Annie's Lovely Choir By The Sea Read online

  A plump, teenaged girl in jeans and an apron comes bursting into the room.

  ‘You rang,’ she says wearily. ‘Again.’

  ‘I did, Serena. Could you make us a pot of tea, please.’

  ‘Not really in my job description,’ mutters the girl, stalking out of the room. But she returns a few minutes later with a flowered china teapot, two matching cups and saucers and an open carton of milk on a tray. I’m beginning to think I’ve wandered into a scaled-down version of Downton Abbey.

  ‘Thank you, Serena, though next time could you put the milk into a jug,’ instructs Alice, ignoring the eye-roll and heavy sarcasm as Serena assures her that next time she will be delighted to decant the milk. The girl gives me a hostile stare and rushes out of the room, almost knocking over a large ornament of a cat as she goes.

  ‘Serena lives nearby and comes in some days after school to do a few jobs for me.’ Alice picks up the teapot and stares into my face. ‘You look very like your mother, apart from your blue eyes. Your mother’s were brown.’

  ‘I know,’ I say sharply, searching for some resemblance between my mother and the stern old woman opposite me. There’s something about the crease between Alice’s eyebrows that looks similar but that’s all. Nothing about Mrs Gowan or this place feels familiar and if I came here hoping to find an echo of my mum I’m going to be disappointed.

  ‘Tell me about your mother,’ demands Alice, handing me a cup of tea. ‘I want to know what happened to her after she left Salt Bay.’

  She really doesn’t. I could tell her the truth about our constant moves between small flats across London because Mum got bored, the ‘uncles’ who came and went, her crazy schemes when she would encourage me to play truant so we could ride the Underground all day, and her low moods that would strike out of a blue sky and smother her for weeks.

  But I don’t think the family that abandoned my mum deserves the truth so I give great-aunt Alice the sanitised version, where the sun shone every day until Mum died three years ago of breast cancer she had ignored for too long.

  When I’ve finished, Alice gives me a hard stare and takes a sip of tea. ‘And what about you, Annabella?’

  ‘It’s Annie, and there’s nothing much to tell. I’ll be thirty just before next Christmas, I work as a PA – a personal assistant – and I share a flat with a girl in Stratford.’

  ‘No boyfriend?’

  ‘Nope, I’m a free spirit.’ This sounds a bit pathetic even to me as I sit steaming in front of the fire in Alice’s old-fashioned sitting room. ‘I don’t mean to be rude but why did you ask me to come here?’

  Alice gives a faint smile.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not up to travelling to London these days and I was curious to see what my great-niece was like. I also have a business proposal to put to you. I was going to wait a while before speaking about it but it seems you’d prefer me to be direct.’ There’s a tremor in her hand when she puts down her tea cup. ‘I need someone to help me around the house for a while, someone to live in, and I thought you might be interested, especially as Elliott tells me you’re between jobs at the moment. I can’t pay much but you’d have bed and board and time to explore Cornwall. Think of it as a working holiday.’

  I look past her at the rain lashing down outside. ‘Why are you asking me?’

  ‘I’d like to get to know you and I’d rather it was someone who’s family than a total stranger.’

  ‘We’ve only just met so I am a total stranger. I could be an axe murderer for all you know.’

  ‘Elliott made a few discreet enquiries about you before sending my letter and there was no hint of homicide. They say that blood is thicker than water, Annabella. Wouldn’t you like to find out? Aren’t you curious at all about your family?’ She stops abruptly and gazes into the distance as though she’s seen a ghost, which freaks me out. ‘Anyway.’ She suddenly looks weary. ‘Please think about it and we can talk more in the morning. There’s some food ready for you in the kitchen and I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping, because I’m sure the travelling has made you tired. Serena has prepared a bedroom for you.’

  On cue, Serena pokes her head round the door.

  ‘I’m heading off now Mrs Gowan ’cos it’s almost six o’clock. Josh has come to collect me seeing as it’s still pissing – sorry, pouring – down.’ She nods towards the window through which I can see a tall, dark-haired man unfolding himself from a battered black Mini, the same Mini that almost took me out an hour earlier.

  ‘Who exactly is Josh?’

  Serena gives me a surprised look. ‘He’s just my brother.’

  ‘Josh works as a teacher in Trecaldwith which is a town a few miles away. I expect your taxi went through it,’ says Alice, pouring more tea. ‘He teaches English and he’s about your age so you might have a few things in common. Could you ask him to come in for a minute, Serena.’

  Before I can protest, Serena grunts ‘S’pose’, disappears into the hall and there’s a murmur of voices before she and Josh come into the room. He’s at least six foot tall and fills the low doorway.

  ‘Hello Mrs Gowan.’ When he’s not yelling, his voice is deep and he has the same soft-burr accent as Alice. Though he doesn’t sound particularly pleased to see my great-aunt.

  ‘Good evening, Josh. This is Annabella, my great-niece, who’s visiting me for a while from London.’

  Josh looks at me and starts to smile until the penny drops that we’ve met before. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and pulls his shoulders back.

  ‘From London, you say. Fancy that.’

  ‘Annabella works as a PA,’ says Alice.

  ‘Really?’ Josh sizes me up and down and rubs a hand over the faint stubble on his chin. ‘Isn’t that just a fancy title for a secretary?’

  Ignoring his question, I smile at him sweetly.

  ‘Alice tells me you’re a teacher. It must be lovely only working for nine months of the year.’

  Serena smirks at her brother and picks up her bag from the floor while he glares at me but says nothing.

  ‘See you on Friday then, Mrs Gowan.’ Serena puts her purple rucksack over her shoulder and glances at me with a slight smile. ‘Bye Annabella. I might see you on Friday too, then.’ She looks round for her brother but he’s already swept out of the room.

  As Josh and Serena pile into the Mini, I take another sip of my tea which is lukewarm and tastes vaguely of aftershave. I don’t know why I said that about teachers. Some of my friends are teachers and they work their socks off, but the man’s an idiot and he started it with his snarky comment about secretaries. He brings out the worst in me and I’ll do my best to avoid him during my brief stay in Salt Bay.

  Chapter 5

  The rain has finally stopped when I wake the next morning but thick clouds are still scudding across a grey sky. The house is chilly and after pulling back the brocade curtains I rush back to my bed with its old-fashioned sheets, blankets and patchwork counterpane. Maybe duvets haven’t made it as far as Cornwall. The weight of the blankets felt suffocating when I first slipped under the covers but I was so tired I soon fell into a deep sleep, only roused occasionally by the creaking of a strange house.

  None of this feels familiar. I thought it might – like some sort of inherited memory from my mum – but everything just feels strange and awkward. And Alice’s proposal out of the blue is bizarre. I’ll stay for a couple of days because she shelled out loads for my train fare and it would be rude not to. She’s also quite scary. But then I’ll head back to my proper life because I was right, I don’t need family. Keeping in touch with Alice might be appropriate – Christmas cards and perhaps a postcard when I go on holiday – but I doubt I’ll ever visit her here again. Why on earth would I?

  Alice is moving around downstairs so, after a while, I throw back the covers and head for the wooden-floored bathroom next to my room. The bathtub has a rolled top and claw feet and looks amazing but everything else is slightly shabby. A cold draught
is snaking in through the closed window, there are cracks in the cream walls and paint is flaking from the blistered ceiling. But at least the water is steaming hot and I feel revived after soaking in the tub for ten minutes.

  Alice is polishing a brass coal scuttle when I go into the kitchen, which is warmed by a vast black Aga. She’s laid a cloth over the table and is scrubbing at the brass with scrunched-up newspaper.

  ‘There you are.’ She stops polishing and brushes a strand of snow-white hair from her forehead. ‘There’s tea in the pot and cornflakes in that cupboard. Milk’s in the fridge.’

  She goes back to her scuttle but watches me while I pour myself tea and a bowl of cereal.

  ‘Did you sleep well, Annabella?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. The bed was really comfy and I love your beautiful old bath.’

  ‘That was my mother’s pride and joy and it still serves its purpose so there’s no point in changing it.’

  ‘How long have you lived here?’ I ask, wondering if I’ve poured myself too many cornflakes. At home I don’t usually bother with breakfast.

  ‘I was born in this house. This is the Trebarwith family home and has been for generations. My great-great grandfather bought it after making a lucrative investment in local tin mines, and it’s been passed down to me through the Trebarwith line.’

  She scrubs at a mark on the scuttle while I wonder what it must be like to have long-standing roots in one place. There isn’t one part of London that feels like home because Mum and I moved around so much. Even Stratford, where I’ve lived for two years, is just a pit-stop on my way to somewhere else.

  ‘What do you think of the house?’ demands Alice.

  ‘It’s… it’s very handsome.’

  Alice scrunches up another sheet of the Telegraph and rubs it across the brass.

  ‘Handsome. Yes, I suppose it is. Though I don’t suppose it has all the mod cons you young people in London are used to.’

  ‘Do you have Wi-Fi?’ I ask hopefully but Alice looks puzzled. ‘So I can get onto the Internet?’

  ‘Ah, I’m afraid not. I’m not sure the Wi-Fi can reach us here. And if you’ve got a mobile phone, that won’t work in the house either. Too many cliffs, apparently.’

  Great, I really am in the huge black hole that time forgot.

  Alice looks up and gestures towards the window.

  ‘I thought you might want to explore the village this morning. Your coat has dried off overnight. It’s too windy to take an umbrella so you might want to be back by lunchtime because it’s going to rain later.’

  Of course it is.

  Chapter 6

  Salt Bay is small. It takes me only half an hour to wander along the valley from one end of the village to the other, and you could fit the whole place into a floor or two of the Westfield shopping centre in Stratford. It’s prettier than Westfield, if you like teeny tiny cottages and views of cliffs and boats and endless seagulls. But it’s a lot less vibrant. The only people out and about are an elderly couple walking their dog who, when I look back, are standing still as statues, staring at me. It’s like the start of a horror film where a new girl arrives in the remote hamlet of Satan’s Den, little knowing what fate awaits her – even though the name is a bit of a clue.

  Salt Bay is also nothing like a retail mecca. Apart from the newsagent’s and a closed ice-cream kiosk, there’s a tiny grocery store and Maureen’s Cornish Tea Shop which has brightly coloured cloths on its tables. And I’m not surprised to see that the village has a pub, The Whistling Wave. I bet the people who live here drink loads. I would.

  Giving the pub a miss, I queue up in the tea shop behind an old man in a thick fisherman’s sweater who orders cheese on toast.

  ‘Can I have a soy caffè latte with extra foam please,’ I say to the girl behind the counter when it’s my turn. She wrinkles her nose and shrugs her shoulders. ‘What kind of coffees do you do then?’

  ‘Instant, with or without milk.’ She scoops a pile of mugs off the counter and drops them into the sink behind her.

  ‘Soya milk?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Cappuccino?’

  ‘We had a machine but it’s on the blink. So we’ve got instant, black or white.’

  A loud Australian voice booms out, ‘Personally I’d kill my own grandmother for a honey macchiato.’

  A red-haired girl behind me in a purple fleece winks when I turn round.

  ‘If I were you, I’d go for the hot chocolate. They put Cornish cream on top. It’ll give you a heart attack but you’ll die happy.’ When she smiles, her green eyes crinkle at the edges.

  ‘Thanks. That’s good to know.’ I order hot chocolate and the girl does the same before sitting opposite me at a table near the window.

  She puts out her hand. ‘I’m Kayla. Nice to meet you.’

  ‘You too. I’m Annie.’ I shake her hand and spoon the yellow cream floating on thick liquid chocolate into my mouth. It tastes like heaven.

  Kayla laughs at my expression and cups her hands round her mug. ‘It’s good isn’t it, though I’ve put on half a stone in the last three months. Have you been here long, Annie?’

  ‘Only since yesterday. I’m visiting Alice Gowan. She, um, she knew my mother.’

  ‘I know Alice. Mind you, I know just about everyone and I didn’t think I’d seen you around. Your first visit?’

  ‘Yes, and you’re obviously not from round here.’

  ‘Well spotted, Sherlock!’ Kayla gulps down a mouthful of chocolate and wipes a cream moustache from her upper lip. ‘I’m from Sydney on a gap year, though my gap year has lasted eighteen months so far.’

  ‘Why would you leave the golden beaches of sunny Australia for Salt Bay?’

  ‘Hey, have you seen my colouring?’ Kayla picks up a strand of her long, auburn hair and shakes it. ‘Australian weather is a nightmare for people like me. The climate here is bloody great. I only have to wear suncream in July and August and there are plenty of fantastic golden beaches round here too if you know where to look.’ She taps the side of her freckled nose. ‘I can show you.’

  ‘Where are your family from originally?’

  ‘My grandmother was Irish and my grandfather was English but they decided the best place to emigrate to, with their pale complexions, was one of the hottest countries in the world. Madness! Both of them looked like wrinkled prunes by the time they were sixty. That was in the days before slip-slop-slap.’

  ‘Slip, slop, what?’

  ‘Haven’t you heard of “slip on a shirt, slop on sunscreen and slap on a hat”?’

  ‘No, though “slip on your anorak and slop on your wellies” might be more appropriate round here.’

  ‘Nah, the weather can be good sometimes and, when it is, there’s nowhere more beautiful than Cornwall in the whole world.’

  When I raise my eyebrows in disbelief, Kayla gulps down the last of her hot chocolate.

  ‘Drink up, I’m going to show you the local sights.’ She stands up and pats her flat-as-a-board stomach. ‘Look at that! Too much clotted cream and not enough striding over cliffs. I work in the local pub, too, with all those bags of peanuts and pork scratchings around. I bloody love pork scratchings. If we don’t have them in Australia, we should. Maybe I could set up an import business.’

  She leads me away from the tea shop towards the village green where a child with tumbling golden curls is hurling bread at two seagulls. A crust bounces off one gull’s head and the girl giggles.

  ‘That’s seven-year-old Celine who’s bunking off school again with some imaginary ailment. She lives in that cottage over there,’ says Kayla out of the corner of her mouth. ‘Face of an angel but the personality of a freaking psychopath. I caught her pulling the wings off flies a while ago. Mark my words’ – she taps the side of her head – ‘psychopath. And the woman who lives in that house by the tree is having an affair with a fisherman from Perrigan Bay. I hear all sorts of stuff working in the pub. Do you know anyone around here apart from Ali
ce?’

  ‘I met Serena, and I had a few words with her brother Josh.’

  ‘Josh Pasco?’

  ‘I don’t know his surname.’

  ‘Tall, dark, brooding? Looks a bit like Poldark off the telly?’ Kayla bends her arms as though she’s weightlifting. ‘Nice pecs.’

  ‘Possibly. I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Not gay, are you?’ asks Kayla, zipping up her thick purple fleece.

  ‘Blimey, that’s direct! No, I go for blokes.’

  ‘That’s a shame. You could have been the only gay in the village. What?’ laughs Kayla. ‘We like Little Britain in Australia too. And we’re renowned for being direct. It’s a national trait.’ She points over my shoulder. ‘See the church over there? That was built like a gazillion years ago and it’s hardly used these days but it’s worth a look inside. Are you religious?’

  ‘Not really. My mum was into alternative stuff, like Gaia and sun worship.’

  ‘Cool,’ says Kayla, pushing open the churchyard gate and letting me go through first.

  The church is built of large, granite blocks scored by centuries of full-on Cornish weather. In the full-to-bursting churchyard, gravestones are crammed up close to one another, with some tilting at crazy angles.

  Kayla runs her hand along the top of a stone that’s about to fall over.

  ‘There’s another cemetery on the cliffs, to take the overspill. They seem to have a lot of dead people round here. Would you like to see inside the church? The door’s usually unlocked during the daytime.’

  She pushes open the heavy wooden door and a musty smell of dust and damp hits my nose. The church smells like an old library full of secrets. It’s very simple inside. There are a few dark pews with embroidered kneelers in reds and greens, a tall vase of lilies near the stone pulpit and, on the altar under a stained-glass window, there’s a chunky wooden cross that has been bolted down.

  Kayla spots me looking at the bolts and giggles.