Smugglers' Secret E-Book

Alyson Hilbourne

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 179

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

In Alyson Hilbourne's "Smugglers' Secret", Daisy, a passionate gardener, visits her brother Tristan in the picturesque village of Porthkerrit to help him restore the Smugglers’ Inn. While exploring the overgrown terraces, she discovers a hidden stone shed and a mysterious key. As Daisy and Tristan work on the inn, they face local opposition, especially from George Overshaw, the rival pub owner. Alongside handyman Sam, Daisy navigates village politics, and she uncovers secrets of a smuggling past. If successful, the restoration project will rejuvenate the inn, bringing new love and purpose to Daisy's life amidst the scenic coastal backdrop.

Leseprobe

Smugglers’ Secret

By Alyson Hilbourne

Pretty Porthkerrit

Daisy stopped her elderly van at the top of the hill and looked down to the bay below. It was a beautiful day in early June and sunlight sparkled on the water like twinkling fairy lights.

Yachts bobbed in the shelter of the bay. On the horizon a container ship made its way to some larger port.

A wall provided a small harbour. Close by was a large stone building, more solid than the rows of cottages nearby.

“Porthkerrit was an important fishing village,” Tristan, her brother, had told her. “Pilchards were plentiful. Then stocks declined, the fleet disappeared and now the fishermen’s cottages are holiday lets.”

Terraces of small cottages clung to the hillside, painted in ice-cream colours. On either side of the harbour were stretches of shingly beach.

Daisy saw children paddling in the water, supervised by parents. Another family group built a sandcastle. The rest of the world seemed miles away. Tristan was lucky to have found it . . .

Daisy jerked back from that thought. Tristan wasn’t lucky. Her brother had experienced tragedy.

Two years ago a drunk driver had ploughed into his wife’s car, killing both her and their baby daughter in the crash.

Tristan had been trying to piece his life back together ever since.

With the compensation money, he’d bought the semi-derelict Smugglers’ Inn just up the hill from Porthkerrit harbour. His plan was to make it a profitable business.

“I need hard work to stop me thinking,” Tristan had explained. “I can’t stay in this house full of memories and ghosts.

“At least, with a pub to run, I’ll fall into bed tired. I might even sleep.”

Daisy thought she could see the Smugglers’ Inn, on the hill on the road leading west. It was a dingy white building but must have great views over the water.

Before the pub could open, there was a considerable amount of work to be done.

“I have a schedule. We’ll do most of the renovations ourselves, calling in plumbers and electricians as needed,” Tristan had said. “If I decide to do anything about the outhouses I’ll have to get a proper builder.

“Darren and Jake are here and I’m using a guy from the village, Sam. He does carpentry and knows people to call on.”

Daisy, having finished her Level Two Horticultural RHS qualifications, had volunteered to sort out the garden.

“We won’t be able to help you,” Tristan had warned. “The building is our priority.”

“I’ll do what I can and design the rest. You can finish it when you want.”

“That wouldn’t have anything to do with needing to create a garden as part of your course?” Tristan asked, grinning.

“Of course not!” she’d blustered.

She did need a project for her course but that wasn’t the only reason she wanted to be here. She had to watch Tristan and see he didn’t drive himself into the ground.

Friendship

Looking down into the village now, Daisy was glad she had come. What better place to be in summer than a remote village, far away from studying?

She had always been a bit of a wild child, refusing to go to university despite her good A-level results and spending several years travelling round Europe and Asia doing odd jobs and bar work.

Her parents had worried about her but her itinerant lifestyle had amused Tristan.

When she’d come back after five years abroad, she’d got a job with the National Trust and had learned about managing their estates.

She found hedging and tree coppicing fascinating, and enjoyed being outdoors all the time. A job behind a desk would never suit her so she enrolled on a part-time horticultural course and now was well on the way to getting fully qualified.

Daisy hoped she was up to the challenge of sorting out Tristan’s garden. She wanted to prove to him and, ultimately, their parents that she’d grown up and had found a job at which she could settle.

If this pub helped Tristan get over his loss then, of course, she would help him.

As she thought about Zara and baby Isabelle, Daisy’s eyes filled with tears. She’d only met her niece a handful of times but her intense blue eyes, tiny hands and delicate features were burned into her memory.

Zara and Tristan had been besotted with their daughter. After the accident Tristan had been bereft, barely functioning and without the will to live.

It was the close friendship of Jake and Darren that had kept him going. They called round, keeping him company and making sure he ate at least once a day.

They helped with the paperwork that needed doing and took it in turns to sit with him at night as he stared out at some spot in the garden, unseeing, unhearing and locked in a world of his own.

Darren had been good at ringing Daisy and her parents, telling them how Tristan was. Jake had persuaded him to take some time out and go on a road trip.

That had led them to Porthkerrit and finding the pub.

Now, both friends had taken leave from their jobs for the summer and had come to help Tristan get the pub up and running, ready for customers.

“Right,” Daisy said to herself. “Let’s see what this place has to offer.”

She got back in her van that was full of gardening equipment and her camping gear. She released the handbrake and coasted downhill into the village.

The van bumped over the cobbled surface and into the centre. As she got closer to the harbour Daisy saw that the detached, three-storey stone building had picnic tables outside it.

A sign over the doorway read “The Crown”. There were sandwich boards, too.

Hot meals served all day; Local Ales.

A faint smell of oil and vinegar lingered in the air, making Daisy’s stomach rumble as she turned the van towards the west.

She passed a colourful row of cottages, a small shop and a fish-and-chip establishment before climbing uphill to the Smugglers’ Inn.

She pulled into the car park next to Tristan’s battered Fiat and what she recognised as Jake’s BMW. She got out of the car.

At least half the space was occupied by a couple of skips and a huge pile of materials covered with a tarpaulin. There were also bags of cement and a pile of sand.

On the side nearest to the village, a row of outhouses built from stone had half-collapsed on themselves. Plants grew out of the windows and up through the roof.

“Daisy!” Tristan emerged from a rear door and bounded across to her.

He enveloped her in a hug.

“Lovely to see you!”

She inhaled brick dust and fresh-cut wood from her brother and when she let him go, her hands came away dusty.

Over his shoulder she could see Darren and Jake coming out of the inn. She smiled at them and waved just as another man emerged from the doorway.

He was tall and tanned with dark, curly hair that fell over his forehead. He wore cut-off denims and a tight T-shirt.

Daisy swallowed as her heart skipped and her skin tingled.

No, she told herself firmly. You’re not here to get involved with anyone!

You have come here to help Tristan get back on his feet. There’s no time for anything else.

She had been anticipating a summer of sun, sea, good friends and hard work.

Nevertheless, as she drew back from Tristan and looked around, she was very aware it wasn’t only the sunny June day that had warmed her cheeks.

Smugglers’ Inn

Tristan stood back as Daisy gave Jake, then Darren, a hug. She’d known them both since she was small and they’d come round to play with her brother.

Sometimes Tristan had tried to exclude her from their games but Darren, the peacemaker, usually wangled her a role in whatever they were doing.

“This is Sam, carpenter and local knowledge extraordinaire,” Tristan told her, giving the stranger a clap on the back.

Daisy turned to find Sam grinning at her, his green eyes dancing and twinkling and a dimple denting his chin.

She felt sure he was aware of the effect he’d had on her.

“Hi,” she said, rearranging her features into a neutral expression.

She linked her arm with Tristan’s.

“OK, show me around.”

He led the way to the road at the front of the pub. A weathered, faded sign was mounted above the porch.

Smugglers’ Inn.

“Obviously we’ll have new signage,” he said. “I’ve got someone on it already.”

Daisy shaded her eyes from the sun and looked up at the building. The white paint had peeled, exposing the stonework.

The sash windows showed cracked panes and almost bare wood. The brick porch, built at a later date, looked incongruous.

“We have to take the paint off, check the mortar and maybe replace it, then repaint,” Tristan told her. “I want to put some stone cladding on the porch so it’s more in keeping with the rest of the inn.

“We need to keep it, though. The double doorway keeps the warmth in, especially in winter when the wind comes off the sea.”

It was hard to imagine winter on this fine day, Daisy thought.

“We’re waiting for the scaffolding to arrive. Let’s head inside,” Tristan said.

“I’ll just take a photo.” She pulled out her phone. “For before-and-after shots!”

Tristan nodded and posed for her in front of the inn. Then he led the way through the porch and into the main bar.

The room ran three-quarters of the way across the building. It had an enormous fireplace on one side. Tristan pointed to a doorway in the far wall.

“Through there is another room that I want to use for dining, although I expect many people will eat either outside or in the main bar.”

The bar was quite dingy with a low ceiling and inadequate light coming in through the grubby windows. Dark wooden beams ran across the ceiling and the flagstone floor had a threadbare carpet stretched across the middle.

“It will look better when it’s painted and clean and with new lighting,” Tristan said, perhaps noting her frown.

“Of course,” Daisy said, trying to be upbeat.

It looked to be a huge amount of work to her, and she had difficulty imagining the room any other way.

Beyond the main bar was a corridor. Tristan led the way down it and into what had been the kitchen. The walls were partly tiled. It was clear where cupboards had been from the batons that were still attached to the walls.

“Work in progress.” Tristan led her the other way along the corridor. “Through there are customer toilets. They are functional, but we’re doing them all up.

“This leads up to what will be my flat.”

He led the way up the stairs that opened out into two good-sized rooms. Airbeds and sleeping-bags, along with open rucksacks, a mess of spilled clothing and various mugs were strewn across the floors.

The rooms were stuffy. Daisy longed to open the windows and let the air in.

“This one will be my bedroom and I’ll use next door as a sitting-room with a sofa bed for guests. The bathroom is through there.

“It’s basic, but there is a shower over the bath. The plumber will do that up when he’s finished downstairs.

“I’ll have a fridge and microwave up here but any cooking will be done downstairs.”

Daisy stared around her. It was amazing to think that Tristan was prepared to condense his whole life into two rooms. He and Zara had owned a house.

“What will you do with all your stuff?”

Tristan shrugged.

“I’ll just bring what I’m going to need. The rest can go to friends, auction, charity, whatever.”

Daisy was about to protest before remembering she’d survived with just a rucksack for five years. Even now, she hardly had anything in her flat beyond what her landlord had provided.

Her main possessions were her gardening tools – and these were in the van with her right now!

It was cathartic to clear out, she knew. Very likely it would do Tristan good.

Wilderness

They went back down the stairs. Tristan gave his sister a wry smile.

“It’s shabby, run down, dirty and dusty but the structural engineer says the building is sound and most of the work is cosmetic.”

“Depends on your definition of cosmetic!” Darren said, appearing from the kitchen and handing Daisy and Tristan mugs of tea.

“We’ll get it sorted,” Tristan said. “A few weeks’ work if we all pull together.”

“What are you working on first?” Daisy asked.

“We’re waiting for the scaffolding so we can do the outside walls, then replace the glass in the windows and repaint the frames. Jake and Darren have been insulating the attic while Sam and I have stripped out the kitchen.

“We’re going to decorate ready for new equipment, most of which is sitting in the car park under the tarpaulins. I got it all at an auction.”

Daisy nodded and took a sip of the tea.

“What about the garden?”

“Garden?” Darren rolled his eyes.

Daisy grinned at him and he pushed his tortoiseshell-framed glasses back into position and ran a hand through his hair.

She remembered when he’d first got glasses in school and how self-conscious he’d been.

He still didn’t seem entirely comfortable with the way he looked, unlike Jake. Sam, too, seemed confident in his appearance.

Jake was married now but Darren was still single. Daisy had tried once or twice to fix him up with friends of hers. They told her afterwards that he’d been polite and charming but distant.

She’d always thought of Jake and Darren as additional brothers and was so grateful to them for their friendship with Tristan.

Darren led the way out of the rear door of the bar, through the car park and up a short flight of steps. The garden was terraced up the hill behind the pub, the first terrace being the biggest.

Daisy looked around. The area was almost waist-high in rough grass, full of thistles, with ragwort and meadowsweet thrown in. The hedge was wildly out of control.

As they pushed into the middle of the grass, Jake and Sam sat down and slurped at their tea.

“Oi!” Tristan said. “Who said you could have a tea break?”

“While the cat’s showing his sister around the mice will play,” Jake replied, raising his mug.

Tristan threw himself down in the long grass beside them and Daisy sat down beside him more carefully.

They all faced the sea. Daisy noticed the yachts had changed positions. A slight breeze came from the water, keeping the temperature down and bringing a salty tang to the air.

“What do you think?” Tristan asked.

She looked around.

“Let me get an idea of the place first. I’m guessing this terrace was the beer garden. You want to keep as much lawn as possible to use for people sitting outside?”

Tristan nodded.

“Yep. It’s got a great view – well, it will have when the hedge is cut. Hopefully we’ll be packed with visitors on sunny days!”

Daisy plucked a piece of grass from the hay meadow that the garden had become.

“You’ll need plants that will survive the onslaught of the wind if it’s as bad as you suggest. The salty air will be a challenge, too.

“There was obviously a garden here at one time, though, so I’ll see what I can uncover and if there is anything left of it.”

Her eyes shone at the thought of working on the place. Finding plants that would survive in the tricky conditions yet give colour and interest all year, while making sure there was plenty of room for garden furniture, was the sort of challenge in which she could revel.

She was excited, too, at the thought of working with Tristan and his friends.

“OK, we’ll leave you to it,” Tristan said. “Sure you’ll be happy sleeping outside?”

“Very sure,” she replied. “I’ve got my tent in the van. I’ll clear a patch of grass and get set up. The real work will start tomorrow.”

“We’ll do another couple of hours,” Tristan decided. “Then we’ll have a barbecue. Nothing elaborate.”

“Sounds great.” Daisy stood up. “I’ve got coffee, fruit and biscuits in the van, too. Where should I put them?”

“I’ll show you,” Sam offered. “We’ve put everything in big plastic boxes to keep the dust off them while we’re working.”

Daisy glanced at Tristan who nodded so she turned to follow Sam down the garden step.

As she did so, however, she could have sworn she saw a scowl flicker across Darren’s face.

Local Knowledge

Daisy gripped the scythe again and swung it at the next wave of grass. She had thought she was fit, but this jungle was proving a match for her.

She had risen early as sunlight poured into her tent and had begun working well before the boys were up. She had stopped for breakfast at Tristan’s insistence.

Afterwards he and Sam headed to the kitchen to finish clearing it ready for retiling and Darren and Jake went to the attic.

“Hello! That’s a fine job you’re doing.”

The voice came from the other side of the straggly hedge that separated the garden from the car park and the road.

Daisy straightened up and smiled. An elderly man was watching her. A straw hat shaded his face and he leaned with both hands on a walking-stick.

“It’s going to take me a while,” she admitted.

“I’d say you’re getting it sorted.”

Daisy looked at the small clearing she’d made and shook her head.

“It used to look wonderful,” the man continued. “The last people who had the place put a lot of effort into the garden. More than they did for the inn.”

“I can see that,” she replied. “There are still plants left under all the weeds and the overgrowth. I have to clear it all back and see what’s here.”

“It will be good to see the inn operating again,” the man said.

“You remember it?” Daisy asked.

“Oh, yes. It wasn’t that long ago that it closed – ten years, maybe. Sad, really. It never should have been left.

“Should have been sold so that a new landlord could take over immediately.”

“Why wasn’t it?”

The man shrugged.

“I’m not sure. Some dispute over probate, I was told. It’s meant that the Crown has been the only game in town for too long.

“George Overshaw has had everything his own way. A bit of competition will liven things up.”

“I’m not sure my brother is looking for lively,” Daisy protested.

“The Smugglers’ has always been lively,” the man said firmly.

“Were there really smugglers here?”

“Well, not that I remember, but I’m not that old!” He chuckled. “I believe the building dates from around 1700 so it’s quite possible it was used for nefarious activities.

“It’s right on the front so it would be easy to receive goods straight from the boats, although rather obvious for the excisemen.”

“I suppose so.”

“A lot of the bays along the coast here were used to unload smuggled goods,” the man continued. “Spirits, tea, silks and tobacco. Even ordinary items like soap, candles, calico and salt were brought in from abroad as the tax on them increased.

“During the Napoleonic Wars the demand was for soldiers to fight. There was a shortage of able-bodied men for other services like the excise departments.”

“It was easy to be a smuggler, then?”

“Not easy, but government resources were stretched thin and certain excisemen were corrupt.

“There was the threat of being hanged if you were caught but the lure of something for nothing was hard to resist for many from poor rural or fishing communities.”

Daisy was fascinated.

He laughed at her dreamy expression.

“Don’t think of them as romantic! Most weren’t the handsome swarthy types portrayed in films. They were cut-throat gangs of grubby villagers trying to survive.

“They were ruthless with rivals – fights were more often with other gangs than excisemen. Trade could be lucrative and they guarded it tightly. The goods were unloaded at the beach and disseminated inland swiftly and quietly.”

“You know a lot about it,” she remarked.

“I have a book about it that I bought when I first moved here twenty years ago. I’ll find it for you if you are interested.”

“I am. I don’t think my brother is interested in smuggling, but knowing the inn’s history and why it was lively . . .”

“Actually, by lively I meant the Smugglers’ had its own band of sea-shanty singers. It could get pretty wild in here on a Saturday night! People came from all over to join in.”

Daisy tried to hide her smile. She couldn’t imagine a band of sea-shanty singers, dressed in fishermen’s sweaters, being described as wild.

“Well,” she told him, “we hope the Smugglers’ Inn will come alive again soon.”

“I’ll be in as soon as you open, you can count on it.”

The man raised his walking-stick in salute.

“John Elliott’s the name. Keep me posted and good luck with that garden.”

“Thank you, Mr Elliott,” she said and lifted her hand in a wave.

George Overshaw