Read Online A Rather Remarkable Homecoming by C. A. Belmond - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: C. A. Belmond
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now. “Well . . .” she said carefully. “I wanted Trevor to be the first to tell you, but . . . it just so happens that William Shakespeare may have slept here!”
There was a long silence, during which Jeremy now gazed at her with undisguised disbelief. Harriet pretended not to notice this. “It’s all very exciting,” she continued, “but you must let Trevor explain it when he returns. He’s doing a series of lectures in Ireland. But he’ll be back on Monday, and he’s agreed to meet with you then. You will stay on here through Monday, won’t you?” she asked, and for the first time a note of anxiety crept into her voice.
“Yes,” I said. “Trevor e-mailed me, and we’ve already set it up.”
“Great!” Harriet said. “Then I must be getting back to town. Take your time here, have another look round, think about whatever furniture you want to keep, and let me know as soon as you can. I’ll have Colin pick it up for you in his truck and we’ll hold it for you at the theatre.”
She smiled at us now. “Goodbye, then. I’ll leave you two alone now with your memories!”
Chapter Seven
After Harriet departed, Jeremy and I made our way along the narrow, pebbled weedy garden path. It was here that, long ago as kids, we had confided our hopes and dreams to each other . . . while dodging the summer’s bees.
“You were very defiant when you told me you wanted to be a rock guitarist,” I reminded him. “And I wanted to be a painter. It didn’t quite work out that way, did it?”
“At least we found each other,” Jeremy said. “So, I’ve got no regrets.”
“Me, either,” I said.
Cautiously we descended the steep flight of stone steps leading down, down, down to the tiny cove, where the water came lapping up to the sheltered beach. We took off our shoes, rolled up our pants, and walked on.
“Wow,” I said as we picked our way across. “The cove is so little, tucked away like this. Somehow it loomed larger in my imagination.”
We paused at the shoreline, gazing at the sea in silence for a bit. “Do you think there’s really any chance that William Shakespeare slept here?” I asked.
Jeremy rolled his eyes. “I don’t think there’s a bookie in London who would take odds on that,” he said. “Which leaves you and me between a Cornish rock and a Celtic hard place.”
“Just wait till we meet Trevor Branwhistle!” I said, for it occurred to me that we had stepped into a party of Mad Hatters who possibly had spent too much time out on the Bodmin moors with the constant wind whistling spookily in their heads, while they told each other outrageously tall tales.
We resumed walking, moving beyond the cove to an area of shoreline that was flanked by a big blackened horseshoe-shaped rock formation, like an upside-down letter “U” that was jutting out into the sea. We would have to pass under it to continue our walk.
But here the tide was suddenly crashing more wildly and raucously, and I instinctively paused even before Jeremy said, “Tide’s coming in. We can’t go much farther, or we’ll get stuck.”
Slowly we made our way back, and when I shivered, Jeremy put his arm around me to shield me from the brisk wind that was chillier now that the sun was setting. Climbing up those stone steps was a bit more strenuous than coming down, and I could feel my leg muscles getting more of a workout.
When we popped back up into the garden, Jeremy, seeing that the surveyors were coming into the yard, said, “Let’s take the shortcut to the road. I don’t feel like seeing those stupid guys.”
“What shortcut?” I asked, intrigued. Jeremy leaped up onto the top of the tall stone wall that rimmed the edge of the garden, then took my hand and said, “Follow me.”
We proceeded like tightrope-walkers along the wall as it curved around and then joined the lower, more jagged border that marked the property line separating us from the earl’s land. Grandfather Nigel’s garage was a
There was a long silence, during which Jeremy now gazed at her with undisguised disbelief. Harriet pretended not to notice this. “It’s all very exciting,” she continued, “but you must let Trevor explain it when he returns. He’s doing a series of lectures in Ireland. But he’ll be back on Monday, and he’s agreed to meet with you then. You will stay on here through Monday, won’t you?” she asked, and for the first time a note of anxiety crept into her voice.
“Yes,” I said. “Trevor e-mailed me, and we’ve already set it up.”
“Great!” Harriet said. “Then I must be getting back to town. Take your time here, have another look round, think about whatever furniture you want to keep, and let me know as soon as you can. I’ll have Colin pick it up for you in his truck and we’ll hold it for you at the theatre.”
She smiled at us now. “Goodbye, then. I’ll leave you two alone now with your memories!”
Chapter Seven
After Harriet departed, Jeremy and I made our way along the narrow, pebbled weedy garden path. It was here that, long ago as kids, we had confided our hopes and dreams to each other . . . while dodging the summer’s bees.
“You were very defiant when you told me you wanted to be a rock guitarist,” I reminded him. “And I wanted to be a painter. It didn’t quite work out that way, did it?”
“At least we found each other,” Jeremy said. “So, I’ve got no regrets.”
“Me, either,” I said.
Cautiously we descended the steep flight of stone steps leading down, down, down to the tiny cove, where the water came lapping up to the sheltered beach. We took off our shoes, rolled up our pants, and walked on.
“Wow,” I said as we picked our way across. “The cove is so little, tucked away like this. Somehow it loomed larger in my imagination.”
We paused at the shoreline, gazing at the sea in silence for a bit. “Do you think there’s really any chance that William Shakespeare slept here?” I asked.
Jeremy rolled his eyes. “I don’t think there’s a bookie in London who would take odds on that,” he said. “Which leaves you and me between a Cornish rock and a Celtic hard place.”
“Just wait till we meet Trevor Branwhistle!” I said, for it occurred to me that we had stepped into a party of Mad Hatters who possibly had spent too much time out on the Bodmin moors with the constant wind whistling spookily in their heads, while they told each other outrageously tall tales.
We resumed walking, moving beyond the cove to an area of shoreline that was flanked by a big blackened horseshoe-shaped rock formation, like an upside-down letter “U” that was jutting out into the sea. We would have to pass under it to continue our walk.
But here the tide was suddenly crashing more wildly and raucously, and I instinctively paused even before Jeremy said, “Tide’s coming in. We can’t go much farther, or we’ll get stuck.”
Slowly we made our way back, and when I shivered, Jeremy put his arm around me to shield me from the brisk wind that was chillier now that the sun was setting. Climbing up those stone steps was a bit more strenuous than coming down, and I could feel my leg muscles getting more of a workout.
When we popped back up into the garden, Jeremy, seeing that the surveyors were coming into the yard, said, “Let’s take the shortcut to the road. I don’t feel like seeing those stupid guys.”
“What shortcut?” I asked, intrigued. Jeremy leaped up onto the top of the tall stone wall that rimmed the edge of the garden, then took my hand and said, “Follow me.”
We proceeded like tightrope-walkers along the wall as it curved around and then joined the lower, more jagged border that marked the property line separating us from the earl’s land. Grandfather Nigel’s garage was a
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