The Cottage at Plum Tree Bay: An uplifting, cosy Cornish romance

always.

Chapter 1

‘What the hell is going on in here?’

Jamal Wilson’s cockney accent cut through the warm Saturday morning haze that had enveloped Catherine Bromley and dragged her back to reality with a bump.

‘She’s having a head massage.’ Bradley Jones-Wilson replied without pausing the delicious, hypnotic movement of his fingers.

‘Well, it sounds like she’s having way more than that from the moans and groans and we have other customers out there. They’re getting quite jealous, you know, Bradley.’

Catherine peered up at Jamal. She couldn’t move because she was reclining with her head over the sink at Jamal and Bradley’s salon, Hairway to Heaven. Bradley was washing her hair and giving her a complimentary head massage, and she’d been really enjoying it – perhaps a bit too much, according to Jamal.

‘Sorry, Jamal.’ Catherine reached out a hand to him and he took it, holding it between both of his. ‘It’s just been a while since someone else has washed my hair.’

Jamal nodded. ‘I know, and you should have come in for a cut weeks ago. Your ends are like rats’ tails and as for your roots…’

He shuddered dramatically and Catherine laughed.

‘I’m sure you can make me look better.’

She had been friends with Jamal for over five years, ever since he’d moved to Penhallow Sands with Bradley and opened the doors of Hairway to Heaven. Catherine had come in for a haircut, and they’d got talking and made each other laugh. It had led to a friendship that Catherine didn’t know how she’d ever managed without.

‘We’ll do our best.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Bradley, make sure you use the conditioner for mature hair. She needs the extra moisture.’

Catherine winced inwardly. Mature was a word she seemed to hear more and more as she got deeper into her thirties, as if somehow, leaving your twenties behind created some dramatic transformation in you overnight.

‘Look, Jamal, just because you haven’t yet entered your thirties, it doesn’t mean you need to describe everyone over thirty as mature.’ Catherine tutted.

‘Quite right, Catherine,’ Bradley agreed. ‘Also, my darling husband, you don’t need to remind me which conditioner to use every time I wash hair, you know.’

Jamal sniffed loudly. ‘I know that… it’s just that Catherine’s hair is in need of some serious TLC.’

‘And that’s what she’s getting.’ Bradley winked at Catherine.

‘Right, I’ll leave you to it. I need to get back to Mrs Tipperton’s perm.’ Jamal sashayed away.

‘How’s the water for you?’ Bradley asked as he ran the warm spray over Catherine’s head, tickling her scalp and the nape of her neck.

‘Perfect.’

She closed her eyes again and floated as Bradley ran his long fingers through her hair, clearing away all traces of conditioner, and all too soon, he was done. Catherine sat up and Bradley wrapped a towel around her shoulders. She felt light-headed and weak, as if she’d just woken up from a nap on the beach after a day in the summer sun.

‘You okay, darl’?’ Bradley asked.

‘Yes, thanks. You just completely relaxed me.’

‘You’ve had a tiring time recently, what with the ridiculous hours you work at the school,’ Bradley said as he led the way through to the front of the salon. He gestured for her to sit down in a black swivel chair in front of one of the large mirrors. ‘I’ll get you a coffee and some magazines.’

Catherine sat down and propped her feet on the footrest then gazed at her reflection in the mirror. She did look tired, exhausted even, but then the summer term at school was always a busy one with trips and Year 6 leavers’ events, as well as tying up all the loose ends before the holidays. She’d need to go into work a few times over the summer, but for the next week or so, she was going to relax and recover.

Catherine loved the first week of August. It was when she felt that the summer holidays had truly begun. The final week of July, after the children had finished school, was when she went into work to finish whatever she hadn’t had time to do during the busy school days, so for her, the summer holidays began that precious first week of August. Of course, she knew she was lucky, because she worked in the village where she lived, so she didn’t have a long commute morning and evening. She also knew that she’d find a longer journey quite difficult after so many years of working in Penhallow Sands where she had grown up.

Some people found it strange (and had told her as much, in their friendly open way) that the only time Catherine had ever been away from Penhallow Sands was when she went to Exeter university for her History degree and then for her teacher training. She had chosen to live in Exeter during that time because she didn’t want to commute over an hour each way through the week, and because she had hoped to be able to immerse herself in university life. However, her sense of duty to her mother had drawn her back to Penhallow Sands at weekends, and her weekday evenings had been her time for study, so Catherine hadn’t actually got involved in campus life at all, or really been able to appreciate the whole living away from home experience. It was another reason why Jamal’s friendship was so important to her. He had grown up in the East End, moved to Cornwall five years ago and never looked back. As the eldest of three brothers, Jamal had been expected to join the family plumbing business, and had horrified his father when he expressed a desire to be a hairdresser instead. Then, when he’d also told his parents that he was gay and in love with Bradley, they had turned their backs on him and never spoken to him again. Jamal had told Catherine that yes, there were other places out there, but the warm community of Penhallow Sands had accepted him and Bradley in a way that his own family never had, and Catherine knew what he meant.

She lifted the corner of the towel that sat on her shoulders and dabbed at her right ear to clear the water away. She was thirty-four now, and although she enjoyed her job and liked most aspects of her life, she sometimes worried that time was slipping away and that before she knew it, she’d be the same as Ms Jowanet Tremayne, Head Teacher at Penhallow Sands Primary School. Jowanet had worked at the school her entire career, going from classroom teacher to deputy head teacher to head teacher in a career that had spanned forty years, and would – Catherine had no doubt – span another ten years at least. Catherine admired her senior colleague’s dedication to the children of the school and to the community, and she strove to emulate it, but some days, she also wished that there was something else in her life. Some days, she was aware of feeling incomplete and, though she hated to admit it, a bit lonely. She loved seeing how close Jamal and Bradley were, and had been overjoyed when she attended their low-key wedding eighteen months ago – honoured to be one of the few guests invited – but at times, their devotion to each other did make Catherine more aware of her own single state.

‘What are you looking so gloomy about?’

Jamal had appeared behind her. He placed his large hands on her shoulders; every finger had a silver ring and his nails sparkled with glittery lilac polish.

‘I’m not gloomy.’

‘No?’ He tilted his head, causing his mid-length spiky dreadlocks to bounce. ‘Considering it’s the summer holidays and you’ve got the glorious month of August ahead of you, I’d say that you’re looking pretty gloomy. This should be the time to smile.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘I almost hate to ask, but is it because you’re not going away… again?’

Catherine lowered her gaze to her hands. Her own nails were short and sensible, free from nail varnish, and she wore no rings. The only jewellery she wore on a daily basis was a watch that had lived on her left wrist for about five years. The leather strap was frayed and the screen was scratched, but she could still read the time, so couldn’t see the point in buying a new one. After all, when and where would she wear it?

‘Catherine?’

She raised her eyes to meet his in the mirror.

‘It’s fine, Jamal. I’m happy staying in Penhallow Sands. Besides which, I can hardly leave Mum behind can I?’

‘Take her with you if she won’t let you go alone.’

‘Jamal… you know full well it’s not a case of her not letting me go. It’s not like that.’ Catherine sighed. ‘I just… I can’t take her away… you know how she is about money and leaving the village… But we never talk about that, do we?’

‘What?’

‘About my mum and her… frugality and selective agoraphobia.’

‘No!’ Jamal shook his head furiously. ‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Good. Thanks.’ They smiled conspiratorially at each other. Jamal knew her mother well and how challenging she could be. Having had his own bad experiences with his own parents, he had always been very understanding of Catherine’s difficulties with her mother. However, whereas his parents turned away from him, Catherine’s mother clung to her like a limpet to a rock.

‘But you could pay? Treat the old dear and tempt her with the promise of, I don’t know… a foreign lover.’

‘Jamal… One, please don’t refer to my mum as an old dear, and, two… she doesn’t like going away as she gets anxious and, finally, three, Bob Scratchit is quite poorly at the moment, so she won’t even go to the supermarket in case anything happens to him while she’s gone.’

‘Poor Bob’s no better?’ Jamal asked.

‘Nope. It’s terrible to see him so unwell.’ Catherine’s stomach lurched as she thought of how Bob had declined of late.

‘How old is he now?’

Jamal gently squeezed the ends of her long blonde hair with the towel.

‘Eighteen.’

‘That’s a good age for a cat.’

‘He hasn’t got a tooth in his head and his breath stinks. He’s stiff with arthritis and the sofa cushions are whiffy from where he’s dribbled on them but he’s still… well, he’s Bob, you know?’

Jamal nodded his understanding.

‘Has Jamal been telling you about his morning breath?’ Bradley placed a glass mug of coffee on the counter in front of Catherine then added three glossy magazines.

‘Cheeky!’ Jamal nudged him and Bradley grinned in response.

‘It’s worse if he’s had garlic.’ Bradley ran a hand over his shiny bald head.

‘Well, stop making so many Italian dishes then, Bradley. You know I can’t resist your lasagne or your creamy mushroom penne.’

Bradley blushed with pleasure at his husband’s praise.

‘Anyway, we were actually talking about poor old Bob Scratchit.’ Jamal started combing through Catherine’s hair. ‘Sounds like his days are, sadly, possibly… numbered.’

‘The vet actually said he could live another year or longer if he’s this well looked after,’ Catherine replied. ‘As long as his kidneys keep functioning and he keeps eating.’

‘Your mum’s still hand-feeding him?’ Jamal raised his eyebrows.

‘Yes. Three times a day. He gets the best bits of fish and chicken and he’s happy enough.’

‘Good.’ Jamal smiled. ‘However, it doesn’t solve the problem of getting you away for a bit does it?’

‘Aren’t you planning to take a holiday?’ Bradley asked, meeting Catherine’s eyes in the mirror.

‘No. But I never go away, as you both know, and I’m fine with it, so stop worrying, you two.’

‘Well… perhaps you’ll meet a hunky tourist this summer and fall madly in love.’ Bradley clapped his hands then smoothed them over his head as if flicking back imaginary locks.

‘Perhaps.’ Catherine returned his smile, but if she did meet a hunky tourist, she knew she wouldn’t do anything about it, even if the man was interested in her. It hadn’t happened for the past eleven years, so why would this summer be any different? And, of course, she had no intention of risking her heart, lonely as she might sometimes feel.

‘Damon Looe is not the only man in the world, you know?’ Jamal leant forwards and wrapped his muscular arms around Catherine then kissed her cheek. She leant on him, appreciating the affectionate gesture from her friend.

‘I know.’ Catherine nodded, but deep inside she knew he was the only one she’d ever cared about and the only one who’d cared in return. But it just wasn’t meant to be and she’d been convinced since the day their relationship had ended that she was destined to be alone.

‘Damn the words! Why won’t they come?’

Mark Coleman slammed the lid of his laptop shut and folded his arms across his chest. This move to Cornwall was meant to be a fresh start for him, a change of location that would kick-start his creativity again and put an end to the writer’s block that had plagued him for the past few months. Well, more than a few months, but in that time he’d been completing his structural edits on the last book as well as copyedits, although he’d been unable to think of any new story ideas. And since he’d sent those edits back to his publisher, his hoped-for muse had remained elusive.

He pushed the chair away from the kitchen table and went to the open door that led out to the back garden of the rental cottage. He took some slow deep breaths and forced himself to focus on the pretty garden. Although forcing himself was, he felt sure, counterproductive to relaxation and meditation. He’d read plenty about how important it was to exist in the moment and to appreciate what he could see, hear, smell and so on, so that was what he would try to do.

The garden was enclosed with a four-foot wooden fence that looked quite new. The borders surrounding the lush green grass were bright with red and pink roses, golden and copper marigolds and the purple star-like blooms of asters. In the one corner was a summerhouse complete with wicker furniture and colourful curtains and beyond that, the sky grew gradually lighter as the land gave way to the coast. When the breeze blew in the right direction, as it did right now, he could smell the sea, fresh and briny, and it did lift him with the promise of warm sunny days ahead.

He’d been lucky to find such a perfect cottage to rent at short notice. When he’d emailed the estate agent at Penhallow Sands and asked if there was anything available for the summer months, he’d been stunned – and delighted – when the woman had told him that she’d just added a lovely property to her books. She’d sent him the details for Plum Tree Cottage and he’d quickly looked through them then phoned her to say that he’d take it. Part of him had been worried that he might change his mind if he didn’t just go for it, and hanging around in London any longer, sofa-surfing at friends’ homes because he had no idea what to do next, was not helping his state of mind. After all, how was he supposed to write when Brian’s four-year-old son tried to use his laptop for cartoons or when Ashley’s girlfriend had her single mates around for drinking games? Neither helped his focus, and although it was nice to have company, he also felt that he was imposing upon their generosity, and it couldn’t continue. He could have found somewhere to rent in London, but the excruciating rental prices that some landlords charged for a decent square footage and the fact that everywhere he went he saw his past, weren’t helping him to move on. The other option had been a return to his parents and sister in Surrey, but at thirty-eight, that really seemed like going backwards and he didn’t want to worry them. A break by the coast seemed like the ideal escape he needed, and Cornwall had been his first choice. At least then he could tell everyone (including his agent and his editor) that he was heading off to a writing retreat and no one would think it was strange.

When he’d first arrived two days ago, he’d been expecting there to be a catch, something unsavoury about the property that hadn’t been mentioned on the estate agency documents – like an outside toilet or a garden rented out to a pig or sheep farmer – but he’d been pleasantly surprised. Plum Tree Cottage was set within its own land, far enough away from the village to allow for privacy but close enough should he need bread, milk or anything else, and not far away there was also a vineyard. The estate agent had told him that the vineyard owners were renting him the cottage and that they would leave him alone unless he had any problems or extra requirements during his time there. She also said that they were very pleasant people and that a trip to Greenacres Vineyard to take a tour and to sample the delicious wines was well worth it.

As he gazed out across the land, he realised that he didn’t know what lay beyond the fields that bordered the fence. The village lay in one direction, the vineyard in the other, but out there behind the trees, he could make out the sea. As he squinted, he thought he could see a path at the far end of the field. He could be wrong, but it was certainly something he’d like to investigate and soon.

Being here was exactly what he needed right now – to be left in peace so he could think, so he could start writing again and so he could recover after what felt like the worst year of his life. He was bruised, battered and bereft and he hated what he had become. Mark had always thought of himself as a positive person, as someone who got up and got things done, but losing the life he’d been comfortable with for so long, the life he’d expected to carry on living, had almost broken him completely. However, time was a healer, or so they said and he was really hoping to heal and move on.

He made himself a coffee, stirred in two sugars, then took it out into the garden and sat on the sofa in the summerhouse. He smiled as he sipped the sweetened coffee. Two sugars – exactly how he liked it. For years, he’d drunk his coffee without sugar because Ellie had said he didn’t need it. She’d insisted that sugar ruined coffee and that it meant he was adding unnecessary extra calories to his diet. Well, look who was having all the sugar he wanted now, Ellie Warner!

He shook his head.

Bloody Ellie with her perfect tennis coach physique, her red hair in a pixie cut that accentuated her long slender neck and twinkly hazel eyes. His heart plummeted to his flip flops. This time last year, his life had been very different, then Ellie had gone and turned it upside down, taking away his settled comfortable existence – and the relationship he’d been in since they were both sixteen – and, it seemed, his ability to write anything decent enough to submit to a publisher, too. He’d heard of authors who were inspired by heartbreak, of those who found writing cathartic and the perfect form of escapism, and while he had to admit that writing was many of those things, it didn’t seem to be the way out of his current slump. His confidence had been knocked and he’d been left needing something to fix him but he had no idea what that something was.

He drained his coffee then stood up. He’d had a quick stroll around the pretty village yesterday morning, and he’d spotted the local library, as well as plenty of independent shops and places to eat, so he’d head down there and see if he could find some inspiration within the shelves.

If the words wouldn’t come to him, he’d go to the words.

Chapter 2

‘Make sure it’s wholemeal bread but not with the grainy bits because they get stuck in my teeth, and don’t forget to pick up milk, too, as we’ve already used what the milkman delivered this morning and I need it to make a sauce later. The skimmed one though, not the semi-skimmed gloop. I can’t stand the taste of it. Catherine! Are you listening?’

Catherine nodded at her mother as she slid her feet into her sandals. She picked up a tote bag then tucked it into her handbag.

‘I’m listening, Mum. Skimmed not semi, and wholemeal but not grainy bread. It’s the same every time I go shopping.’ She suppressed a sigh and instead, forced a smile to her lips.

Her mother stood in the lounge of the fisherman’s cottage they shared, her hands on her slim hips, her face blank. She looked good for seventy-five, if a bit thin, but Catherine put that down to the anxiety that meant her mother couldn’t sit still. Diana Bromley was always doing one of two things – cleaning or gardening. Catherine couldn’t put a mug down on the coffee table unless she’d finished her drink because her mother would zoom past and take the mug away, straight to the sink to be scrubbed. The cottage always smelt of bleach and air freshener, and even in winter, the windows were left wide open to let the sea air blow through. Catherine knew her mother hadn’t always been quite so meticulous about keeping house and home scrubbed and shiny, but after Catherine’s father had left when she was twelve, her mother had become obsessed with keeping everything absolutely spotless. It was almost as if she was trying to clean more than dirt and grime away.

‘Okay. Thank you. Be careful, won’t you?’

‘Of course, Mum. Are you sure you won’t join me? We could have a walk along the front, get an ice cream, take a paddle in the sea.’

Her mother shook her head. ‘No, thank you, Catherine. I need to wash that kitchen floor, and you know I don’t like to leave Bob for long.’

Catherine nodded, accepting the same excuses her mother always offered, then watched as her mother went through to the small kitchen. She heard the bucket being pulled from the broom cupboard and the tap running, so she knew any further conversation would be lost as Diana got to work with the bleach. At times, Catherine had thought her mother’s blood must be fifty percent bleach because Diana had used so much of the stuff over the years.

She let herself out the front door and onto the sunny street. Surely a walk in the fresh air would be more beneficial than bleaching the kitchen floor for the second time in two days, but she knew that once Diana had something in her head, she should be left to get on with it. Catherine had tried many times to