty Thing rushes off and starts crashing around the kitchen. As she clatters the cups and plates onto a tray and gets out a gigantic teapot, she’s dancing around so fast her gold pumps are leaving light trails.
She waves at the next room, snaps out another order. ‘Get the cake, Edie, it’s in the vegetable