Winter at Cliff's End Cottage

by Sheila Norton

Genres: Women's Fiction; Holiday Romance

Synopsis

Cliff's End Cottage is a local landmark. Perched on the South Devon coast, its garden has begun slowly toppling into the sea, yet the elderly and infamously stubborn owner Stella refuses to leave her home. When Holly, a young journalist and single mum struggling to make ends meet, decides to interview Stella about her life, she's given short shrift at first. However, helped by a slice or two of cake and a couple of friendly cats, a tentative friendship begins to develop between the two lonely women. Stella and Holly may live different lives, but over the cold winter nights, as Stella shares her story, the two women discover more and more in common. Time is running out for the house on the edge, but perhaps, together, Stella and Holly can find a new way forward.

Release date: December 9, 2021

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 352

Sample

The house is small but solid looking, with a grey slate roof and whitewashed walls. You can see it from quite a long way off, across the fields as you approach up the lane towards the top of the cliff – especially during these cold months of winter, when the trees are bare and there’s nothing but the gloomy sky and the circling seagulls interrupting the view. It’s on its own, a bit of a landmark, sitting up there so close to the edge. Sometimes on winter nights it’s almost like a lighthouse looming out of the darkened sky; a warning, letting us know we’re approaching something. Approaching the end of the lane – but more than that. The end of everything.

I’ve lived in Hawbury Down for most of my life, and although I’ve never been inside Cliff’s End Cottage before, I know all about it. Everyone around here knows about the crazy old lady who lives in the house perched on the edge of the cliff, who refuses to move out even though half her garden has now gone into the sea and the environmentalists don’t think it’ll be long before the rest goes – followed by the house itself. People come up here to Hawbury Top, as it’s known, local people as well as visitors to the area. They come up this tiny dark lane riddled with potholes, bringing their cars as far as they can, until the lane peters out, and then walking the rest of the way up the track on foot. And they simply stand on the edge and stare. It’s a sight, all right. The waves crashing down below, where over decades, over centuries, they’ve been eating away at the base of the cliff, destabilising the clifftop from beneath, until bits of it crumble and topple into the sea.

People were up here taking photos earlier this month when a tremendous storm, combined with a high spring tide, finally sent an overhanging section of Mrs Jackman’s garden, including her potting shed, down to the hungry sea below. They stared, they took their photos, and they went away muttering about the stupidity of the woman who still insisted she wasn’t going to move, saying she’d know when it was time. I was there myself. I’d like to say my curiosity was purely professional, but to be honest I was being just as nosy as everyone else. I’d never met Stella Jackman before, and I wasn’t going to believe all the outlandish rumours and ridiculous myths that circulate this town about her, but I was intrigued. And that day, some of us who were up there on the clifftop did get to see her – the woman some people refer to as ‘The Witch of Cliff’s End’, because of the weird wailing noises reputed to sometimes come from her cottage at night – for a few moments when she came out of her front door to call her cats. She was just as I’d imagined her: small, with wiry grey hair, and a weathered look, as if she’d been outdoors her entire life. On the spur of the moment, I took my chance, rushing towards her as others held back, pretending they weren’t watching.

‘Excuse me … Mrs Jackman,’ I gabbled. ‘I’m Holly Brooks, I’m a feature writer for Devon Today—’

‘Oh, you are, are you?’ she said, looking me up and down. She started to turn away, but I went on, desperately trying to detain her:

‘I was rather hoping you might agree to have a chat with me – about your home, and the terrible damage from last night’s storm—’

‘My home’s fine,’ she said calmly. ‘No damage.’ She met my gaze and added, ‘No chat.’

Well, at least I’d tried, I consoled myself as she went back inside, closing the door behind her.

‘I don’t think so,’ the editor of Devon Today, Frances Small, said in response to my phone call, without trying to hide her boredom and irritation. She wasn’t nicknamed as Frosty Fran behind her back for nothing. She’d listened in silence as I’d outlined my idea for a feature on Mrs Jackman and Cliff’s End Cottage. ‘There’s been enough written already about that house. Enough pictures of it too. Coastal erosion has been done to death. Find me something new.’

Although I’m a freelance writer, Frosty Fran’s one of my most important clients and my feature submissions to Devon Life are normally accepted – and I really needed something to be accepted as soon as possible, if I wanted to avoid going into my overdraft again. Even with my cleaning job on the side, it’s tough at times. Trouble was, I knew Fran had a point. And to be fair, even if she’d grasped the idea with open arms, I had yet to persuade Mrs Jackman to talk to me.

‘What if I try a different angle?’ I blurted out, without having even thought it through. ‘A more personal angle. I mean, she – Mrs Jackman – must be in her eighties, and people say she’s lived there all her life. She must have some stories to tell. As well as explaining why she won’t move.’

There was silence for a moment.

‘Are you sure she’ll talk to you?’ Fran said eventually.

‘I’ll find a way.’ I swallowed back my doubts. I’d have to find a way.

‘So send me the story when it’s written. I’ll think about it.’

I sighed. If she didn’t take it for Devon Today, there were other markets I could try. And now I’d suggested it, I liked the idea of trying to talk to Mrs Jackman about her life in Hawbury Down. But despite my determination to keep pushing away at her until she agreed, I had a feeling I’d need to start more gently, and build up the pressure gradually if necessary. So I wrote a short, friendly note to her saying I’d love to talk to her about her long life in Hawbury Down, because I was just interested for personal reasons, and she didn’t have to agree to being interviewed for the magazine. I asked her to call me if she fancied a chat. I clipped my card to the note and went back to deliver it through her letterbox. It was a cold, rainy day, about as bleak and dark as it gets, the bare trees up on Hawbury Top bent against the wind, and there was no sign of her or the cats this time, and nobody hanging around taking photos. I wasn’t particularly optimistic about getting a response from her, but I was prepared to give it a bit of time before following up with another attempt. To my surprise, just over a week later, she called me.

‘I don’t know what you want,’ she said, ‘but I suppose you’ll keep on at me until I agree. Come on Tuesday. Eleven o’clock.’

And here I am, on her doorstep.

I’m not a fool, whatever Miss Holly-I’m-A-Journalist-But-All-I-Want-Is-A-Little-Chat might think. She’s obviously still after her story, and she thinks she’s going to get it by the back door, by a softly-softly approach, talking about my long life in Hawbury Down. How does she even know how long I’ve been here? I should have just thrown her little love letter straight in the bin, but something about it intrigued me, even if it did exasperate me at the same time. I found myself wondering about her. Wondering how long she’s lived here herself, who her parents are and whether I know them, why the hell she’s interested in me – or rather, in my house – and why a young girl like that wants to work as a journalist, nosing into other people’s business. Well, I haven’t got much else to think about, these days. Or, to be honest, many people to talk to. Life gets wearisome when you reach my age, especially in the coldest months of the year. The cold wind up here chills my very bones, making me ache all over, body and soul. Sometimes I think winter will never end.

So, eventually, I called her. ‘Come on Tuesday at eleven’, I said. She won’t stay too long that way; she’ll be wanting to get away for her lunch.

It’s been a while since I had a visitor – apart from the nosy ones who hang around outside the house, looking down the cliff edge, taking photos, staring at my windows. They don’t realise I’m watching them from behind the curtains. But an actual visitor, coming into the house, sitting down and talking to me – I must admit, getting the little note from Holly Whats-Her-Name made me stop and think how long it’s been since that’s happened. Years ago, I used to get visits from ex-colleagues at the school. And friends from the Cats Protection place where I used to volunteer. But I suppose over the years they’ve all retired too. We’ve lost touch. And a lot of them probably aren’t even alive anymore. That’s one of the sad things about living to what we used to call a good old age – you outlive everyone. You don’t have any friends left.

Anyway, although I don’t like admitting it, I feel kind of jittery while I’m getting dressed this morning. I don’t know whether to put my better trousers on, and a decent shirt, one I’ve ironed. Normally I can’t be bothered much about what I wear. Nobody sees me. I shouldn’t care what this young woman is going to think of me, but nevertheless I do a bit of tidying up, brush the cat hairs off the table and chairs, move Gracie from where she likes to sit, grooming herself, on the top shelf in the kitchen, and shoo her outside with the other two, in case this Holly person doesn’t like cats. Or if she has an allergy – they all seem to have allergies these days. Just before eleven o’clock, I put the kettle on and warm the teapot. I get down the cake tin, lift the lid and peek inside, feeling silly all of a sudden. Why have I gone to all this trouble? The girl only wants to write some daft story about me for her job. Maybe I’ll save the cake till this afternoon and eat it on my own.

The doorbell makes me jump, and I nearly drop the cake tin. I go to the door and usher her in. She’s got dark hair, very pale skin, and she’s pretty in that too-skinny way they are these days. She smiles and reminds me who she is, as if she thinks I’m so bloody senile I’ve probably forgotten.

‘I’ll take my shoes off,’ she offers, unzipping her coat. I tell her not to bother. I’m aware I’m probably sounding a bit snappy. I feel flustered, having her coming into the house, wafting perfume and flicking her long hair.

‘Sit down,’ I say curtly. ‘Tea? Or do you prefer coffee?’

‘Oh!’ She looks around her through the open door into the sitting room, and I follow her gaze, seeing the thin old carpet and the shabby, worn sofa and armchairs through her eyes. The cats have, over the years, done what cats do – their claws have pulled threads in the fabrics, their damp fur has left dark marks on the cushions. The legs of the table have scratch marks in them. It hasn’t bothered me. I prefer their company to the idea of having a perfect home.

‘Um, what kind of tea do you have?’

I stare back at her. ‘The kind you make a pot of tea with.’

‘Right. Sorry.’ She gives a little laugh of embarrassment. ‘I … I was thinking about herbal teas – only because they’re what I normally drink myself. But of course, ordinary tea is fine. No milk or sugar, thank you.’

Herbal teas. They’re not tea at all, in my opinion, just fancy fruit drinks. I sniff as I turn back to the teapot, put in a spoonful of tea each plus one for the pot, wait for the kettle to come back to the boil, then fill the pot and put the tea cosy on. When I look back at Holly, she’s sitting down at the kitchen table, watching me. Probably never seen anyone make real tea before.

‘We can go in the sitting room,’ I say, ‘while the tea draws.’

She follows me and sits in one of the armchairs. I can see she looks as awkward as I feel, and something inside me softens slightly – but only slightly. Isn’t she supposed to be a journalist? Aren’t they supposed to be tough and ruthless? She looks like an anxious little girl, sitting there in her tight jeans with her toes together and her hands in her lap. No notebook, or recording thing, unless she’s hidden it. It seems she’s keeping up the pretence that she only wants a little chat – off the record, that’s what they say, isn’t it?

My radio’s playing in here – I put it on earlier, to listen to some music while I tidied up, and it’s probably a bit loud for her, so I go to turn it off.

‘That was nice music,’ she says – being polite, I suppose. I doubt she knows much about classical music.

‘It’s the first movement of Eine kleine Nachtmusik,’ I tell her. ‘A Little Night Music. Mozart.’

‘Oh.’ She looks blank but nods. ‘One of your favourites?’

I can’t help smiling now, despite myself. The memories that particular music evoke always make me smile. ‘My absolute favourite,’ I say. Then I catch myself, and move on abruptly:

‘Anyway, what exactly do you want to talk about?’ Straight to the point. No sense in shilly-shallying around.

She smiles back now. ‘Well, for a start I wondered how long you’ve been living here – in Hawbury Down, and in this house. Have you been here for your entire life? You must have some stories to tell.’

‘Must I?’ I say. ‘What sort of stories?’

‘Well, stories about Hawbury Down. What it was like here when you were younger, how it’s changed … your memories, and so on.’

‘I see.’

Holly sits back in her chair, as if she’s waiting for me to start. I feel weary, weary of this nonsense before it’s even begun. What’s the point? Can I really be bothered to drag up a few ancient memories just to satisfy this girl? Just so she can write something for her paper or magazine?

‘I’ll pour out the tea,’ I say, to delay the conversation for a bit longer. I hesitate, then add – because it will have been a waste of time making it if I don’t – ‘Want a slice of cake?’

‘Oh!’ She looks surprised. ‘Cake? Really? Well, thank you, that’s nice of you.’

She probably never eats it. Probably thinks it’s fattening, or not vegetarian enough for her. I go into the kitchen and cut us a slice each, whether she decides she’s going to eat it or not, pour out the tea and carry everything into the sitting room on a tray. Holly sits up, looking guilty.

‘I should have carried that in for you.’

‘I’m not totally helpless,’ I mutter, putting the tray down on the little table between our chairs. She’s looking at the teacups, a strange expression on her face.

‘Proper cups and saucers,’ she says wistfully. ‘My gran used to use them.’

Since when did cups and saucers become something only older people use? I push a plate of cake towards her and her eyes open wide with surprise.

‘This is home-made, isn’t it!’

‘Yes. Cherry and almond.’ I wonder if home-made cakes are something else she’s not used to. Another thing she only associates with old ladies. ‘You’re not allergic to nuts or anything like that?’ I add quickly.

‘No. It looks delicious.’ She takes the plate, picks up her slice of cake and nibbles it politely. ‘It’s lovely,’ she says with a smile. Then she puts her plate down again and gives me a more business-like look. ‘So: where shall we start? Were you actually born here – in Hawbury Down?’

‘No.’ I wipe crumbs from my mouth. This’ll spoil her little story. ‘I was born in London. In the East End.’

‘Oh, really?’ she says. ‘When did you move to Devon, then?’

‘I was evacuated as a child. During the war.’ I glance at her, wondering if she understands. ‘World War Two. Children were sent to the countryside, to escape the Blitz. The bombing.’

‘You were an evacuee! That’s really interesting.’

‘It wasn’t always much fun at the time,’ I retort.

Suddenly I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I don’t want to talk at all. I put my cup down so abruptly, tea slops into the saucer. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve changed my mind.’ I get up, trying not to look at her. ‘You’ll have to go.’

‘Oh. OK, of course.’ She follows me back to the kitchen and out to the front door. I’m already holding it open for her. This was a stupid idea. Stupid of me to agree to it. I shouldn’t have got her hopes up.

‘Goodbye,’ I say, still not looking at her. I don’t know why I feel bad about it. She shouldn’t have wheedled her way into coming round here.

She’s stopped on the doorstep. I can’t close the door while she’s still got one foot inside.

‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘For the tea, and the cake. It was nice to meet you.’

‘You’re welcome,’ I mutter.

‘I just … just wondered why you agreed to me coming round,’ she goes on. She sounds genuinely interested rather than being put out about it. ‘I mean, if you really didn’t want to talk to me – about your life, your past, whatever – why ask me to come? Why make me tea? Why bake that lovely cake?’

I nearly don’t answer. But then I glance up at her, and there’s something about her gentle expression, the kind look in her eyes, that makes me blurt it out.

‘If you must know,’ I say, ‘it’s my birthday. I’m eighty-three today. So I made myself a cake. I’m glad you liked it.’

She puts a hand on my arm, her eyes clouding with sadness. Damn it, why did I tell her that? Now she’s going to go away thinking I’m a pathetic, lonely old woman who invites strangers round to share her birthday cake.

‘Goodbye,’ I say more firmly, giving the door a little push so that she moves her foot out of the way. As soon as she’s off the doorstep, I close the door and walk back into the kitchen. What a waste of time that was. Never mind. I’ll have another piece of cake later on. Wouldn’t do to let it get stale.

Poor thing. She’s lonely, obviously, and I’m not surprised – living up there all on her own like that, at her age, stuck in that chilly old house that – even inside – feels somehow as if it’s literally teetering on the edge of the cliff. I know it’s ridiculous, but just sitting in her lounge, I could almost feel how unstable it is, how very fragile its grip on that cliff might be. And what a shame that she has to invite a complete stranger to share her cake, just to have company on her birthday. Eighty-three! It was stupid of me to think she’d make anything other than real tea, in a teapot, and have anything other than home-made cake; my gran was exactly the same. It brought back such memories. I’m sighing as I walk back down the track to my car. Gran’s birthday was at this time of year, too. January the twenty-ninth– less than two weeks’ time. She’d have been seventy-eight. She’s only been gone a year and I still miss her so much, enough to bring tears to my eyes now that have nothing to do with the cold, sharp wind whipping across Hawbury Top. It’s always colder up here than down in the town, of course, and on a freezing winter’s day like this, there’s ice on the puddles that formed in the potholes from yesterday’s rain, and frost glittering on the bare branches of the trees. Beautiful in a sparkly Christmas-card kind of way, but also enough to make me shiver as I hurry to get into the car and turn up the heating.

I don’t want to start crying about Gran again. I think instead about Mrs Jackman’s change of heart today. It was pretty sudden – just as I was enjoying her cherry cake, too. She obviously didn’t want to talk about being evacuated, and of course I understand that perhaps she has some unhappy memories about it. Perhaps the people she stayed with weren’t kind to her, and no doubt she missed her own parents.

It would have been a perfect story for Devon Today; but I have to respect her feelings. It’s a pity, as I’d have loved to know more about it, anyway, just out of my own curiosity. Did she stay in Devon after the war? Or did she come back years later? Why move away from London to come back down here, if her time as an evacuee ‘wasn’t much fun’, as she put it?

My copy for a regular slot on another magazine is due so I’m busy enough for the rest of the day. It’s a nature monthly, and although I was lucky to get the chance to write it, I’m beginning to run out of ideas. There’s only so much you can say, the third year you’re describing what to look out for in January. I manage my word count, thanks to the brave little snowdrops I admired, poking their way up into the frosty air as I walked down from Hawbury Top this morning. And I’m just in time to go and pick Maisie up at three-fifteen.

‘Good day?’ I ask as she throws herself into my arms outside her classroom. ‘Do your coat up, Mais. It’s freezing.’

She fumbles with the zip and I pull her hat down over her ears. She skips along beside me, chattering about maths, and play time, and lunchtime, and which naughty kid in the class was told off by the teacher. She hasn’t put her gloves on – she hates wearing them – but her little hand is warm in mine, her cheeks glowing pink with health and happiness. Sometimes, at times like this when I know she’d be furious with embarrassment because of the other children around us, I have to fight the urge to pick her up and smother her with kisses. It’s a never-ending source of amazement to me that she’s so perfect, the most perfect little girl in the world – and she’s mine. She’s far and away the best thing that’s ever happened to me, despite being the last thing I wanted at the time.

It’s not until night-time, when Maisie’s in bed, that I start to think about Mrs Jackman again. I imagine her now, alone in that house, with the wind whistling outside and only her cats for company – how many does she have? Two? Three? I didn’t see any of them this morning. Does she even have a TV? I didn’t notice. I try to imagine her life, and can’t help the inevitable comparison with that of my gran. Gran was so different. She was an extrovert, a chatterbox, full of laughter and fun and wisdom.

‘Holly,’ she used to say to me, ‘don’t mope. Life’s too short, girl.’

It was too short to spend it moping over things I couldn’t have, too short to cry over a boy who didn’t want me, too short for regrets. She was right, wasn’t she – and sadly, life was too short for her. She shouldn’t have died at only seventy-seven. It was far too soon; she was still so full of life. Whereas Mrs Jackman …

I stop myself there, shocked by the direction of my own thoughts. What about Mrs Jackman? I still don’t know the first thing about her, but I’m making assumptions, based on rumours around the town, and one short meeting with her. I’ve assumed she’s not just lonely, but also a miserable old bag who doesn’t like people or want them around. That she insists on staying up there on the edge of a collapsing cliff out of sheer cussedness, and, worse, that if she’s lonely it must be her own fault. But now I’m remembering her tea tray, set with a cloth, china cups and saucers and milk in a little jug. The home-made cake on a plate. The way she made the tea – three spoonsful of tea leaves in the warmed pot, just like Gran did. I couldn’t take my eyes off her while she was doing it, because in this instant-gratification, tea bag in a mug without even sitting down world we live in, I wanted to treasure that sight, the memory it evoked. Whatever else Mrs Jackman is – miserable old bag or not – she’s alone, and lonely, and it’s her birthday, and I might be the only person in Hawbury Down, or even the only person alive, who knows about it.

As soon as I’ve dropped Maisie off at school the next morning, I head straight to the flower shop on Fore Street and choose a small posy of yellow and white freesias – nothing too fancy, just bright and cheerful. The florist ties the stems with yellow ribbon and wraps them in cellophane.

‘Do you want to include a card?’ she asks.

I hesitate. What would I write?

‘No,’ I decide. ‘I’ll say … what I want to say when I deliver them.’

She smiles at me and says that’ll be nice. I wonder what she’d say if she knew who I was taking the flowers to. I wonder, too, whether Mrs Jackman knows what they say about her in the town – that they call her a witch and spread silly rumours about those ghostly noises coming from her house at night. How do these things start, and why do people repeat them?

I put the flowers on the back seat of my car and drive, again, to the end of the lane to Hawbury Top, turning my coat collar up around my neck against the cold as I trudge up the narrow track to the house, avoiding the icy patches of bare rock. There’s sleet in the air and it stings my face. I wonder what the hell I’m doing.

Mrs Jackman comes to the door wearing a chequered overall and some brown slacks. There’s no burst of warmth from inside the house indicating that she might have the heating on, or a fire lit. She blinks at me in surprise.

‘Oh. It’s you again,’ she says. She looks down at the flowers I’m holding out to her. ‘What’s all this?’

‘For your birthday. I’m sorry it’s late, but obviously I didn’t know about it until I was leaving. But I wanted to … well, to say happy birthday for yesterday.’ She’s staring at me, silent, so I add: ‘A birthday should be a thing to celebrate, shouldn’t it?’ – and to my surprise, she gives a little gasp, blinking fast, as if I’ve said something outrageous.

I feel awkward now. Was this a mistake? Too late I wonder if she’ll think I’ve only done it to persuade her to talk to me for the magazine. I thrust the posy towards her and at least she takes it, passing it from one hand to the other as if she’s making up her mind about it.

‘Well,’ she says, just as I’m about to say goodbye and turn away. ‘Well, these are very nice. I suppose I should say thank you. And I suppose you’d better come in.’

She holds the door open wide for me. And here I am, back in her little blue kitchen again, with its ancient-looking electric stove and old-fashioned crockery cabinet with glass doors, as she puts the kettle on and gets down the china cups and saucers.

‘Let me carry the tray this time,’ I say. ‘Shall I put the flowers in a vase for you?’

And she’s actually smiling as we go into the sitting room.

What a surprise – flowers, for my birthday. I can’t even begin to think when I last had flowers bought for me. And it nearly took my breath away when she said those words: A birthday should be a thing to celebrate. It’s exactly what he said to me – all those years ago, when I turned eighteen. How strange, to hear it said again now. Now I’m at the age where birthdays don’t mean a thing, don’t bring any excitement at all, just a reminder of the cold hard truth of another step into old age. Still – it … touched my heart, in a funny way.

I’m not stupid, though. I suppose the girl’s still just after her story and this is another way of trying to get round me. But it’s nice, anyway. Especially after I shooed her away yesterday. Well, there’s still some cake left so she might as well sit down and have a slice with me. I’m having to move two of the cats off the chairs while she carries the tray through.

‘Oh, don’t worry about that!’ she says, seeing me trying to brush the hairs off the cushions. She puts down the tray, bends down and starts stroking V. . .