Edie Browne’s Cottage by the Sea: A heartwarming, hilarious romance read set in Cornwall!
he looks totally at one with the thunder-grey clouds billowing behind him. ‘The creaking is the beauty of a timber hull. With a whole world of ocean stretched out beyond us, there’s such a wonderful feeling of freedom, that’s all.’
‘Probably more a feeling of totally bricking it.’
His teeth are closing on his lip. ‘Don’t worry, we’re on our way back in now. We’re going to drop the boat around the other side of the harbour. It’s your first time out, I’m sure you’ll enjoy it more next time.’
‘I seriously doubt it.’ It’s not like there will be another, I won’t fall for this twice. A thought flashes into my head. ‘You don’t make poor Cam do this, do you?’
He’s shaking his head. ‘For now Cam doesn’t do boats. Mostly I come out in the afternoons, which is why I thought you might be up for the occasional blast around?’
‘Not being rude—’
‘But you’re going to be anyway?’
‘I’d rather have my teeth pulled.’ All things considered. The heaving. My soaking feet and my soggy bum. The BOOMS! And that’s before we get to the company, and feeling seasick. ‘To express how much I enjoy that, you should know I once had a tooth out when I was eleven and I had to go all the way to Bristol to a special centre for nervous patients and be knocked out with Valium.’
He throws me a ‘what the eff?’ look then turns to the pontoon that’s racing towards us. ‘Well, that went well.’
As he stands up and unzips his life jacket I ignore the view up his sweatshirt. We’re bumping up against some other jetty now and he’s winding down the sail and bundling it into the bottom of the boat. And, just before he launches into his Superman routine again, he bends down and picks up this giant-size spanner. ‘Here, hang onto this for a second while I tie up.’
My arms sag under the weight, and there’s a lurch as he springs off the edge of the boat. I watch as he thuds onto the jetty and secures the boat with one deft twist of the rope.
He’s holding out his hand. ‘Okay, Edie, let’s get you back on dry land.’
I shuffle as far as I can on my bum, then, as I stagger to my feet, the huge spanner slides through my fingers and plummets downwards. There’s a second when I almost catch it somewhere around my knees, but it’s like a slippery fish sliding down the Dayglo fabric. A moment later it plunges through the narrow gap between the boat side and the jetty’s edge, and on into the soupy depths of the harbour.
‘Crap!’ My stomach is plunging faster than the spanner. And SHIT, ARSE and BOLLOCKS for not being able to rely on my grip any more.
‘Last time you were throwing knives at me, now it’s a wrench?’
I could kick seven bells out of the jetty side, but I’d rather jump into the harbour than have him know the truth. I grind my teeth, push my growl deep inside me. ‘I’m SO sorry.’
‘Don’t worry, these oversized tools make bids for freedom all the time. This is nothing – last week someone dropped a twelve grand outboard engine out in the bay. We’re in a fishing port, we’ll send in the deep-sea divers.’
‘Really?’ That sounds major.
‘Only joking – of course we won’t, we’ll hook it out at low tide.’ He glances at his watch. ‘Not that I want to rush you, but the class is almost over.’
As I clamber back onto the landing stage, I know I’m never going to live this down. As for where the time went, it definitely didn’t fly because I was enjoying myself.
And that was my afternoon at Patchwork.
Day 142: Friday, 23rd March
The day room at Periwinkle Cottage
Epic Achievement: Making a start.
‘Remind me why we have to do this now?’ Aunty Jo is tapping the toe of her least favourite rose gold pumps on the dust sheet we’ve thrown down on the flowery carpet.
This last week I’ve worked out the easiest way to deal with Aunty Jo is to ambush her. It’s our first day in ages without social events, so me leaping out of bed this morning, pulling on my boyfriend jeans and my weekend Hush C’est si bon sweatshirt, then starting to rip the wallpaper off the walls in the day room straight after breakfast is my way of leapfrogging any resistance.
It’s fine to roll out the reasons now it’s too late for her to stop me. ‘A decorator could take ages to come, and that’s when we find one, so I made a start.’ As boss of the job, I’ve decided – without consultation – it’s best to begin with the room where we spend most time, then work backwards through the house.
She’s still not convinced. ‘But I’ve never decorated before, not personally.’
The part where I pull her along on a wave of enthusiasm isn’t working. ‘We’ll do the easy bits, and call in the pro’s when we get stuck.’ Apart from anything else, it’s good for me to get back to practical tasks. Aunty Jo’s day room is only small and the ceilings are low so decorating it should be a great way to ease myself in and progress with ‘the quest’ at the same time.
When we were kids Tash and I used to scrap over helping Dad with the decorating. I was chief wallpaper paster, and a dab hand with a paint pot, so even if I didn’t run interior jobs I’d know what I’m doing. I slide my fish slice under a join in the design near the floor. As I ease the edge away there’s a wonderful ripping sound, and an entire panel of paper tears free from the wall. I bundle it up and grin.
Aunty Jo coughs and frowns down at a flake of paint on the floor. ‘It’s looking awfully messy, shall I get the vacuum?’
‘For now, why not rip off?’ However much she looks on the verge of a breakdown, this is my kind of fun and I can’t let her miss out. So I pass her a slice and a bin bag. As I dip a sponge in my bucket of suds and slosh soapy water onto the bits of paper still clinging to the wall I take pity on her.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll tidy later.’
She’s still hesitating, but now she’s staring at my legs. ‘Why not borrow some of Harry’s pyjamas? I’ve got lots of second-best ones.’
‘I’m probably okay, thanks all the same.’ Her wearing them is bad enough, but I can’t tell her that so I take a different tack. ‘How about some music?’ I always work better with some trashy pop to help me along. I’d sort it myself but my speaker is upstairs, and, even if I’m ripping her living room to pieces, I’m still very much a visitor when it comes to choosing music and TV.
She hugs her chest. ‘Would you like some Tchaikovsky? Or Vivaldi’s Four Seasons?’
‘Not if there’s anything else.’ We already had The Nutcracker right through our porridge and chia seeds. ‘How about music for cleaning?’
‘You mean Housework Songs?’ Aunty Jo’s brow furrows. ‘It’s not something I ever needed. In Harpenden I always had help.’
Of course she did – how did I not remember? ‘Loaded and spoiled with it’ was how my more robust mum put it, in her meaner, more frustrated moments. She taught French full-time and looked after a family of four, while Aunty Jo, who didn’t work and only had her and Harry at home, had at least two cleaning ladies, window cleaners, personal shoppers and an army of outdoor helpers at any one time.
‘Something similar, then?’ My fingers are tightly crossed under my slice. ‘A ‘hills are alive’ nun-in-the-mountains singalong would be good. Or Mamma Mia?’
‘Will this do?’ She fumbles in the sofa footstool