4.
Hello cold days
Merwyn and I are following Bill around the front of the castle, and when my phone rings it’s such a surprise, I almost drop it. When I see who’s calling, I wish I had.
‘Libby! Lovely to chat, how can I …?’ I notice Bill slow to a halt ahead of me.
Libby cuts me off in mid sentence. ‘There are packages on their way as we speak!!’ Forget EE, her booming voice is loud enough to have carried all the way from London on the wind. ‘I’ve been trying to get you all morning, have you had your phone switched off?’
‘Great news on the parcels, the signal’s patchy, that’s all.’ My bad luck to hit a hot spot now. If she’s going to ask about the castle, I have no idea what I’m going to say.
‘So how’s the castle?’
My stomach drops. ‘Practically on the beach, can you hear the sound of the waves?’ I push my phone high in the air.
Whatever surf splashes she’s picking up, she’s shouting over them. ‘How about inside, is it gorgeous?’
Yards ahead Bill turns and raises an expectant eyebrow.
What can I say? She won’t want to hear the truth, I don’t want to lie, so there’s only one option. ‘You’re breaking up … sorry … I’ve lost you …’ I press the red circle on my screen, then switch the phone off completely.
Bill sends me a disbelieving frown. ‘You find signal and then end the call, what’s that about?’
I’d call it a survival tactic. ‘I’ll talk to her when I know what there is to work with.’
He pulls a face. ‘Don’t hold your breath.’
We have a couple more false starts before we make our way along the path through the shrubbery beyond the side of the castle. Twice more we set off and both times we’re stopped by van drivers with clipboards and sheafs of papers and parcels to add to the pile in the castle hallway.
As we finally head off Merwyn’s skipping along at my side, his tail waving like a flag, it’s as if he’s decided that now he’s officially on the guest list he might as well look like he owns the place. I pull my hat down more securely to keep out the freezing wind gusts, and get a first glimpse of the coach house buildings through the foliage. They’re long, low and barn-like, but with their dark slate roofs rimy with salt and the late afternoon sunlight reflecting off the shimmering silver of the sea, they make a dramatic group against the fading sky. By the time Bill’s pushing open the wide door at the end of the longest building, he’s still chuntering.
In Chamonix Will was good tempered, and in my head that’s how he stayed. I can’t help being taken aback by how grouchy the passing years have made him.
As he flicks on the lights, he lets out a sigh. ‘Okay, knock yourself out.’
I’m staring around a wide space lit by the flat glare of strip lights, up to the rafters of a high slanting roof, taking in shelves full of boxes and lumpy tarpaulins. ‘Go on then, show me what’s under the dust sheets.’
He sniffs as he lifts up a corner. ‘Bits of furniture, general rubbish, they’re hardly going to satisfy a high end customer are they?’ His eyes flash. ‘And there’s definitely no child equipment either.’
As I swoop in on an ancient leather armchair, I can’t believe what I’m looking at. ‘How many of these have you got?’ I’m holding my breath, hoping there might be a pair to go either side of one of the fireplaces, or to tuck away to make a cosy corner in one of the tower alcoves.
Bill frowns. ‘There’s loads, but none of them match and they’re all scuffed.’ He’s saying it like that’s a bad thing.
‘That’s not a scuff, it’s patina.’ I lean forwards and breathe in the deep waxy smell of the hide. ‘Better still, Libby’s going to love them.’
‘And some are velvet, not leather.’
I try not to melt into a silent pool of stylist happiness. ‘And what’s in the boxes?’
Bill takes a couple down and pulls them open. ‘Mismatched crockery and old jars, the kind of rubbish that’s no use at all.’
I’m staring down at the prettiest assortment of plates and dishes but now I know they’re here I don’t need to keep contradicting him. ‘And you’re sure it’s okay to use this stuff?’ As I take in a nod I can hardly believe my luck.
Further along the shelves we find hanging candle chandeliers, a whole load of plant pots, storm lanterns, ancient kitchen utensils, old baths and enamel jugs. Propped up against the walls there are step ladders, hundreds of pictures and photographs in frames, endless boxes of books.
I reckon this lot will more than take care of the accessorising, but I’m not going to put him out of his misery yet. ‘The stuff here will go part way to saving your neck, what about the rest?’
‘There’smore?’
