‘Oh?’ Marta replied. ‘What jobs have you done?’
This is feeling more and more like a job interview by the second. I own her home, and yet I feel like I haven’t earned the right to be here yet. Why do I feel out of place everywhere I go?
‘I worked in a hotel chain for many years.’
‘Worked in one? As what, the manager?’ Martha opened her sketchpad, angling it away from April, and started working on it with a pencil. Her eyes never left April’s.
‘Well … no but I did work in many different roles there. I learned a lot.’ She was mumbling into her neck now like a naughty schoolgirl who’d been dragged in front of the headmaster.
‘No?’ Martha asked, an incredulous note in her tone. ‘Never managed anything, have you? Chin up when you’re speaking, dear.’ April raised her chin, and Martha gave her an approving look. One that you would get from your nan when you remembered your P’s and Q’s.
April opened her mouth to plead her case, but then she realised she didn’t have the experience on paper, so there was no point in lying to herself, or anyone else for that matter.
‘I have the paperwork and insurance I need, and once the guests start coming, it will be fine.’ She didn’t know whether she actually believed that herself, or whether she was just telling Martha what she thought she wanted to hear. ‘And I have Cillian now. He has the knowledge and background of the place. I’m sure we can get organised soon enough.’
Martha said nothing, just sat staring out at the chalet park. April looked across at the half-painted hut. In the sunlight, half-wet, it did have a certain bogey-like tinge to it. Hopefully once it was dry properly it would settle a little lighter. The tin had declared the colour to be Green Tea. Maybe the cheaper paints were a bad idea. The truth was though, her car had barely made it to the DIY store and back, and she had nearly fainted at the price of the higher end paint pots. Laughable really, since her old home was all designer wallpaper and Farrow & Ball paint. How the other half live, eh.
‘This place used to be glorious,’ Martha said, half to herself, half to April. ‘The chalets were all painted fresh every year, and at the end of the season, the owners would throw a huge beach BBQ and party, to round the year off. All the locals would attend – it was a big highlight here, ending the summer off properly. Those parties were such fun, everyone together.’
April watched Martha’s face light up as she talked about the old days here, and she found herself even more determined to bring the place back to its former glory, to get those days back, to build a sense of community here, just like she felt in the rest of Cornwall. How she’d felt when she’d come here with her mother.
‘It ended not long after the last party I went to. The owners decided to take a step back. They got Tim in, and that was that. The next year, the party just didn’t happen. Of course, I was married by then.’ April saw her expression change, a flash of pain evident on her face. Maybe Martha needed this place to work just as much as she did.
‘Is that why you moved here?’ The words fell out of her mouth before she could stop them, but Martha didn’t flinch.
‘When my Charlie died, I was left in a big old house, full of memories and draughts, and cobwebs in corners I just couldn’t reach anymore. I was gathering dust myself I think. It just made sense.’ She tapped her hand on the wooden doorframe next to her affectionately, as you would a faithful hound. ‘I work better here, always have. I started renting the chalet as a workspace at first, but then gradually, there was so much of my stuff gravitating over here that it didn’t make sense to keep the other place. What did you run from?’ Her blue eyes focused on April like a hawk would on a field mouse.
‘Husband.’
‘Still?’
‘No. All finalised.’
Martha nodded. ‘Anyone else back home?’
April thought of her mother, who’d travelled with her in the boot with her worldly belongings. She had friends, sure, but even those had drifted of late. Without her job, her world had gotten a lot smaller back in Yorkshire in those last few weeks.
‘No, not now. My mum passed a few months ago.’
It felt as if Martha patted her hand, just once, the lightest touch. By the time she had looked to check, Martha was back scribbling in her sketchpad.
‘Do you have anyone?’ April asked, with a genuine longing to know the answer. Martha looked at her over the top of her glasses.
‘I have friends, but no, not really. Not since Charlie. It seems like we are on our own, eh?’
It was a throwaway comment from Martha, but it felt like a javelin to the heart to April. She felt as though it was embedded in her chest, leaving her wholly unable to speak, or to protest that she wasn’t alone. Not like Martha anyway. Martha was bitter, April wasn’t. Not yet. There was still time for her to change her life. Martha seemed perfectly happy living in her bubble.
‘For now perhaps, but I’ll be busy soon enough.’
Martha pursed her lips. ‘Well, that depends on what you turn this place into I suppose. I for one will be watching with interest.’
She was still scribbling away, her pencil making long sweeping lines. Other than the sound of the sea, it was all they could hear as they sat regarding each other.
‘I’d better get back to it I suppose,’ April said after a time, feeling more and more awkward
