The Forgotten Beach

  Amanda James

  One More Chapter

  a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

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  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2022

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  Copyright © Amanda James 2022

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  Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2022

  Cover photographs: James Osmond/Getty Images (beach); Shutterstock.com (all other images)

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  Amanda James asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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  A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

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  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

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  Source ISBN: 9780008550615

  Ebook Edition © May 2022 ISBN: 9780008550608

  Version: 2022-05-04

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  Thank you for reading…

  A Secret Gift

  About the Author

  Also by Amanda James

  One More Chapter...

  About the Publisher

  To my wonderful grandson, Ronan, with all the love and hugs in the world. Thanks for your enthusiastic brainstorming session last summer which helped shape this story!

  On the forgotten beach at the edge of the land,

  lies a forgotten treasure beneath the sand.

  A cup of kindness for Auld Lang Syne,

  Sweeter than the finest wine.

  In a parting glass from years gone by,

  Dwells a magic strange to you and I.

  Sup it down before you part,

  to find the truth within your heart.

  Chapter One

  The September morning greets me with woodsmoke, birdsong and the gentle kiss of a salt breeze. I lock the door to my flat and take a moment to gaze down across the town of Polzeath. The Atlantic Ocean is sketching a hazy line across the horizon, dividing itself from the lighter blue of the sky, and a few gulls are having an argument as they turn lazy circles over the rooftops. Not to be outdone, nearby, a grumpy crow yells at me across a field. Work calls, but there’s a familiar yearning in my chest, because I want to be out by the sea. I give a little sigh and set off down the hill into town.

  It’s exactly the kind of day for a walk on the beach, and along the path to Port Isaac. But then walks along the beach don’t pay the bills, do they? The nip in the air is the perfect partner to the mellow sunshine drenching the Cornish coastline. It cools my face as I stride along, taking in the colours, smells and sounds of my beloved locality. It’s only a ten-minute walk between my flat and the shop, but the brisk walk is invigorating, allowing feel-good endorphins to flood my system and lighten my step. My heart lightens too as I think how lucky I am to live and work in this beautiful little village in north Cornwall. How many people can say they are their own boss and do a job they love too?

  Outside Sea Spray Gifts, I cast a critical eye over my display in the shop window. Maybe I should change the latest selection of plates and bowls I made in June. The bold blue and bright yellow designs are a bit too summery for September. A tickle of excitement replaces my beach yearnings as inspiration throws a tumble of ideas around my mind’s eye. Burnt umber, russet and mustard will be more in keeping with the season for the plates and bowls, and a moody ocean scene or two for the hanging plaques will be ideal. My reflection in the window gives me an encouraging smile and, ready to get started, I flick my long plait over my shoulder and unlock the door.

  At eleven-thirty, I flick the kettle on, to grab a quick coffee before the next customer. I’ve not even had time to do a sketch of my new ideas, as it’s been incredibly busy, which is unusual outside the main tourist weeks. I make a mental note to order in more scented candles and handmade soaps as stocks are low, and maybe some more lovely sea glass pendants. I set my favourite seascape mug on the counter and trace a finger across the lighthouse standing sentinel in a rough ocean. It’s one of the first I ever made, and I’m so proud of it. I pour a good slosh of the coffee I got from the deli the other day, and inhaling the smoky aroma, take a grateful sip. But as I do, the tinkle of the shop bell puts paid to another. Oh well. Mustn’t grumble. I’d be wishing for busy days like this when winter comes knocking. Painting on a polite smile, I step out of the little kitchen and back behind the counter. My smile stretches when I see who’s come in.

  ‘Hi, Mum!’ I say.

  ‘Hello, sweetheart. You look nice!’

  I glance down at my unremarkable denim dungarees over a white T-shirt. ‘I do?’

  Mum nods and waves a hand at my face. ‘Yes, you look all pink-cheeked and glowing. Sets off your seaside blues and lovely smile.’

  I chuckle. Mum has always called my grey-blue eyes ‘seaside blues’. Says they remind her of the sea on a misty day, or mizzly, as we say here in Cornwall. She describes my hair as the colour of wet sand too, which adds to the imagery. I prefer to call it honey-blonde.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I’m probably glowing because I’ve been running around like a mad fool all morning. It’s been so busy. Just let me grab my coffee while it’s quiet a minute.’

  I come back out with my mug and take a mouthful.

  Mum tilts her head to the side and narrows her green eyes, catlike. ‘Hmm. Glowing because she’s been busy, she says … not preggers, then?’

  I nearly spit out my coffee at this. ‘Pregnant! No. Thank goodness.’

  ‘Would it be so bad?’ Mum holds me in her steady gaze as she runs her hand through her short caramel curls and folds her arms. ‘I was only saying to your dad the other night that I reckon you’d be settling down soon with Josh. You’ve been with him two years now, haven’t you?’

  I dismiss this with a wave of a hand. ‘Yes, but there’s no rush. We’re only twenty-five.’ Well, he’s twenty-six next week, but that’s neither here nor there. I don’t like the look in her eye, or the topic of conversation. She’s hit a tender spot. More than once, I’ve raised this exact subject with him too. But Josh always answered me with what I’ve just said to Mum.

  She gives a smug smile. ‘Me and your dad were married at twenty-three and twenty-four. Had you the year after.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I’m just saying it would be nice for you to settle down soon.’ She fiddles with the zip of her lime-green waterproof. ‘That’s why I popped over on my way to my shift at the Post Office. How about coming over for Sunday lunch with Josh? We’ve only met him about four times, and it would be nice to get to know him better. Your dad’s got a day off from the restaurant, and he’ll cook us a nice salmon steak.’

  I picture Sunday lunch at my parents’ with poor Josh being grilled like the steak by Mum’s probing questions. He’d hate it. So would I. Josh’s a free spirit, hates been pinned down to times, places, people. That’s why he’s a surfing instructor, he’s much more at home in the waves than in an office. Social occasions for him normally involve having a barbeque on the beach with friends and a few beers. Formal Sunday lunches are a no-no. I remember he once told me that life’s too short to be doing things you don’t want to. That’s why he’s only seen my parents a few times. He doesn’t see his own much either.

  Mum wouldn’t get this. She’d see it as rudeness, so thinking quickly, I say, ‘He’s off for a surfing competition up the coast on Sunday, unfortunately. I’ll come over though. I haven’t seen you properly for a while.’ The lie warms my cheeks and I pretend my coffee has gone down the wrong way to distract her from my guilt.

  By the look of Mum’s crestfallen expression and hard stare, I think I failed. ‘Ri-ight. Funny that he always seems to have something on when we ask him over.’

  I avert my eyes and look for something under the counter. ‘Yeah, well, he’s busy.’ I pop back up with a roll of Sellotape and a gift box. The tender spot she’s hit i
s becoming an open wound. Only last night I was toying with the idea of broaching the subject of moving things on with Josh the next time he was in a good mood. Possibly on his birthday. Mum’s like a dog with a bone when she latches on to something, and I can’t deal with this right now. I give her a smile and say, ‘Anyway, I must get on and wrap these earrings before the next customer comes in.’

  Mum picks up her bag and sighs. ‘Okay, Sennen. See you on Sunday. About one?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. That will be lovely.’ I lean across and kiss her cheek.

  At the door, she turns round and says, ‘Oh, yeah. I almost forgot. When you come over for lunch, you might like to look at some old photos and bits and bobs in your grandma’s treasure box. I was clearing out your bedroom, as we’re going to decorate it, and found the box at the bottom of the wardrobe. I know you love all that old stuff.’

  Warm memories of my grandma swell my heart. She’s been gone three years and I really miss her. I give Mum a big smile. ‘That would be lovely.’

  There’s a mischievous twinkle in her eye as she adds, ‘I might even share a special secret of hers with you too … if you’re lucky.’

  ‘Ooh, that’s sounds intriguing…’ The rest of my sentence is left on my tongue, however, as I watch her step through the doorway and hurry away down the street.

  The house I called home for ten years stands at the end of a tiny bramble-lined lane, overlooking open countryside and the ocean beyond. As I drive towards it along the twisty little lane, I think about how it was left to them by my paternal grandparents when they passed away. Dad’s dad was a fisherman, and when he first bought the house and the bit of land surrounding it, the place was a little ramshackle, just an old fisherman’s cottage really. But over the years, he and Grandma saved up and extended it. Nowadays, because of its location and land, it is a very desirable property. I smile as I pull up outside. Lucky for my parents it was a gift. No way would they be able to afford it even with Dad’s head chef job.

  Outside the car, a grumpy offshore breeze smacks my plait across my face and I wonder whether it’s time to opt for a shorter style. I haven’t cut my hair for eight years – well, apart from a trim – and it can get on my nerves – like now, as the wind tries to use it as a blindfold. Josh loves it long, though, and I must admit it’s nice being able to style it in lots of different ways. I hook my bag over my shoulder, grab the bunch of roses and bottle of wine sitting on the passenger seat and slam the car door.

  Turning to face the front door, I find myself smiling again. The house feels like it’s offering a welcome because there’s a red curtain waving at me from a half-open upstairs window. I take a deep lungful or two of salt air and wonder if it’s missed me since I moved out. But how can it? It’s just a house. An inanimate object. Cornish grey stone, slate roof, big picture windows, like eyes in a glass conservatory looking out over the ocean, its foundations standing stout and solid in the ancient pastureland. But sometimes old buildings have a character, a personality, don’t they? A ‘feel’ about them. Perhaps the energy of past dwellers has seeped into their walls, formed a spiritual layer under the bricks. Whatever the truth, I reckon it does miss me a little. And if it doesn’t, never mind. I miss it, and tell it so as I walk up the path and open the door.

  ‘Hello! Mum, Dad, it’s me!’

  ‘Hello, sweetheart!’ Dad appears grinning in the hallway, rubbing his unruly salt and pepper hair with a towel. ‘Just got out the shower.’ He hoiks a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Your mum’s in the kitchen; come through. We’ll have a glass of wine.’

  I follow him through to the conservatory, the familiar view beyond lifting my soul. While Dad gets the wine, I step through the French doors out onto the lawn so I can get a sweeping view of the beach and Polzeath village to my right, while directly ahead, a cool azure ocean sends white horse waves galloping in to shore. A few nervous clouds breeze onto the stage, but only have a walk-on part, thanks to the strengthening September sunshine. God, it’s beautiful. I take a big breath of sea air and walk back to the conservatory, briefly allowing a snippet of an idea for the future to settle in my mind. A place with a view like this, me and Josh on the lawn playing with a couple of kids, happy, laughing … could it come true?

  Dad comes back in then, and the idea scarpers. He’s got two very full glasses in his hands and his black bushy brows are furrowed in concentration as he tries not to spill a drop. ‘I’ve poured a nice Merlot. I know you’re partial, and we’re having roast beef, so it will go nicely.’ He sets both glasses down on the glass table just inside the door.

  ‘Blimey, Dad! I’ll be comatose if I drink that before lunch. Besides I can’t, I’m driving.’

  ‘Your mum says she’ll pop you back and you can get the car tomorrow. She’s not a big afternoon drinker as you know.’

  ‘Neither am I, to be honest. And roast beef? Mum said you were cooking salmon?’

  He waves a hand and plops his big frame down on the plump red leather sofa we’ve had since forever. ‘We were. But I cook every day of my working life and get a bit sick of fish to be honest. Your mum decided to give me a break.’

  ‘Sick of fish. Granddad wouldn’t be happy to hear that,’ I say, pulling a mock-serious face and wagging a finger at him.

  ‘True.’ Dad laughs. ‘He taught me all I know about catching and cooking the damned things. But now and then it’s nice to eat something else.’ He takes a sip of wine, his eyes – the twins of mine – growing round in appreciation. ‘That’s a proper nice drop, Sennen. Get it down you, maid.’

  I follow his orders and discover he’s correct. But unless I have some nibbles with it, I’ll be asleep all afternoon. I put my glass down and go off to the kitchen to find Mum. She’s racing around like a dervish, stirring, prodding, checking the meat in the oven, her curls damp in the nape of her neck. I have a hunch she needs help.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’ I place my hands on her shoulders and kiss her hot cheek. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Hello, lovely. No need, thanks. It’s all coming together now,’ she says in her high-pitched ‘I’m not coping, but pretending everything’s fine’ voice.

  I peer through the glass door of the oven. ‘Well, I could at least turn the roasties, and maybe put the Yorkshire pud in?’

  She turns her pink, shiny face to me and puffs a curl out of her eye. ‘Oh, would you? That would be great. But don’t let your dad see you. I wanted to do this meal all by myself, but always get in a flap. He makes everything looks so easy when he’s cooking.’

  Incredulous, I say, ‘But that’s his job! I expect if he did a shift in the Post Office, he’d be in a flap too.’

  Mum smiles and pats my arm. ‘I expect he would. Thanks, Sennen.’

  I pour her a drop of Pinot Grigio and then tackle the potatoes and Yorkshire pud with the speed of a ninja before Dad comes noseying.

  We eat in the conservatory and talk about everything and nothing. And we laugh. A lot. Okay, the wine might be part of the reason, but I’m having a much better time than I imagined. Mum hasn’t given me the third degree about Josh – in fact she’s hardly mentioned him – and Dad’s been talking about doing a bit of travelling when he retires. He’s been to a few Spanish language evening classes at the library and loves them. I can’t see him retiring any time soon though. He’s only just fifty, and though he moans about cooking, he once told me he couldn’t wish for a better job.