A Perfect Cornish Escape by Phillipa Ashley Page 0,6

the shafts of sunlight, and the cries of seagulls, and halyards clanking on the masts of fishing boats and yachts were clear even from her lofty viewpoint. Beyond the harbour entrance, whitecaps danced on the sea. No wonder Marina loved this place.

Tiff hadn’t expected to be so transfixed. Down below, she’d felt pissed off and tired by her journey, irritated by her inappropriate footwear, and disgruntled at having to be in Porthmellow at all.

The climb to the top had probably boosted her serotonin levels and – ha – given her a fresh perspective. Beyond the houses tumbling to the steep sides, the rest of the Penwith peninsula stretched out to Cornwall’s far west, blurring in a blue haze of sea and sky. Wait a minute … She pulled her polarising sunglasses from her bag. There was a white shed-like structure perched on the top of the cliff about half a mile away towards the east.

Was that Marina’s lookout station – where she and the other ‘Wave Watchers’ hung out? At the thought of why Marina had re-opened the station, Tiff told herself to grow a pair. No matter what had happened to Tiff herself, Marina had endured far worse and was still going through the mill because Nate had never been found. He was dead, of course, Tiff thought grimly, but what a horrendous thing to have to face up to. Tiff wasn’t sure she could have handled any of it.

The realisation made her all the more determined not to be an added burden on Marina. She’d make herself useful, try to be cheerful company and then leave her cousin in peace once the heat had died down in London. As it would, she was certain … then she could find a new job on a decent newspaper and get on with her life.

With her breath almost back to normal, she bumped her case onto Coastguard Terrace and wheeled it to the end, looking for number nine. A third of them didn’t seem to have numbers, preferring unfathomable names like ‘Chy an Mor’ and ‘Kerensa’. And, to further complicate things, several of the cottages could be described as ‘white’, the shades ranging from mucky dishrag to celeb tooth. Some even had numbers: a fourteen, an eleven with a ten next to it, which totally defeated all logic of odd and even being on opposite sides. In the middle of the numbered cottages was a pallid dwelling with a wonky sign that read ‘Sod Hall’.

How hilarious, thought Tiff, regretting her agreement to be a good Samaritan. She could, of course, always post the envelope in a post box, with ‘Dirk ’n’ Stormy, Porthmellow’ on it, though it wasn’t stamped which meant Dirk would have to drive miles to the sorting office and pay extra postage.

The idea of riling the mythical beast of Porthmellow made her smile and brought a satisfying image into her mind. She pictured Dirk: craggy, with days of stubble, in greasy overalls, a wrench or some other tool of choice in his hand.

He sounded like a kind of pound-shop Heathcliff … and she had no idea where his lair was.

‘Ah.’

She’d already wheeled her case a few metres when she spotted it. The cottage was almost at the end of a row, but on the ‘wrong’ side of the street for the odd numbers, and calling it white was pushing it. Tiff would have described it as grey-ish, like a storm cloud, and, judging by the oily pong, it had been very recently re-painted.

There was no number but that didn’t surprise her as it had probably been removed while the masonry had been re-rendered. However, a number nine had been daubed on the wheelie bin along with a peeling Lifeboat sticker. Tiff didn’t need to have been a top newshound to sniff out that this was Dirk ’n’ Stormy’s lair.

She deposited her bag on the gravelled strip of front ‘garden’ and took out the envelope before climbing up the stone doorstep. Now, if only she could locate a letterbox … or any orifice in which to deposit the envelope and accomplish her mission.

OK. She could accept that Porthmellow didn’t have any logical sequence to its house numbers, but no letterbox? What was this? Some kind of initiation test that incomers had to pass before they could be allowed into the local pasty shop?

‘Oh, for f—’

The door was wrenched open, taking her by such surprise that she almost fell backwards. Classical music drifted out of the hallway; the ‘Flower Duet’