Atlantic House 1988
THE HUSK OF A DEAD FLY LAY DRY AND BRITTLE on the sun-bleached oak window sill.
The house was silent and empty in the drowsiness of the bright spring morning. If its almost three-hundred-year-old walls harboured any memories of previous occupants, the weddings and wakes, conceptions and christenings that had taken place here, there was no sign. Where rich brocade curtains had once hung from the tall windows, there clung trailing cobwebs. The days when handsome young men in tight breeches and high-collared frock coats had wooed maidens in muslin dresses were a thing of the past. Maybe the rustle of petticoats along the top landing could still be heard, but only by the tattered moths. In the musty bedrooms, patches of insidious damp crept ever outward, their spread unobserved and unchecked. In the cellars, the dark, dank, seaweed-scented stone walls were covered in a glistening silvery scrawl, marking the passage of slugs and snails. The worn steps, hewn out of the rocky floor, descended into darkness and the sound of the waves lapping against the walls of a natural cave beneath the house. On moonless nights, two hundred years ago, smugglers would time their arrival for high tide, steering their vessels through the opening in the rocks on the beach where the waves surged in, on into the torchlit cavern where their cargo of contraband brandy, tobacco and lace would be unloaded, away from the prying eyes of the revenue men. Only the odd holidaymaker ventured into the cave nowadays, but a rockfall twenty metres from the beach entrance prevented them from reaching the forgotten cave. The sea, however, continued as it always had done, ebbing and flowing into the recesses below Atlantic House.
In the old days, the gentleman of the house would welcome his gang of smugglers and lead them up the stone steps into an innocent-looking outhouse. A fortified wooden door opened into the garden. To the left was the back door of the house, now stiff with salt and age, which led into the kitchen. In front of the old hearth and chimney, still blackened by the fires of countless cooks, smugglers would have their wounds attended to by the lady of the house. And if the revenue men whose guns had caused the wounds came knocking, the fugitive would stay hidden in the cool of the pantry while the gentleman and his lady entertained them.
Today the ancient range, once the beating heart of the house, was cold, its doors seized with rust and its hot plates covered in soot falls.
Out in the garden, wild with broom, tamarisk, escallonia and fuchsia, the lawn bore no resemblance to the croquet pitch it had been between the two world wars; these days it was a Cornish meadow giving on to a buckthorn and gorse hedge. The weathered wooden gate, which had once banged so gaily on its sprung hinge with the constant traffic of beach-bound children, now drooped sadly.
As he placed the heavy key in the lock, estate agent Trevor Castle took in the commanding elevated position overlooking the much-sought-after Treviscum Beach. The key refused to move. Trevor leaned against the studded oak front door, gave the key a twist, and tried again. Still nothing. Bending down, he laid his clipboard, camera and retractable tape measure on the worn flagstones. Using both hands now, he managed to get the reluctant key to turn. As he pushed open the heavy door, a horrible squeal of protest from the unoiled hinges gave him a little fright. He steadied himself and carried on pushing. Something was blocking the door. When he had created a big enough gap to squeeze his head through, he paused for a moment, bracing himself for the prospect of a rotting corpse on the other side of the door. To his relief, when his eyes adjusted to the darkness he made out a pile of faded circulars and junk mail wedged against it. Chuckling at his stupidity, Trevor bent his full weight against the door and heaved until the opening was wide enough for him to step into the house. He stooped to clear the blockage and then returned to the porch to collect his estate-agent tackle.
With the door now open wide, the sun poured in, lighting up the impressive oak-panelled hall and spilling into the open doorway of the grand drawing room ahead with its breathtaking view down to the ocean.
‘Wow. Hello, House,’ Trevor said out loud. He stepped into the hall, stirring aged dust motes. He didn’t feel any gust of wind, but the front door banged shut so loudly behind him, he gave an involuntary jump and a yelp of fright. Hand resting on his pounding heart, he exhaled with relief.
‘Steady on, Trev, buddy. Only the wind.’
This was his first solo trip since joining Trish Hawkes & Daughter Property Agents. After weeks of trailing around after Trish, she had finally deemed him ready to go out and measure and photograph a house by himself.
‘Atlantic House will be a good one to start you off,’ she’d announced, reaching round to the key cabinet and unhooking a large, obviously antique key. ‘Empty. No bloody occupying owner to interfere.’
‘Has it been vacant long?’ he’d asked.
Trish had smiled, but there had been an uncharacteristic reticence about her as she’d replied: ‘Erm, about ten years. I think.’
‘Ten years! But it says here it’s a sea-front location, with its own private cliff path to the beach. Place like that shouldn’t stay empty ten minutes.’
‘Oh, erm, there was a bit of sadness in the family. Child had an accident or something. Anyway, the surviving daughter has just inherited and wants to get rid.’
‘Okey-dokey.’ Trev had been full of confidence as he had collected the heavy key from Trish’s hand. ‘Let’s make money.’
He’d sauntered out of the office, conscious of Trish’s eyes following him as he made his way to the car park. He reckoned he created a favourable impression, smartly dressed in a grey suit with matching grey shoes, his hair carefully gelled and coiffed, aftershave strong but not unpleasantly so. Little did he know that Trish considered him the epitome of an eighties wide boy, complete with aspirations of an XR3i Ford Escort Cabriolet and a fortnight in Magaluf (or Shagaluf, as she’d overheard him say when she walked in as he was on the phone to one of his mates). But the frown wrinkling her brow as he disappeared round the corner of Trevay harbour had not been prompted by any doubt about his abilities. It was a pang of guilt that had Trish asking herself whether she’d done the right thing in sending him out to Atlantic House. But then, he was a strapping lad of twenty-three; he’d be fine … wouldn’t he? Rather him than her.
*
Having decided to start at the top of the house and work his way down, Trevor strode across the hallway. His footsteps sounded heavy on the bare wooden treads as he climbed the wide staircase. On the landing he stopped and counted eight doors, all closed.
The door to his left opened into a good-sized bedroom with a view over the driveway and lane. He measured up, took a couple of photos and jotted down a brief description to be written up in more flowery prose later. He carried on to the next room. A huge lavatory with a cracked wooden square of a seat and a chain-handled flush. The iron cistern above had been painted in many layers of cream paint, but he could just make out the maker’s name and a date: 1934. Next door was a bathroom with an enormous, deep bath in the corner. Brown stains marred the porcelain under the bulbous antique taps, but when he turned one on there was no water.
The adjacent door led to a bedroom at the side of the house with a pretty sea view. The middle door, bang opposite the stairs, opened on to a magnificent master bedroom with French windows leading out to a balcony offering a stunning view of Treviscum Beach
