Edie Browne’s Cottage by the Sea: A heartwarming, hilarious romance read set in Cornwall!

4

Day 133: Wednesday, 14th March

Periwinkle Cottage

Epic Achievement: Finding the kettle.

‘This way, Edie.’

I’m following Aunty Josie as she pushes through a picket gate at the far end of the house, trundling my biggest case behind me. Round the back of the cottage there are weeds between the stone setts and the pale tangle of last year’s grass, but at least we’re sheltered from the worst of the wind. I pause to take in the pale grey stone of the cottage wrapping around a pretty courtyard, a walled garden beyond, small paned window frames crying out for paint. As we head past a painted conservatory to a door in the far corner, it’s easy to see that the ship’s bell is so far away from here I might as well have rung it out at sea. I follow her into the back porch, let go of my bags, then dip in for a hug.

‘Well, Aunty Josie, it’s great to be here at last.’ As I go in to rub my cheek against hers I wonder if she still smells of Nina Ricci.

L’Air du Temps. In pale lemon packages. With the prettiest frosted flying doves on the bottle tops. When we were kids Tash and I used to fight to sit at her dressing table. It was so exotic compared to our mum’s, and always rammed with fancy fragrances. That happens when your husband travels for work and heads for the shop in every airport he passes through, and never forgets a birthday or an anniversary. Unlike our dad, who rarely flies and doesn’t know what day it is, even though he’s great in other ways. Which was a good thing, because I can’t ever imagine Aunty Josie buying perfume for herself. As I squeeze her into a hug I can feel every rib through what I’d swear are striped pyjamas.

I smile at her. ‘It’s a lovely place you’ve got here.’ Or it could be, with some TLC, which is where I come in. I’m looking at the outbuildings beyond the garden wall. ‘Are they yours too?’

‘Yes, all ours. Or rather, all mine.’ She gives a sigh. ‘Harry had such big plans.’ His whole working life Harry dreamed of living by the sea. Him dying within weeks of them getting here was tragic. For both of them.

I pull her in for another hug. ‘You were lucky to find it.’ In this corner of the world where the coastline wiggles around the harbours and villages, everyone wants outbuildings and a view of the sea.

‘There’s so much to do, I’m holed up in one room.’ Which probably explains all those closed blinds and blank windows too.

‘Don’t worry.’ As I squeeze her arm I realise it’s a change to be the one doing the comforting. As I drag my bags and follow her inside, the sight of the kitchen makes my mouth drop open.

‘Let’s have some tea.’ As she fills the kettle she disappears against the riot of hydrangeas on the wallpaper. Only her feet, in first position in silver pumps, give away where she’s standing.

‘Someone liked flowers.’ It’s what’s known in the trade as migraine wallpaper.

She shakes her head. ‘The wallpaper was how we managed to buy it – most viewers didn’t get past the hall.’

‘I’ll get the milk.’ I’d make a grab for my tinted glasses but I don’t want to upset her, so I head for the soothing white of the fridge, hoping to find a sugar hit too. As I swing open the door I realise my double whammy mistake. Not only is there no milk; unless you go for colourless smoothies, nothing in there actually looks edible.

‘Will green tea be okay? It’s great for your yin and yang.’ The set of her mouth tells me this isn’t up for discussion. My mum does the same thing, but she’ll throw in a smile too. When I think about it, the joking around always came from Harry, but it’s a bit late to remember that now.

‘Have you gone low-fat?’

‘There’s a milkman. I’ll get him to call again now you’re here.’ She brushes an invisible crumb off her knee. ‘I’m actually eliminating this week.’

Which explains why the milkman lost the will to live. ‘That wrecks my plan to cheer us up with a fish supper.’

She pushes a steaming cup towards me. ‘I could take off the batter and you could have my chips.’

Chips. Of course. That’s what they’re called. So far I’ve reconnected with the words ‘chocolate’, ‘cake’ and ‘custard’ without difficulty. Now she’s reminded me, I’m feeling the gap where my stomach should be.

‘You’ve still got your car?’ Mum already checked. I know I’m here for the peace and quiet, but this would be a nightmare place to be stranded without one. If we zoom we could be down to the fish shop in no time.

‘It hasn’t been out for a while.’ The corners of her mouth dip even further. ‘But when we do get it started, you will do the driving?’

Shit. ‘Sorry, Aunty – Aunty …’

‘Josie.’

‘I’m not driving. That’s why I came in the Uber.’ Aunty Josie. I need to get that in my head. As for my licence, we’re all hoping I’ll get that back in a few months. Or maybe a bit longer. Which reminds me. ‘Does the man from down the lane bother you?’

Her nostrils flare. ‘It’s fine – the delivery drivers all know to leave the lane clear, I don’t often see him.’ Which is the best news yet.

Deliveries. The alarm bell clanging in my head is louder than the one outside. ‘When did you last go out?’ I watch her pull her top around her as she works it out.

‘I’ve been up to visit your mum every couple of months, you know that.’

‘But you do get dressed apart from that?’ She has to.

‘I never go without undies.’ She drags in a breath and sits up very straight. ‘Your mum and I both have a soft spot for Cath Kidston sleepwear. I expect you’re the same?’

‘You got navy and red stripes from Cath Kidston?’ Loungewear used to be my first choice, but lately pyjamas in the day make me feel too much like an invalid. And I might be confused, but I’m damn sure those stripes aren’t a colourway I ever saw in the Bath shop.

A flash of guilt crosses her face. ‘Actually these are Harry’s.’ Her hands are in the pockets and as she winds the jacket tight around her hips her nose goes up in defiance. ‘They’re warm. He had so many pairs I might as well get my wear out of them.’

‘Great.’ I’m sounding the kind of bright that goes with pretending that her wearing my dead uncle’s pyjamas is entirely expected and everyday normal. Considering it’s off-the-scale bonkers, I have to ask. ‘So, when did you last put your coat on and pop into St Aidan?’

‘It was the first meeting at Trenowden’s Solicitors, to deal with the will.’ She pauses and winds the wedding ring that’s loose on her finger. ‘George from there has been very good. Since then he’s brought things to me.’

‘But that has to be ages ago?’

‘Only a year and a bit.’ Her tone brightens. ‘You know what it’s like. Harry was the extrovert, I’m hardly going to go out on my own when I don’t know anyone.’

This is way worse than any of us thought.

She takes a sip of her tea. ‘Anyway, enough about me. You’re looking well.’

I don’t tell her how often I hear that, or how it makes me feel like a pretender every time. ‘I’ll show you my magic secret.’ I smile and whip out my make-up bag.

She comes in closer. ‘Laura Geller Balance-n-Brighten? How does that help with your brain?’

I can’t help laughing. ‘It’s not for my head, just for my cheeks.’ My make-up bag’s never been so full. When other parts let you down, how you look matters more. That’s another reason I’m welded to my pink and black dogtooth coat and my Audrey Hepburn slim tailored slacks.

‘You mean for contouring? I’ll have to try some of that.’ She gives a knowing nod. ‘I might not have bothered with proper clothes, but however bad I’ve felt, I’ve always put my face on.’

‘You didn’t run out of powder?’

She shakes her head. ‘You must have heard of Amazon Prime? It’s well worth the extra, they deliver all the way to the French windows in the day room.’

‘Is that where we’re going now?’ I dump my tea down the sink, then follow her into a space where the giant poppies and ferns furling between black bars on the wall make it feel like being locked in a cage in a hot-house.

She edges onto a cream linen sofa. ‘You’ll be used to lavish decor like this with your work?’

I didn’t ever work on the designs as such, but we never let our statement prints get out of control like they are here. How can I put it without being downright rude?

‘Our designs are … less in your face.’ Less likely to make you gasp for all the wrong reasons.

‘A crumbly cottage by the sea was Harry’s dream, not mine.’ Her frown drives the last of her lightness away. ‘I’d swap back to my Harpenden Tudor in a heartbeat if only I could.’

That was nineties mock, not fifteenth century Elizabethan, and Dad insisted the half-timbering was plastic. But the staircase scored a ten on the Cinderella scale, so as kids Tash and I were smitten. It also had a garden so large it could easily have swallowed up our entire cul-de-sac.

‘It could be worse.’ Ignoring the paper, the place looks sound enough.

‘Worse how?’ Her voice rises to a shriek. ‘It’s dreary and dirty, it’s practically being blown off the clifftop and the nearest John Lewis is counties away.’

‘I’m here now, I’ve got this.’ All I need to do is to make the place fit to sell. ‘We’ll have you back to happy Harpenden before you can say Henry the Eighth.’ I only hope I’m not talking bollocks. Me coming through on this is vital for both of us, then we can both move on. But the great thing is, it’s not like my real job where everything’s too hard. This is stuff I can do, and it’s going to be great to feel useful. I’m going to love it here, with the beach and the sea, and no one to judge what I can’t do. We’re a perfect match – Aunty Jo needs the help and someone to jolly her along. I need a place to stay, some company while I get better. Back to how I was.

‘It’s very good of you to come.’

She sounds so uncharacteristically grateful there’s a lump in my throat. My mum’s always been the sister with the less shiny life, and we’re used to being the shabby relations who get looked down on, not the ones who come to the rescue. We’ve never had to help fix things before, because Josie and Harry didn’t have disasters like the rest of us. But she can relax now; the cavalry has come to Cornwall. Give me a few months, I’ll make sure she’s okay again – or at least as okay as you can be when you’ve lost your life partner.

‘I’m happy to help.’ Even if I haven’t the first idea how I’m going to cope with the sludge in the fridge or how stubborn and snobby Aunty Thing can be at times, it’s buying me the time I need to get back to how I used to be, and turning her life around too. ‘You know me, I always like a …’ It’s the one word that always escapes me. I’m Zinc Inc Interiors’ some-kind-of manager for the south-east. How the hell do I not know it?

The worry lines in her brow deepen as she considers. ‘A quest?’

‘Quest. That’ll do. You’re my quest.’ I let out a short sigh because, like so many things in my life now, it’s not quite right. And it’s not completely wrong either. But for now it will have to do. ‘Shall we phone for a pizza?’

5

Day 134: Thursday, 15th March

At Periwinkle Cottage

Epic Achievement: Getting Aunty Josie back out into the world.

There’s always a fragment of every morning, as I gently slide into consciousness, when, for the first intake of breath, everything feels like it used to do. And then there’s this frantic scramble as my head catches up with my body and, seconds afterwards, I readjust and remember again. I’m Edie Browne. I’m thirty-two. And my life’s been turned on its head.

When it came to choosing a bedroom last night I went for the oversized rose and daisy garlands. Waking to giant sprigs was jarring, but the orange birds of paradise next door would have been worse, and it would have been worse again if the sun had been streaming in. As it is, when I realign with reality and look outside today, the sea and the sky are both stony, but it’s definitely light enough to be morning.

I still wear the watch Marcus gave me, not because I understand the pointers any more but because it was super expensive and he always used to notice if I didn’t have it on. But right now I’m wearing it for me, as my reminder. A promise to myself that I will find my way back to who I was, a talisman to help me find my path back to where I should be.

When I get down to the kitchen and peep into the day room Aunty Josie is already up, eyes tightly closed, the tartan of her PJ trousers knotted into some cross-legged position. The funny kind of humming moan I could hear all the way down the stairs and through the jungle-papered hallway is coming from her. If I’d been living here I’m not sure I could have lasted all that time with so many monkeys on the landing. They’ll be top of my schedule to go, as soon as she helps me write it. As I cough, her eyes snap open.

‘Edie, I’m just finishing my meditation – you might like to join in another day?’

‘Woah, I’m not that bendy!’ It’s the first excuse I come to. There are a lot of spaces in my head, but I’m completely certain yoga puts me to sleep. As for meditation, I’d probably have more laughs in a coma.

The pizza boxes from last night are out on the side, and I help myself to the last piece of my giant Hawaiian.

Aunty Josie’s wearing her ‘disgusted-of-St Aidan’ face as she pokes at her pizza box. ‘Help yourself to the rest of mine.’ Hers was the smallest, gluten-free with dairy-free cheese and no tomato, and she still only picked at a tiny bit. From the way I wolfed the side salad and both fudge cheesecake slices too, you’d never guess I can’t taste things. But I have to keep fuelled, and I’m always secretly hoping that next bite will be better.

‘So is it pizza for breakfast too?’

‘I’ve got some delicious juice here, or the milk arrived. There’s Oat So Simple if you’d rather?’ She gives a disapproving shudder.

‘That sounds way better.’ Her bean sludge is beyond disgusting. Porridge is beige too, but somehow that’s different.

‘I’ll show you how to make it.’ She rips open the packet, then slowly fills it up with milk. ‘Then we can watch Swan Lake while we have breakfast.’

Crap. ‘You don’t like Piers then?’ Breakfast telly has become a morning ritual for Mum and me, but now I think about it, Josie and Harry only like BBC. As for ballet, I’m not sure I can handle men in tights this early, even if they’re fit. Which reminds me, the guy from next door came down the road in his van just as the pizza delivery was blocking the lane last night. What are the chances? I accidentally let out another, ‘Love you, bye!’ as I scooted off with my stack of boxes, which I minded about less because I could swear I saw him jump.

‘I can’t get my head round news these days. The great thing about ballet is it gets the day off on the right foot.’ As Aunty takes the porridge bowl over to the microwave her unflinching expression tells me we’re waving goodbye to any hope of Good Morning Breakfast. ‘Push this button for three pings, Edie. Will you remember three for tomorrow?’

She’s making a big effort to be helpful so I want to say yes, but I have to stay honest. ‘I’ll try.’ Most probably I won’t.

It’s not that I’m a party pooper, and I’m not a quitter. But by the time I’m in front of the TV with my breakfast, what with ballet, stripes on the wallpaper, checks on the PJs and purple poppies, I give in. If I’ve eaten porridge wearing shades before I can’t remember. Maybe I did the time Marcus and I went to those huge mountains near India and had breakfast watching the sunrise. But if not, there’s a first time for everything. I jam my sunnies on my nose and settle back to watch the figures in gauzy net leaping across the screen.

‘You danced, didn’t you?’ It’s wedged in my head but the details have gone, and I’m half expecting her to tell me off for talking.

‘That was years ago.’ Aunty Thing’s abruptness softens. ‘And just once I was on the same stage as Margot Fonteyn.’

‘Awesome.’ I’m giving the air a mental punch for unearthing that.

‘Harry always made more of it than it was.’ If we’re talking stiff upper lips, Aunty Thing’s is made of steel, so I’m guessing her loud sniff has to be down to how much smoothie she’s still got to get through.

‘Do you watch Margot all day then?’ As fast as my heart’s sinking, my panic’s rising. Cosying up in front of Dad’s log-burner with Bridesmaids and Love Actually on repeat was fine, but I’m not up for all-day pas de deux.

She nods. ‘Dance is very therapeutic.’

‘We should go out.’ It’s easy to do, I know. The more you stay home, the more you want to. ‘There must be some classes. Can you look what’s on?’ I nod at the laptop even though I’m not that hopeful. As remote places go, St Aidan is at the end of the line. As the gale thrashes sand grains against the window, I’m wondering how I ever imagined I’d be sitting on the beach soaking up a winter sun patch.

‘Let’s see.’ She pulls her laptop onto her knee and scrolls through. ‘They do them at the Leisure Centre – there’s macramé, or basket-making?’

Surely that can’t be it? ‘Read them all out, please.’ I’m using the ‘don’t-mess-with-me’ tone I keep for stroppy builders because, to be fair, the most awkward contractor probably has nothing on Aunty Josie when it comes to heels being dug in. Due to my voice recognition software completely failing to understand my West Country twang, brushing up on reading’s what I’ll be concentrating on next. In between renovations, that is.

‘Fine.’ Aunty Jo lifts her eyebrows. ‘Woodworking, Car Maintenance, Kick Boxing and Learn Spanish while Making Tapas.’ She pulls a face. ‘The best ones seem to be run by the Singles Group, but we can’t go to those.’

‘They might be … er … friendly?’ We are both on our own, in case she’s forgotten. It’s one of my greatest reliefs that I split from Marcus a couple of months before I was ill, because he wasn’t the best with hospitals or looking after people. But in case anyone’s wondering – though I can’t speak for Aunty Jo – a partner’s the last thing I’d be looking for right now.

One sniff from her says that’s a no to the singles. ‘The ones at The Whole Earth Centre are better. Paint your Own Plant Pot, Molecular Gastronomy, How to Make Vegan Dumplings, Hydroponics for Beginners, Breast Painting, Handstand Masterclass, Play the Ukelele in an Hour …’

‘Breast what?’ I have to ask.

‘From the picture, it looks like you roll on the floor and paint with your boobs. I’m not sure mine are big enough.’

Even if mine are, I still shake my head. ‘Keep going.’

‘Sew Your Valentine a Pair of Boxers. Oh, no, sorry, that’s gone.’

‘Damn.’ I grin at her, but she doesn’t smile back.

‘Interior Design … Well, that’s wasted on you. Creative Writing’s not suitable for now. We’d be out of place at Wedding Flowers. Which only leaves Heart Surgeon for a Day, Zombie for an Evening or Goat Rearing.’

I let out a groan. ‘Who goes to these?’

‘Oh, but there’s a Practical page.’ She looks more closely. ‘Dry-Stone Walling or Plastering. With the buildings to finish, either of those might be useful?’

It’s great she’s so up for this, but with everything else going on, I’m not ready to drop rocks on my feet.

‘What about Cupcake Making?’ Cupcake’s another word I can always find. Thankfully. Or Cake Icing would do, so long as it’s the squishy sort.

‘Edie, I’m sugar-free. So we’re back to Macramé?’

I’m a stroke survivor, I could have died. I may not be able to tell the time, but I value every second. ‘Not things from string. Life’s too short.’

‘Calligraphy, then? Harry’s mum used to do that, she made wonderful Christmas cards.’