‘Cottage On A Cornish Cliff’ by Kate Ryder
The Blog Tour / First Lines / Book Beginnings

CHAPTER ONE

Narrowing her eyes against a blast of bitter wind coming in off the sea, Cara pushes the buggy along Harbour Road. In its prominent position at the edge of the ocean, the Bickford Smith Institute is battered by a sudden explosion of surf, and huddled on the surrounding cliffs an assortment of houses jostle with their neighbours – restaurants, pubs, shops, art galleries – as if attempting to gain a modicum of warmth from the other. No defined horizon separates the ocean from the sky; all is grey, except for a herd of white horses cresting the waves. Yet, even portrayed in this drab palette, the little harbour town of Porthleven retains a beauty and charm of its own.

If this were a Farrow & Ball colour chart, thinks Cara, it would be Purbeck Stone through Mole’ s Breath!

The wind, punishing anyone brave or foolish enough to be out in its force, catches at Cara’ s hair, snatching it from her beanie and whipping it across her face before she has a chance to turn into the relative stillness of the courtyard. The gallery lights are on and she sees her mother clearing the last remaining items from the shelves. Turning the buggy in a circle, Cara backs into the doorway and pushes the door open with her bottom.

‘Here, let me …’ Carol says, rushing to hold open the door for her daughter.

‘That wind,’ exclaims Cara, ‘it’s biting!’ She manoeuvres the pushchair into the warmth of the gallery.

‘Roll on spring,’ Carol says, firmly closing the door on the February chill.

Cara takes off her beanie, freeing her long blonde hair, and removes her jacket. She glances around the empty space. ‘Doesn’t it look spacious?’

Carol nods. ‘It’ s surprisingly large without all the display stands.’ She bends down to release her newest grandson from the constraints of his pushchair. As she lifts him out the toddler’s face breaks into a smile. ‘Good morning, beautiful boy,’ she says, kissing his podgy cheek.

Cara unhooks a hessian bag hanging from the buggy’s handles and, walking to the sales counter, empties out its contents. She extracts a soft toy and holds it out to her son.

‘Well, young Toby, what’s Mummy got there?’ Carol says. Placing the little boy’s feet on the ground, she holds firmly onto his hands and walks him towards his mother and the smiling yellow teddy bear with the smart tartan bow tie.

He covers the ground surprisingly quickly for someone so chubby, thinks Cara.

She smiles affectionately at her son. As she hands over the bear, the little boy bounces with excitement.

Suddenly the entrance door flies open and in rushes Sheila, along with a blast of cold air. Her face is vivid red and the large padded coat only accentuates her small, squat frame.

‘Oh my, it’s a bit fresh out today!’ She unbuttons her coat. ‘Hello, my ’ansum,’ she says to Toby. The little boy smiles and holds out his yellow teddy to her. ‘That’s a beaut, but you hold onto it, my lovely.’

‘Why are you dressed like that?’ Carol asks, scrutinising her friend’s leopard-skin print, Spandex top and tights.

‘New Zumba class in the village hall,’ Sheila says, shaking her booty and striking a pose. Cara stifles a laugh. ‘It’s brill. You ought to come with me.’

‘I’ll give that particular experience a miss if you don’t mind. Unlike you, I can’t get away with wearing Spandex these days!’ Carol teases.

‘Oh, there are all shapes and sizes. You’d fit right in,’ Sheila says, winking at Cara.

‘Well, thank you very much, dear friend,’ says Carol.

Sheila laughs. ‘You know what I mean!’

‘Luckily, I do,’ Carol says with a laugh. ‘However, I think I’ll stick to my yoga classes.’

Sheila gazes around the empty room. ‘So, where do you want us to start, Cara?’

‘There are dust sheets out the back and brushes and rollers, and I’ve bought white emulsion by the truckload! There’s also a stepladder. I’ll just sort out Toby and then get stuck in myself.’

As Cara peels Toby out of his snowsuit, Carol and Sheila scuttle into the back room.

‘Just look at all these lovely toys,’ Cara says, carrying her son to a playpen in the far corner of the gallery. The little boy wriggles. As she places him amongst his toys he beams up at her.

‘You are one happy little chap, aren’t you? How can we be sad with you around?’ Unable to catch herself in time, Cara thinks back to that long, hot summer when her deeply ingrained, all-encompassing sadness evaporated due to one particular man. Unbidden, Oliver’s handsome face and distinctive voice come to her and, briefly, she allows herself the indulgence of feeling again. But as soon as the moment presents itself she pulls herself up short. She cannot go there. She has to be in the here and now, otherwise she will be lost. Cara blows her son a kiss and turns at the sound of her mother’s and Sheila’s voices. Having peeled herself out of the Spandex, Sheila now wears pristine white painting overalls.

‘Very practical, Sheila!’ Cara suppresses another smile as she gathers her hair into a high ponytail and secures it with a scrunchie.

‘You know me, dear. I always dress for the occasion!’

The three women happily set about painting the gallery and time passes quickly in the busy, companionable atmosphere. Some hours later, they stand back to assess their work.

‘Well, girls, what do you think?’ Sheila asks.

‘A lot fresher,’ says Carol.

‘Painting white on white is always tricky, but what a difference,’ Cara says, placing her roller in a paint tray. ‘It always astounds me how grubby the walls get through the season. I mean, it’s not as if it’s dirty work we do here!’

‘Must be all those emmets rubbing their greasy palms over the walls after they’ve had fish and chips for lunch,’ comments Sheila.

‘Don’t you be saying that,’ says Carol with a laugh. ‘No greasing of palms goes on here.’ Sheila chortles. ‘I’ll prepare lunch,’ continues Carol. ‘What do you want to drink? Coffee or wine?’

‘We definitely deserve wine!’ says Sheila. ‘I’ll get the glasses.’

‘There’s a bottle of white in the fridge,’ Cara calls out after Sheila’s rapidly disappearing figure, ‘but I’d best stick to juice until Toby’s fully weaned.’ She takes off her painting shirt, hangs it over a stool and walks towards the playpen, where her son contentedly plays with his toys.

‘Mama.’ The little boy holds out his arms to her.