Page 9 of A Fresh Start at Bramble Cottage
On past the clock tower and the memorial garden, with its neat lawn and colourful flowerbeds and spiky dwarf palm trees, and down to the rather grandly named Esplanade.
A wave of nostalgia flowed through her. It had changed little in sixteen years. The amusement arcade on the corner, the chipshop, the shop selling rather tacky souvenirs and trinkets — did anyone actually buy that stuff these days?
And of course the beach shop, with its stands of postcards, and nets of brightly coloured beach balls swinging in the breeze, wire baskets of frisbees and paddleboards and buckets and spades ranged along the pavement outside.
But it was the beach that drew her. The sand was a reddish-gold, large-grained crunching beneath her feet as she stepped from the sloping ramp down from the Esplanade.
Though it was still only early May it was busy — excited children building sandcastles and digging long canals from the sea to fill the moats, just as she’d done all those years ago, while their parents watched benignly from deckchairs or stretched out on towels.
But the true owners of the beach were the seagulls, flashes of white against the blue sky, shrieking as they swooped over the waves, strutting arrogantly about on the sand, snatching discarded crisp packets or unguarded sausage rolls.
The tide was almost out, leaving a long stretch of damp sand glistening in the sunshine, lapped by lazy frills of white foam. The sea was a vivid blue. Far out in the bay a white sail scudded westward, while on the hazy horizon she could just see the grey shape of a large ship — whether an ocean liner or a cargo ship she couldn’t tell.
To her right, where the beach ended in a jumble of rocks, a slope of reddish sandstone covered in scrubby bushes climbed to the elegant façade of the Carleton Hotel. It had been one of their holiday treats when she was little — tea and scones on the wide stone terrace overlooking the bay.
How had the place fared over the years? Had it been taken over by one of the big hotel chains, rendered anonymous in the name of maximising corporate profit? Or had it slid into a stateof dignified neglect, struggling to attract guests in the teeth of competition from cheaper holidays in Spain or Greece?
She strolled along, past the row of gaily painted beach huts — miniature homes-from-home for the families clustered at their doors, with their picnics and crossword magazines. On the far side of the bay, half a dozen rows of white caravans curved around the rising ground.
The soft breeze from the sea was ruffling her hair and she could taste salt on her lips. She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in the pure, clear air, the tang of damp seaweed, listening to the soft, sleepy whisper of the waves.
The sun was warm on her shoulders. Maybe she should have thought to bring some sun cream with her? Never mind — that little shop on Church Road that she’d passed on the way down probably sold some. She could pick up some milk while she was there.
* * *
The shop was small, but seemed to stock the whole gamut from groceries to newspapers and washing powder, several shelves of pharmacy goods and even a post-office counter.
The selection of sun creams wasn’t extensive but they had her second favourite brand. She took a basket and picked out a few other items — milk, eggs, a bunch of bananas — and took them to the counter.
“Good afternoon.” The ruddy-faced woman behind the counter beamed in friendly welcome as she began ringing up her purchases.
“Hello.” Vicky smiled back — it was rare to get such a pleasant greeting in her local supermarket back home. “It’s lovely weather.”
“Oh, ah, ’tis that. Are you enjoying your holiday?”
“I’m not actually on holiday.” She fished in her bag for her purse. “I’ve come down to see about my Aunt Molly’s cottage.”
“Molly? That’s six pounds twenty-eight, please. You mean Molly Marston?”
“That’s right. She was my aunt — well, great-aunt.”
“Well I never!” The shopkeeper chuckled. “Ah, she was a one, old Molly. The way she used to race around on that old motorbike and sidecar of hers.”
“Oh, heavens, yes! I remember that.” Vicky laughed. “I was always begging to have a ride in the sidecar, but Mum wouldn’t let me.”
“I never knew she had any family.”
“No, well... we used to come down for a few weeks every summer when I was little, but I’m afraid we rather lost contact with her after my dad died.”
The shopkeeper nodded. “It happens . . .”
A door slammed open and from a back room behind the counter a teenage girl slouched out, not lifting her eyes from her phone as she steered on autopilot towards the shop doorway. Long brown hair framed a face that would have been pretty if it hadn’t worn such a sulky expression.
“Bethany?” The shopkeeper’s voice was sharp with impatience. “Where are you going? Have you finished all your homework?”
The only response was a grunt.
The shopkeeper sighed and shook her head, turning back to Vicky. “Kids!” An awkward laugh. “So she’s left it to you then, the cottage? We all wondered who it would go to.”
