Page 8 of Summer in Sunset Harbour
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means when they feel like it. Don’t worry, he’ll smell the chips. He won’t be long.’
They leant against the sidecar as they ate. As Hilda talked incessantly about all manner of things, the classic BMW R60 motorbike she had recently bought, a new species of rose she was working on, her plans to build a new sun-lounge room extension onto her house, Josie tried to pick up on her friend’s positivity. She forced a smile, happy for Hilda, but unable to shake the black clouds that had followed her down from Bristol.
Suddenly, the snapping of a twig made her turn. Something was shuffling through the trees, bent low, leaning on a gnarled wooden staff which tapped against overhanging tree branches as the figure passed. It’s course apparently random, as it made a switchback turn down the hill Josie realised it was following a meandering, overgrown path.
‘Ah, here he is,’ Hilda cried, clapping her hands together. ‘Nat! Over here! Can’t keep a Cornishman from his chips.’
The figure reached the bottom of the path and shuffled out into the clearing, the weeds parting around him. Josie could only stare in both wonder and horror. The figure was surely a man, but with more grey hair and stomach-length beard than face. Apart from a hooked nose that resembled the knot of a tree branch, the only part of him that might have been visible was his eyes, had they not been covered by a pair of incongruous black plastic sunglasses.
Nat’s clothing was no more unusual than what was visible of his face. He wore a mixture of linen and sacking, with the shredded remains of a dark green woollen jumper in there too. Ragged cargo trousers covered his legs, and lumpy toes poked out from a pair of plastic sandals that looked even older than him. A signet ring glittered on the hand that gripped the staff.
‘Nat, good to see you again!’ Hilda exclaimed, jogging over to give the post-apocalyptic version of Father Christmas a warm hug. She took his arm and led him over to the motorcycle, steering him in a way which explained his reason for the sunglasses despite the gloominess of the forest: Nat was quite blind.
‘This is Josie Roberts, the friend I was telling you about,’ Hilda said.
‘Maid,’ Nat said, sticking out a hand which Josie felt obliged to reach for and give a quick shake. It felt like a piece of driftwood, hard and lumpy, yet simultaneously smooth and sun-warmed. Up close, the old man smelled of the sea, salty and slightly musty, like seaweed sun-dried over pebbles.
‘Nice to meet you,’ Josie said.
‘And you, maid,’ Nat said. ‘Nathaniel Blackthorne. But Nat works.’ He grinned, gold and silver capped teeth glinting. ‘The maid here says you’re looking for a project.’
‘Ah, I….’ Standing beside Nat, Hilda gave Josie a thumbs up, then a surreptitious nod towards Nat which suggested he was some kind of deity to be respected. ‘I … found myself between jobs. Anything you have would be a great help.’
‘Twas nervous about giving the old girl a go,’ Nat said, still shaking Josie’s hand. He glanced around, leaving Josie unsure whether the ‘old girl’ was herself, Hilda, or some other, perhaps abstract concept. ‘Been a while, after all. Folks’ve moved on. The maid here convinced me, so if you want the challenge, it’s yours. Me, though, I ain’t one to do nothing by halves. You’re all in, or all out, so to speak. Since you’ll be doing all the work, you can have two-thirds.’ He grinned again. ‘I’ll take me third as silent overlord.’
‘Uh, sure.’
‘Then welcome.’
‘Thanks. Just to clarify … where exactly are we?’
Nat let go of her hands and stumbled around in a circle, hands out like a shaman calling for rain. ‘Maid, you be the new manager of Porth Melynos Caravan and Camping Park.’
6
Unwelcome Residents
‘But there’s nothing there,’Josie said, a glass of wine in one hand as she gestured to Hilda with the other. Through the pub window, a few lights shone from the fishing boats tied up in the small harbour. The last of the sun left an orange swathe across the eastern cliffside that gradually gave way to shadow. ‘It’s just a forest with a few abandoned cabins in it. How long did you say since it last opened?’
Hilda grinned. ‘It closed at the end of the summer of 1989. So that’s what, thirty-five years? Come on, Josie, it’ll be fun. You’ve got nothing to lose.’
‘Technically you’re right, but … I mean, I don’t know the first thing about running a campsite.’
‘You’ll figure it out. You have a month or so to get ready for the season. That should be plenty of time.’
‘To literally build a campsite from the ground up!’
‘You’re overreacting. It’s just camping. All you need to do is cut the grass and clear the spiders out of the toilet block. Nat’s had your cabin reconnected to gas and electric, and the park’s plumbing is good. And all the licences and regulations are up to date because he forgot to cancel everything after his father closed the campsite. So you’re not going to get inspectors or council types trying to shut you down.’
‘Cut the grass,’ Josie said, rubbing her eyes. ‘Just cut the grass.’
‘I’ve got a scythe you can use. Just in case things are bit thick for a petrol strimmer. Don’t you remember teaching Tiffany to walk?’
‘She bounced off everything in sight.’
‘And now’s she’s nearly qualified as a doctor. You must have done something right. If you can raise a child into a doctor, you can raise a campsite out of the forest.’
