Read Online Pumping Up Napoleon by Maria Donovan - Free Book Online

between directing him through lanes and villages towards the sea, Vanessa exclaimed over all the things she could see from her high seat in the four-by-four, her voice bright with excitement. ‘Nearly there now!’ she cried, as they swung out onto the main coast road and climbed the first hill. At the top, they seemed to hang a moment; the western half of Lyme Bay opened out below them; large in the distance were the yellow-faced cliffs: the flat top of Golden Cap, the slope of Thorncombe Beacon – those sea-bitten, green-backed hills. Beyond these, Lyme Regis, banked up to face them on the coast, the long slope of Black Ven, and shadowy headlands, stealing away into Devon. Michael was about to impress Vanessa with his geographical knowledge, gleaned from studies of the Ordnance Survey map and several guidebooks, but Vanessa was leaning to the window and saying, ‘I can see the house!’
    Down a pot-holed track between fields they lurched, towards a line of trees standing parallel to the long shingle bank below. Through thinning leaves Michael could see the outline of a big square white house. Now he had a view that encompassed the whole of Lyme Bay, with the Island of Portland away to the east like a gigantic long-tailed sea beast head-butting the mainland.
    Vanessa wound down her window and in blew salt air and the smell of seaweed, grass and reeds, tough pasture strewn with sheep’s droppings, damp and dirty wool, with an acrid top-note of smouldering leaves. A stoop-shouldered old man, prodding at a bonfire with a rake, looked up and stared at them as they passed. ‘I didn’t know you had a gardener,’ said Michael.
    â€˜We don’t,’ said Vanessa, and she leaned out and called to the man, ‘Hello, Daddy!’ as the four-wheel drive rolled past, its gleaming paint a shout in the muted landscape.
    Vanessa’s father raised a hand and began to walk towards the house. Michael drove round to the front and pulled up on the gravel. Now that he could see the house more clearly it appeared to be more grey than white, its render pockmarked and patchy. As soon as Michael had applied the handbrake, Vanessa jumped out and ran back to embrace her father. Michael busied himself getting the bags out of the car, but when Vanessa and her father, arms linked, came round the corner of the house, he went to meet them.
    The Commander gave him a searching look and held out a grimy hand. Michael took it, making sure to use a firm and manly grip. ‘Steady on,’ said the Commander, wincing. ‘Mind the arthritis.’
    Michael dropped the hand at once, only then noticing the outsized knuckles and the way the fingers slanted, like thorn trees do before the wind along that coast. He began to splutter an apology but the Commander said, ‘That’s our Vanessa. Always the same. Sink or swim.’
    Just then an upstairs window opened and a voice fluted, ‘Vanessa darling!’
    â€˜Mummy!’ called Vanessa, and she darted into the house, Michael looked up just in time to see a plump woman in a flowery silk peignoir turning away from the window.
    â€˜Good drive?’ said the Commander, looking at him with narrowed eyes.
    â€˜Oh, yes. Thanks,’ said Michael. ‘What a fantastic place this is. Such stunning views.’
    â€˜Glad you like it,’ said the Commander. ‘Well, I’ll see you at supper; best not to leave the bonfire unattended, even in this damp weather.’ And he went, leaving Michael standing outside the house with the bags.
    Michael picked up two of them and approached the wide front door. He was about to call out a hello, when a robust-looking red-cheeked woman with black hair and dark eyes appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘You must be Michael,’ she said. ‘I’m Mrs Brightwell. If you’d like to follow me I’ll show you to your room.’
    â€˜Oh, thank you,’ said Michael. ‘I wonder