Clutching the duvet to her as a defence, she listened to the faint noises coming from downstairs. A tap running, cupboardsbeing opened and closed. And then steps ascending the stairs. Staring across in horror she wondered if she’d locked her bedroom door. Holding her breath she heard Johnny open his own door and close it quietly.
She slid back down again, desperately trying to ignore the man sleeping across the landing. Whoever thought sharing with a stranger would work? Lying there, her breathing regulated and all became silent. She flipped onto her side, closed her eyes, thinking she’d never sleep.
Five minutes later the only sound was her deep breathing.
Three
SUNDAY MORNING 11TH AUGUST
Laura Knight 1877–1970
Painter of women. Realist school. Look at paintings of women and girls in Cornwall and depiction of light. Long career, often overlooked – because female?
(Taken from Calliope Thorne’s teaching notes.)
The following morning dawned bright and clear, so Callie ventured out to explore the town which was to be her home for the next few weeks. She inched down the steep path to where her car was parked and found herself on the hill which led towards Lullbury Bay harbour.
An elderly man huffing his way upwards paused and held on to the lamppost.
Callie looked at him in concern. ‘Are you okay?’
He waved a hand and paused before answering, waiting to get his breath back. ‘Good morning. Nice day for it.’
‘Morning.’ She looked up at a peerless blue sky eager to get her paints out. ‘It is.’ Returning to focus on the old man she asked again, ‘But are you sure you’re all right?’
He tutted. ‘Tell you the truth, my lovely, I’m right cross with myself. Since the passing of my Gretel, I’ve let myself get unfit. She was my German Shepherd, see. Walked her for miles round the town. Always at my side.’ Fumbling in his pocket, he drew out a large white handkerchief. Taking off his glasses he peered at them and polished the lenses vigorously.
‘I’m so sorry. I’ve never been able to have a dog, but I know they leave a huge hole when they go.’
Replacing his specs he regarded her owlishly. ‘That they do. We had a funeral service for her. Ever so nice. The vicar led it in the church.’ He shook his head, his jowls wobbling. ‘Wonderful woman is Verity. Wonderful.’ Rubbing his chest, he added, ‘I’ll be as right as rain once I’m at the top of this bugger. They don’t call it God Almighty Hill for nothing.’
Callie was confused. Had she encountered the local eccentric? A funeral for a dog? And God Almighty Hill? ‘I’m Callie. I’m staying in Sea Haven House just back there but I’m pretty sure the address is Harbour Hill.’
‘Oh, old Gracie Grosvenor’s place.’ He nodded. ‘I knows it. Nice place. Lovely bit of garden. And you’re right, Harbour Hill is what it’s called and what the grockles call it. Born and bred Lullbury Bay me. Always knows it as God Almighty Hill.’ He reached out a hand to shake. ‘Nice to meet you, Callie. Austin Ruddick.’
She shook it. ‘Why?’
‘Dunno, my lovely.’ He gazed at her from milky blue eyes. ‘Suppose me old mother liked the name.’
Callie giggled. ‘No, I mean why is it called God Almighty Hill?’
‘Because, and especially when you gets to my age, by the time you’ve got to the top, all you can gasp out is, “God almighty!” Nice talking to you. Will see you around I expect, it’s a small place. Lovely spot to live. Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.’
He waved and was striding uphill before Callie could ask him what a grockle was. Laughing to herself, she carried on walking down to the harbour, trying not to think of her straining knees and the return climb back to the cottage. She passed several houses, huddled at right angles to the road. One called Christmas Tree Cottage made her smile.
Reaching the RNLI station, she admired the dogs created from yellow wellington boots and carried on wandering around the harbour. The strong smell of fish from the boats and the heaps of lobster and crab pots made her nostrils shrink. It didn’t seem to put people off, though, as tourists thronged around her, many walking dogs, some with children in tow carrying buckets and fishing nets.
Reaching the end tip of the harbour wall, she found a bench to sit on and paused to take in the view. This was what she needed to paint. The dip and surge of the cliff lines made her ache to paint them. The sea deepened to a navy with rich foamy waves cresting and the horizon smudged into the distance so that sky and sea merged into one everlasting, heavenly shade of blue.
The promenade stretched from the harbour to another steep hill at the other end of town. She could just about glimpse the trail of the high street as it curved upwards, with the sun glinting hotly on car windscreens. A glorious sandy beach fringed the sea, already dotted with family groups. Screams of delight drifted over to her on the breeze as children ran into the sea. A row of pastel coloured beach huts completed the scene. As an example of an English seaside resort, it was pretty perfect.
The lifeboat chugged back in through the harbour mouth and she watched as it was towed aboard a tractor to be taken into the station. Volunteers all kitted out in yellow and red stood around chatting. The scene lacked any urgency so she guessed it was a training exercise.
Taking a few pictures with her phone she thought how much Frida would have loved all this. Stamping on the pang of loneliness she vowed to begin to let go. Being so dependent on her daughter’s company wasn’t healthy. For either of them. She should be glad Frida had decided to go off and do her own thing this summer.
Callie scuffed a fragment of crab shell away with her toe, its strong fishy odour rising pungently. She refused to give in to the low mood which threatened. Hadn’t she always done things independently, relied on herself?
Early experiences had taught her people generally let her down. It was safer to be self-reliant. And, if she thought she was going to be lonely, she could have invited her old friend Donna if it was possible to prise her away from her children, or Karen from school, or one of her other friends from choir.
