The Holiday Home

Dorothy, who was putting her scarf on, paused. ‘Actually, there is something: I’d love to know more about the history of the house.’

Trevor looked over at his boss. ‘Trish, where would Mrs Carew be able to find out all about the history of the house?’

Trish, who had suddenly developed a keen interest in the contents of her desk drawer, seemed a little flustered as she replied: ‘Well, erm, the library would be the place to start. And, er, we have a very good local museum …’ Then she looked up and met their gaze. ‘Actually, there is something … something you should know. A young girl died in the house. It happened about ten years ago. It’s her sister who is selling the house.’

Dorothy stopped fiddling with her scarf. ‘Died? How? Illness? Accident? Murder?’

‘Oh, nothing sinister! No, no, it was a drowning. Poor thing.’ Trish turned to Trevor. ‘Did you show Mr and Mrs Carew the smugglers’ cave?’

Trevor blushed. ‘I thought I’d leave that to the surveyor.’

‘Smugglers’ cave?’ questioned Henry. ‘Sounds fascinating. Where is it?’

‘The entrance is in the garden. There are steps leading under the house into a cave. At one time there was a passage or cavern that led out on to the beach somewhere. But I think it’s blocked off now,’ said Trish.

Dorothy wanted to know more about the dead girl. ‘Did she die in the cave?’

‘I can’t remember all the details. I believe she’d been playing in the cave when it happened. Either the tide came up or she slipped … I’m not sure. It was in the papers at the time. The library will have copies.’

Henry saw that this news had upset Dorothy. He put his arm round her. ‘Come on, old girl. We’ll make Atlantic House a happy home again.’ He turned back to Trish and Trevor. ‘Right. I think my wife deserves a slap-up meal to celebrate. Where’s the best place to have dinner and stay the night?’

*

Over the following weeks, Dorothy threw herself into researching the history of the house. The coroner’s inquest into the death of fourteen-year-old Claire Clovelly returned a verdict of misadventure. She had apparently hidden in the cave following a row with her family. Nobody was sure exactly what had happened, but the most likely explanation was that she had slipped on the slimy rocks, banged her head and drowned.

‘I think we’d better block the cave up, Henry,’ said Dorothy, fearful. ‘I don’t want Constance or Prudence going down there.’

‘The girls will be fine! They’re far too sensible to mess about down there.’

Dorothy was adamant: ‘Block it up.’

Henry gave no answer. He’d already instructed the builders to open the cave up. With high tide access for a small vessel to sail in and out, it would be the perfect place to put a boat.

*

It took all that summer and autumn for the builders to do their stuff, but by the following Easter the house was reborn. Upstairs had been remodelled so that each of the six bedrooms had its own bathroom. Henry and Dorothy’s room was the grandest, commanding a stunning view from its brand-new balcony.

The next-best was the blue room, which was cool and sophisticated, with double-aspect windows overlooking the beach and the bay.

The yellow room was bright and sunny, but slightly smaller. It had only one sash window that looked out on to the garden and the gate to the cliff path.

The remaining bedrooms were smaller still and looked on to farm buildings and the driveway.

Downstairs, the huge kitchen was once again the heart of the house. Simply done with a scrubbed wooden dresser and enormous table, it was dominated by the scarlet four-oven Aga, which had replaced the rusty old range. The roomy walk-in larder had been retained, along with the original flagstones, which had cleaned up a treat. New French windows had been installed in the sea-facing wall of the kitchen, opening on to the terrace.

They had also knocked through the old walls separating the kitchen from the dining room, which had in turn been merged with the drawing room, creating a glorious flow of light and space.

The study now doubled as a rumpus room for the girls and their school friends, who would join them for summer holidays.

It was the very epitome of eighties chic.

Outside, the ancient back door led to a newly planted herb garden and, Henry’s pride and joy, the renovated smugglers’ cave.

The curious room above ground was cool enough to house his wine cellar and the steep stone steps leading down to the cavern had been made safe.

‘Mind your head,’ he told Dorothy as he led her by the hand, the light from his torch bouncing off the dimpled walls. ‘The electrician is putting lights in next week.’

‘I still don’t like it, Henry. You shouldn’t have wasted time and money on this. It would have been better blocked up. It scares me.’

‘Don’t be silly, old thing. It’s exciting – smugglers and redcoats and all that stuff – a slice of Cornish history, right in our own backyard.’

Dorothy’s concern was writ large across her furrowed brow. ‘I don’t want to be proved right on this, Henry. It’s an accident waiting to happen.’

Henry patted her arm reassuringly. ‘I promise you, there’s nothing to fear, darling. Besides, the children aren’t little any more, so stop worrying!’

The steps took a twist and a turn and then opened out into the natural boathouse under the cliffs.

‘Ta-dah!!’

Henry stretched out his right hand and Dorothy saw something bobbing on the water.

‘What the hell is that?’

‘A 1967 Riva. The best speedboat money can buy. And you see?’ He pointed at the floor. ‘I had the lads concrete a level jetty on the old rock ledge so we can tie her up and get on and off easily.’ The torchlight picked out the jetty and the polished wooden hull. Dorothy could make out cream leather seats and a shiny wooden steering wheel.

‘How much?’ she said in an angry voice.

‘It’s a present to us from the company. We deserve a little toy.’

‘You and your bloody toys! That’s not a board game. That’s a monstrous waste of money.’

Henry was crestfallen. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. I can take you and the girls out for trips around the coast and picnics on secluded beaches.’

‘That’s another thing.’ She rounded on him. ‘Can you even drive the bloody thing?’

Henry smiled. ‘Ah well, yes, you see, I’ve booked the whole family on a seamanship course.’

Dorothy pursed her lips.

‘Don’t you want to know what she’s called?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘Look, darling,’ he urged, pointing towards the boat.

She shook her head in disbelief as she picked out the golden letters painted on the stern: Dorothy.

Dorothy scowled. Henry kissed her. She frowned. He hugged her. Finally the beginnings of a smile reached her lips.