Letters from Lighthouse Cottage

by Ali McNamara

Genres: Erotic & Steamy Romance

Synopsis

The sun is shining in the quiet little seaside town of Sandybridge.

Sandybridge is the perfect English seaside town: home to gift shops, tearooms and a fabulous fish and chip shop. And it's home to Grace - although right now she's not too happy about it.

Grace grew up in Sandybridge, helping her parents sort junk from vintage treasures, but she always longed to escape to a bigger world. And she made it, travelling the world for her job, falling in love and starting a family. So why is she back in the tiny seaside town she'd long left behind, hanging out with Charlie, the boy who became her best friend when they were teenagers?

It turns out that travelling the world may not have been exactly what Grace needed to do. Perhaps everything she wanted has always been at home—after all, they do say that's where the heart is....

Release date: July 14, 2016

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 384

Sample

Sandybridge Hall is happy today. I know it is.

The house and its grounds are packed with visitors, all enjoying themselves on this beautiful July day. I’m amazed we’ve been able to attract so many people away from the delights of the local town and its beaches, which have been a popular seaside resort since Victorian times. But the hall, which stands a short distance from the centre of Sandybridge, is proving these days to be of equal value in the tourism stakes.

I gaze up at the Tudor manor in front of me; its golden yellow brickwork positively glows under the spell of today’s warm sunshine. Sandybridge Hall was always happy when it had guests. When there were people walking through its beautifully manicured gardens, and exclaiming with joy at its perfectly restored interiors, the lattice windows lining the heavy brick walls shone that little bit brighter, and a warm, welcoming atmosphere radiated from the many corridors and furnished rooms the house contained.

Sandybridge Hall and its extensive grounds were made for people to enjoy, and people in turn had visited here in their thousands every year.

‘Grace, there you are!’ Iris, my young assistant, comes rushing towards me along the neatly trimmed grass. ‘I have those papers for you to sign.’

‘Thanks, Iris,’ I tell her as she arrives next to me. ‘Sorry to abandon you in the office alone, but I had to step out for a bit. I love to watch the house when it’s in full flow. It always seems at its best then.’

‘Well, we are pretty busy today.’ Iris looks around her while I quickly squiggle my signature over the papers she’s provided me with. ‘In fact it’s been like this all week.’

‘That can only ever be a good thing.’ I hand the papers back to her. ‘This house has stood empty far too often in the past. I’m just happy to see it flourishing again.’

‘All thanks to our glorious benefactor,’ Iris says, winking at me.

‘Indeed,’ I say, thinking of him fondly.

‘Oh, that reminds me…’ Iris digs into the top pocket of her dungarees. ‘Danny was trying to get hold of you earlier. He rang the office because he said you weren’t answering your mobile. I guess this is why,’ she says, raising her eyebrows at me and passing me my phone. ‘You left it on your desk.’

‘Sorry,’ I tell her, taking the phone. ‘I do that a lot.’

‘So I’ve realised.’ Iris wrinkles her nose and a tiny gold stud twitches. ‘I don’t know how you can leave it lying around. My phone is like my right arm.’

‘That’s because you’re young,’ I reply smiling. ‘Mobile phones might as well be attached to you, you have to check them so often. But you have to remember, when I was your age the only telephones we used were attached to the wall, not ourselves. You couldn’t take them anywhere!’

‘Don’t!’ Iris places her hand on her forehead dramatically. ‘I can’t bear the thought!’

‘And even when we did finally get mobile phones, they were only for making telephone calls, you couldn’t use them like the little computers you do today!’ I continue to tease Iris, who lives for her gadgets.

‘You’ll be telling me next you had one of those huge beige box computers in your house,’ Iris says, playing along. ‘I’ve seen them in museums. Did you play Pac-Man and Space Invaders on it? No, wait!’ She waves her hand at me. ‘I bet you didn’t even have one of those – you probably had a typewriter to do your homework on!’

My stomach twists sharply. Iris has come a bit too close to the truth, and unknowingly hit a nerve – a particularly raw one today.

‘More people!’ I announce, glad of the distraction, as two large coaches slowly pass through the big black gates of Sandybridge Hall and pass along the gravel drive in front of us.

‘Yeah, school trip,’ Iris says, wrinkling her nose again. ‘Teenagers. Doubt many of them will be interested in the history of the hall. Probably only here for the day out.’

‘Nothing wrong in that,’ I say, fondly remembering some of my own school trips. ‘You never know, something they see today might spark an interest in history.’

‘You think so?’ Iris pulls a face.

I shake my head. ‘Probably not. All I was interested in at their age was boys and getting away from Sandybridge.’

‘Really?’ Iris asks, genuinely surprised. ‘I thought with your background you’d have been the school swot, nose deep in your history books all day.’

I laugh. ‘Nope, definitely not. I hated history when I was at school. It wasn’t until I was fifteen that everything changed.’

‘Ooh, what happened when you were fifteen?’ Iris asks, her interest sparked.

‘Long story. I’ll tell you sometime. Now I guess we’d better get back to the office – things to do and all that. Plus, I have to go out later.’

‘Do you?’ Iris asks as we set off towards the house. ‘I don’t have anything in the diary.’

‘I have an important meeting,’ I tell her without elaborating further. ‘I’ll be gone a little while.’

Iris shrugs her acceptance, and silently we walk along the gravel path, towards where the two coaches have dropped off their passengers.

A young teacher is attempting to gain control of his pupils, most of whom aren’t taking the slightest bit of notice of what he’s saying. As we pass by, I hear one particularly loud girl announce: ‘I bloody hate history!’ And immediately my mind is cast back to the summer of 1986…

‘Grace!’ my mother calls from the next room. ‘Will you get in here and help me with this stuff, please. I’ve asked you twice already.’

I sigh, and stop gazing at the photos on the wall. Photos of places I’ve never been, but the person staring back at me from the photos had, and she looked like she was enjoying herself. The woman in the photos is as much a stranger to me as the places, but in the mad world I inhabit with my parents, I’m currently sifting through her belongings in the hope some of them might be worth something.

‘OK, I’m here,’ I tell my mother as I appear at the door of the sitting room she’s busy clearing.

‘About time. Now help me lift these boxes out to the van, will you? And, Grace…?’

‘Yes?’

‘Stop daydreaming! There’s a time and a place, and this most certainly isn’t it. We need to get on!’

‘Yes, Mum,’ I mumble, and I begin carrying the cardboard boxes full of junk outside to our battered, pale blue van.

 

Harper’s Antiques & Collectables

it states proudly on the side in ornate white writing.

 

Buy • Sell • Valuations • House clearances

4 Lobster Pot Alley, Sandybridge, Norfolk

02163 492445

This was generally my lot at weekends, either helping Mum and Dad serve customers in their little antiques shop, or helping them as I was today with a house clearance, which is where they got most of their stock. Occasionally we would go to an auction, which was a bit more interesting, but it didn’t get much more stimulating than that. Sometimes – but only sometimes, mind – I was quite pleased when Monday came and school gave me an excuse to get out of dealing with old tat.

But old tat sold. It never ceased to amaze me how many customers Mum and Dad got in their shop, eager to purchase someone else’s cast-offs – be it locals on the lookout for a bargain, or tourists visiting Sandybridge for a day out at the seaside. The customers kept coming, so my parents kept trading. Just as well really; they were hardly going to make their fortunes clutching mobile phones and Filofaxes to their chests, trading on the stock exchange. No, my parents were as far away from embracing the brash, colourful world of the eighties as I was from travelling the world. Mum and Dad preferred to remain very much in the past, and that was how they intended to stay.

‘Can I go now?’ I ask my mother, as we load what I assume is the last of the boxes into the back of the van.

‘Go where?’ My mother turns to face me, a puzzled expression on her face.

All right, don’t rub it in! I think, just because I don’t have the biggest of social lives here in Sandybridge. Actually, you could probably make that the whole of Norfolk, possibly even the world! No one could do less ‘teenage’ things than me – that I was quite sure of. I was fifteen and the most excitement I’d ever had was when I was almost caught bunking off school; except no one believed I was. The teacher who saw me popping into the corner shop to buy Just Seventeen magazine (in fact it was Cosmo too, but I hid it under the other) assumed I must be ill if I was taking a day off school, and offered me a packet of Lockets and a paracetamol from her bag.

My dealings with the opposite sex were virtually non-existent too. The most attention I’d ever had from a boy was the day Will Granger attempted to set fire to my crimped hair by dangling it, unbeknown to me, over a lit Bunsen burner when we’d been forced to do an experiment together in our chemistry class.

So while all the other teenagers in Sandybridge appeared to be constantly out partying, pushing the boundaries of life and the patience of their parents, I had barely left the pram, let alone the nursery.

‘I said I’d watch the football later with some mates,’ I tell Mum proudly. This was a very loose take on the truth. The ‘mates’ in question weren’t really my friends, but I’d been in the classroom waiting for registration on Friday morning when it was being discussed by the ‘cool’ kids, and I’d kind of found myself included in the general invitation. This didn’t happen often, and I was keen to make the most of it – even if it did mean watching overpaid men kick a ball around a field for ninety minutes, and topple over in performances worthy of a prima ballerina.

‘Since when were you interested in football?’ Mum asks, a hint of surprise in her voice.

‘It’s the World Cup, isn’t it? How can you not be, it’s everywhere right now?’

She narrows her eyes at me, and plants her hands firmly in the pockets of her blue dungarees.

I counter her suspicion with an innocent stare.

‘Well, it’s good to see you going out, I suppose,’ she eventually concedes. ‘Whose house are you going to watch this match at?’

‘Duncan Braithwaite’s,’ I mumble, hoping Mum won’t hear me.

Her eyes now do the opposite and widen in shock.

‘Duncan Braithwaite? I’m not sure I want you hanging around with the likes of him, Grace. I heard he was trouble.’

‘Mum, it’s not just me; there’s a whole gang of us. I’ll be fine.’

Mum looks unsure, but nods her agreement. ‘If that’s what you want to do, I guess it’s OK with me. But promise me you’ll be careful, Grace. Fifteen is a difficult age, especially when boys become involved. I remember when I was fifteen I —’

‘Mum!’ I protest.

‘Sorry, sweetie. You know I worry about you; you’re my little girl, my only child. I’m allowed to worry a little, aren’t I?’

I nod. ‘But only a little, mind!’

She grins. ‘Right, I think there’s one more box left in the cottage, and that’ll be it for now. I’m going to come back for the rest tomorrow when your dad is free to help me lift the heavy furniture. I wonder how he got on at that auction down in Fakenham? I wish I could have gone, but the family wanted this doing as soon as possible. Did I tell you Mabel especially requested we do her house clearance?’ Mum tells me proudly, for the third time.

‘Yes, Mum, you did. Isn’t that a bit odd though, making arrangements for someone to clear your things?’

‘I guess some people like to be organised. She seemed to know the end was coming, even though she was in good health when I spoke to her. I suppose that is a bit odd.’ Mum looks away from the small cottage we’ve been clearing, up at the imposing lighthouse that stands next to it. ‘What a shame there will be no proper keepers living at the lighthouse any more,’ she says, looking fondly at the tall, white-brick cylinder that, at the angle we’re viewing it from, appears to soar up into the clouds above, then disappear. ‘Since they built that new one down the coast, our little lighthouse has been rendered useless. Mabel was the last keeper to live here in Lighthouse Cottage.’

‘Things have to move on, Mum,’ I tell her. ‘Progress equals change.’

‘I know, but I’ve never been very good with change. Maybe that’s why your dad and I went into the antiques business – so we could hold on to the past a bit longer, eh?’ She smiles at me, then turns away from the lighthouse and looks up towards the huge Tudor manor house that stands high up on the hill behind us. ‘Do you know the hall is being sold too?’ Mum says with a tinge of sadness. ‘The owners can’t afford to run it any longer, so they’re being forced to sell and move elsewhere. Such a sad state of affairs; in the past the owners of that house owned the whole of Sandybridge – the houses, the shops, the lighthouse even’ – she gestures up at the building next to us – ‘but the years rolled by, and bit by bit they had to sell off the estate. Until the only thing they owned was the house, and now that’s going too.’ Mum shakes her head. ‘I’m all for progress, Grace, but if it’s at the expense of our glorious country’s historical past, then I’ll happily pass on it.’

I look up at Sandybridge Hall behind us. It suits its name well; even on this cloudy June day, the pretty golden yellow and terracotta red bricks make the house look warm and welcoming as it stands, stylishly surrounded by its own moat, at the top of a long tree-lined driveway.

‘I bet you’d have loved to get in there, Mum, amongst all that antique furniture and paintings. You’d have been in your element clearing that one!’

‘Oh no, that would never happen. The interiors of Sandybridge Hall are worth far too much to be sold in a house clearance,’ Mum insists. ‘Some of the paintings are of great historical significance, and they have odd bits of furniture in there dating back to the sixteenth century. There’s even a rumour they have a quill pen that Mary Queen of Scots used to write a letter when she visited the manor.’

‘Ah…’ I say, turning my gaze towards the house again. None of this interests me in the slightest.

‘Anyway, I can’t be worrying about that now.’ Mum rubs her forehead with the back of her hand, and a few strands of blonde hair fall out from under the scarf she’s wearing to protect her hair from dust. ‘I have my own treasures to sort through when I get this lot home. Mabel had some lovely pieces – we should do well from this clearance.’ She jumps up into the van. ‘Grace, be a dear and get that last box from the cottage while I finish arranging these ones.’

‘Sure,’ I reply, pleased I won’t have to talk about old things any more. History and preserving the past was definitely Mum’s favourite soapbox topic, so it always came as a relief when she stepped down before getting into full flow.

I head through the gate of the white picket fence that surrounds the cottage’s little garden, push open the wooden front door and go inside to find the last box. But it’s not where I expect it to be, in the sitting room where we’d stacked all the other full boxes. So I go through all the rooms of the cottage to see if I can find it.

There’s nothing in the old kitchen, only empty wooden cupboards with paint peeling from the doors, and an oven that looks like it’s seen better days. The hall is too tiny to hide a box, so I run up the stairs, almost hidden in the hall by a curtain hanging at the base of them, to take another look upstairs. Nothing in the three little bedrooms, apart from some furniture that Dad’ll come and collect later. The bathroom is empty too – save for an old white roll-top bath, and an old-fashioned toilet and sink. So I return downstairs for one last look in the sitting room in case I’ve missed something. But all I see is a wrought-iron fireplace standing magnificently at the end of the room, and some of Mabel’s old furniture.

This could be quite a cosy little cottage if someone were to buy it and do it up nicely, I think as I continue to search. I expect it will be sold to someone who will do it up to rent to the holidaymakers who’re beginning to flood into Sandybridge. Since the town underwent a complete overhaul a couple of years ago and started putting money into the seafront and promenade, it’s been attracting not only new businesses but people too. Now Sandybridge is re-establishing itself as a resort, almost as popular as it had been in Victorian times.

‘Hmm, what’s through here?’ I ask as I turn the handle on a small door I’d not previously noticed, tucked away at the end of the hallway, near the front door. ‘There you are!’ I exclaim, as I find myself in a tiny room that the old lighthouse keepers probably used as an office. There are bookshelves, now empty of the books or papers they were built to hold, and a well-used writing desk that Mum and Dad will no doubt work their magic on, restoring it to its former glory before selling it on. But what I’m interested in at this very moment is sitting on top of the desk: my missing box.

I immediately head over to the desk and attempt to lift it.

Whoa! I hastily set the box down when I feel how heavy it is. What has Mum put in here? I wonder. I prise open one of the cardboard flaps and look inside.

‘Oh, it’s only a typewriter,’ I say to the empty room. But the typewriter is one of those really old black ones, with long round keys. No wonder it’s so heavy. These things were made to last. I’m about to close the lid and try to lift it again when I spot a typewritten sheet of paper wound on to the black roller. I reach into the box and unwind the paper so I can read it.

 

Dear Grace,

Congratulations on finding me. I knew it would be you that did.

Please take Remy (that’s what he likes to be known as) home with you and look after him well. He will be a great help to you in the future, as he’s been to so many people in the past.

I must warn you, though, there are a few rules to owning him:

You can’t write letters on Remy, only read them.

The advice Remy gives can only help guide you in your endeavours; he can share no detailed information. Dates and names, for instance, are forbidden.

You are always free to choose to ignore him! It does happen. But remember: he will always have your best interests at heart.

When it is time to pass Remy on to a new owner, you will receive instructions on how to do so.

Good luck.

Love, Me x

‘What on earth?’ I mutter as I read the letter over again. ‘Remy? Why would you name a typewriter, let alone call it Remy?’ I glance into the box. ‘Oh, Remington! Now I get it,’ I say as I see the brand name REMINGTON etched in ornate gold font across the top of the machine. ‘But still… slightly weird. And why address the letter to me?’ I shake my head. ‘I never knew old Mabel was a bit batty! What is she going on about? How can an old typewriter give you advice? And why write a letter to me on it? I suppose she must have known I’d help Mum with the house clearance.’

‘Grace!’ I hear my mother call from the hall. ‘I’ve found that last box now. Time to go.’

But…? I look suspiciously at the box sitting in front of me on the desk, then I hurriedly stuff the letter inside, close the lid, and with huge effort manage to lift the box out of the study and carry it out to the van.

‘What have you got there?’ Mum asks as I struggle to hoist the box into the back of the van with the others. ‘I thought we had everything?’

‘I found it in the study, it’s a typewriter.’

Mum looks in the top, then wrinkles her nose. ‘Beautiful as those old things are – and I’d say that one might be forty to fifty years old – we just can’t sell them. People are only into those computers nowadays – you know, Amstrads, Commodores, that kind of thing.’

I do; there’s a newly installed computer suite at school that we get to use once a week. There are even rumours that we’ll be getting a Sinclair ZX Spectrum soon. But I’m speechless to discover Mum knows anything about computers, let alone the leading brands.

‘What shall I do with it then? It’s on the van now.’

‘Would you like to keep it?’ she asks. ‘Could be worth something one day. Look on it as a thank you for helping me out.’

‘As long as it’s not instead of my wages, then fine. I guess it might still work. Maybe I could do some of my homework on it.’

‘Of course it’s not instead of your wages!’ Mum puts her arm around my shoulder and gives me a hug. ‘You do know how much Dad and I appreciate all your help, don’t you, Grace? We couldn’t run the business without you.’ She kisses the top of my head. ‘You’re a good girl, always have been.’

Not for want of trying, I think, but I allow Mum her moment without making a fuss.

‘Come on then, let’s get this stuff back to the shop,’ Mum says, releasing me and heading around to the driver’s side of the van. ‘Then you can get ready for your party tonight.’

‘It’s not a party,’ I tell her. ‘I’m just going to a mate’s house to watch footie.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Mum says, climbing up into the seat. ‘But you never know who you might meet, party or no party…’

Sandybridge’s long seafront is home to many gift shops, which all seem to sell pretty much the same thing: picture postcards of Sandybridge in various guises, souvenir china, plastic buckets and spades, and brightly coloured children’s windmills, which spin noisily round in the sea breeze this evening as I walk by. There’s an amusement arcade, rows of bed and breakfasts that never seem to have any vacancies, two tea rooms – one of which is closed at the moment, but as I pass by I notice there’s a sign in the window stating Under New Management – Reopening Soon. We have a really good fish and chip shop, which right now has a long queue of hungry people winding its way through the door and outside on to the pavement, and as I get a whiff of frying chips, I almost join it.

‘No, Grace,’ I tell myself sternly, ‘you need to cut down. You’ll never get into those size 12 jeans if you don’t. Plus you already had that chocolate bar this afternoon. Tonight you must be good.’

I’m always worrying about my weight, as are most of the girls in my class, judging by their conversations. While I’m not exactly fat, I’m too round to be happy, which is why I’m constantly having to fight my natural inclination to love and enjoy food.

With a growl of my stomach, I continue walking past the chip shop and on towards Duncan Braithwaite’s house. To take my mind off my hunger I think about Sandybridge, asking myself why people would choose to come here for their holidays when there are so many other exciting places they could go in the world. True, we have two gorgeous beaches – a sandy one that lies a little way out of town, next to the lighthouse, which you have to cross a small bridge to get to – hence the town’s name; the other, the one I am currently looking at, runs alongside the long concrete promenade and is completely covered in grey, white and brown pebbles.

It never used to be busy like this. Before the refurbishment, we’d been a quiet little seaside town, a bit run down, but charming in our own way. Now, we’re what those travel programmes on telly would call a ‘bustling little seaside resort’.

‘When I’m old enough, I’ll get away from here and see the world’ – I tell myself the same thing every time I walk along the prom, gazing out at the never-ending horizon where sky meets sea. Although many people seem to be attracted by my home town’s charms, there’s no way I want to be stuck here on the north Norfolk coast, forever looking out at the same skyline the way some of Sandybridge’s older residents have done all their lives. The world’s a big place, filled with strange, interesting and exciting things, and I want to see and experience all of them.

But what could be stranger than the typewriter I’d brought home with me from Mabel’s house earlier today?

When we’d got back to the antiques shop, I’d helped Mum offload the stuff from the van, as I always did, then I’d hung around outside while Mum checked in with Doris, the lady that helped us out part-time, to s. . .