Page 11 of Summer in Sunset Harbour
‘Oh, you’re overreacting. They were probably just messing around. Kids playing a game.’
‘They had beards. Some of them looked older than me.’
‘Well, perhaps they were actors training for a role. Who knows?’
‘They were crazy forest people. And who or what is Mike? Is that a Cornish word that means lunch? I nearly killed myself running down that path, and by the time I got back here I felt like I’d climbed Everest. How steep is that coast path?’
‘Nothing like a good workout in the morning,’ Hilda said. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll sort it out.’
‘No, I won’t. I’m leaving. I’d rather go back to that horrible dirty flat in Bristol than deal with a group of bloodthirsty weirdos who live in trees.’
‘And who eat Suncrust Pasties,’ Hilda said with a smile. ‘They have good taste, I’ll give them that. Did you know, Suncrust used to be Dirgils? Dirgils, Dirgils, fit for gerbils.’ She chuckled to herself. ‘We used to sing that years ago, back at school. Someone bought the company out a few years ago, renamed them Suncrust, and gave them an overhaul. Best pasties in the Southwest these days.’
‘I bet they were filled with human flesh. I’m leaving before I end up in one.’
Hilda’s smile dropped. ‘Please, Josie. Don’t give up. Do it for me.’
Josie sighed. Her instinct was telling her to get out of Porth Melynos as fast as she could, but was returning to Bristol really the best option? The gloomy, dirty flat with its spiders, no job, friends of her ex-husband seemingly in every corner?
‘Will you come with me when I go to talk to Nat?’ she said quietly.
Hilda smiled. ‘That’s my girl. Of course I will.’ She gave a little chuckle. ‘I doubt you’d be able to find his place on your own, anyway.’
Nathaniel,it turned out, lived in a wood-framed cabin on the clifftop only half a mile from the caravan park, but behind a gate with a threatening sign: KEEP OUT – BULLS ABOUT. At the end of a wide, overgrown field, what was little more than a tumbledown shack occupied a grassy bowl with panoramic views out across the English Channel. Stands of gnarled trees gave it some shelter, but even on a warm day the sea wind rushed up the field with so much power that Josie and Hilda had to lean forwards to avoid being blown over as they struggled down a gravel track alongside the hedge. Josie glanced around nervously for the aforementioned bulls, but other than a few rabbits and a solitary goat sheltering by a distant hedge, the field was empty.
Nataniel’s shack bore all the marks of years of wind abuse. Salt-blasted wood, faded paint. Poorly fitting windows had frayed masking tape across the glass, and several roof tiles had been replaced by pieces of plywood or black plastic sheeting.
Around the shack was a smorgasbord of sea detritus: piles of old buoys, heaps of fishing net, large plastic drums filled with abstract junk like old shoes, glass bottles, plastic containers, and huge pieces of driftwood, some that likely took a tractor to haul up from the beach. Many of these last were in the process of being carved into intricate designs. At the sight of a line of life-sized sparrows carved out of one section of sea-smoothed wood, Josie’s jaw nearly hit the ground. Blind, he might be, but Nathaniel was an expert wood sculptor.
They walked up to the door, framed by a couple of hardy bushes in plant pots. Rickety and rattling in the wind, Josie doubted it would withstand a strong knock, let alone a winter storm, so she stood on the step instead and called out, ‘Nathaniel? Are you in there?’ Behind her, Hilda chuckled as she inspected one of the bushes, the pot scraping on a paving slab as she twisted it around.
‘That’s better, get a bit more sun on this side….’
‘Nathaniel?’ Josie called again. ‘It’s Josie, from the campsite. I’m here with Hilda. I wanted to ask if you know anything about a group of people living in a treehouse—well, several treehouses—on the campsite property. Nathaniel? Are you in there?’
‘Hang on a minute,’ came an unfamiliar voice from inside. It was deeper, smoother than Nathaniel’s, the words carrying less of an accent.
The door inched open. One hinge was loose so the person inside had to lift the door a little to stop it falling off. A pair of hands appeared, working the door to halfway, then a man’s face peered out.
Mid-forties, perhaps, sun-bleached unkept hair and tanned, prematurely lined skin that clearly spent too much time in the sun, the man had a kind if somewhat perplexing smile. He looked at Josie, giving a little shake of his head.
‘All right? Can I help you with something?’
‘Ah … I … you’re not Nathaniel.’
‘Oh, Robinson!’ came Hilda’s voice. ‘You’re home again?’
‘Mrs. Lewisham,’ the man said with a wide grin as he shifted the door back a few more inches. ‘Lovely to see you again.’
He squeezed past the broken door out onto the front step, and leant past Josie to shake Hilda’s hand. Josie flinched back as he came uncomfortably close, smelling of both paint and sweat, as though he hadn’t washed his clothes in some time.
‘This is Josie,’ Hilda said, patting Josie on the arm. ‘My best friend. She’s from Bristol. She’s just came out of a bad divorce and has come down here to recover. Your dad was good enough to give her a job as manager of your grandad’s old campsite.’
Robinson frowned at Hilda, then opened his mouth in a half-smile and cocked his head. Josie tried to kick Hilda in the ankle and missed, only managing to kick the nearest plant pot instead.
‘Ah, Mrs. Lewisham—’
‘Hilda, please, dear.’
