Page 8 of The Cornish Cream Tea Holiday
Chapter Four
The woman leaning out of the upper window was in her seventies, at least, with a narrow face and white hair cut into a short, wispy bob. Thea couldn’t see the colour of her eyes, only that they were pinning her in place with a bold, curious look.
‘I didn’t mean to disturb you,’ Thea called up, because customer service training – and her own dislike of confrontation – had taught her to always defuse a situation if possible.
‘You didn’t! I was waiting for the post.’
Thea smiled, because wasn’t that ironic, that she was in the Old Post House and had to wait until mid-afternoon for her own mail to be delivered?
‘Yes, yes, I see you laughing,’ the old woman said. ‘Things are very much not what they used to be, young lady, and I don’t mind using the cliché because it’s true.’
‘Does the post often come so late?’ Thea shouted, then cleared her throat. She was parched already, and this yelled conversation wasn’t helping.
‘No,’ was the reply. ‘But I am a study in optimism over reality. I’m waiting for something, and I was assured by my solicitor that it would turn up today.’
‘Oh. OK, then.’ Thea didn’t want to be drawn into an in-depth conversation, discussing a stranger’s private matters at such a high volume. They might have been in a quieter part of town, but they must be disturbing at least ten sparrow families with their bellowing.
‘What are you doing here, anyway? Hiking by yourself doesn’t seem so wise.’ The older woman clearly didn’t share her concerns.
Thea huffed. The sun was slowly baking her, and she could feel her thigh muscles stiffening up, her ankle throbbing gently, as if to remind her that she wasso closeto a cool drink, a long shower and a comfy sofa. She licked her lips and tried not to whimper.
‘Do you want to come down?’ she called up.
‘No! It will take me at least ten minutes with my creaking joints.’
‘I could … come inside, then? Come up to see you?’
The old woman was already shaking her head. ‘I won’t have you traipsing through the disaster zone that is the lower floor, then breaking your ankle and suing me when I’m weeks away from escaping.’
Thea wanted to tell her she’d already hurt her ankle, that she didn’t have the energy to sue anyone, but she was too intrigued by the hints she’d dropped. ‘You’re leaving?’ she asked. ‘It’s such a beautiful building.’
She inspected it more closely, noticing that behind the tangle of ivy consuming it, the brickwork was honey-coloured. There were large windows either side of the frontdoor, though the frames around them, and the lattice between the small panes, were far from white, and the red paint of the door was cracked beyond what could be considered vintage charm. Thea peered in through the glass, trying not to start at her reflection – the dark hair that had gone to frizz in the heat, pulling haphazardly away from her makeshift bun; the shiny pink of her cheeks; the sweaty sheen on her collarbone.
Ignoring her own image and stepping closer, she could see the dark, hulking shapes of furniture – a table and a heavy wooden chest pushed to the back of the space, a high desk that might once have been a counter, and, along the left-hand wall, bookshelves. They were grey with dust, and she didn’t want to think about how many spiders used them as walkways, but they still whispered at her, gleeful in their possibility.
‘Had your fill?’ The woman was resting her forearms on the windowsill, leaning out so she could look down at Thea.
Thea shrugged. ‘It needs a bit of work, but—’
‘But I need more,’ the woman finished. ‘I can’t stay here any more. Not with the narrow stairs and the steep hill down to the centre of town. My daughter’s waiting for contracts to be exchanged, then she’s having me in with her, once she’s in the new house. Lots of room so we don’t murder each other, apparently. And hopefully, once I’m gone, the Old Post House will be transformed from its current disaster zone.’
‘Are you selling it?’ Thea asked.
‘It belongs to the town,’ the woman said. ‘Some complicated arrangement, I didn’t pay much attention when Eric was in charge. But they’ll have some use for it, no doubt.’
‘Can’t they spruce it up now, so you can stay in it?’ Thea asked. She was drawn back to the window, noticed a stand of discarded greetings cards in one corner.
‘I didn’t want to let them, before.’ The old woman sniffed. ‘My Eric only died last year, and I know the old shop is in a state, but I haven’t had the energy, or the spirit, to clear it of everything it used to be. The townsfolk rallied round, of course, but I was a moody old goat. Grieving, I suppose. Now my mobility’s too bad to stay here, so it’s going back to Port Karadow. It feels wrong to hand it over to them like this, but it’s too late to do anything about it. They’ll just have to make a go of it once it’s back in their hands.’
Thea nodded, a lump in her throat at the thought of this woman, who seemed so mentally robust, grieving alone in this beautiful but decaying old building, too stubborn – or just too heartbroken – to accept help.
‘I’m sure if you wanted to—’ she started.
‘I was asking about you, anyway. I’ve not seen you before. Even in the sunshine, that bit of coastline’s a treacherous place.’
‘I was fine,’ Thea said sharply, even though she had thought exactly the same thing. She didn’t quite understand how she had got embroiled in this conversation.
‘You don’t look it.’
