Page 74 of The Cornish Cream Tea Holiday
‘Good to know,’ Ben murmured, and then, giving Sylvia’s hand a quick squeeze, he stood up and pulled out his phone.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Calling Marie. You can’t stay here.’
‘I bloody well can,’ she shot back.
‘Nope. Not happening. This place is no longer safe for you – for anyone – and we need to get you out of here. You can take a bag now, then come back and get your other things when the storm’s over.’
Before she had a chance to protest, Ben walked into the kitchen area, his phone to his ear.
‘I bet you like all this dominant stuff,’ Sylvia said to Thea. ‘All thisI won’t take no for an answer, listen to me because I’m a big strong manrhetoric.’
‘That’s not how he is,’ Thea said. ‘And I’m sure you know that, really. Besides, I think he’s right. It’s pretty precarious being here without any light or electricity, and with the bats, now, too. Do you really like it?’ She gestured around the space.
The older woman didn’t reply, and Thea could see that she was being scrutinised, Sylvia’s eyes missing nothing, despite the elongated shadows, the pockets of darkness contrasting with the torchlight, the storm that hadn’t abated.
‘Youdo,’ she said eventually.
‘What?’ Thea blurted.
‘You like this building,’ Sylvia repeated. ‘I can see it in your face. You’re fascinated by it. If you were local, I’d think you were gearing up to ask the council what they intend to do with it now I’m being booted out.’
‘Nobody’sbootingyou,’ Thea said weakly, her mind racing with questions. How did Sylvia know? How had she divined that, ever since Thea had come with Ben to investigate the noises that turned out to be bats, she had been thinking about the future of the Old Post House. Wondering …
‘What would you do with it?’ Sylvia asked. Her hands were resting on her Kindle Oasis, the device she must have been listening to her Lucy Foley book on.
‘A bookshop,’ Thea said. ‘I’d open an independent bookshop, with different sections, includinga romance section, and a coffee machine, and big, comfy armchairs.’
Sylvia returned her gaze, and Thea thought she looked … triumphant? No, that could only be wishful thinking. ‘Well then,’ the older woman said, ‘what are you waiting for? The place will be empty after tonight. Bag yourself the building and that handsome, thoughtful man over there, and you’re destined to have a life as happy as me and my Eric.’ She nodded, satisfied, then called over to Ben, asking him how long she had to pack a bag before Marie arrived.
Thea was stunned. Was Sylvia a witch? Did she have a magical ability to reach in and grasp hold of Thea’s thoughts and dreams? Or were all her desires written plainly on her face, and the old woman just happened to be able to see them in a building with no power, their features lit only by torchlight? Because turning the Old Post House into her bookshop, having Ben as a big part of her new, idyllic life living by the sea in Port Karadow, had, over the last few days, become the ultra-HD version of her dream. What, she wondered, had this place, and these people, done to her?
Marie arrived half an hour later. She was a taller, wider version of her mother, and no nonsense in a cheery sort of way, ignoring the storm and the creaks of the old building as she bustled about, collecting Sylvia’s things.
‘We’re exchanging next week,’ she explained, once Ben had made the introductions. ‘Then Mum’ll have her own annex. Until then, she’ll have to put up with close quarters.’
‘These headphones are going to be a godsend,’ Sylvia said, waving her AirPods. ‘Your Barry has the loudest voice of anyone I’ve ever met, and it would be all right if hespoke sense occasionally, but it’s usually just rugby-related claptrap.’
‘Better than being in this place,’ Ben said. ‘I’m surprised we haven’t been set upon by a whole horde of bats, considering it’s not really a night for flying.’
‘Are you scared of a few winged creatures, Benjamin?’ Sylvia asked, letting him help her to her feet, then leaning on him as she made her slow, unsteady way towards the stairs.
‘I just think tonight’s got enough of a horror film vibe already.’
‘There’s a ghost,’ Sylvia said. ‘Comes and stands by the window sometimes, looking out at the harbour. She seems lost, rather than vengeful. You’ll have to make sure she’s next to a good section, Theophania, when your bookshop’s open. Uplit, possibly. Not Thrillers.’
‘What’s this?’ Ben glanced behind him to look at Thea.
She opened her mouth to explain, to tell him it was a silly, fanciful idea, when Sylvia said, ‘Your girl wants this place for a bookshop. I can’t think of anything more appropriate, frankly, and I know Eric would be chuffed to bits. He loved a bit of the old Sherlock Holmes, a smidgen of Dickens. All those David Jackson thrillers, more recently. Turn this place into a bookshop, and I can’t think of one person who’d be unhappy about it.’
‘No,’ Ben murmured, and Thea wished she could see his face: could ask him what his immediate reaction was.
Marie got the car open and put Sylvia’s bag in the boot, and then, the moment they opened the door of the Old Post House, Ben rushed her to the passenger side and helped her in. The rain was stronger than ever, the wind stillhowling in anguish. Marie hurried to the driver’s side of the car and got in, but before she’d driven away, Sylvia tapped on the window, and her daughter opened it.
‘Thank you, Benjamin,’ Sylvia said. ‘For everything you’ve done.’
He nodded, swallowed. ‘Don’t be too much of a nuisance for Marie.’
