Christmas at Sandcastle Cottage Read online

  Christmas at

  Sandcastle Cottage

  by

  Christina Jones

  Published by Accent Press Ltd 2018

  Octavo House

  West Bute Street

  Cardiff

  CF10 5LJ

  www.accentpress.co.uk

  Copyright © Christina Jones 2018

  The right of Christina Jones to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of Accent Press Ltd.

  eISBN 9781786156884

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter One

  Abandoned and unloved, the cottage garden was waist-high in dead grass, tangled weeds and a rotting mass of everyday detritus. In the fading light of another cold and wet late November afternoon, the cottage itself looked even more neglected than the garden.

  Kitty Appleby knew exactly how it felt.

  ‘Shall we go inside?’ The youthful estate agent asked brightly, jangling the keys and stamping his feet. ‘It’s a bit – um – chilly out here.’

  Kitty nodded. Despite everyone saying she had more than a touch of Julia Roberts about her, she felt as drab and damp as the cottage, and was sadly aware that in this drizzly weather her almost-auburn hair would already have her looking like the frizzier half of Simon and Garfunkel.

  Although, she thought miserably, goodness knows why she couldn’t just be honest. She should say that she was only killing time; that she really, really didn’t want to view Sandcastle Cottage. But the estate agent was so keen, and she’d clearly given him all the wrong signals. She groaned inwardly. At least inside the cottage it would be dry and out of the wind. And it would pass the time until her train was due to leave…

  A quick look inside couldn’t hurt, could it?

  She’d just let the poor estate agent – whose gelled-quiff was now sinking slowly southwards under a fresh onslaught of gusty rain – show her round the dilapidated cottage, then say thanks but no thanks and leave Firefly Common for ever.

  Kitty rubbed her cold hands together and sighed. Like so much of her life, this was all such a hugely monumental mistake…

  Ten hours earlier, Kitty had stepped from the train and onto a small wooden platform at the quaintly named Firefly Common Halt, almost looking forward to the day ahead. Well, as much as you could, or should, when the whole point of being there was to attend a memorial service for someone you’d once admired but hadn’t actually seen for over two decades.

  Miss Bowler had been the inspirational English teacher at Kitty’s school. Kitty, and half a dozen other book-loving sixth formers, had become known as Miss B’s Girls. It was, of course, all far too Prime of Miss Jean Brodie for comfort, but they all blamed Amy for that. Even as the world had prepared to move into the 21st century, 18 year old Amy had worn plaits, was still all gung-ho and jolly hockey sticks, and probably reading Angela Brazil under the duvet.

  And of course it was Amy who had arranged the reunions ever since: far-flung they may have been once their schooldays were over, but Amy made sure Miss B’s Girls kept in touch. So naturally, Amy had arranged for all Miss B’s Girls – girls who were now women in their thirties – to reunite in Firefly Common, the sleepy seaside village where Miss Bowler had apparently enjoyed many happy years of retirement.

  ‘Wear colours, no black, it’s a celebration not a funeral,’ Amy’s text had read. ‘We’ll meet at the church – St Agatha’s – at 11 a.m. sharp. Do we all have the postcode for our sat navs? If not, I can send. See you there – and don’t be late!’

  Kitty had read the text twice, dithered for a moment about whether she should go or not, wondered if she had any decent going-out clothes left, then made up her mind.

  ‘You want to go to Firefly Common? Today?’ The man in the ticket office at Reading station frowned at Kitty before flicking through his screen. ‘Well, yes there is a halt there… not a proper station. Mind you, it’ll take a while to get there – good job you’ve made an early start. You’ll have to change at Newbury and take the stopper on the branch line and make sure you tell the guard – if there is one – where you’re getting off – oh, and sit in the middle carriage else you’ll run out of platform…’

  Blimey, Kitty thought, pushing her fare under the bullet-proof-glass screen, this trip sounds fraught with problems and I haven’t even caught the train yet…

  But miraculously the trip had been problem-free, and Kitty – dressed in an orange sweater-dress and brown knee-length boots under her parka, the sartorial best she could do under the circumstances – had arrived in Firefly Common, had found St Agatha’s church, and had met up with the rest of Miss B’s Girls just before 11 as instructed, all without mishap.

  The service was a sweet and heartfelt celebration of life. Several distant relatives had said nice things, a few local friends had sniffled noisily into hankies, and various ex-pupils had read poems by Wordsworth and Keats, and suitable passages from Chaucer and Milton – although secretly Kitty felt Amy’s choice from Paradise Lost about descending into the fire and brimstone of the underworld and delivered a la Brian Blessed, was in seriously poor taste – and then they’d all headed off to the local pub, The Merry Mermaid, for non-alcoholic refreshments.

  Even on such a grey and bleak November day, The Merry Mermaid was straight out of Central Casting’s idea of the Olde Worlde Pub; surrounded by shingle with a small and pretty beer garden with oddments of tables and chairs and masses of trellised-Virginia Creeper to one side, it was all whitewashed walls, low beams, crooked doors and windows, hanging baskets clinging on to the last vestiges of colour from late-blooming geraniums and nasturtiums, and, most alluringly of all, was perched on Firefly Common’s gently sloping clifftop with a stunning and uninterrupted view of the sea.

  Or it would have had, if the sea hadn’t vanished in a shroud of low, swirling grey mist.

  Amy pointed out loudly that the unseen sea was not, as everyone had assumed, the English Channel, but the Solent, and on a clear day you could most likely see the sands of the Isle of Wight. Shivering, Kitty felt that clear days in Firefly Common were probably few and far between, and hurried into the cosy interior of The Merry Mermaid.

  Instantly warmer, Kitty, sitting with the rest of Miss B’s Girls in the low-ceilinged snug bar of the pub, cupped one hand round her mug of coffee and tried hard to balance a Ritz cracker heavily laden with cream cheese and a triangle of cucumber in the other, while they all talked at the same time. They – Miss B’s Girls – still met at least once a year, phoned and texted often, and followed each other on various social media platforms, so there were very few surprises.

  Amy, still looking like an overgrown schoolgirl, was Head of English in a well-known fee-paying educational establishment for the children of the mega-wealthy, kept tropical fish, and had never married or even dated anyone as far as they knew; Becky and Emma, best friends at school who had held hands in between lessons and constantly stroked one another’s hair were now partners, had move
d to Wales to work in banking and had a lovely Civil Ceremony two years earlier; Claire was a stay-at-home mum with three children and living the Good Life with her farmer husband somewhere on the Fens; Jemini was divorced, had a small daughter called Teddy, worked part time in a Midlands supermarket during the day while Teddy was in nursery, and taught keep-fit pole-dancing at night when she could get a sitter.

  There was really nothing new to catch up on. They all knew everything about the latest details of each other’s lives. Or so they thought.

  Kitty, shoving the Ritz cracker and its slippery topping into her mouth in one go, was praying to any gods who would listen that none of them knew what was really going on with her life.

  No, as far as they were concerned, Kitty and James, ten years together but not married and no children, were still living happily in their two-bed semi-detached home on an outskirts-of-Reading estate called Willowmead – where there were no willows and no mead and never had been, and which had been a cash-and-carry warehouse yard before it offered “a chance to own a cosy home in the country” – that looked like every other new-build estate in Berkshire and beyond.

  Kitty, they thought, was still working as a secretary-cum-everything-else-clerical in the thriving building business run by James and his dad. Kitty, they assumed, still had her new-to-her Oxford blue Mini, had glitzy nights out in Reading, shopping sprees with her girlfriends, massive noisy barbeques at home, and glamorous holidays abroad with James.

  Kitty was relieved that it was so easy to lie on social media.

  The Ritz cracker and the cucumber had stuck in her throat, so she took a gulp of coffee and tried not to choke. Jemini, who had been listening to Amy’s graphic description of fin rot in her Neon Tetras and how she’d single-handedly saved the entire shoal, raised a sympathetic and rather artistically enhanced eyebrow.

  ‘OK, Kit?’

  Kitty nodded. Jemini had been her best friend at school, and was her closest friend in the group. But even Jemini didn’t know the truth. The truth… The awful truth… Kitty hoped no-one would ever ask. No-one would believe her anyway. But if they did ask – where on earth would she begin? Where on earth was the beginning anyway?

  Ok, start with the house…

  The Willowmead starter home was gone: sold quickly and cheaply before being repossessed after the spectacular collapse of James’ dad’s building business. The cars went too. And James’ parents’ home. In fact anything that could be sold, was sold, because as James’ dad’s solicitor had pointed out, tax avoidance and offshore account havens may be ok for superstars and the rich and famous, but tax evasion didn’t go down well for small builders…

  Kitty, in a state of shock and total disbelief, had been questioned again and again, and had to suffer watching her office inspected down to the last paperclip. Fortunately, the investigators decided she wasn’t guilty of anything. But the financial advisor mate of James’ dad who had “done the books” wasn’t quite so lucky. And James, who swore he’d known nothing, although Kitty couldn’t quite believe him even now, had been hauled over the HMRC coals along with his blustering father. And the HMRC didn’t take any prisoners.

  James and his dad were lucky to have escaped with the winding-up of their company, a suspended sentence, an eye-watering repayment scheme – hence the sale of everything that wasn’t already in hock to someone else – and a lifelong financial blacklisting.

  The awful, drawn-out legal proceedings meant that Kitty’s job vanished at much the same time as her home. James, now unemployed, had decamped to live with his sister and her husband and umpteen children, were he slept on the sofa and said there was no room for Kitty. And Kitty, for the first time cursing her parents’ retirement dream of channelling their inner Bear Grylls and moving to the smallest one-up two-down known to man in the wilds of a Scottish island, faced being homeless.

  Local friends offered their spare rooms, their sofas, their put-you-ups – but only on a temporary basis. No-one wanted Kitty and her baggage for more than a week or two. Because Kitty, of course, didn’t travel solo…

  Back in the snug warmth of The Merry Mermaid, Amy had suddenly and without debate decided it was time for Miss B’s Girls to leave. No-one argued. Having said farewell and thank you to Miss Bowler’s distant relatives, coats were fastened, bags grabbed, everyone hugged everyone else, promised they’d all meet up in the New Year and hoped everyone had a great Christmas.

  Christmas… Kitty winced.

  ‘I’ll ring you, Kit,’ Jemini grinned over her shoulder as she snatched the last Ritz cracker and dashed out of the pub. ‘We need to catch up properly. Safe journey.’

  ‘Yep. You too,’ Kitty nodded. Then, having lied about where she’d parked her non-existent car, waited until they’d all gone, and looked at her watch. And groaned.

  Three hours before the only train back to Reading would be calling at Firefly Common Halt.

  Three hours! How on earth was she going to pass three hours in Firefly Common on a cold and miserable November afternoon?

  Chapter Two

  Having very little spare money, Kitty knew that spending the next three hours nursing one cup of coffee in The Merry Mermaid was out of the question. As was the possibility of a bracing clifftop walk, or a scramble down the rather enticing twisting wooden steps to the beach, due to the swirling mist, the drizzle and the rapidly plunging temperatures. Given the limited choices, she took a deep breath, tucked her wildly-corkscrewing curls into the hood of her parka, and set off inland.

  Kitty soon discovered that setting off inland in Firefly Common didn’t take very long. The narrow path climbing gently up from The Merry Mermaid and the sea forked away from the road and cut through what was clearly the eponymous common. Unused to so much – well – solitude and obvious lack of any other living thing, Kitty took the first few tentative steps into the unknown, and immediately relaxed.

  The common was dank and dark and overgrown and smelled of earth and mould – exactly like her Grandpa’s potting shed. Instantly she was transported back to memories of her happy childhood. Smiling now, and with a cushion of fallen leaves underfoot and knee-high curling ferns brushing against the tops of her boots, Kitty almost skipped beneath the skeletal arches of dripping trees, captivated by the silence. A myriad of little rutted pathways bordered by gorse and broom led off in every direction from the main sand and shingle track, and although Kitty knew she wasn’t seeing the common at its best, she’d fallen in love with it. Just imagine how glorious this would be in high summer, she thought. And there may even be fireflies… Not that she’d ever know.

  There were little pastel-coloured houses and cottages dotted here and there in the clearings amongst the trees. Kitty, blinking raindrops from her eyelashes, looked at them in delight. It was like a fairy-tale. Miss Bowler must have loved living out her retirement in this place. And you could actually hear the sea. Mind you, she thought, glorious as it was even on this bleak autumn day, it must be pretty desolate in the depths of a snowbound winter. But in the summer she knew it would be stunning. Maybe next year she’d bring James here to see if there really were fireflies… Maybe… Things were so difficult with James these days.

  It was mainly the trust thing. Kitty knew, deep down, that if James could keep something as cataclysmic as tax fiddling a secret, she really wouldn’t, and couldn’t, trust him to be truthful about anything… The relationship was teetering badly. They both knew it… But maybe, she smiled sadly to herself, maybe next year things would be different. By the time the summer came, maybe they would have put the horrors behind them, and life would be getting back to normal… Maybe…

  With a deep sigh as she rather abruptly came to the end of the common’s rutted paths and the tangled shrubbery, Kitty emerged into civilisation again. This was obviously Firefly Common’s High Street. There were few people about, and very little traffic, and the cars swished messily between the overflowing rain-filled gutters, forcing Kitty to dodge the eddies of muddy water.

&nbs
p; The street looked, as did so much of Firefly Common, as if it were part of a 1950’s film set. Decades-old shop fronts faced either side of the gently curving road. Kitty, glancing again at her watch, knew there was nothing else for it – window-shopping it would have to be…

  The lights from the shops spilled out like liquid gold, distorted across the wet pavement in the afternoon gloom. Their windows were all awash with tinsel and fairy lights and universal ho-ho-ho. Kitty found it all rather depressing. Christmas! Only a few weeks away now – where on earth would she and James be spending Christmas…? And did she really want to spend Christmas with James anyway? And what sort of Christmas would it be? Neither of them had any spare money, neither of them had a proper home… And neither of them had parents – for very different reasons – who could offer them a Proper Family Christmas…

  Oh, sod Christmas, Kitty thought glumly as she trudged past Locktons’ gaily illuminated window which appeared to have paperchains draped over the display of buckets and spades and sandcastle flags and beach balls, with several glittery posters claiming the shop could provide “jolly gifts for the whole family”. Kitty guessed that, in the summer, Locktons would be one of those old-fashioned seaside shops where beach toys were piled enticingly high outside, along with garishly coloured inflated lilos and swimming rings, and with rather risqué old-time cartoon postcards displayed on twirling stands.

  Next door to Locktons there was a greengrocer, followed by a Big Sava Express, then two charity shops – both decked out in festive finery – with a delightful chippie right next door. Kitty was pleased that it was simply called The Silver Fish Bar, and not something allegedly amusing like The Cod Father. She stopped and peered past the “sorry, we’re closed” sign and in through the window. Again, there were Christmas decorations – and even without the lights turned on, Kitty could just make out a price list indicating that you could have cod and chips, plaice and chips or haddock and chips – nothing else was on offer, no burgers or sausages or anything other than fish – to take out or eat in. Eating in included a pot of tea and bread and butter. Kitty almost squealed in delight – she could just see the “eating-in” part – a proper café with square tables and red and white gingham cloths. Firefly Common was like time travelling!