as she takes it all in.
‘It was. It is. There’s a lot more to the place than this.’
She glances at me, agonised.
Still clutching her rucksack, she wanders up to the barn, eyes wide at the decaying, tumbledown wreck that confronts her. I wouldn’t blame her if she turned right round and ran back to St Trenyan.
‘I can see we have a lot of work to do,’ she says.
‘You did say you weren’t afraid of it.’
As she walks towards the reception, Mitch scoots past her to a pile of rusting signage that once read ‘Welcome to Kilhallon Park. Your holiday starts here.’
Then he cocks his leg and proudly pisses all over the signs.
I don’t blame Demi for being less than impressed by Kilhallon but when someone who’s been sleeping in a shop doorway is shocked by the state your place is in, well, there’s something seriously wrong. I was a bit taken aback myself when I walked home from Bosinney after crashing Uncle Rory’s birthday party. Though I have to say that the state of my house was somewhat dwarfed by the state of my mind on finding out that I’d lost my girl to my best mate, and it was all my own fault.
Now I’m seeing the place through fresh eyes – Demi’s – and the scale of the task that lies ahead of me comes painfully into focus. Resurrecting Kilhallon is going to be a huge challenge. Why would anyone want to come here on holiday when it’s in this state? After my meeting at the bank I’ve also decided I’ll need to drum up some extra money to refurbish the place in the way I want to.
I know Polly thinks I’ve gone mad but I need to focus on something or I really will go nuts. I can’t do anything about Isla for now but that doesn’t mean I’ve given up on her. She’s not married yet; there’s still time for her to change her mind, although I’m sure Luke would have something to say if he knew how I felt. I keep trying – and failing – to feel guilty about my resentment of him. I ought to wish him well, but the pain is still too raw and I can’t see our relationship healing any time soon.
But first, Demi.
‘There’s Polly,’ I say as our housekeeper bustles out of the front door. She looks younger since she dyed her hair an ash blonde while I’ve been away. The neat bob has taken years off her, not that I’d dare risk such a personal remark to her. However, judging by the glare on her face, she doesn’t look ready to roll out the red carpet for our new employee. But Mitch seems to have taken to Polly and races forward and leaps up at her.
‘Get that dog off me!’ Polly’s from hardy Cornish farming stock. She’s a formidable woman, even though she’s now in her mid-fifties. She pushes Mitch away, not roughly but firmly enough to startle him.
Demi dashes forward and grabs Mitch’s lead. ‘Don’t worry. He won’t hurt you.’
‘I don’t care. I don’t like dogs and neither does Cal. You never mentioned an animal on the phone.’
‘I’ve decided to make an exception for this one, and he can act as a guard dog,’ I say as Mitch cowers under one of Polly’s withering looks. ‘This is Demi, she’s going to be working for us.’
Polly plants her hands on her hips, sizing up our new employee. ‘I know her name. You don’t look like you sounded on the phone.’
‘How did I sound?’ Demi replies, so smoothly I can feel the danger.
‘Polly, if you don’t mind,’ I cut in before there’s a wrestling match right here in the farmyard, ‘I’d like Demi added to the payroll, and a contract and all the proper paperwork done as soon as possible.’
Polly narrows her eyes at me. ‘There’s no need to be so high handed.’
‘I’m sorry. Before you do that, can you find some clean bed linen and towels for Stables Cottage? I’ll help Demi get it into some sort of habitable state.’
‘Of course, boss. I’ll get onto it right away.’
Polly flounces off, muttering to herself. I grit my teeth. Polly’s been used to running the place without me while I was away and I’m out of practice with the social niceties these days. I know things have been tough on her but it’s time we both got used to having other people around again.
Demi pulls a face behind her back. ‘Polly doesn’t look very happy to see me.’
‘She’ll get over it. Come on, I’ll show you around the place.’
Cal leads me towards a wood and glass porch that looks modern, if you count the 1970s as modern, and is tacked onto the front of the old stone farmhouse itself.
‘This is – was – the reception area. Sorry. This sticks in the damp,’ he says, giving the peeling door into the reception a heavy shove.
There’s still a counter in there and the type of dial phone you’d find in a retro shop, with dusty ring binders piled all around it and a faint whiff of damp and food. The metal racks by the window still have leaflets and brochures on them, faded to monochrome by the sun. I’m sure one of them says Escape to Kilhallon Park, 1985 on it. Escape to Kilhallon? They’d be trying to escape from it these days.
There’s a button on the desk with a sticker next to it, on which I can just make out ‘Please ring for attention’.
‘This way,’ says Cal, pushing open a white-painted door that reads Private on a once-gold plastic plaque. We fight our way past old fleeces and wax jackets and Cal curses. ‘Who left that bloody boot scraper there?’ he grumbles. ‘Be careful.’
Sidestepping over the scraper, I glimpse a chink of light as Cal pushes open a heavy oak door.
When I was little, my mum read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe to me. As the coats part, and my eyes adjust, I feel I just stepped into another version of Narnia. Except this Narnia smells of curry and is like a skip – and that’s from someone who’s actually rummaged in a few.
‘This is the sitting room. Obviously.’
He stands awkwardly but I’m fascinated. The windows are tiny with bottle-shaped panes, like an old harbour-side pub, but they’d probably let in more light if someone had cleaned them. Dead ashes powder the air when Cal shuts the door to reception behind him.
He tosses his phone on a huge carved dresser. ‘You’ll have to take us as you find us, as my dad used to say.’
‘My mum said it too but she always tidied up anyway.’ I cast my eyes around the sitting room while Mitch twitches at my feet, itching to give the place a proper sniff.
‘Does your mother know where you are now?’ Cal asks me.
‘I doubt it. She’s dead.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He pulls a face as if I’ve upset him, not the other way round.
‘It’s OK. She died eight years ago.’
He winces. ‘Really? You must have been young to lose your mum.’
‘Thirteen.’
