One Summer in Cornwall

on the other side of her wasn’t so unpleasant.
Well done, Marcus, you not only walked in on the poor woman naked, but you also didn’t even stop to check that she knew how to look after Buddy properly. Parrots aren’t as easy to care for as most people think, and Buddy had been pining since poor old Albert died. It was only seeing Marcus’s familiar face first thing in the morning and last thing at night that seemed to cheer him up. He needed to be let out to exercise his wings, too . . . would – what was her name? – Hattie even think of that? And if she did, would she think to close the windows to make sure Buddy didn’t fly out? And would she be able to get the parrot back in the cage again? Buddy could be pretty stubborn. Like his owner.
It’s not my problem anymore.
He’d promised Albert when he was taken into hospital that he would look after Buddy, and he’d kept that promise even after Albert had died. At first, he’d taken Buddy back to Curlew Cottage with him, thinking it would be best not to leave him on his own, but Mr Tibbs, his tomcat, had taken an instant dislike to the parrot, spending his time either staring into the cage or climbing onto it, and poor Buddy had got really agitated and stressed so, after a couple of weeks, Marcus had taken Buddy back home again and since then had popped in to see him every morning and evening. Buddy was happier back in Fisherman’s Rest, but he missed Albert. Marcus did too. He’d befriended the old man when he’d moved next door, into Curlew Cottage, seven years ago, and although Albert had been independent right up until the day he’d caught the flu which had turned into the pneumonia that had killed him, he’d been happy to accept the meals that Marcus had brought around for him. Marcus had even bought Albert an electric kettle and microwave one Christmas a couple of years ago, so he could warm the meals up. He’d admired the old man very much and spent many an hour in the evening after work sharing a dram of whisky with him and listening to Albert’s seafaring tales.
You shouldn’t have been so rude to his niece, he told himself. Your cottage was inherited too, from your grandparents. Yes, but he’d loved and looked after his grandparents, and the cottage had been left to him, his mother and his sister. He had bought them both out – okay, at a discounted price, but even so it hadn’t been a complete gift. This Hattie hadn’t been down to see Albert once in all the time Marcus had lived next door. She was obviously a spoilt townie, eager to put the cottage on the market and get her share of cash so she could buy a bigger house, faster car, or whatever she wanted to spend the money on. As for her dad, don’t get me started on him. Owen Rowland had flown over for the funeral, spent a couple of hours in the cottage, and flown back the same day. Marcus had returned from work just as Owen had been leaving, so hadn’t even had time to tell him that he was looking after Albert’s parrot for him. Fat lot he seemed to care about his brother.
Albert, however, had been proud of his younger brother, often telling Marcus what a go-getter Owen was, how he had his own business over in France. A five-star B&B. There were twenty years between them so they weren’t close, Albert had said, but they kept in touch. Sometimes, when he and Albert were chatting over a whisky in the winter evenings after Marcus had finished his shift at work, the old man had talked about his niece Hattie, showed Marcus photos of her – a blonde, vivacious-looking child – related how she used to come down on holiday until her parents split up. Marcus could see that he missed them all and had tried to persuade him to get in touch with them, but all Albert said was that ‘folks have their lives to live’. And now he’d left them the cottage. There had been no one else to leave it to, of course, but Marcus resented – on Albert’s behalf – the fact that his family hadn’t eased the loneliness of his later years, but then couldn’t wait to come down and sell his home.
Even so, he had walked in on Hattie unannounced and . . . the image of her sensual naked body flashed across his mind: full breasts, tiny waist, a cute stars and crescent moon tattoo on the top of her right arm and looong legs. Tousled white-blond hair cut into a shaggy bob and those summer-blue eyes flashing with anger as she tore a strip off him, looking ridiculously cute wrapped in that red, checked, plastic tablecloth. Not to mention the enchanting slight lilt to her voice – he’d certainly noticed a lot in those couple of minutes that they had stared at each other! He was impressed that she hadn’t screamed or blushed but had held her ground. She seemed like a tough cookie. He should have apologised for walking in on her like that, and he would if he bumped into her again. Apart from that, he wasn’t wasting any more time thinking about a spoilt little townie, even if she was gorgeous. He was going surfing, as he did every morning, then he intended to do some painting – he had a commission to finish – and then he was working tonight. It suited him to be chef for the evening shift, it left him with the days free to surf and paint, whilst Shanise was happy to do the lunchtime meals as then she had the evenings free with her partner and children.
He changed into his wetsuit, leaving the top half to dangle