The Cornish Guest House Read Online Free Page A

of the wife, then? Is she our sort?’
    Rosie’s body tensed, poised to speak, and Liz nudged her in the ribs.
    ‘She’s very beautiful,’ she said quickly. ‘Tall and slim, with masses of black curly hair. Mixed race, I think, maybe part African or Caribbean, I’m not sure. She could be a model.’
    Jean’s mouth dropped open but she quickly composed herself. ‘Sounds very exotic.’ She was obviously hoping for more information but Liz checked her watch and declared that it was time to go.
    ‘Robert said he’d pop home for a quick supper before the restaurant gets busy. He likes to eat with us if he can.’ She frowned. ‘No idea what to make, though.’
    ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about him,’ Jean said comfortably. ‘I don’t think it’s your cooking he’s after!’

2
    You might think that October in Tremarnock would be a miserable month, but in some ways Liz loved autumn and winter here more than any other time of year. During the balmy summers tourists flocked into the village, charmed by the quaint, colour-washed cottages and narrow, cobbled streets, the safe little harbour, with its bobbing, brightly coloured boats, and the small, secluded beach.
    Then, it seemed, every other house was either offering bed and breakfast or was let out to couples and families, complete with noisy dogs, teens and babies. The village pubs heaved so that you could scarcely reach the bar, and finding a parking space was so tricky that if you were lucky enough to succeed, you might as well hang on to it and walk or catch the bus instead.
    Tills rang, businesses boomed and jobs, albeit temporary, were easy to come by, so no one liked to complain. After all, it was the tourists’ money that kept the place alive. Once the holidays were over, however, a sense of calm descended and even the weekenders, with their smart second homes, tended to bolt their doors, lock their shutters and stay away until the weather improved.
    Those remaining could have felt lonely, perched as they were on an isolated peninsula, flanked on three sides by water and surrounded by empty houses, but in fact the opposite was true. Life went on and with the place to themselves, locals could once more enjoy solitary walks along the shingly beach and across the dark rocks, pitted with interesting pools, before clambering up the densely vegetated cliff to high ground.
    From here, they could revel in spectacular views across the bay, undisturbed by gaggles of mums and dads, dragging reluctant children on family walks, or groups of ramblers. The only noise was the crashing waves down below, tossing and glinting in ragged confusion as they hit the rocks and flew into the air, mingled with the plaintive cries of seagulls.
    Back down in the village, it was a relief to be able to find a spot in the pub and chat to the permanent staff, whose feet rarely touched the floor all summer long, and to lean against shop counters and find out how those behind them really were . They were more than friends or acquaintances, you see, more than people just providing a service.
    The great storm of 2014, when waves whooshed over the roofs of houses, leaving behind great mounds of sand up to the windows, was still fresh in the minds of many, and some were old enough to remember the devastation of ’76. Then, as always, the community had rallied, everyone helping to bale and shovel, everyone mucking in. Miraculously, most folk had been back in their homes and businesses up and running again within days. You didn’t forget things like that in a hurry. It brought you together; it gave you a special bond.
    So Liz always viewed October onwards as a time to draw breath, re-engage with people and catch up on some of the jobs that she put off when the sun shone and the outdoors beckoned. The buzz and gaiety of summer were all very well, but the party couldn’t go on for ever.
    Mitzi, the tortoiseshell cat, was sitting on the windowsill, waiting for her and Rosie to return, and the girl