Page 73 of The Cornish Cream Tea Holiday
‘I want to,’ Thea said, and waited, wishing silently, while Ben phoned Sylvia’s number. They listened to the dial tone as it rang. And rang. And rang.
Ben groaned.
‘Your clothes on, then?’ Thea said, trying to hide her disappointment.
‘I need to make sure she’s all right.’
‘Of course. But I’m coming too. No way am I leaving you to go there all alone, especially if the power’s out.’
Ben pressed his forehead against hers. ‘It won’t take long.’
‘It’s fine. These things happen.’
Ben’s heavy sigh suggested he was as pleased about the turn their night had taken as she was.
It was an unsettling feeling, driving through a town where not even the street lights were working. The summer storm was raging, the wind screaming and the rain coming in determined waves, battering the van from all sides. The sea road felt precarious, even though Thea knew she was safe with Ben at the wheel. Their headlights carved a path through the darkness, picking out the sheeting rain, tiny pockets of light appearing when there should have been a whole, twinkling galaxy of them.
‘Those must be generators,’ Ben said, slowing for a turn and peering ahead, trying to see through the hurried back and forth of the windscreen wipers. ‘People who have back-ups when the power goes. This is town-wide.’
‘It’s mad,’ Thea muttered. ‘There are hardly any lights, anywhere. It feels like the end of the world.’
‘Hopefully not if I keep the van on track,’ Ben murmured, patting the steering wheel.
It didn’t take long for them to reach the Old Post House, and Thea scrambled out of the passenger seat, then almost climbed back in again when she was assaulted by the torrent. They were both soaked in seconds.
The building was in darkness, a hulking, imposing shape, until Ben’s impressive torch – a proper one that made their phones seem like toys – lit it up. He banged on the door with his fist, shouted Sylvia’s name, but they couldn’t make out any sounds or movement above the raging storm.
Ben pulled a set of keys out of his pocket, and Thea took the torch from him, pointing it at the bunch so he could find the right one. He put it in the lock, his fingers slipping as the rain pelted them remorselessly. Eventually he got the door open, and he ushered Thea inside before following her and pulling it closed behind them.
The sound of the storm dimmed, but there was an echoey drip-drip-drip from somewhere, and the timbers creaked, protesting against the wind. As Thea swept the torch in an arc, dust motes danced in its beam.
‘Sylvia?’ Ben’s voice was quieter now, more hesitant as he walked towards the staircase, and Thea felt a jolt of fear. Why wasn’t she answering? What were they about to find?
‘Ben, should you—’ she grabbed his arm.
‘I need to see,’ he said, his voice tight.
She wouldn’t,couldn’t, let him go up alone.
She didn’t know how to explain it. Ben was one of the strongest, most in-control people she’d ever met, but her urge to protect him, to shelter him from anything bad, was overwhelming. She stayed close to him, the stairs creaking menacingly below their feet. Ben reached the upper floor first, and came to a sudden stop.
‘Sylvia?’ His voice cracked, and then he said it again, more urgently. ‘Sylvia?’
Thea joined him on the landing and swept the torch around the open plan space. There was a figure in thearmchair, exactly where Sylvia had sat the other day. But now she had her eyes closed, her skin was ghostly in the torchlight, and it didn’t look as if she’d heard him.
‘Sylvia?’ Ben shot across the room and crouched down, shaking the old woman’s arm. ‘God. No, please don’t let her be—’
‘GoodLordboy! What’s all this?’
Ben reeled back, landing with athunkon the hard floor. Thea almost jumped out of her skin.
‘You’re OK,’ he said, with obvious relief.
‘What did you think had happened?’ Sylvia reached up and took something out of her ears. They were AirPods, Thea realised, and let out a burst of hysterical laughter.
‘You weren’t answering your phone,’ Ben said. He pulled himself up so he was crouching again, and Thea saw him rub his tailbone. ‘And when we got here, we called up, but—’
‘With the telly not an option, I thought I’d catch up on Lucy Foley.The Paris Apartment, this one is. It’s very sinister, and the narrator is ever so good. I spent a lot of time in Paris back in the day, and she gets the feel just right.’
