Pushing back the sumptuous duvet with its royal blue cover and hand-crocheted throw, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, and since they didn’t quite reach the floor she stumbled as she reached for her phone on the nightstand.
No service.
Sighing, she glanced at the heavy azure curtains where chinks of daylight were brightening the edges. She listened for the sounds of a storm but heard only gulls and a distant sibilance that could be the wash of the waves.
Padding over to the window she pulled one of the curtains aside and because it had been too dark when she’d drawn them last night to get a real sense of the view, she blinked in surprise. It was truly enthralling, all the way down over the grassy meadow to the glimmer of a small sandy beach tucked into the heart of a cove. From there the cliffs, shadowed and brooding, undulated along the coast like fortified barriers to the vast expanse of sea, swelling with life and glistening benignly in the soft morning sunlight.
How could she not think of Callum when confronted with such a romantic view? She wanted him to be here with her, to drink it in, to wrap up warm and walk the coast path with her, climb the rocks and try to remember poems they knew about the sea. Callum, bizarrely, could recite whole verses of the Ancient Mariner and she just knew he’d make her listen to them all until he’d finished, all the time hotly denying it when she accused him of going wrong.
‘Tell me your favourite love poem,’ he’d challenged her once, a long time ago, while they were travelling back from a concert in Oxford.
She’d said, ‘When I’m sad and lonely, and I feel all hope is gone, I walk along our street and think of you with nothing on.’
How he’d laughed, and she wasn’t sure he’d ever believed that she hadn’t made it up. But it was a real rhyme, slightly doctored, that she’d once found in a velvet-covered volume of little-known verse.
Stepping back from the window she let the curtain fall closed and returned to the bed to check her phone again.
Still no signal, so no messages of any kind from anyone; but it was already nine thirty and Freda Donahoe was due back by eleven. She needed to be showered, dressed and ready to meet her with something intelligent to say about the chapters she’d read.
How weird it was going to seem, welcoming her host back to her own home.
When she’d finished in the blue-and-white-tiled en suite bathroom and had pulled on some jeans and a sweatshirt she ran swiftly down the stairs and straight to the corridor. Halfway along she registered the sound of voices coming from the kitchen and felt momentarily unsure of herself not wanting to barge in on anyone. However, it was probably the housekeeper and her husband, and they must surely know she was here, so they were hardly going to be surprised to see her.
As she pushed open the kitchen door with a gentle half-knock she was immediately assailed by the mouth-watering smell of hot toast and fresh coffee.
‘Ah, Joely, here you are. Good morning, good morning. Come along in.’
The woman who’d spoken so welcomingly was tall and willowy with mannishly cut silver hair and exquisite feminine features. It was hard to tell her age when the years had clearly been kind, but she was certainly over sixty. Her eyes were almond-shaped and blue, surrounded by small webs of faint lines that deepened when she smiled. Her mouth was large and shapely, also troubled by lines but it retained some of the sensuousness it must have exuded when she was young. ‘I hope we didn’t wake you,’ she said, coming to usher Joely further into the kitchen. ‘I’m Freda, as you’ve probably already guessed, and this is Brenda.’
‘It’s lovely to meet you,’ Joely responded to them both, her eyes widening slightly as the very large Brenda gave her a bawdy sort of wink. She was almost as broad as she was tall, with plump, veiny cheeks and curly grey hair that looked as lively as her chocolate brown eyes.
‘It’s lovely to meet you too,’ Brenda declared, as though this very moment had long been on her bucket list. ‘We’re ever so happy to have you here at Dimmett House. I hope you slept well and I see you had some of my jackfruit bake last night. Not a veggie myself, but Mrs D tells me it’s scrumptious.’
Enjoying the cosy-looking woman’s West Country burr, Joely said, ‘You’re lucky there’s any left it’s so good, but I thought I ought to share.’
Clearly appreciating her sense of humour, Brenda chuckled her way back to the Aga where she appeared to be concocting another culinary delight.
‘Do sit down,’ Freda urged, waving Joely to a place opposite her own at the table. ‘Would you like toast or crumpets? There’s plenty of both, or I’m sure Brenda can rustle up …’
‘Toast will be fine,’ Joely assured her, not wanting to put anyone to any trouble.
‘There’s wholemeal or white,’ Brenda piped up, passing over a small breadbasket full to the brim and covered by a checked napkin. ‘The jam’s homemade by yours truly – strawberry or crab apple jelly – and the butter’s fresh from Pete Miller’s farm. There’s not a lot of fruit in season, but help yourself to what’s there in the bowl. It’s all from round here, apples, pears and some lovely juicy oranges grown in Ann Granger’s magic greenhouse. That’s what we call it, because that woman can grow anything in there, probably even drugs. Coffee or tea?’
Laughing, Joely said, ‘Coffee, thank you,’ and feeling Freda Donahoe watching her as though curious to see how she was responding to Brenda’s touch of local colour, she smiled at the woman and helped herself to a half slice of wholemeal followed by a knob of butter and spoonful of crab apple jelly.
Freda said, ‘As you can see I’m back earlier than expected, and I’m sorry again that I wasn’t here to greet you. I’m glad the flowers arrived as ordered. Well done for finding a vase, and you managed to choose exactly the right one.’
Joely glanced at the daffs she’d more or less plonked in a white pitcher that she’d found in one of the cupboards. They were now on a low windowsill, beside the French doors, moved from the table where she’d left them, presumably to clear a space for breakfast.
‘Did you remember to trim the stems?’ Freda asked, eyes lowered as she spread butter over a crumpet.
Thankful that she had, Joely smiled. ‘My mother is always very strict about that. And I popped some sugar and cider vinegar into the water to make them last longer.’
Freda was clearly impressed. ‘Another little trick of your mother’s?’ she asked with a crispness that was somewhere between interest and irritation.
‘Well, I … Not hers, exactly. I—’
‘Oh, everyone knows about that,’ Brenda chirruped as she plonked a large jug of orange juice on the table. ‘Have you taken your pills yet this morning, Mrs D? Shall I fetch them for you?’
‘Thank you,’ Freda replied gratefully. To Joely she said, ‘Hypertension, I’m afraid. It runs in the family, although my husband suffered from it too, and from quite a young age. Do try the orange juice and tell me if it isn’t the best you’ve ever had.’
Obediently Joely filled a glass and after taking a generous sip she was more than ready to agree. It wasn’t only sweet and cool there was a hint of tartness to it that whipped up her taste buds with a longing for more. ‘The very best,’ she confirmed, after draining the glass.