Edie Browne’s Cottage by the Sea: A heartwarming, hilarious romance read set in Cornwall!
to shut the fuck up. I was worried Barney might hitch a lift too, in the hope of bagging more gullible Airbnb cottage garden owners, but luckily he didn’t. In any case, it was literally a couple of bounces around bends and then we were down at The Deck, blocking the mews there.
While Loella goes off to find somewhere to double park, I send Aunty Jo ahead of me through the door with a shove that’s considerably bigger than she is. ‘No need to get all fidgety, Aunty Jo, there are lots of people we know.’
As we make our way towards the chairs arranged in rows in front of a white pull-up screen and Beth dances over, I’m waving back at so many people I feel like I’ve been here way longer than a week.
‘Josie, you must meet my dad, Malcolm. I saved you seats next to him.’ As Beth turns to me she drops her voice. ‘We lost Mum five years ago, but it’s been so much tougher since he retired in the autumn.’
By the time I wriggle out of my jacket and into the chair beside them, they’re already deep in some discussion about perennial geraniums, whatever they are. When they finally pause I hiss into Aunty Jo’s ear, ‘How do you know so much about gardening?’
She gives a sniff. ‘I’ve heard about it from Harry over the years. I can definitely hold my own on alliums.’ She glances behind us to where there’s a guy arranging boxes of slides. ‘And you can’t beat a good magic lantern show.’
As Loella claps her hands at the front I have a brief moment of polka-dot dress envy, then everyone goes quiet. ‘So welcome everybody. Jeremy’s standing by at the projector with an hour’s worth of slides showing his take on last year’s Wild and Blooming Festival in St Aidan. Then afterwards we’ll move on to coffee, cake and chat.’ As everyone claps she slips to the back, switches off the lights and sits down.
As I settle into my seat my main worry is about what’s going to happen if I snore. With the promise of so many flower pictures, probably all the same, I’m already biting back a yawn. Realistically, my concentration isn’t great at the best of times. In the dark, after a hard day of paper stripping, I’m likely to stay awake approximately a nanosecond. Then Jeremy starts clicking his handset, there’s a flash of lights on the screen as he flips through his first few slides to find where to begin.
My stomach clenches and I clamp my eyes closed. Why the heck did I not think? I prod Aunty Jo as I get up and whisper, ‘The flashing isn’t good, I’d better go.’
‘Shall I come with you?’ She’s wrenching her gaze away from daisies blowing in a summer breeze.
‘You stay – I’ll see you at the end.’ I ease into the aisle and dip to avoid the light beam from the projector. The last thing I want to do is disturb everyone by causing a big on-screen shadow as I go, so I drop down and crawl between the chairs, returning all the perturbed looks with smiles and little waves, trying to look like I planned this all along.
On my hands and knees, trailing my jacket along the rough-hewn boards might not be the most dignified way to leave, and it makes a mockery of how long I spent getting my eyeliner perfect. But it’s better than staying and ending up like I did a couple of weeks after my stroke – coming round on my parents’ living room floor, looking up at my mum and dad’s terrified faces with my words extra blurry and wet pants. And all because the strobe lights on the Top of the Pops revisit to 1977 gave me a seizure.
Afterwards my mum was furious with my dad for making us watch it, but those two love their nostalgia. That was the year of Queen’s Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy and they always go all moony when that comes on. My mum once confessed to Tash and I about having Freddy Mercury posters on her bedroom wall, but obviously Dad thinks it’s all about him. Usually Tash and I end up fake vomming over the chair arm, which they hate, so at least me sliding off the cushions and hitting the floor jerking saved them from that.
Even though the fit only lasted seconds it was lucky Tash was there to take control. Luckier still that Dad hadn’t given in and let Mum take up the old laminate floor and put down carpet instead. She’d actually got as far as choosing one, but it’s a point of honour in their relationship that Dad resists every one of her forward pushes. Imagine if I’d made a massive wet patch in front of the sofa on her brand new Nordic loop. She’d have been beside herself.
As it was, the puddle ran all the way under the coffee table and out the other side, where it hit Tiddlywink’s foot. Apparently Tiddlywink didn’t move a muscle, she just stood rigid and watched it soaking into the blue velvet of her Little Mermaid slipper. That child is one cool cookie, nothing fazes her. By the time I came round and got back downstairs in some dry clothes, it was all mopped up, and we got in before the Friday night rush at A&E. But, needless to say, I don’t want to relive that. Especially not in front of the happy gardeners.
Plum is waiting for me by the door, her paint-spattered overalls looking a lot like her sea pictures. ‘Everything okay?’
I nod. ‘I don’t do flashing lights, I’ll go for a walk instead.’ I’d rather they didn’t know the details.
‘Right.’ Her eyes are full of concern, but she skips the awkward questions and sticks with the practical stuff. ‘You’re welcome to come and wait upstairs, I promise to find you a paint-free corner.’
‘Thanks, but I’ll grab some alone time.’ I make my smile extra bright.
Her whisper turns to a chortle. ‘Good luck with that – no one’s ever on their own for long in St Aidan.’
I step outside, still doing up my coat. As I pull my scarf tighter against a flurry of wind, the cobbles are washed with pale light from the shop windows. I stop by Crusty Cobs to count the strawberry tarts – four – and custard slices – three – and only hurry on when I start to shiver. When I get to the harbour the water is shiny black, and the rigging is clinking against the dark lines of masts as they bob against the sky. As I stride past the rows of tiny pastel-painted cottages fronting onto the quayside Aunty Jo’s tunes are on slow-mo in my head.
Whatever I’m doing, I always have a mental backing track playing. The day of the jump I had Titanium on repeat, when I was out on my building sites it was always something fast and bouncy. Blasting around the country with Marcus in his ever changing convertibles, Cold Play was where our musical tastes collided. For me that When I Ruled the World song was like Marcus’s signature tune and the backing track to our life together. Since I’ve been ill I can’t believe how much lippy I get though making damn sure my happy, super smiley outside shell hasn’t changed any. But, however hard I try on the inside, all I can get in my head are slow chords and heart-wrenching, minor keys. At times, even Aunty Jo’s ‘wring out your hanky’ songs feel too upbeat.
That’s another strange thing. Just as reading and writing and speaking are all powered by different parts of the brain, singing stems from yet another area. I might struggle to put two words together, but entire lines of lyrics pop up in my mind without me wanting them to be there at all. It’s happening as I slip along the dune path down to the beach. There’s a crescent moon in the sky, and the music playing in my ears slows to a Johnny Cash plod … full of broken thoughts … I cannot repair … I will let you down … I will make you hurt … It’s as if the working part of my brain automatically knows those are exactly the right lines. However much I put on a happy face to the outside world, really, really mournful music is the true expression of who I am and where my life is right now.
As I thread my way down to where the breakers are rushing up the beach in pale wavy lines my eyes are getting more used to the darkness. Around the bay the arc of pinprick lights follows the line of the coast, but their gentle twinkle against the mottled black of the sky isn’t a threat. When I slide my phone out of my pocket, it lights up and tells me what I already know – the little line of dots in the screen corner has gone. The signal and internet give out somewhere higher up the hill which means my phone genie, Siri, has gone all silent on me, not that she’s ever that cooperative. Not only that, but even if I needed to, I couldn’t ring Mum or Bella.
The realisation slides into focus as slowly as the music – for the first time in months I’m totally on my own. Out of reach. Away