‘Because it’s Bunty?’ he offered dryly. ‘Because she can?’
Still, Jack was perplexed. It didn’t make any sense. ‘But if both cottages are on the market, why not sell both of them to us? We’re offering the asking price.’
Robin gave an impatient sigh. ‘She says we’ll have to “wait and see” who the other buyer is,’ he replied, quoting Bunty’s words.
‘You mean, someone else is interested?’ Jack’s voice rose.
‘So she says.’ Robin raised an eyebrow. ‘I think it could be a ploy, get us to up the offer.’
‘Really?’ Jack considered it. ‘I’m not sure about that, Rob, not when she’s named her price and we’re happy to pay it.’ Although Bunty could be seen as difficult at times, he didn’t think she was greedy or calculating in that way.
‘You’re probably right, Jack, it’s not as if she’s short of money, is it?’ conceded Robin, his eyes narrowing in contemplation. ‘But why not sell us both cottages? It makes better sense to sell to one buyer, rather than two.’
However much Bunty Deville exasperated him, he still thought fondly of her. She had a kind heart and he knew how she had helped various residents in Samphire Bay. She was a long-standing friend of his parents and had given him and Jack work in the early days when setting up their business; it had been Bunty who had stipulated that Robin and Jack convert the Victorian folly into a place of retreat before selling it to the church.
They’d also often done odd jobs for Bunty around her home. Living in such a palatial space, there had been many over the years. She trusted them and in turn they had always maintained a high standard, without charging the earth.
Once, Bunty had been convinced her house was haunted. Robin and Jack listened to her tale of how a ghost made up the fireplace every morning, becoming more and more unnerved as piles of twigs appeared in the hearth each day. Not really taking her seriously, but showing concern, they had offered to stay over one night.
‘See for yourselves!’ she’d exclaimed.
So the two of them took their sleeping bags and camped out on Bunty’s drawing room floor.
‘Look at the fireplace, boys, it’s empty,’ she’d said before bidding them good night.
Robin and Jack exchanged grins before settling down to sleep. Come the morning, though, they weren’t grinning. Sure enough, a mound of twigs sat in the grate, ready to be lit. They stared, puzzled, at each other.
‘How the hell did that get there?’ said Robin, frowning at the mystery.
‘Dunno.’ Jack scratched his head.
Then, they heard a bird calling down the chimney breast. Robin bent to take a closer look at the wood in the grate, which was covered in soot. A slow smile spread across his face.
‘It’s a bird’s nest,’ he laughed, then looked up the chimney. Another bird’s call echoed down. ‘Jackdaws,’ he said, laughing again.
When they’d reported all this to Bunty, she’d burst into hysterics.
‘You mean the jackdaws have been building nests and they keep falling down the chimney?’
‘Yes, Bunty, that’s exactly what’s been happening,’ Robin said in amusement.
‘Oh, thank you so much, darlings. You’ve set my mind at rest.’ She chuckled.
It hadn’t taken long for the story to circulate round Samphire Bay, giving everyone a good giggle. Even so, Bunty had been appreciative to both Robin and Jack for their assistance.
All in all, they had a good relationship with Bunty, which made her recent behaviour all the more puzzling. What was the old bird up to?
Jasmine sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the photograph album, ‘Welcome aboardMoonshine!’ emblazoned over the cover in Tom’s swirly writing in silver marker. Gulping, Jasmine opened it. There she was,Moonshinein a dilapidated state in the yard, waiting patiently for them to collect her. Each photograph depicted the gradual transformation of the boat; a selection of ‘before’ pictures showing the bare carcass of the vessel, with its inners ripped out, to the ‘after’ pictures, boasting of a chic and stylish floating house.
Jasmine homed in on the images of Tom – installing the kitchenette, fitting the wood-burner, assembling their bed – and a lump formed in her throat. They’d looked so happy, building their home together. Her absolute favourite shot had to be of the two of them clinking champagne flutes on the deck under a starry sky with a full moon shining behind them. It had been the first night they had slept on the boat, and it was made extra special when the moon was beaming in all its glory. Happy, happy days.
With a determined effort, Jasmine shut the album. Tomorrow, hopefully, would mark the beginning of a new start, a new era.
She so wanted the cottage in Samphire Bay to be the right move for her, needing something to focus on. But was it? Could she just be trying to replicate what she’d done with Tom, only this time going solo? No, Jasmine told herself, she had to live somewhere. Why not in a new place, where people didn’t stare at her with sorrowful eyes? She had to get out of Carston, it was suffocating her. There was only so much pity Jasmine could take, however well intended. She’d had enough.
‘It’s time to move on, Tom,’ she whispered, touching the heart pendant necklace he’d given her and which she always wore. She longed to hear his voice, or be given a sign,anythingto show he was nearby. But no, nothing, just an empty silence.
The estate agent stood in front of the cottages and breathed in the fresh, salty air. Well, it was certainly a good day for a viewing. The sun was glistening on the still waters of the bay from a cloudless blue sky. All was quiet and calm, apart from the distant call of the gulls. Blocking the sunlight with her hand, she saw a car making its way up the track. Watching the pale grey Morris Minor, the agent grinned to herself.
