Edie Browne’s Cottage by the Sea: A heartwarming, hilarious romance read set in Cornwall!

‘Marvellous.’ I wedge my jaw shut to stop my teeth chattering. I know from work, it’s crucial to set clear boundaries at the outset. ‘And h-h-how do I fit in? If you think I’m going to swim to shore for help when the damn thing breaks into pieces, you can bloody think again.’

‘Definitely no swimming – I can sail her on my own – but it’s better with two people because there’s more weight.’ He’s already jumped down into the boat and he’s pulling on ropes.

‘So you’ve brought me along as ballast?’ Of all the insults, that has to be the biggest yet.

‘Not entirely, it was more a spur-of-the-moment thing. You looked like you were really struggling back there.’ He looks like he’s agonising. ‘I wanted to save you from a crap afternoon.’ His hand grasps mine and in one pull I’m in and sliding onto a tiny plank seat, clinging onto the boat side behind me as it lurches, trying to look like I do this every day. As the oilskin’s Velcro prickles my chin there’s no time to wish that Dayglo orange was more my colour because I’m too busy watching the dark shiny water going up and down as the boat rises on the swell, and holding onto my stomach which feels like it’s a washing machine working a full load. If I said I’d rather make a quilt, revise that upwards. I can’t count how many quilts I’d have sewn to avoid this. More importantly, if this is being saved, I hate to think what being dropped in it would be like.

Meanwhile Barney’s leaping around like bloody Superman doing a million things at once; undoing ropes, pushing us off from the side, hauling up the sail.

‘Boom!’

The yell makes me jump so much I almost end up in the harbour. But I’m catching on here, I’d hate to come across as clueless, so I join in too but make sure mine’s louder. ‘Boom! Back at you!’

From Barney’s bemused stare you’d think he was the beginner here. ‘Sorry, that means “Mind your head!” – that’s the boom there.’ He’s pointing at this long pole at the bottom of the sail. ‘Boom! is what we shout when it’s about to swing across the boat, so watch out.’

‘Shucks!’ I duck and narrowly miss getting my skull caved in as it skims past my ear and silently thank Christmas it didn’t bump my head. Then, as Barney squats down at the back, some kind of stick in one hand, still pulling on a rope in the other, there’s this awful creaking, but we start to move away from the jetty and out across the harbour.

‘Okay on the side there?’

‘Great.’ My fake I’m-totally-fine-thanks smile would be way more convincing if my lippy hadn’t all just blown out to sea. Even though I look like Mr Blobby I attempt a nonchalant lounging position, but when I lunge slowly backwards there’s nothing to lean on. I’m sure I had many clips in my messy up-do, but it feels like the wind wrenched them all away and tossed them into the water, so I push my scarf into my pocket so I don’t lose that too. ‘Are you sure it’s okay going out in this gale?’

He pulls down the corners of his mouth and does a little wiggle on the stick. ‘Probably only a force two.’

Which means absolutely zilch, but I’m pretty proud of the way I exclaim about it anyway. ‘A TWO! Jeez, well, that explains why it’s so rough and windy.’

‘It’s like a millpond, Edie. I wouldn’t have brought you out if it wasn’t.’ He’s frowning at me. ‘Maybe you’d like to let go of the side and hang onto the sheet instead? Get a feel for the wind?’

‘Great, you’ve brought a sheet – I’ll wrap myself up in it if it gets any colder.’

He purses his lips. ‘The sheet is this rope here, you could pull it and hold the sail in place?’

‘Hell no. Thanks all the same.’

If I didn’t know better I’d think he was trying to hold back his smile. ‘So maybe you can tell me how come you’re less in love with sewing than the rest of them?’

‘I got off to a bad start at school.’ To be honest it’s a relief to have something to take my mind off the heaving of the ship. ‘The first ever lesson, the textiles teacher caught me holding a pin in my mouth.’ That was practically the only useful thing my mum had ever taught me about needlework. ‘Apparently teenagers giving sudden whoops and ending up in A&E with pins jammed in their throats is a massive Health and Safety issue.’ I know that I’m blurting and over-sharing, but I can’t stop. My only excuse, I must be a nervous sailor. ‘To be honest I’d have thought sewing through your finger with a machine was way worse. That’s what Bianca Hill from the other group in our year did. But, whatever, the teacher had a hissy fit and things went downhill fast from there.’ A lot like things have in St Aidan, come to think of it.

‘Okay, we’re going to swing the sail around and change direction in a minute, so hang on tight and duck … one two three, BOOM!’

‘Jeez, what the HECK … BOOM! To you too!’ There’s so much splashing and heaving and groaning it feels like we have to end up upside down, pitched into the water. I’m digging my fingers in so hard to the boat side I get splinters under my fingernails, but at the end of it somehow we’re still afloat, even if we’re at a crazy angle.

‘Okay, now come and sit the other side of the boat, and this time try to lean back as far as you can to get your weight out over the water.’ As he watches me make my way across, inching forwards on all fours through the puddles, I no longer give any fucks. The will to look stylish disappeared somewhere in the harbour car park, and I left my last shred of pride back on the jetty. I get there eventually, but he can forget leaning out.

‘So much chopping and changing. It’s hardly relaxing is it?’

He’s rubbing his fist over his mouth. ‘So, how far downhill did your sewing go?’

‘By the time we got to making dresses for GCSE, mine was the size of one of those things that you put your bed quilt inside.’

‘What, a duvet cover?’

‘That’s the one. Then I put the zip in upside down, and somehow stitched the front to the back so, even though it was the size of a house, it was still impossible to climb into.’ It’s all true, and at least it’s a better excuse for why I was completely failing to cut out Loella’s patchwork pieces. I’d rather not explain that my fingers won’t do what I want them to at the moment.

‘I can see why you’re traumatised.’ He’s spluttering into his fist. ‘Okay, we’re turning again, ready, and BOOM!’

‘Surely not? BOOM!’ But we are, and the whole damned heaving and splashing thing starts again and, before I know it, I’m on my hands and knees, crawling back across the boat again. Once I get back onto my plank seat with both hands safely clamped on the boat sides, I squint at him. ‘And people do this why?’

He shrugs. ‘Because it’s fun.’

That word again. ‘Not in my book it’s not.’

‘I’ve had more laughs in the last half hour than I have for a long time.’ He’s tilting his head at me and being ridiculous, because he hasn’t even broken into a grin. ‘I’m not sure you know quite how funny you are, Edie Browne.’

I give that the eye roll it deserves. Funny was how I was before, what he’s finding amusing now are my blunders.

With his deck shoes and tousled hair, and the shadows under his cheekbones set against the flashes of the dark water, he could have been parachuted in from a Diesel advert.

He coughs. ‘I know we’re only going slowly, but listen to the swish of the water as the boat passes across it, feel the rush of the breeze. I mean, look back at the harbour and the shore.’

I only screw my head around because I know if I don’t he’ll go on about it. Looking back from out here in the bay, I’m getting the familiar postcard view of the town with the higgledy rows of cottages rising above the cluster of masts in the harbour, and the seafront railings that stretch around the bay.

‘So, doesn’t it give you a wonderful sense that you’re escaping?’

I nod at the stack of stone and stucco fronts, their pastel colours fading to monochrome in the greyness. ‘The calm swishing gets wrecked every time we almost get pitched into the effing sea.’ Aunty Jo’s cottage is nudging the skyline, and I’m trying not to notice how wildly it’s swaying up and down as the boat rocks. ‘My escape to solitude ends firmly at the beach, any further is too much like Desert Island Discs.’

There’s a choking noise from behind the sail. ‘You’ve picked the wrong place if you’re looking for peace.’

Someone else said that, but I’m not picking him up on it. I give him my serious stare. ‘And how can anyone relax when it sounds like the damn boat is about to split in two at any second?’

Somehow he looks totally at one with the thunder-grey clouds billowing behind him. ‘The creaking is the beauty of a timber hull. With a whole world of ocean stretched out beyond us, there’s such a wonderful feeling of freedom, that’s all.’

‘Probably more a feeling of totally bricking it.’

His teeth are closing on his lip. ‘Don’t worry, we’re on our way back in now. We’re going to drop the boat around the other side of the harbour. It’s your first time out, I’m sure you’ll enjoy it more next time.’

‘I seriously doubt it.’ It’s not like there will be another, I won’t fall for this twice. A thought flashes into my head. ‘You don’t make poor Cam do this, do you?’

He’s shaking his head. ‘For now Cam doesn’t do boats. Mostly I come out in the afternoons, which is why I thought you might be up for the occasional blast around?’

‘Not being rude—’

‘But you’re going to be anyway?’

‘I’d rather have my teeth pulled.’ All things considered. The heaving. My soaking feet and my soggy bum. The BOOMS! And that’s before we get to the company, and feeling seasick. ‘To express how much I enjoy that, you should know I once had a tooth out when I was eleven and I had to go all the way to Bristol to a special centre for nervous patients and be knocked out with Valium.’

He throws me a ‘what the eff?’ look then turns to the pontoon that’s racing towards us. ‘Well, that went well.’

As he stands up and unzips his life jacket I ignore the view up his sweatshirt. We’re bumping up against some other jetty now and he’s winding down the sail and bundling it into the bottom of the boat. And, just before he launches into his Superman routine again, he bends down and picks up this giant-size spanner. ‘Here, hang onto this for a second while I tie up.’

My arms sag under the weight, and there’s a lurch as he springs off the edge of the boat. I watch as he thuds onto the jetty and secures the boat with one deft twist of the rope.

He’s holding out his hand. ‘Okay, Edie, let’s get you back on dry land.’

I shuffle as far as I can on my bum, then, as I stagger to my feet, the huge spanner slides through my fingers and plummets downwards. There’s a second when I almost catch it somewhere around my knees, but it’s like a slippery fish sliding down the Dayglo fabric. A moment later it plunges through the narrow gap between the boat side and the jetty’s edge, and on into the soupy depths of the harbour.

‘Crap!’ My stomach is plunging faster than the spanner. And SHIT, ARSE and BOLLOCKS for not being able to rely on my grip any more.

‘Last time you were throwing knives at me, now it’s a wrench?’

I could kick seven bells out of the jetty side, but I’d rather jump into the harbour than have him know the truth. I grind my teeth, push my growl deep inside me. ‘I’m SO sorry.’

‘Don’t worry, these oversized tools make bids for freedom all the time. This is nothing – last week someone dropped a twelve grand outboard engine out in the bay. We’re in a fishing port, we’ll send in the deep-sea divers.’

‘Really?’ That sounds major.

‘Only joking – of course we won’t, we’ll hook it out at low tide.’ He glances at his watch. ‘Not that I want to rush you, but the class is almost over.’

As I clamber back onto the landing stage, I know I’m never going to live this down. As for where the time went, it definitely didn’t fly because I was enjoying myself.

And that was my afternoon at Patchwork.

10

Day 142: Friday, 23rd March

The day room at Periwinkle Cottage

Epic Achievement: Making a start.

‘Remind me why we have to do this now?’ Aunty Jo is tapping the toe of her least favourite rose gold pumps on the dust sheet we’ve thrown down on the flowery carpet.

This last week I’ve worked out the easiest way to deal with Aunty Jo is to ambush her. It’s our first day in ages without social events, so me leaping out of bed this morning, pulling on my boyfriend jeans and my weekend Hush C’est si bon sweatshirt, then starting to rip the wallpaper off the walls in the day room straight after breakfast is my way of leapfrogging any resistance.

It’s fine to roll out the reasons now it’s too late for her to stop me. ‘A decorator could take ages to come, and that’s when we find one, so I made a start.’ As boss of the job, I’ve decided – without consultation – it’s best to begin with the room where we spend most time, then work backwards through the house.

She’s still not convinced. ‘But I’ve never decorated before, not personally.’

The part where I pull her along on a wave of enthusiasm isn’t working. ‘We’ll do the easy bits, and call in the pro’s when we get stuck.’ Apart from anything else, it’s good for me to get back to practical tasks. Aunty Jo’s day room is only small and the ceilings are low so decorating it should be a great way to ease myself in and progress with ‘the quest’ at the same time.

When we were kids Tash and I used to scrap over helping Dad with the decorating. I was chief wallpaper paster, and a dab hand with a paint pot, so even if I didn’t run interior jobs I’d know what I’m doing. I slide my fish slice under a join in the design near the floor. As I ease the edge away there’s a wonderful ripping sound, and an entire panel of paper tears free from the wall. I bundle it up and grin.

Aunty Jo coughs and frowns down at a flake of paint on the floor. ‘It’s looking awfully messy, shall I get the vacuum?’

‘For now, why not rip off?’ However much she looks on the verge of a breakdown, this is my kind of fun and I can’t let her miss out. So I pass her a slice and a bin bag. As I dip a sponge in my bucket of suds and slosh soapy water onto the bits of paper still clinging to the wall I take pity on her.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll tidy later.’

She’s still hesitating, but now she’s staring at my legs. ‘Why not borrow some of Harry’s pyjamas? I’ve got lots of second-best ones.’

‘I’m probably okay, thanks all the same.’ Her wearing them is bad enough, but I can’t tell her that so I take a different tack. ‘How about some music?’ I always work better with some trashy pop to help me along. I’d sort it myself but my speaker is upstairs, and, even if I’m ripping her living room to pieces, I’m still very much a visitor when it comes to choosing music and TV.

She hugs her chest. ‘Would you like some Tchaikovsky? Or Vivaldi’s Four Seasons?’

‘Not if there’s anything else.’ We already had The Nutcracker right through our porridge and chia seeds. ‘How about music for cleaning?’

‘You mean Housework Songs?’ Aunty Jo’s brow furrows. ‘It’s not something I ever needed. In Harpenden I always had help.’

Of course she did – how did I not remember? ‘Loaded and spoiled with it’ was how my more robust mum put it, in her meaner, more frustrated moments. She taught French full-time and looked after a family of four, while Aunty Jo, who didn’t work and only had her and Harry at home, had at least two cleaning ladies, window cleaners, personal shoppers and an army of outdoor helpers at any one time.

‘Something similar, then?’ My fingers are tightly crossed under my slice. ‘A ‘hills are alive’ nun-in-the-mountains singalong would be good. Or Mamma Mia?’

‘Will this do?’ She fumbles in the sofa footstool and comes out with a CD case that she holds out to me.

And this is why I’m here and not at work. A few simple words for me to read, and any pretence of me being a normal, functioning human adult comes crashing down.

‘Sorry, that might as well be written in Chinese.’ I know a few of the letters on their own, but when they’re strung together in a line I have no chance. I take a deep breath. ‘Read me what it says, then I’ll tell you.’

‘I can’t bear anything too jolly.’

I take it that’s an excuse for what’s coming next, not the title. ‘So?’

‘The One Hundred Best Tearjerkers of All Time.’

I give way to a silent WTF? moment. ‘You’re sure?’

‘It flashed up on my laptop after I lost Harry, it seemed like a sign, so I bought it.’

That’s modern technology for you. I’m not even going to ask what the tracks are, with my wonky emotions I’m practically crying buckets already.

‘They’re miserable, but in a good way.’ She’s already holding the disc up to the light and blowing the dust off.

‘Watch out!’ I leap across the dust sheet to grab my shades from the coffee table before the flash hits my eyes. For the first time since I arrived there’s a break in the grey outside. Sun bouncing off things that shine is a whole other issue for me. Who knew one CD could throw up so many problems?

‘There you go, Everybody Hurts.’ She presses play then stands back to listen. ‘Aren’t those lyrics lovely? Then it’s Candle in the Wind and All by Myself.’ She’s not even reading, so she must know it off by heart. As for All by Myself, even Tash weeps at that one and she’s got a husband, a job, a house and two kids more than I have, so there’s no chance for me.

As if that wasn’t enough to make my heart sink to my elasticated ankle boots – which neatly sidestep all that tricky bow-tying that takes so long, in case you’re wondering why I’m not in Converse like everyone else my age – the stare she’s giving me is about as penetrating as a CT scan.

‘Which reminds me, I haven’t seen you practising your calligraphy.’

Why she’s jumped to that I don’t know, but I can’t say the same for her. ‘You’ve been doing enough for both of us.’ Her pile of sheets practically reaches the ceiling.

‘And your mum was asking about your reading too.’ Her stare powers up a notch.

Crap. I hadn’t expected she’d be on my case like this. To be honest, I’ve made so little progress so far, I’d decided to give it a rest for a while. I was hoping if I stopped worrying, when I came back to it in a few weeks’ time I might have made one of those huge accidental leaps of progress. I’m opening and closing my mouth to say that, but nothing’s coming out.

‘You’re going to have to put the time in.’ Three more power notches, and her eyes are like saucers. ‘I mean, it’s not going to happen by itself, is it?’ How did I ever have her down as a lightweight?

‘Well …’ I’m wondering how to explain that’s exactly what I’m planning, but I’m saved by a knock on the French window.

‘Barney! Again! So soon!’ My jump of surprise as I open the door and stand back to let him in sends my slice skittering across the floor, but I still get in first to stop Aunty Jo over-gushing. However much I wish he was anyone else, saying ‘hi’ to him is a damn sight easier than dodging awkward questions from Aunty Jo. I know I don’t have wet patches on my bum today, I’m not crawling through any upstairs windows, and I escaped the embarrassment of getting caught wearing Harry’s cast-offs, but I’m still kicking myself for rushing my eyeliner and skimping on the highlighter. ‘If you’re planning a two-minute trip round the bay that lasts all day, I’m probably too busy.’

‘Great to see you too, Edie.’ He picks the fish slice up and passes it back then he turns to Aunty Jo. ‘Sorry – am I missing something here? Are those Christmas reindeer on your pyjama jacket?’

Some of us would have shrunk in the spotlight, but Aunty Jo stands her ground. ‘They’re Harry’s, he had so many pairs I’m using up the festive ones for decorating.’

‘Go, Josie!’ There’s suddenly a sheepish hint to his expression. ‘You wouldn’t like an extra elf for ten minutes, would you? It’s years since I stripped paper, there’s nothing quite like the feeling of ripping it off the wall, is there?’

‘Absolutely right, Barney.’ She’s talking out of her Christmas tree-clad bottom here; she’s barely touched a piece of wallpaper yet. ‘Would you like a cup of tea while you’re here?’

I don’t believe what I’m hearing. As if things weren’t bad enough, Barney’s at my elbow and, without even picking up the spare cake slice, he’s already ripped off three huge lengths.

‘There we go.’ He isn’t even giving me the satisfaction of throwing his paper on the floor, he’s bundling it straight into the bin bag, dammit. ‘I’ll pass on the tea though, Josie. I can’t stay long.’

That’s the best news I’ve heard all morning.

He rips off two more strips whole, then he stoops to do the next one and ends up holding up a piece the size of a postage stamp. ‘Oops, my beginner’s luck ran out.’

I put my hands on my hips. ‘Too bad – looks like you’ve hit a superglued bit there, Barney. They’re way less fun.’

‘In that case I’d better leave it to you professionals.’ He gives a shrug and dips into the back pocket of his jeans ‘Before I forget, I came to give you your scarf. You left it in my sailing jacket.’

He’s pressed it into my hand and he’s reached the door before it sinks in. First, it’s been washed and beautifully ironed and folded. Second, and way more disturbing, the warmth currently seeping into my palm originated from his tush. As heat transfers go, that one’s too much.

‘Happy stripping, then.’ He pauses in the doorway. ‘And have a wonderful Christmas, Josie.’ Then he breaks into a run and, as he crosses the courtyard, for some inexplicable reason he’s punching the air.

I can’t decide whether to be annoyed he gave up so easily or ecstatic he’s left us to strip in peace. If I’m honest, I’m also struggling slightly with what happened when he whisked me away from Loella’s class. It’s not like I’m a pushover, I wouldn’t last two minutes in my job if I was. And I take a pride in taking responsibility for my own actions, and owning my decisions. More importantly, I’m definitely not a ‘Jane gets dragged through the jungle by Tarzan’ type of woman. Not even in my fantasies. Even in my wildest dreams I never imagined Marcus making me do something I didn’t want to, although I did occasionally fantasise about him helping around the house more. Or him not wanting clockwork sex every single morning. But, coming back to Barney – and even I have to concede the ‘but’ is a huge one – somehow, however it happened, whatever went wrong, I ended up bobbing around in the bay, even though it was not something I’d ever have signed up for, or willingly done.

However many circles I go around in, I haven’t quite resolved this satisfactorily in my head yet. At best, this was Barney asking for help he didn’t actually need at all, and taking advantage of my better nature, which I was completely aware of by the time I got down to the harbour. In which case, that still leaves me puzzling – why the hell did I get into that boat? I mean, at my age, I assumed I’d be past surprising myself, that’s all.

Except by the time I’ve peeled the next strip of paper, I’ve remembered. I never actually expected my new job, because I’ve always been a chancer not an achiever, so that was a surprise. Then I shocked myself when I stood my ground and broke up with Marcus. And shocked myself all over again when I walked away from that perfect life we had.

One thing’s for sure – when you’re picking bits of sticky paper off the wall there’s plenty of time to ponder. As we work our way around the walls we get claggier and claggier, but I’m still no nearer an answer. We’re onto the last wall when Aunty Jo pipes up from nowhere, ‘That’s the other good thing about the classes, you can get a lot of information from them.’

‘Really?’ I’m bracing myself for another very long monologue about quilting. After Fun with Fabric she talked about wadding for two hours straight, but that was a relief because it meant I could skip the details about my afternoon.

The breath she takes is worryingly deep. ‘Yesterday I found out Barney’s not a window cleaner at all – he actually makes shepherd’s huts along the road. That’s impressive, isn’t it?’