Secrets and Seashells at Rainbow Bay

by Ali McNamara

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romantic Comedy; General Fiction

Synopsis

The sun is shining on the golden castle on Rainbow Bay – and change is in the air!

Amelia is a single mother, doing her very best to look after her young son, Charlie – but money is tight and times are tough. When she first hears that she is the last descendent of the Chesterford family and that she has inherited a Real-Life Castle by the sea, Amelia can't quite believe her ears. But it's true!

She soon finds that owning a castle isn't quite the ticket to sorting out her money problems that she'd first hoped: she can't sell, because the terms of the ancient bequest state that any Chesterford who inherits the castle, must live there and work towards the upkeep and maintenance of the family home. So ever-practical Amelia decides to uproot her little family and move to this magnificent castle by the sea.

Living in a castle on the beautiful Northumberland coast is fun at first, but organising the day-to-day running is a lot more complicated than Amelia first imagined. Luckily she has help from the small band of eccentric and unconventional staff that are already employed there – and a mysterious unseen hand that often gives her a push in the right direction just when she needs it most. It's only when she meets Tom, a furniture restorer who comes to the castle to help repair some antique furniture, that Amelia realises she might get the fairy-tale ending that she and Charlie truly deserve...

Release date: June 27, 2019

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 384

Sample

‘Yes, Mrs Greening, I quite understand; really I do. I’ll certainly speak to Charlie about this. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.’

I stand up and excuse myself from the room, feeling as though I’ve gone back in time twenty years, and I’m once more the pupil, summoned to the headmistress’s office for misbehaviour that was not always my fault.

‘Come on, you,’ I say to my nervous-looking son as he waits outside the office on a long wooden bench. ‘Let’s go home.’

‘Exactly how much trouble am I in, Mum?’ Charlie asks as we walk through the school gates and out on to the street.

‘At the moment, not too much.’ I see him grin with relief, so I hurriedly continue, ‘But, if you hang around with the sort of boys you are at the moment, then I’ve a feeling it could get much more serious in the future.’

Charlie looks down at his scuffed trainers.

‘You’re ten years old; you’re too young for me to be worrying about this sort of thing. I’d have expected you to at least be at secondary school before I got called to the headmistress’s office because she’s concerned that the sort of people you’re making friends with could be affecting your behaviour and your schoolwork.’

Charlie pauses by the bus stop and looks up at me hopefully.

‘Sorry,’ I apologise, ‘no money for the bus today. We’ll have to walk. Anyway,’ I carry on as he sighs, ‘it’s a lovely afternoon; it will do us good and we can have a nice chat on the way home.’

Charlie rolls his eyes, but I pretend not to notice.

‘So, what’s going on?’ I ask as we set off along the road together. ‘Who are these boys that Mrs Greening is so worried about you being friends with at school?’

Charlie shrugs.

‘Charlie?’ I prompt.

‘They’re not at my school,’ Charlie says eventually in a low voice.

‘So who are they, then?’ I ask, starting to worry even more. You hear such horrific things these days about gangs and . . . I shake my head; I don’t even want to think about my little boy involved in anything worse. ‘Why aren’t you spending time with your friends from school?’

Charlie shrugs, and kicks at a tin can rolling along the pavement.

‘Come on, love, you can talk to me, you know you can; we’ve always been a team, haven’t we, you and me?’ I nudge him playfully, trying to lighten the mood, and he smiles ruefully up at me. ‘That’s better. Now pop that can in the bin instead of kicking it around. There’s one just over there.’

Begrudgingly Charlie picks up the tin and tosses it into the bin. ‘The reason I hang around with those boys is because they live on our estate,’ he says quietly as he returns to my side.

I desperately want to take hold of his hand like I used to when he was little, to protect him and cosset him away from any trouble he might be in. But I know those days are sadly now long gone, and I have to deal with this in a mature way. Charlie is growing up – faster than I’d like, and I just have to get used to that.

I put my hand firmly in my pocket.

‘Go on,’ I encourage him.

‘All my old school friends live in the posh area of Hamilton, don’t they?’ Charlie continues. ‘Where we used to live. And you won’t let me go all the way back there on my own after school, will you?’ He looks at me accusingly.

So that’s it. I breathe a huge sigh of relief. No drugs or gangs – for the moment, anyway. Just the simple case of a ten-year-old boy whose mother won’t let him travel back to the place they used to live.

‘You could always ask some of your friends to come to ours after school?’ I suggest helpfully. ‘Maybe their parents could drop them off in one of their many cars.’

‘Tried that. Their mums won’t let them come. They say where we live now is dangerous.’

We turn a corner and walk past the row of shops that we often pass on our way home, and I’m saddened to see yet another has closed its doors and boarded up its windows. Already some colourful graffiti has appeared to decorate the newly erected boards.

‘That’s ridiculous. The Spencer estate isn’t dangerous – it’s just not a cosy little close or an exclusive avenue, that’s all.’ My mood is swiftly changing from anxious to irritated. Bloody stuck-up parents with their four-by-four cars and their triple-glazed five-bedroom houses. There’s nothing wrong with where we live. Fair enough, it might not be the prettiest area, or the most sought-after, but the community spirit is high, especially in the block of flats we live in.

Charlie shrugs. ‘That’s what they said. Maybe I should have changed schools when we moved instead of staying at my old one. That way the kids I went to school with would be the same ones I saw after it.’

I’d wondered whether keeping Charlie at his old school was going to work when we’d had to move to our new home, but I’d wanted to keep the upheaval in his life to a minimum.

‘Perhaps,’ I say diplomatically. Or perhaps we shouldn’t have had to move here in the first place. ‘Anyway, this is the situation we find ourselves in now your dad’s gone, so we have to make the best of what we’ve got. And,’ I remind him, ‘we must remember that just because other people think and do things differently to us, it doesn’t mean we have to, does it? Does it?’ I ask again, ruffling Charlie’s sandy hair. ‘You’re your own person, Charlie, with your own thoughts and opinions; don’t let anyone tell you differently.’

Charlie nods.

‘And remember, everyone is equal in this world. Just because some people are lucky enough to have comfortable lives and plenty of money, doesn’t make them any better than those that don’t.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

‘Good boy. Now, as long as these new friends don’t get you into any trouble,’ I warn him, ‘or affect your school work, then I’m happy for you to continue hanging out with them – okay?’

Charlie smiles.

‘Just don’t tell Mrs Greening, all right?’ I wink at him.

He winks back. ‘You’re the best, Mum!’

‘I know.’ I grin. ‘Now, what would you like for tea? I got some pizza in earlier, how about that?’

Charlie’s smile broadens. Pizza is his favourite.

We walk the rest of the way back to the Spencer estate, the place we’ve called home for the last six months. It’s not ideal, and probably not where I’d have chosen to bring up my son, but currently it is all we can afford.

We both look hopefully at the lift as we enter the building where our fourth-floor flat is, but it still has an out-of-order sign hanging from its doors.

‘Looks like it’s the stairs again,’ I say brightly. ‘At least it keeps us fit!’

We race each other up the staircase – a game we’ve played far too often since we moved in here, with Charlie as always getting there first. Then I unlock our door, and let us into our flat. While I carefully lock and bolt the three locks on the back of the door behind us, Charlie heads off to wash his hands, knowing he won’t be allowed any snacks until he’s done just that.

There’s a pile of letters on the floor by the door. Bills, no doubt, I think, barely glancing at them. Instead, I toss them on the little wooden table by the door, planning to look at them later when Charlie isn’t around. At least two of them will have bright red writing somewhere on the envelope, and I don’t want Charlie to worry. He’s a smart kid for ten, but he already knows far too much about the adult world for my liking.

There’s another pile of envelopes on the table that I didn’t deal with yesterday, so my new bundle simply slides off the top of them and on to the floor.

Damn, I think, bending down to pick them up. I begin to stack them into a neat pile, but one envelope stands out from the others – instead of having a clear window with my name and address typed neatly into it, this one is handwritten in black ink, and the envelope is made out of a thick, cream paper.

I turn it over in case there’s a return address, but it’s blank.

‘Mum, can I have a biscuit?’ Charlie calls from the kitchen. ‘I’ve washed my hands.’

‘Sure,’ I call back absent-mindedly, still looking at the envelope. ‘Only one, mind; we’ll probably have dinner early.’

I tear open the envelope, still having no idea who it might be from. Inside is a piece of equally thick paper, and the text covering it is also handwritten.

Dear Ms Chesterford,

Wait, that’s what’s unusual about the envelope – I knew there was something other than the writing. It’s addressed to my maiden name of Chesterford.

I haven’t been known as Amelia Chesterford for eleven years. How strange? I continue to read:

I write to you today with what I hope will be good news.

My name is Alexander Benjamin, and I am a genealogist. I was recently hired by the law firm Davies & Davies to find the beneficiary of an estate that came into their possession some months ago.

I am delighted to inform you that after much research, I now believe that the beneficiaries of this estate may be yourself and your son, Charles.

So I write today to ask if you would initially confirm that you are indeed Amelia Jane Chesterford, your date of birth is 1 November 1980, and you were born in St Mildred’s Hospital, Southampton. We may then proceed further with the application for you and your son to inherit the estate known currently as Article C.

You may contact me in any of the ways listed at the top of this letter. But I ask that you do so, please, at your earliest convenience.

Yours sincerely,

Alexander Benjamin

I read the letter through twice and then I laugh: these spammers are getting far too silly for their own good these days. As if I’m going to ring someone and divulge all my personal information – do they think I’m stupid?

I throw the letter on the pile with the others, and I’m about to head into the kitchen to find Charlie when I stop.

But they already know all of my personal information, don’t they? And more importantly, they know about Charlie. If they’re spammers, that’s particularly worrying.

I pick up the letter and head into the tiny kitchen/diner/ living room. Charlie is already sitting down in front of the television.

‘Can I borrow your laptop?’ I ask him, putting the letter on the table.

‘Why?’ he asks, not taking his eyes from the screen.

‘Because I want to use the internet and I’ve run out of data on my phone,’ I lie. The truth is I haven’t got the money to top it up right now, and I need to go easy on the little credit I have left in case Charlie needs to call me in an emergency.

‘Why don’t you connect your phone to the Wi-Fi then?’ Charlie asks smartly.

‘You know my phone isn’t great with Wi-Fi,’ It was far too old and basic. ‘It’s too slow, and I need to search for something. Can I use it or not?’

‘Sure, okay then,’ Charlie shrugs amiably, his eyes still glued to the TV.

I pull Charlie’s laptop from his bag and open it up. Then, relieved we haven’t had our own internet cut off just yet, I pull up Google.

First I type in ‘Davies & Davies Solicitors’, and find there is indeed a law firm in Berwick-Upon-Tweed with that name. Could be a coincidence, I think, still suspicious. Then I type in ‘Alexander Benjamin – genealogist’ and I find to my surprise a professional-looking website telling me all about this Alexander, with very authentic-sounding testimonials from satisfied clients who have found long-lost relatives, and law firms just like Davies & Davies who Alexander has worked for with amazing results.

I close up the laptop and think.

It’s becoming harder and harder for me to believe this is a scam. But why would someone leave me anything in a will? An estate, the letter said. That was usually more than a few pounds or an antique vase. And for this law firm to have hired this Alexander fellow, it must be pretty important.

I stand up and head into our little kitchenette. I fill the kettle and put it on to boil. Then I open up the fridge to get out some milk.

The emptiness of the fridge suddenly scares me. There’s the pizza I’d promised Charlie for his tea, a nearly empty bottle of milk, some cheap margarine and half a tin of beans left over from last night’s tea of beans on toast. But that’s it. I know there isn’t a lot more in the cupboards, either, and it’s still three days until I’ll get paid again.

What if this will thing was a small sum of money? It would come in very handy, that’s for sure. My job at the local supermarket is never going to pay me much; maybe this ‘estate’ might be enough for me to start that little business I’ve been thinking about for a while. After all, what’s the point in spending three years at university to end up working part time in a supermarket? And even if it isn’t that much money, it might still pay a few of those ‘red’ bills that are waiting for me on the hall table.

Stop right there, I tell myself. You’re getting carried away as usual. Good things like that don’t happen to you, Amelia. Not any more. This estate will probably be a scruffy dog you’ve inherited or something else worthless, something that’s going to cost you money.

But as I sip on my weak tea – made for the second time with the same teabag – I can’t help but wonder . . .

‘Just going to make a quick phone call,’ I tell Charlie. ‘Won’t be a mo.’

‘Thought you didn’t have much credit?’ Charlie asks distractedly, changing the channel on the TV.

‘And I thought you had a school project to finish tonight?’ I retort as I head towards my bedroom.

‘Yeah, I do. But you said you’d help me with it, didn’t you?’

‘Did I?’ I ask, hovering in the doorway. ‘Which one is it?’

‘The one about castles – remember? We’ve been studying all about them this term and Miss said we had to make our own model of one. That’s what I’ve been saving all the boxes for.’

‘Oh, yes, that’s right, I remember,’ I fib. ‘And when has that got to be in?’ I ask. Please don’t say tomorrow . . .

‘Er . . . next week, I think.’

Phew. ‘Sure, I’ll help you. Let me just make this call first and I’ll be right out.’

I close my bedroom door and then I perch on the bed and look at my phone. Should I really be wasting my credit on this possible wild-goose chase? But what if the wild goose turns out to be a golden one? It could be the answer to so many of my problems right now. I have to at least take the chance.

I dial the number at the top of the letter and wait, expecting to be greeted by an answer phone or a receptionist, but instead I suddenly hear a smooth and very polished voice say: ‘Good afternoon. Alexander Benjamin speaking, how may I help you?’

‘Oh, hullo . . . ’ I reply, thrown for a moment by the voice. ‘Er . . . my name is Amelia. Amelia Harris. I . . . I mean Chesterford. Harris is . . . was my married name. Chesterford is my maiden name.’

‘Ah, the elusive Ms Chesterford at last! How wonderful to finally speak with you. As I just said, I’m Alexander Benjamin. You got my letter, I presume?’

‘I did.’

‘Now, if you’ll just give me a moment I’ll locate your file.’

The line goes quiet for a few seconds.

‘Right, I have it to hand now,’ the voice says, coming back on the line. ‘Now, would you mind confirming a few details for me?’

I’m immediately suspicious, but Alexander simply asks me for confirmation of the same details he had in the letter. He doesn’t ask me to divulge anything new, like my bank details or credit card number, as I’d originally suspected he might.

‘That’s super, Ms Chesterford, or would you prefer me to call you Harris? That is your name now?’

‘I’d prefer Amelia, actually.’

‘Of course, Amelia it is then. Now—’

‘How did you find me?’ I suddenly blurt out.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘How did you find me – to send me the letter?’

‘Ah, I have many resources that I use to trace people. You were a particularly difficult case, I have to admit.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you seem to have had several addresses in the past few years, and you are yet to show on the electoral register for your current one. When clients are not on the register it makes them much harder to find.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘You’ve moved quite a lot, have you?’

He’s right: I have, but I don’t see how that’s any of his business.

‘Yes.’

‘I see. Anyhow, that is of no consequence when it comes to the estate in question.’

‘You kept mentioning an estate in your letter. What exactly have I inherited?’

‘I have to say it is most thrilling,’ he says, sounding excited. ‘When John Davies came to me with this particular case, I was incredibly eager to take it on.’

‘Yes, I’m sure,’ I say, trying to remain patient. ‘But what is it?’

‘Subject to certain checks and verification of the appropriate documents, you, Amelia, have inherited— Beeeep.’

‘Hello . . . Hello . . . Mr Benjamin, can you still hear me?’ I shake the phone in my hand and stare at it, but the line has gone dead.

Immediately I attempt to call him back, but my worst fears are confirmed when a text message pops up on my phone to tell me . . . I’ve run out of credit.

The next morning, after I’ve taken Charlie to school, I walk slowly back to the flat. My shift at the supermarket doesn’t start until this afternoon, so I have the rest of the morning to tidy up and take our dirty clothes to the local launderette – a job I detest. So I’m in no hurry to get home.

I hate myself for thinking it, but how I miss our old three-bedroomed house with its built-in washing machine and tumble dryer. When we lived there I’d totally taken it all for granted – the fancy appliances, the central heating, our little garden at the back where Charlie had taken his first steps across the grass on a warm spring day not unlike this one.

But that had all been taken away from us when Charlie’s dad abandoned us. He’d simply left for work one day and never come back. I’d been beside myself with worry, and about to call the police, when I found his note. It had fallen down from our kitchen table on to the floor, and in my panic I hadn’t seen it until the following day.

I know the words on that note will be etched in my head for ever.

Amelia,

I’m so sorry but I just can’t live this lie any more.

I need to get away for a while to get my head together.

Tell Charlie I love him.

G x

I shake my head to rid my mind of the words that have poisoned my thoughts for too long. I just can’t live this lie any more . . . No, I refuse to let you come back to haunt me. Charlie and I have moved on from you now.

We’ve moved on several times, actually. From our original family home when I defaulted on the mortgage, to several different flats when the council kept moving us around between temporary accommodation, before they could house us more permanently. Finally, we settled at the small flat we’re in now, which compared to some of the places we’ve found ourselves living in is a virtual palace. Is it ideal? No. Perfect? Far from it. But it is warm – most of the time – our neighbours are friendly, and most importantly, until yesterday I’d had no doubt that Charlie is getting on okay at school.

A little more money would come in handy, of course; I still struggle to pay all our bills on the part-time wage I bring home and the benefits I receive, so yesterday I’d desperately hoped that this Alexander chap was going to tell me that’s what I’d inherited when we’d got cut off. Just a small amount of extra cash would be incredibly helpful right now, and could tide me over until I got a full-time job again.

But on the bright side, my benefit money should come through in a couple of days, so until then, when I’ll be able to top up my phone with the minimum credit and phone him back, I’ll simply have to wait and hope.

I walk up the stairs so deep in thought about what the contents of this inheritance could be that I barely notice a man standing on my landing leaning out over the top of the railings.

‘Ms Chesterford?’ a deep, curiously familiar voice asks.

I jump. ‘Who wants to know?’ I ask automatically, even though I know within two seconds the voice belongs to the same person I’d been talking to on the phone last night.

The man looks surprised. ‘Alexander Benjamin. I spoke with you yesterday evening?’

I look at the man no longer leaning on the railings, but standing upright in front of me. He’s tall and impeccably dressed in a pair of smart grey trousers, a blue open-necked shirt and shiny tan brogues. He carries a matching suit jacket over one arm, and a tan briefcase to complement his shoes in the other.

‘Oh yes, hello again. But what are you doing here on my landing?’

‘We got cut off – at a most untimely moment, if I may say – and I hoped we might continue our conversation in person?’

‘Er . . . ’ I think about the inside of the flat. Charlie and I were late getting up this morning because I overslept, after lying awake into the early hours thinking about the letter. The flat really isn’t looking its best on the other side of the door right now. ‘Yes, of course; perhaps we could go and get a coffee somewhere?’ The minute I say this I regret it. The cost of a cappuccino at the nearest coffee shop will take the contents of my purse down to approximately £4.64, and that’s if I only have to pay for my own.

Alexander glances at my door and then at my anxious face and quickly says, ‘Why not? The coffee is on me, of course.’

Although I hate myself for doing so, I don’t contradict him. I just smile and say thank you. Then I lead him back down the stairs – apologising for the faulty lift, and then we’re back out into the sunshine, where everything immediately seems better.

‘There’s quite a nice coffee shop over on the high street, if that’s all right with you?’ I ask.

‘Perfect.’

Alexander has long legs to match his height and I have to hurry along to keep up with him as we walk together towards the coffee shop.

‘After you,’ he says, holding the door open for me as we arrive.

‘Thank you,’ I say, touched by his polite gesture. Manners are always important to me.

We order two cups of coffee, which Alexander pays for, and then we sit at a quiet table by the window.

‘Now,’ Alexander says, ‘firstly you told me last night you would prefer it if I called you Amelia, is that still correct?’

‘Yes,’ I say, taking another sip of my coffee. It’s such a treat to taste good coffee again. My daily cup has come from a jar for so long now I’ve almost forgotten what freshly brewed coffee tastes like.

‘Then I would like it if you called me Benji, as that’s what I prefer.’

I stare at him for a second. How had Benji come from Alexander?

Ah, Alexander Benjamin. Of course. ‘Sure,’ I agree. It’s a bit odd, but kind of suits him, I suppose. Even though Benji dresses like a solicitor, I suspect from the look of his slightly unkempt hair and the Harry Potter socks I’d glimpsed when we sat down, he might have a less formal, wilder side to him.

‘Good,’ Benji says, sounding pleased. ‘Now we’ve got that out of the way, you must still be wondering what I’ve got to tell you.’

‘I am a bit, yes.’

‘You have every right to feel enormous anticipation, Amelia.’

I smile at him. He obviously takes great pleasure in using as many long words as he can when he speaks.

Benji reaches for his briefcase and pulls out a slim cardboard file. He lays it unopened on the table.

‘In this file,’ he begins, ‘are details of the estate you have inherited.’ He taps the file for effect, and I hope that the apparent emptiness of the file is a good indication that inside is a rather large cheque bearing my name. ‘Would you like to see?’

‘Yes please.’

Benji opens up the file and pulls from it several large photos, which he keeps turned away from me.

It’s going to be photos of a dog, isn’t it? I know it.

‘Here,’ he says triumphantly, turning around the first photo with a flourish, ‘is your inheritance.’ He lays the photo on the table in front of me.

‘It’s a castle,’ I say blankly, as I stare at a picture of a large medieval-looking building standing on top of a hill.

‘This,’ Benji continues, laying another photo next to the first, ‘is Chesterford Castle, to be precise. Your ancestral home.’

I laugh – a big out-loud laugh that makes the few other people in the coffee shop look over at us.

‘Sorry,’ I apologise, ‘but I thought you said my ancestral home. We’ve just come from my home – a two-bedroom, fourth-floor flat on a slightly dodgy estate in Hamilton.’

‘Not for much longer, Amelia,’ Benji says, laying down a third photo with another view of the same castle on it. ‘If you accept your inheritance, then this twelve-bedroom castle in Northumberland will be your new home.’

‘You’re bonkers!’ I say, looking incredulously at Benji. ‘How can a castle be my home? There must be some mistake.’

Benji shakes his head and some of his grey coiffured hair flops over one of his eyes. He hurriedly pushes it back with his hand. ‘No, no mistake. Chesterford Castle has been without an heir since the last Chesterford passed away – almost a year ago now, I believe.’

I simply stare at Benji – suddenly wondering if this is some sort of joke. I look surreptitiously around for concealed TV cameras, and then I scan Benji for a hidden microphone or a tiny earpiece. When I don’t speak, he continues: ‘John Crawford Chesterford, the seventeenth Earl, died without an heir to either his estate or his title. Without going into too many details right now – that information is in the documents both his family solicitor and I have access to – we have been trying to trace a suitable heir since his death.’

I still stare incredulously at Benji, and then back down at the photos on the table, then back up at him again as he talks. But I realise he’s stopped talking now, and is waiting for me to say something back to him.

‘A . . . suitable heir?’ I repeat. ‘How do you find one of those – on eBay?’

Benji stares at me, his eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to work out if I’m being serious, flippant or just plain stupid.

Usually it would be flippant – my sense of humour has got me into trouble on more than one occasion – but this time Benji would be correct in veering more towards the stupid. I just can’t comprehend what he is telling me.

But he obviously chooses the flippant option – and laughs.

‘Aha, funny!’ he says, waggling his finger at me. ‘If only it was that easy – actually no, strike that. If it were that easy I’d be out of a job. Like I said, this particular case has been extremely tricky, and I’ve had to go across several branches of the Chesterford family tree to find you.’

There is a Chesterford family tree? All the Chesterfords I know barely have two twigs to rub together, let alone a tree.

‘You’re serious, then?’ I ask, looking at the castle in the photo again. ‘You’re telling me that this inheritance you keep talking about, it’s th. . .