Dark Pirate. Angela Devine

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СКАЧАТЬ CHAPTER TWO

      FIVE minutes later Rose stood outside the front gate of the cottage and took a long breath of pure delight.

      ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ she demanded.

      Greg’s eyebrows rose sceptically as he took a long, hard look at the gabled roof, which was encrusted with yellow lichen and had several of its slate tiles missing, at the peeling pink paint on the walls, at a broken pane of glass in one of the front windows, at the weathered grey wooden outhouses that leaned drunkenly away from the sea breezes.

      ‘I don’t know,’ he said in a troubled voice. ‘It looks as if it needs a fair bit of work done on it to me.’

      ‘Oh, men!’ retorted Rose scathingly, and pushed open the gate, which promptly broke loose from one of its hinges and dangled askew.

      Greg gave an explosive chuckle which he hastily turned into a cough when she glared at him. Rose tossed her head defiantly. All right, maybe the cottage did need a bit of work, but she wasn’t afraid of getting busy with a scrubbing brush and some paint. And nothing could spoil the perfection of the garden even if it did look wild and unkempt. On the sunny side of the garden a variety of shrub roses rioted in colourful profusion, filling the air with their sweet perfume, while in a shady nook between the house and the hawthorn hedge a sea of vivid blue hydrangeas tossed in the breeze. A candy-pink clematis had run riot over the outhouses and was now trying vigorously to climb the drainpipe at the side of the house, while purple buddleia bushes near the front gate provided a haven for swarms of butterflies. Every other available nook and cranny was filled with summer annuals, poppies and columbines and striped petunias. What did it matter if the lawn was now knee-high and rank with weeds, or if the paving on the path was chipped and overgrown with dandelions? These things could all be fixed by someone with plenty of energy and a good set of gardening tools. Yet even Rose’s optimistic spirit sank a little when she saw how the guttering was sagging over the front porch and the steps were broken and leaning to one side. Wouldn’t repairs like that be expensive?

      ‘Look, the cottage is named after you,’ joked Greg, pointing to the sign over the door. ‘Rose Cottage, 1742.’

      ‘Actually, it’s the other way round,’ Rose corrected him. ‘I’m named after the cottage. But don’t let’s hang about. I can’t wait to see inside.’

      Unfortunately, when she inserted her key into the front door, she found that it would not budge. She looked helplessly at Greg.

      ‘The wood is probably swollen from the rain,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Or else your aunt Em didn’t use the front door much. I could force it open for you, but why don’t we try the back door first?’

      The back door was more co-operative but the results were hardly encouraging. When it finally creaked open they found themselves in a dim back porch with a strong smell of rising damp and the sound of a tap dripping persistently somewhere near by. As Rose’s eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she saw that the wallpaper was stained and discoloured and that some of the floor-boards were rotting beneath their feet. The first, faint misgivings began to stir inside her. All the same, she wasn’t prepared to give up without a fight.

      ‘Let’s take a look at the rest of the house,’ she said bracingly. ‘I’m sure it’ll be much better.’

      It wasn’t. If anything, it was worse. The discovery of her suitcases in the front bedroom and a few basic food items with a friendly note from her neighbour cheered her up briefly, but her enthusiasm was soon quenched as she explored further. All the four downstairs rooms were spacious and charmingly old-fashioned with carved wooden fireplaces and small paned windows, but there were patches of damp on the walls and the only floor covering was a faded pink carpet square in the front bedroom. Most of the furniture was old and shabby without being antique, and the only indoor plumbing appeared to be a tap in the kitchen sink and a claw-footed bath with rusty legs. The upstairs rooms were no better. The stairs themselves had handsome barley-twist newels, but the treads were narrow and worn almost paper-thin in the centre and, judging by the thick layer of dust that covered everything on the first floor, it was probably years since Aunt Em had ever climbed up them. The attics were in the saddest condition of all, crammed full of boxes of old junk and with a couple of big holes in the plaster where rain had come in through missing tiles on the roof. By now, Rose’s initial euphoria had completely vanished and she could not help heaving a deep sigh as she followed Greg back down the precarious staircase. As they reached the bottom he turned back and raised his eyebrows at the sight of her woebegone face.

      ‘I think it’s time we had that cup of tea,’ he said.

      Trying to prepare the cup of tea was the final straw for Rose, since the kitchen seemed to be circa 1742 just like the rest of the house. The only cooking equipment was a malevolent-looking rusty black wood stove set into the fireplace and an array of smoke-blackened old teapots and frying-pans. All very well if you wanted to be picturesque, but not much use if you were hungry and thirsty! And the cold tap that was still trickling dis- mally had left a trail of rusty stains on the enamel sink. Rose sat down at the scrubbed pine table, buried her head in her hands and groaned.

      ‘It’s hopeless,’ she said despairingly. ‘I’ll never be able to get it all repaired.’

      ‘Don’t talk so foolish,’ urged Greg. He grabbed one of the old kitchen chairs and sat astride it, facing the wrong way with his chin resting on his folded arms and a stern look in his eyes. ‘You’re not going to give up at the first minor difficulty, are you? You don’t have the look of a coward, my dear.’

      A hot surge of rage flooded through Rose’s entire body at this criticism. A moment before she had felt like bursting into tears. Now she felt like hitting Greg, which was a definite improvement, but still rather startling. She had always thought she was a peace-loving person.

      ‘Minor difficulty?’ she snorted, gesturing at the chaos around them. ‘I wouldn’t call this mess exactly minor.’

      Greg shrugged dismissively and his jaw set in an obstinate line. ‘It all looks structurally sound to me and there b’ain’t much wrong with it that fifteen thousand pounds or so wouldn’t fix.’

      Rose gave a gasp of bitter laughter. ‘Fifteen thousand pounds! You just don’t understand! I haven’t got nearly that much money to spare. There was a small legacy that came with the house, but nothing like that amount. Oh, Greg! I’ve come all this way just for an impractical dream. There’s no way I’ll ever be able to afford to stay here.’

      Greg’s dark eyes took on a keen, brooding expression as if he was giving the problem his full attention.

      ‘You could take out a bank loan,’ he suggested. ‘All you have to do is decide you want this cottage badly enough and you’ll find a way of keeping it.’

      ‘No bank manager in his right mind would lend money to me now,’ retorted Rose coldly. ‘I’m officially unemployed.’

      ‘Well, don’t give up too soon. Let’s make a cup of tea.’

      ‘How?’ demanded Rose. ‘There isn’t even any way of boiling water, as far as I can see, unless we fire up that wood stove.’

      ‘Yes, there is,’ said Greg. ‘There’s a gas ring over in that far corner.’

      Rose was too disheartened to do anything at first, but when Greg produced coffee, teabags, tinned milk and a box of СКАЧАТЬ