Tremarnock: Starting Over in Cornwall: 1 - Brossura

Burstall, Emma

Brossura

ISBN 10: 178185789X ISBN 13: 9781781857892

Casa editrice: Head of Zeus, 2016

Riassunto

The first in a wonderful series set in a classic Cornish seaside village.

Su questo libro

Informazioni sull?autore

Emma Burstall was a newspaper journalist in Devon and Cornwall before becoming a full time author. Tremarnock, the first novel in her series set in a delightful Cornish village, was published in 2015 and became a top-ten bestseller. Find her online at emmaburstall.com, or on Twitter @EmmaBurstall

Emma Burstall was a national newspaper and magazine journalist before becoming a full-time author. Tremarnock, the first novel in her series set in a delightful Cornish village, was published in 2015 and became a top-ten bestseller. Emma is based in London, and visits her family in Rockaway Beach every summer. Find her online at emmaburstall.com, or on Twitter @EmmaBurstall.

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Tremarnock

A Cornish Village

By Emma Burstall

Head of Zeus Ltd

Copyright © 2015 Emma Burstall
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-78185-789-2

CHAPTER 1

Liz gazed at her sleeping daughter and thought that if she loved her one grain more, even just a tiny fraction, her heart might burst, exploding into a thousand pieces.

Rosie was lying on her side, her thick, silky fair hair streaming out behind her like a horse's tail. The duvet was pulled up under her chin so that only her perfect little head was exposed, and Liz noticed the light sprinkling of tan freckles on her daughter's nose, the damp, slightly parted lips, the faint snuffling noises, like a small animal, that accompanied her steady breathing.

Liz sighed, leaning over the bed and running the back of a cool hand against a soft cheek.

'Rosie?' she whispered.

No reply, not even a flicker.

'Rosie darling?'

She spoke louder this time. Rosie's lips moved and a stitch appeared on her pale forehead between the eyes. Liz wanted to smooth it away with her thumb and tiptoe out, closing the door gently behind her. But she mustn't.

'Time to get up,' she said, firmer now and steeling herself for the inevitable protests. There was no point drawing the curtains because it was still dark outside, but she did so anyway, hoping that the harsh sound of metal ring scraping on metal rail would perform the unpleasant task for her.

'Hurry up, sweetie,' she said, sounding far brighter than she felt. 'You need to get dressed.'

Rosie groaned, a hollow sound that seemed to come from deep in an underground cave.

'It can't be morning already. I only just went to sleep.'

At least she was conscious now.

'I'm afraid it is.'

Liz snapped on the desk lamp beside her daughter's bed, wincing in the brutal light that flooded the room.

'Don't!' Rosie grumbled, but her mother threw back the cover of the pink flowery duvet, avoiding glancing at the thin, shivering body against the white sheet. Every instinct told her to cover the little girl up again, to swaddle her like a baby, tucking in the edges tight.

'I'll get breakfast. We have to leave in twenty minutes.'

Across the narrow corridor, Liz could hear Rosie muttering to herself as she reached for her school uniform, which she'd carefully laid across the chair by her desk the night before.

The walls of the old fisherman's cottage were thick and Liz was unable to distinguish the words, but she could guess: 'I don't need to go to Jean's. I'm old enough to look after myself.'

She took a packet of cereal from the pine cupboard to the right of the sink and plonked it on the white melamine table in the corner of the kitchen, along with a bowl and spoon. She knew that Rosie wouldn't be hungry; who was at 5.30 a.m.? And besides, she always had a slice or two of toast at Jean's. But Liz didn't want her daughter to leave the house on an empty stomach; it didn't seem right.

The kettle had already boiled so she poured herself a mug of tea, noticing a chip in the blue and white cup that she could swear hadn't been there yesterday. She swapped hands so that the chip was on the other side and took a sip.

The warm liquid trickled pleasantly down her throat and for a second she closed her eyes, trying to think if there was anything that she'd forgotten.

What day was it? Thursday. Rosie had gym on Thursdays and Liz had already put her sports bag by the door, along with the rucksack containing her reading book, homework and packed lunch. She wouldn't remind her daughter about the PE lesson until the very last minute.

'Be quick,' she called, putting her mug down on the work surface, pouring a few spoonfuls of cereal into the bowl, fetching milk from the fridge and glancing at the round clock on the wall: 5.40 already. Her stomach clenched. 'I'm going to be late!'

'Don't worry, Mum, you won't be.'

Rosie appeared in the doorway, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She was wearing white trainers that looked too big for her feet, grey trousers, a white blouse beneath her navy V-necked sweater, and a partially done up blue and grey striped tie. Liz felt a rush of gratitude; the tie was always an issue.

'It's so fiddly,' Rosie said apologetically, noticing her mother's look.

'I know,' Liz said, finishing the task and putting the tie straight. 'You've done a beautiful job. I'm just being fussy.'

Rosie smiled her funny, gappy smile and asked hopefully, 'Do I have to have breakfast?'

'You do.'

Liz pulled out the white plastic chair that wobbled, clocking the back of Rosie's head for the first time as she sat down. Her hair knotted easily and there was a tangle that she'd missed. 'I'll do your plaits.'

She took Rosie's good hand as they made their way down the dark, narrow street, their coats zipped up tight in the early morning air. It was April now and it was supposed to be a fine spring day later, warm and sunny, but you couldn't tell at this hour.

Rosie was doing her best to hurry but it wasn't easy.

'I wish I didn't have gym today,' she said in a small voice.

'I know.'

'It wouldn't be so bad if Kyle wasn't there.'

'Let's hope he's gone down with a really nasty bug,' Liz said, trying to make light of it.

'Mu-um!' said Rosie in her schoolmistressy voice. 'You mustn't say that.'

Liz smiled. 'Just a bit of a cold, then, enough to keep him off lessons. Is that allowed?'

Rosie laughed. 'OK, just a sniffle.'

Jean's home was at the bottom of Humble Hill before you turned right towards the harbour. Liz glanced at the names as she passed: Copper Cottage, Shell Cottage, Bag End, Dolly's Place. They all had identities, like real people.

Dynnargh was one of the very few modern buildings and Liz always thought it looked as if it had been tacked on to the row of terraced cottages like a broken chord.

Built of yellowish brick, it seemed quite out of place beside its pretty cream and white, colour-washed neighbours, but it was immaculately maintained, with white lace curtains in the windows, a neat fence round the edge and a front garden bursting with crocuses and daffodils lovingly planted by Jean's husband, Tom. For Rosie, who had been going there since she was three years old, it was a second home.

She was always arguing that, having just turned ten, she didn't need a childminder any more; she was old enough to get herself to school and she'd rather have a lie-in. Even so, Liz noticed gratefully that she half limped, half skipped up the front path to the door and rang the bell, which played the tune of 'Oranges and Lemons'. She loved Jean really; she was like an auntie, or another mum.

A round, smiley woman with sleep-drugged eyes, wearing a large yellow and blue floral quilted dressing gown answered.

'Mornin', chicken! Come on in!'

It was always the same greeting; it would be wrong to change it.

Rosie hopped across the threshold into Jean's arms, disappearing in the folds of her floor-length robe.

Liz checked her watch; she was cutting it fine as usual.

'See you at three twenty,' she said to Rosie, who quickly pulled away from the older woman and went up on tiptoe to plant a kiss on her mother's cheek.

'I forgot to tell you, Granddad phoned last night,' she said, stopping Liz in her tracks.

'Granddad?' She couldn't hide her surprise.

'He's going on holiday to Spain – with Tonya.'

Liz pulled a face; she couldn't help it.

'They're sailing from Plymouth. He says he wants to come and see us first.'

Liz raised her eyebrows. 'Great.'

'Come on in, miss,' Jean said pleasantly, 'or you'll catch your death.'

Liz called goodbye over her shoulder and Rosie shouted 'Bye' back.

A holiday, Liz thought, as she scooted back up the hill towards her waiting car. How nice. With any luck they'd get a postcard.

Liz loved living in Tremarnock. It sounded so Cornish and welcoming, and she felt that the village had, indeed, welcomed her with open arms when she moved here with Rosie seven years ago.

She knew that they must have appeared a forlorn pair, arriving in their battered Ford Focus with little more than a few suitcases and a dusty pot plant or two to their name. The locals would have spotted Rosie with her funny walk and tricky hand and no doubt registered Liz's pale, drawn face, worn out from endless sleepless nights and the pain of her recent breakup with Greg.

But almost as soon as she'd closed the door of Dove Cottage and entered their tiny ground-floor flat, Esme, who lived upstairs, had popped down to introduce herself, then Pat from next door arrived with a bunch of freesias 'to cheer the place up'.

Next it was the turn of Barbara, a widow who ran The Lobster Pot, one of three pubs in the village. The others were The Victory Inn and The Hole in the Wall, so named because there was once a spy hole that enabled smugglers to keep watch for customs men.

Over a cup of tea and a Danish pastry, Barbara had filled Liz in on all the information that she could divulge in one go, including the fact that an excellent childminder, Jean, lived just up the road and happened to have space.

'You'd better see her quickly, mind,' Barbara had warned, writing Jean's address and phone number on a piece of paper in big flowery letters. 'She's that good she fills up fast.'

The following morning, Liz pushed Rosie in her worn-out stroller round the village for a breath of fresh air. They had just turned off the sea front when the little girl spotted a gift shop, Treasure Trove, with enticing display stands of postcards and brightly coloured spinning windmills spilling on to the pavement, and insisted on going inside.

Rick Kane, the owner, sported an impressive grey beard and sideburns. He sold models of lighthouses and dolphins, clotted cream fudge and Cornish fairing biscuits and cheap toys for kids that provided enormous pleasure for all of about fifteen minutes before being discarded.

Rosie and Liz were his only customers and he soon launched into a surprisingly detailed account of his background and romantic history so that by the end, Liz felt like an old friend.

'The wife went off with a fella from Launceston, see,' Rick explained, while Rosie fiddled with a rail of small wooden hanging signs displaying jaunty messages like: 'A balanced diet is a pasty in each hand!' Liz kept watch out of the corner of an eye.

'She claimed I was too old and boring for her,' Rick went on, shrugging, before explaining that he'd recently joined a dating agency and was enjoying a good deal of success.

'I only go out with ladies my own age or older, mind,' he added. 'Learned my lesson last time.'

'Good decision,' Liz replied, breathing an inward sigh of relief. He was charming, certainly, but she wasn't looking for a boyfriend and besides, those sideburns were awfully thick and bristly.

When it was time to go, Rick popped a few pieces of fudge in a white paper bag and handed them to Rosie.

'On the house,' he insisted, when Liz tried to pay. 'You'll settle in real fast here, it's that friendly.'

Word of their arrival must have travelled quickly because as they left the shop, Ruby Dodd appeared from her cottage almost opposite and introduced herself.

A small, neat woman of sixty-odd, with short, silver-grey hair, she shook Liz's hand and smiled warmly at Rosie.

'I grew up here, moved when I got married, then we came back when Victor, my husband, retired,' she explained. 'Couldn't keep away! We're only a small community but you can feel the love.'

She pointed them in the direction of the market square and the bakery, general store and fishmonger, where Ryan Hales, wielding a hose, was sploshing water across the pavement before swooshing it down the drain.

Rosie wrinkled her nose at the fishy pong and Liz would have passed on, but there was no getting away.

'You new here?' the young man asked, wiping his hands on a bloodstained white overall. He was tall and strapping, with shaggy dark hair and dense black eyebrows that almost met in the middle. When Liz explained that they'd just moved to Dove Cottage, he advised her to arrive early at the shop, which belonged to his older cousin. 'About half eight, when we open. You'll have the pick of the best then. Fresh from the sea.'

'I hate fish,' Rosie piped up, and Liz glared at her. 'Don't be rude!'

Ryan raised his thick brows and laughed. 'That's no good, coming to Tremarnock and not liking fish! We'll have to see if we can convert you.'

Although she'd lived all her life in London – Balham, to be precise – Liz soon ceased to feel like a foreigner and became accustomed to the comings and goings of the tourists, or 'emmets' and 'grockles' as the locals called them, during the holiday season, the tendency of certain neighbours to regard anywhere north of Exeter with suspicion, and the languid, rolling accents with their elongated r's and a's that reminded her of clotted cream. Although her own accent hadn't changed, Rosie had developed a slight Cornish burr like her schoolmates, which Liz found enchanting.

She adored the fact that she and Rosie could step out of their front door and within minutes be at the harbour, sniffing the salt and seaweed air, watching the waves crash against granite rocks and harbour wall and the anchored boats bobbing and lurching on the churning water.

On fine days, people would be dragging dinghies and paddleboards down the beach, or getting kitted up in rubbery-smelling wetsuits, aqualungs, fins, masks and snorkels by their feet. There was always something going on.

Alternatively, they'd jump in their grumbling red banger, Eeyore, and soon they'd be gazing far out to sea from high on the rugged, windswept coastline, their only company a handful of seagulls circling way overhead.

She couldn't ever imagine going back to London now. Not in a million years. She thought it would suffocate her.

No, she told herself firmly, as she climbed in Eeyore and buckled up, they didn't need a holiday. They were lucky enough to live in a dream spot. It would be good to get away from the treadmill sometimes, though, and Rosie had never been to Scotland or Wales, never mind Spain ...

The country lanes, bathed in cold grey light, were deserted at this time, and within twenty minutes she was drawing up at the ferry terminal, watching for the warning signals overhead to turn from red to green. There were only five or six cars lined up in front – early birds like her – and she was able to drive on almost straight away.

She wasn't inclined to leave Eeyore; she was grateful to savour a few moments' rest before the day began for real, opening her window just a sliver to listen to the rattle and steady chug-chug as the chains dragged the vessel from one side of the river to the other.

The ramp lowered noisily and two men in bright orange fluorescent jackets swung the barriers open. Liz drove slowly up the slip road, past high concrete walls topped with barbed wire that surrounded the dockyard, before she reached the main artery leading towards Plymouth city centre.

Her heart always sank slightly as she sped past row upon row of shabby houses and shopfronts, down-at-heel garages and dingy flats. Everything seemed so crowded and grey after the colour and light of Tremarnock; it was hard to believe that two such different places could exist side by side across a narrow stretch of water, though, thankfully, the scenery improved as you got further in.

Soon she reached the tall, red-brick office block on the edge of the city and parked her car quickly in the staff car park before hurrying up the street to the newsagent. The roads were still quiet so she was glad to see the door wide open and friendly lights blazing in the window of Good Morning News. She wasn't the only one awake at this ungodly hour.

As she approached, a skinny lad of about thirteen left the shop with a red sack of newspapers slung over one shoulder and climbed, wobbling, onto a rather large bicycle propped against the wall.

'Mind how you go,' Liz said, watching him try to gain his balance. 'You've got quite a load there.'

The boy, embarrassed, ducked his head and mumbled 'Bye' before pedalling off down the pavement.

Inside, Jim was stacking cans of drink into the giant, glass-fronted refrigerator while Iris was in her usual spot by the till, leafing through a celebrity magazine.

She looked up when she spotted Liz and smiled: 'Morning love!'

Liz smiled back, noticing that her friend looked different.

'You've had your hair done!'

Iris patted the wavy, shoulder-length hair, of which she was inordinately proud. It was a deeper, richer red than of late, with no hint of grey.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Tremarnock by Emma Burstall. Copyright © 2015 Emma Burstall. Excerpted by permission of Head of Zeus Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Dettagli dell'edizione

• Editore: Head of Zeus
• Data di pubblicazione: 2016
• Lingua: Inglese
• ISBN 10: 178185789X
• ISBN 13: 9781781857892
• Rilegatura: Copertina flessibile
• Numero di pagine: 352
• Contatto del produttore: non disponibile
• Persona responsabile: non disponibile