So, the very next day saw the pair of them enter the marina yard, clutching their sealed bid. By noon, after much praying, wishful hoping, crossed fingers and anxious gasps, the ‘poor’ dilapidated narrowboat was declared, by Allied Yacht Brokers, to be the property of Thomas and Jasmine Boyd.
‘It’s ours!’ Jasmine cheered, on the verge of tears, hand clasped tightly in Tom’s.
‘What shall we call her?’ he asked with a smile down at her.
Jasmine cast her mind back to the previous night. ‘Moonshine,’ she replied.
The next three months were spent relentlessly renovatingMoonshine. Aesthetically, the boat was in very poor condition, with a bad paint job all over and a very old, tatty interior. However, the structure was surprisingly sound. The metal hull was thick, with no corrosion, and the interior woodwork was well preserved and solid throughout.
The narrowboat was a cruiser style, which meant it had more outdoor space, a feature Tom and Jasmine were glad of. The interior furnishings were quite basic, making them easy to rip out. Although they worked together on the boat, it was Tom who undertook most of the preliminary manual work, while the interior design was down to Jasmine, who spent lots of time on Pinterest to create a cosy, yet stylish, home – all earthy neutrals, pale browns, greens and creams – with a Scandi-inspired kitchen and luxurious fireplace in the lounge. There was also an outdoor relaxation space on the deck where the couple could enjoy views of the open countryside and waterways.
Moneywise, it had been a no-brainer. Tom and Jasmine had spent a good chunk of their savings on the initial cost of the boat and a few thousand more on the renovation. They also had overheads to consider: the mooring fees, canal and river trust licenses, insurance and the Boat Safety Scheme, but compared to what they were laying out in rent (‘dead money,’ as Jasmine kept calling it) they were able to manage the finances comfortably.
As a freelance graphic designer, Jasmine loved the freedom of working from home in a job that brought her joy. It didn’t seem like work to her, letting her artistic juices flow when designing logos, brochures, adverts, magazine and book covers.
Together, Tom and Jasmine had created a beautiful snug home, which they were both extremely proud of, and rightly so. The friends who had scoffed at their decision to take on the ramshackle of a boat weren’t laughing any more, not when they saw the finished article.
Moonshineepitomised just what could be achieved with grit, determination and bloody hard work. She was a joy to behold with her indigo paintwork, complete with a streak of silver running down the side, representing a beam of moonlight, after its namesake. Everybody who stepped aboard loved the little narrowboat, which had been brought back to life with such care and attention; she was an absolute delight.
Until, tragically, all the joy had been sapped from her in one fell swoop. The heart and soul ofMoonshinehad been ripped out. It was no longer a home for the very two people who had saved her. How could it be, when there was only one of them left? Little had Tom known, that dreaded Friday night when he had stepped offMoonshineto join his friends at The Mariners, that it would be the very last time he’d be aboard his beloved boat. That it would be the very last time he’d call jauntily to his wife, ‘See you later!’ When in fact, he would never see her again.
Chapter 2
Robin Spencer drove to the bottom of the limestone track and parked in front of the two cottages for sale to assess for his next building project. When the cottages had been put on the market yesterday, he’d been immediately interested –veryinterested. Truth be told, he’d had his eye on the two derelict cottages for some time now, waiting to jump in and seize the moment they became available.
Situated by the shore, they had a panoramic view of the bay to the Lakeland Fells, a prime location. It had been a travesty to Robin that both cottages had been left unoccupied and unloved for so long. They were screaming to be renovated and cared for. In fact, thought Robin as he got out of his Range Rover, he’d consider knocking the two of them into one, making a really spectacular home.
Standing closer to the flintstone cottages, the idea grew on him even more so. Yes, he would get rid of the two front doors and build one central porch. Obviously, the rooms would have to be reconfigured, which would take time and money, but it would be worth it. The profit he could make on a huge, detached house with stunning views, in such a picturesque, sought-after coastal village would be astronomical.
The Lancashire village of Samphire Bay sat nestled just beneath the border to Cumbria. It offered sheltered walks along limestone paths and amongst woodland, leading to open views of sandy beaches and glittering water. The area was renowned for its flora and fauna, historic buildings and geological features, including a number of springs and wells. Samphire Bay had even caught the attention of the national press a few years ago, when a Viking hoard was found nearby dating back to 900AD. It was an intriguing and unusual place, with a windswept peninsula between the mouth of the river and bay, which at times was cut off by the tide.
There was only one building that stood on the peninsula itself. A huge, white art deco house built in 1939, sat high on a large piece of land that showed off the architecture perfectly, the modernist curvature of the bow windows, with art deco motifs and parapets on the exterior. The unique history of the place had been lovingly maintained by its owner, Bunty Deville, an eccentric old dear with pots of money, having come from a family of rich wine merchants. Bunty was well known to the residents of Samphire Bay, having lived there since birth, and she’d developed quite the reputation. Perhaps living in such a grand, imposing house high above the crashing waves, periodically unreachable by the tide, gave her that air of mystique. She and the house were like something straight from an Agatha Christie novel.
Bunty relished the mysteriousness surrounding her, often playing up to it. She imagined herself as a bit of a clairvoyant and read tarot cards. In reality, it was all a part of Bunty’s imagination rather than any ‘gift’ she might have, but that didn’t bother Bunty. Why ruin a good story by telling the truth? The image of a glamorous, alluring figure was far more preferable to her than a lonely, old lady rattling around a big, cold house.
She was also renowned for her stubbornness. Bunty refused point blank to do the sensible thing and move to a smaller, more manageable, more accessible house. Bunty had far too many happy memories within the curved rooms and polished timbers. She had been born in the master bedroom, as the salty sea air wafted through the great bow window. The house had been a magical place to grow up in, with its many nooks and crannies, listening to the roar of the waves and watching breathtaking sunsets from the balconies. To leave after living there all this time was unthinkable. The place was her world, it was all she ever knew.
To the people of Samphire Bay, Bunty was a quaint, endearing character, albeit a touch quirky. Unfortunately for Robin, it was this quirky, eccentric old dear who also owned these two cottages he was keen to get his hands on. Only once had he attempted to coax Bunty into selling them to him, which had been met with a curt, ‘They’re not for sale’ response. Robin had had the good sense not to try and persuade her otherwise, knowing how obstinate she could be. Instead, he had exercised patience and bided his time, waiting and waiting for the day Bunty would finally relent and put her neglected cottages on the market. It made sense for her to sell them, after all what use were they to her stood empty? She had sold her family’s other properties in the village; the pub, which thankfully had been taken over by a local landlord and still served the community, and the Victorian folly which now hosted retreats by the parish. Why keep two rundown cottages which were inhabitable and not serving any purpose? It was a complete waste.
Robin had thought that maybe his request to buy them was the reason why Bunty had stalled. Was she waiting for him to up his offer? He wouldn’t put it past the old bird. And why hadn’t she just contacted him, instead of advertising them? Bunty knew damn well she already had a buyer –him, and a local for God’s sake!
Robin had lived in Samphire Bay since he was a teenager, when his parents had had enough of city life and escaped to the country. Robin had taken to Samphire Bay like a duck to water and never felt the urge to leave, despite being tempted now and again by the properties he’d renovated all over the country. Once or twice he had considered actually keeping a house he’d converted and brought back to life, but always the picturesque shoreline village had lured him back and made him stay put. He now lived in one of the flats that he had converted from a grand country house. Luckily for him, his best mate, Jack Knowles, also felt the same way about Samphire Bay. Together they had built up a property developing business. It was Jack that Robin was contacting on his mobile, after having taken a few photos of the cottages.
Structurally OK, but needs a shed load of money to convert. Pics tofollow.
It was soon answered.
Let’s go for it. Do you want me to approach Bunty?
Robin smiled to himself. Did Jack fancy his chances with the old girl? No, he’d do it. Robin knew she had always had a soft spot for him, deep down. Well, with his dark hair, twinkling hazel eyes and charisma, most females did. He’d work his charm on her and win Bunty round this time. He wanted those cottages and wasn’t going to let someone else snap them up, even if it meant paying over the asking price.
Chapter 3
‘There you go, Jasmine, have a break.’ Sue Timpson placed the sandwich and cup of tea in front of her daughter with a worried expression.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ she replied, still staring intently at her laptop screen. Jasmine was working on the cover of a book entitledMidnight Murders. The brief was old, Dickensian England, with a thriller twist. She was thinking dark alleyways with a shadowy silhouette of a cloaked man in a top hat, carrying a dagger, possibly dripping with blood? She’d try without, first, then—
‘Jasmine?’ Her mum interrupted her train of thought in a dry tone, finally making her look up.
