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Tremarnock Summer
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TREMARNOCK SUMMER
Emma Burstall
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About this Book
About the Author
Table of Contents
www.headofzeus.com
About Tremarnock Summer
Bramble Challoner has had a very normal upbringing. She lives in a semi in the suburbs of London with her parents and works at the call centre down the road. She still goes out with the boy she met at school. At weekends they stay in and watch films on the telly and sometimes hold hands. Bramble is dying for an adventure.
So when her very grand grandfather, Lord Penrose, dies, leaving his huge, rambling house in Cornwall to her, Bramble packs her bags immediately, dragging along her best friend Katie. The sleepy village of Tremarnock had better be ready for its newest residents...
Contents
Welcome Page
About Tremarnock Summer
Dedication
Map
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
About Emma Burstall
About the Tremarnock Series
Also by Emma Burstall
An Invitation from the Publisher
Copyright
With love to Emily, Tom and Isabella Arikian
Map
Key
1. Jack’s Cottage
2. The Victory Inn
3. Children’s Play Park
4. Ebb Tide (Tony and Felipe’s Place)
5. The Nook (Pat’s Place)
6. Dove Cottage (Esme and Tabitha’s Place)
7. Shell Cottage
8. Bag End (Liz and Robert’s Place)
9. The Methodist Church
10. Copper Cottage
11. Dolly’s Place
12. Dynnargh (Jean and Tom’s Place)
13. The Stables
14. The Hole in the Wall Pub
15. The Fishmonger
16. The Marketplace
17. The Bakery
18. General Store
19. Seaspray Boutique
20. Gull Cottage (Jenny and John’s Place)
21. Off Licence
22. A Winkle in Time
23. Sideways Cottage (Ruby and Victor’s Place)
24. Treasure Trove
25. Public Loos
26. The Lobster Pot
27. The Fishing Tackle Shop
28. Ashley House (Charlotte and Todd’s Place)
29. Tremarnock Beach
30. The Harbour
1
‘IT’S FOR YOU.’
Bramble frowned. Her stepmother, Cassie, was bent double over the doormat, her not insubstantial backside blocking the hallway. Bramble was late, as usual, and she didn’t like letters. They were usually bills, after all – mobile phone, credit card, store card. The only post she looked forward to was the clothes catalogues that regularly plopped through the letterbox with enticing discounts not to be ignored.
When Cassie rose, Bramble grabbed the letter, preparing to stuff it in her bag and read it on the bus on the way to work. Or this evening – or tomorrow, even...
‘I wonder what it is.’
Something in Cassie’s tone piqued Bramble’s interest and she paused to cast an eye over the white envelope. It was thick and expensive-looking, with her name, Miss Bramble Challoner, and her address handwritten in black ink. Whoever penned it might have had calligraphy lessons, because the script was so neat and even. There was no stamp, just a blue mark saying ‘Delivered by Royal Mail’ and ‘Postage Paid’. No clue then, but it didn’t seem like a bill; it was too personal.
‘Looks official,’ Cassie commented unnecessarily, and Bramble felt a prickle of irritation.
‘Yeah, well, it can wait till later.’
Cassie’s face fell. Fifty-four years old and she still acted like a little girl sometimes, unable to disguise her feelings.
Bramble, softening, kissed her on the cheek and Cassie reluctantly moved aside as she headed for the exit.
‘I’m staying at Matt’s tonight. I’ll give you a call, OK?’
‘Don’t forget your dad’s birthday tomorrow!’
But Bramble was already halfway up the garden path, wobbling in her bright-red block heels across the uneven tiles. Tall and thin, with big blue eyes and fine, shoulder-length fair hair streaked with blonde, she looked a bit like a newborn deer, struggling to walk on Bambi legs, but there was no time to run inside for her trainers. If she didn’t get a move on she’d miss the eight twenty-three a.m. and then there’d be fireworks.
*
The bus was packed, as usual, and she hung on to the metal rail as it lurched to and fro, cursing silently when the phone buzzed in her cavernous bag because she’d have to rootle inside, which wouldn’t be easy with only one free hand.
It was Matt, wanting to discuss arrangements for the evening.
‘It’s the Premier League title decider,’ he wheedled. ‘Can’t we catch your film another time?’
‘No,’ said Bramble firmly. ‘It’s had great reviews.’
More and more, she was finding that nights at his place did her head in, especially if there was football on. In fact, there always seemed to be some big match or other: rugby, soccer, cricket, snooker, darts even. When it came to sport, you name it, he’d watch all evening if she’d let him.
‘I’ll take Katie instead,’ she warned, knowing that would shut him up. He wasn’t that keen on going out but he was even less keen on her going out with someone else; he said he missed her.
His idea of bliss on earth was snuggling up on the sofa, one arm around her waist, the other clutching a can of lager, a bowl of popcorn balanced on their laps and the telly up full blast.
‘What more could a man want?’ he’d sigh contentedly above the din.
She had no right to complain, had she? Matt was handsome, loyal, solvent and he loved her. Lots of girls would give their eye teeth to be in her position. She ought to be grateful.
It wasn’t until much later, when she was on her lunch break, that she remembered the letter and pulled it out of her bag while Katie went to the loo. They’d managed to find a seat in their favourite café, which served filled jacket potatoes as well as sandwiches and salads, all at a very reasonable price, and Bramble was willing Katie to get a move on so that they could return to their favourite subject: the boss, Judy. In a way it was just as well that she was such a cow because slagging her off helped wile away the monotonous hours.
The café was hot and crowded and the windows, which looked out on to the busy high street, were clouded with steam. It was a beautiful sunny summer’s day and they were missing it. They should have bought sandwiches and gone to the municipal park to top up their tans.
Bramble ripped open the envelope and pulled out the letter, noticing the name and address on the right-hand side: ‘Slater Brown Solicitors, Caxton Street, Westminster, London, SW1’.
Intrigued, she read on...
DEAR MISS CHALLONER,
I regret to inform you that your grandfather, Arthur George Penrose, Lord Penrose, died on 10 June 2015. On behalf of the firm, I would like to offer my condolences for your loss...
Her eyes scanned down further.
Lord Penrose left a will dated 1 June 2010, under the terms of which myself and my partner in this firm, Henry Brown, were appointed as the executors and you are the sole residual beneficiary. This means that you inherit the entire estate after the payment of the costs of the estate administration, any debts and inheritance tax.
Lord Penrose’s estate comprises the land, building and outbuildings of Polgarry Manor, Tremarnock, as well as its contents, and a sum of cash to the value of £670,000. One of our first tasks is to arrange for the assets in the estate to be valued so that we can work out the inheritance tax liability and how this might be settled. Once we have a clear indication of what this is we will write to you again.
If you would like to meet to discuss the estate in more detail, and indeed perhaps visit the manor, please let me know so that this can be arranged.
YOURS, etc.
Bramble was so surprised that she had to re-read the letter several times to make sure that she wasn’t imagining it. Perhaps it was a prank and she was secretly being filmed for a TV show. She glanced around furtively, half expecting a camera crew to leap out from under the table or behind the café counter, but no one came.
She stared at the half-eaten jacket potato on her plate and tried to collect her thoughts. Polgarry Manor? It sounded so grand. And £670,000 was an absolute fortune. The figure swam in front of her, making her dizzy.
‘You all right?’ Katie asked when she returned. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
Bramble slid the letter across the table and Katie sat down to read, her brown eyes growing wider by the second. She was shorter and curvier than Bramble, a bit of a man-magnet, with olive skin, a heart-shaped face and hair cut into a messy dark bob.
‘Blimey!’ she said at last, pushing back her chair so sharply that it tipped up, almost causing her to topple on to the customer behind, who spun around, scowling.
‘Sorr-ee,’ said Katie with an indifferent shrug, then she turned back to Bramble. ‘A manor house? Cool! And all that dosh. You’re gonna be rich!’
But Bramble could only manage half a smile.
‘I’m scared,’ she whispered. ‘I feel all weird and sort of... like I’m looking down on myself from up there somewhere.’ She pointed to the ceiling. ‘I can’t believe this is happening.’
Katie squeezed her arm. ‘Don’t worry, I’d be freaking out, too. Polgarry Manor?’ She said the name slowly, as if testing it on her lips. ‘It sounds sort of romantic – and a bit spooky, don’t you think? I wonder what it’s like.’
Bramble nodded, scarcely able to focus, and Katie peered at her through her dense, dark fringe.
‘By the way, why have you never told me about Lord Penrose? You’ve kept that under your hat.’
‘I never met him,’ Bramble explained. ‘He was an oddball, eccentric. He lived alone and had nothing to do with my mother after she was born; he completely disowned her. There didn’t seem any point telling you. He’s never been part of my life.’
Katie took a sip of Diet Coke.
‘Maybe he regretted being so mean to your mum,’ she said at last. ‘Maybe this is his way of saying sorry. Anyway, who cares why the miserable old git’s left the lot to you, since he has?’
Bramble was about to tell her off for being disrespectful to the dead, but she didn’t get the chance.
‘I can picture you as Lady Muck, bossing the servants around,’ her friend added with a mischievous grin. ‘And by the way, where the fuck’s Tremarnock?’
*
The afternoon seemed interminable. As a call-centre sales agent for a mobile network, Bramble was stuck on the phone all day, but there was no opportunity to ring anyone for a chat, not with Judy breathing down her neck. Bramble didn’t want to tell her about the letter, didn’t want her to know, just in case it was all a wind-up and then her boss would have a field day; she’d laugh in Bramble’s face.
At about half three, when she could stand it no longer, she told Judy that she was feeling unwell.
‘What’s the matter?’ the other woman said, narrowing her eyes. ‘You were perfectly all right earlier.’
‘I feel shivery. I think I’m going to throw up,’ Bramble replied, burping several times; it was a skill that she’d perfected at school and it had come in very handy down the years.
Alarmed, Judy said that she’d better go home immediately.
‘Don’t you dare vomit on the carpet.’
Relieved, Bramble grabbed her things and hurried from the office, nodding almost imperceptibly to Katie on the end of the row of desks as she left. Katie knew the score. She was familiar with the burping trick, though she herself generally favoured the toothpaste in the eye routine. Done properly, it looked remarkably like conjunctivitis, which, as everyone knew, was highly contagious.
*
Bramble caught the bus to Matt’s and let herself in with her own key. His place was a small flat consisting of three rooms, just around the corner from the out-of-town industrial estate. He rented it from an older guy called Joe, who had his own carpet-fitting business. Joe must have done all right because he owned several properties in the sixties’ block and drove an Audi convertible, which he’d park ostentatiously in front of the main entrance, half on the pavement, half off, when he came to check on his tenants.
When Matt first took possession, he and Bramble had thought the flat a palace, but it had soon started to feel cramped with all his clobber and a fair amount of hers, too. He’d begged her to move in with him but she’d resisted.
‘I’m not ready for the commitment,’ she’d insisted. ‘It’s too soon.’
‘You’re twenty-five and we’ve been together nearly ten years,’ he’d replied grumpily. ‘How long do you need?’
So she’d tried a new tack, reasoning that it made more sense for her to stay at her parents’ while she helped save up for a deposit to buy somewhere of their own. This had temporarily mollified him, the only problem being that her plan wasn’t working too well. Thriftiness wasn’t her forte, and the more money she had, the more she seemed to spend. Just as well he didn’t get to see her credit card bills; he’d be appalled.
She plonked down on the squishy black sofa on one side of the living room and took the phone from her bag. Matt wouldn’t be home till after six and she wanted to speak to her dad first.
‘Can you talk?’ she asked when she heard his gruff, reassuring voice. She needed comforting right now because she was all at sixes and sevens. ‘Are you alone?’
Bill was a cab driver and always answered when she rang, but she didn’t want any of his customers overhearing.
‘Just dropped someone off. On my way to Surbiton now. What’s up, Sugarplum?’
He had a host of silly nicknames for her: Honeybun, Lamb Chop, Hoppity. Where did that come from?
He listened quietly while she told him about the letter, and when she’d finished, he let out a long sigh. ‘Well, blow me! Never thought I’d hear that old bugger’s name again.’
She wasn’t entirely surprised. From the little that her dad had told her about Lord Penrose, it was clear that he loathed the man. Way back in the seventies, the story went, Bramble’s grandmother, Alice, had visited the earl at his manor with her parents when she was about seventeen and he was considerably older. He’d taken advantage of Alice’s youth and naïveté, and when the poor girl had found out that she was pregnant, he’d turned his back. Despite her parents’ entreaties, she’d refused to have the child adopted, and Bramble’s mother, Mary, had grown up with
Alice in the suffocating, joyless Oxfordshire house of Alice’s parents, forever made to feel ashamed of her very existence.
The moment she was old enough, she’d escaped to London and found herself a job and a place to live. Soon she’d met Bill, Bramble’s dad, who’d been dazzled by her beauty, wit and upper-class otherness.
‘Never seen anyone like her before in my life,’ he told Bramble wistfully whenever she asked about her real mum. ‘She was like something out of a fairytale.’
Kind, funny, down-to-earth Bill must have seemed like a breath of fresh air after the chilly isolation of Mary’s upbringing, but sadly the marriage hadn’t been a success. Bramble never heard Bill say a bad word about his first wife, but she could imagine that he’d had no idea what to do with the bewitching but highly damaged young woman he’d fallen in love with, no idea how to reach out to her.
‘It was her nerves,’ he used to say sadly when Bramble probed. ‘She suffered dreadfully from ’em. Couldn’t find peace, except in the bottle, and no good ever came of that.’
It must have been torture, watching his young wife drowning her sorrows in alcohol, while he struggled to raise their small daughter and earn enough to keep a roof over their heads. Mary’s family wanted nothing more to do with her. He said he tried everything: throwing out the drink, hiding Mary’s purse, even locking her in the house, but she was devious. One night she’d slipped out to join her boozing friends, fallen over the banisters at a party and suffered catastrophic injuries. She’d never regained consciousness and had died the following day.
Bill had been heartbroken and he said if it hadn’t been for Bramble, he might have chosen to end it all himself. They’d struggled on for a year on their own and then, thank goodness, Cassie had joined the office of the taxi firm where he worked.
‘Fell in love with him the moment I set eyes on him,’ she was wont to repeat to Bramble from time to time. ‘It was that little-boy-lost look. Melted my heart, it did. And then when I met you, with your pigtails and your cheeky smile, well, that was me sold.’
Tremarnock Summer