One Summer in Cornwall

take a stroll to Medden Beach, hoping there would still be some surfers there so she could get some photos of them in action. She wanted to update her Facebook business page to attract more customers, and knew that photos of surfers, the beach and quaint seaside towns were very appealing. She was in luck, there were half a dozen surfers already riding the waves. One of them, a tall man, clad in a black wetsuit, caught her eye. He was standing, knees bent, poised to ride a huge wave that was crashing towards him. She watched as he expertly rode right over the wall of white foam, held her breath as his surfboard disappeared underneath him, then let it out again as somehow he landed right on top of it, steadied it and got ready for the next wave. He was good, she thought in admiration. She managed to get some brilliant action shots of him. Surfing looked exhilarating and she wondered whether to have a go herself. There was a notice on the nearby beach hut offering surfing lessons, as well as wetsuits and surfboards for hire. Not today, but maybe in a week or two, she decided. She was a good swimmer and loved doing physical activities.

She picked up the camera again as the surfer in the black suit came walking out of the sea, a white surfboard with a blue tip tucked under his arm. Something about him looked a bit familiar but it wasn’t until he turned and glared at her that she realised who it was. Marcus.

‘Did I give you permission to photograph me?’ he demanded.

Jeez, what is this guy’s problem? ‘I was just taking some shots of the beach and the surfers,’ she said. ‘It’s not a crime. This is a public place.’

‘And I am a private person. I don’t want photos of me surfing on your Facebook page.’

He really is an arse, isn’t he? ‘I’m a photographer, I’m always taking photos,’ she informed him. Well she was, even if it had only been a hobby up until now. ‘But don’t worry. I don’t want a photo of you anyway and certainly wouldn’t dream of putting it on my Facebook page.’ She selected the photos she had taken of him on her camera and deleted them all. ‘There, deleted. Want to check?’ She held out her camera.

‘I’ll take your word for it,’ he said stiffly.

‘Nice of you. And you can be sure I won’t be taking any more photos of you.’ She walked off, dangling her sandals from her fingers, inwardly seething. Why did she have to have this obnoxious man for her neighbour?

Putting on her sandals as soon she left the beach she set off back home. As she approached the row of three cottages, with Fisherman’s Rest in the middle and Mr Obnoxious on the left, she wondered who lived on the right of her. She hoped they weren’t as unpleasant as Mr Obnoxious; one shirty neighbour was enough to contend with. The small front gardens were all surrounded by a low wall with a gate, but that was where their similarity ended. The front garden at Fisherman’s Rest was paved and bare apart from a paint-chipped bench underneath the window and the name plaque of the cottage on the wall. Mr Obnoxious on the left had a lawn on one side of the path and a flower bed on the other, whereas the garden on the right – Primrose Cottage, the name plaque said – was paved, but there were lots of hanging baskets and colourful pots. It looked cared for, so someone must be living there.

When Hattie had taken her bike around the back before she went to the beach, she’d noticed that all the back yards had a high, shoulder-height wall and padlocked gate. The back yard of Fisherman’s Rest was completely paved, with a shed on the left, and a rusting small table and two chairs on the right. She could soon pretty it up with some colourful pots, she thought, and maybe she could sand the table and chairs down and give them a coat of paint.

She unlocked the front door and was greeted by a loud ‘Bloody Hell!’ from Buddy when she walked into the lounge.

‘Charming!’ she told him, smiling at the way he was glaring at her, as though he was annoyed that she’d disturbed his sleep. He doesn’t remember you, she reminded herself, wondering how often Marcus had come in to look after him. She guessed the poor parrot must have been on his own a lot since Uncle Albert died.

‘I bet you miss your owner, don’t you, boy?’ she said softly, going over to the cage.

The green parrot cocked his head to one side and stared banefully at her with his beady eyes: orange ringed by a circle of black then white. She glanced at his food dish; he had hardly touched the pellets. Maybe he liked to eat later in the day. There must be a supply of food somewhere – she’d top up his food this afternoon and give him some fresh water. She had to admit she was a bit nervous about opening the cage door to do it, in case the parrot either attacked her or escaped. I’ll just have to be careful and make sure all the windows and doors are closed, she thought.

She made herself another coffee, using one of the sachets she had brought with her, then decided to have a good look around the cottage. She had arrived too late last night to take anything in. She wanted to take some photos to send to her dad, too; he’d asked her to let him know if she thought the cottage could be sold as it was, once it had had a tidy up, or whether it needed some refurbishment. It seemed strange to have so much contact with her dad, when she had hardly seen or spoken to him since the divorce. Her teenage