6. Unwelcome Residents

6

Unwelcome Residents

‘But there’s nothing there,’ Josie said, a glass of wine in one hand as she gestured to Hilda with the other. Through the pub window, a few lights shone from the fishing boats tied up in the small harbour. The last of the sun left an orange swathe across the eastern cliffside that gradually gave way to shadow. ‘It’s just a forest with a few abandoned cabins in it. How long did you say since it last opened?’

Hilda grinned. ‘It closed at the end of the summer of 1989. So that’s what, thirty-five years? Come on, Josie, it’ll be fun. You’ve got nothing to lose.’

‘Technically you’re right, but … I mean, I don’t know the first thing about running a campsite.’

‘You’ll figure it out. You have a month or so to get ready for the season. That should be plenty of time.’

‘To literally build a campsite from the ground up!’

‘You’re overreacting. It’s just camping. All you need to do is cut the grass and clear the spiders out of the toilet block. Nat’s had your cabin reconnected to gas and electric, and the park’s plumbing is good. And all the licences and regulations are up to date because he forgot to cancel everything after his father closed the campsite. So you’re not going to get inspectors or council types trying to shut you down.’

‘Cut the grass,’ Josie said, rubbing her eyes. ‘Just cut the grass.’

‘I’ve got a scythe you can use. Just in case things are bit thick for a petrol strimmer. Don’t you remember teaching Tiffany to walk?’

‘She bounced off everything in sight.’

‘And now’s she’s nearly qualified as a doctor. You must have done something right. If you can raise a child into a doctor, you can raise a campsite out of the forest.’

Josie gulped down the last of her wine, then covered her mouth with a hand as she started to cough. She wanted to tell Hilda about Tiffany, but it was one humiliation too great. She was yet to respond to her daughter’s message. She just didn’t know what to say to convey the witch’s cauldron of emotions the message had stirred up.

‘Baby steps,’ Hilda said. ‘Believe me, this will be good for you. I’m there to help, and Nat said he’s available if you have any questions. Look, if you get through this, just think how proud you’ll feel.’

The background music playing gently in the pub suddenly changed, and Josie lurched to her feet, grabbing the back of the chair for support as her spinning vision threatened to make her keel over.

‘Are you all right?’

‘I need some air. This song … I can’t listen to this song.’

‘ I tried my best because she took the rest; when I stood my ground, she burnt my house down— ’

Hilda had been swaying from side to side, tapping her hand on the table as she mouthed along to the lyrics. ‘Oh, my wonder, this isn’t it, is it? Reid’s song?’

Josie didn’t wait to reply. She ran out of the pub and across the street to the harbourside wall. Peering down at the black water gushing through the gloomy river channel, she resisted the urge to jump in. Instead, she kicked at a nearby bollard, serving only to hurt her foot.

She was still hopping up and down when Hilda, leaning on a stick, came outside and wandered over.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Absolutely not. My entire life is a total and utter shambles. You know, he wrote that song while we were married. He told me it was a “hypothetical situation”. Do you know how many people have asked if I really burnt down his house?’

‘Go on, enlighten me. How many?’

Josie tried to count. There had been the woman at the post office, but she’d been fluttering her eyelashes at Reid for years. Then there had been….

‘One,’ she said with a resigned sigh. ‘People don’t even know he was married.’

‘Perhaps that’s for the best?’ Hilda said, patting her on the back. ‘Now, are you going to be sick? For if not, it’s a little chilly, isn’t it? Perhaps we should go back inside and order something to warm us up.’

‘Brandy?’

‘I was thinking more of hot chocolate, but you do what you need to do.’

Josie woke on her first morning in Porth Melynos Caravan and Camping Park with a mild hangover. As she rolled over on the hard wooden pallet that served as her bed, peering up at the cabin’s slat roof, through a narrow gap between two of which the sunlight glittered through the trees, she thought that at least she wasn’t in hell, otherwise she might be a bit warmer.

She pulled back the blankets Hilda had lent her and sat up. The room swayed, although mostly with her lack of confidence and self-belief. She was a failure. Her life was a failure. Everything was a total disaster.

Baby steps, Hilda had said. What was step number one?

Josie forced a smile.

Of course.

Coffee.

The cabin, three connecting rooms made entirely of pieces of varnished pine nailed together, at least had a semblance of a kitchen, a small worktop, a gas hob and a microwave. While the electric and gas worked as Hilda had promised, the sink was filled with dead flies floating in a gunky green residue, reminding Josie that she had tried the long-unused taps last night. Now, much to her relief, the water ran clean, even if it did have a slightly grainy taste.

She drank two large glasses of water, then found some coffee—another donation from Hilda—and heated some water over the hob. Some powdered milk took away a little of the bitterness, but she would need a fridge for some real milk if she was somehow going to make this work.

Carrying her coffee, she slipped on a pair of sandals and went outside. Stacked concrete blocks lifted the cabin off the ground, and a pile of stones and earth that had settled over the years into a solid pile made for an awkward set of steps. At the bottom, an overgrown path led down through the trees into the main camping area.

Outside, surrounded by trees, a sense of peace fell over Josie. For the first time in a while she felt disconnected from all her troubles. As long as she stayed here in this valley, she was safe. Down here no one could get to her, take away her dignity, humiliate her … nor contact her by phone, as there was zero reception unless you walked up the lane to the gate on the coastal road. Here, she was cut off from the world.

How difficult could it possibly be to open and run a campsite? Even if the caravans were beyond use, all she needed to provide for campers was a bit of open space to put up their tents. There was a toilet block, of course, which Nathaniel claimed still had running water and just needed a decent clean, ‘Plus a few saplings grown up through the tiles need hacking down,’ so all she really needed was to cut a path down to the beach supposedly at the bottom of the valley, then perhaps clear the weeds off the sign up on the road, so campers would know where to come.

Easy.

Was it?

She walked a little way down the path to what had once been the campsite’s parking area. Weeds came up to her knees, and a tree had fallen across the road on the way in, so long ago that saplings had been to grow up around it, creating a natural screen of vegetation.

She walked a little further. The trees opened out a little and she found herself facing a padlocked barn, partly reclaimed by the forest, with one tree growing in through a side window and out through a hole in the roof. She had no key for the padlock, but as she peered through a gap in the boards of the door, she saw the outline of what looked like ping pong and pool tables, plus an indoor children’s play area.

There was more here than she had thought, it seemed. Walking a little further, she came across a couple of overgrown buildings, one which might have been a shop, another that looked like a camping rental place. And then a little further on, she found some kind of tower, a tall cone so choked in weeds and vines that the only indication it was man-made came from a few silver glints through the upper vine leaves. Taller than a two-storey house, she wondered if it was some kind of lookout tower.

Thinking about cutting her way in later, she headed on. The trees began to thin out, and she caught glimpses of a grassy clearing up ahead. Here, the sea sounded close. She pushed her way through, thinking she was close to the beach.

Voices drifted through the trees, making Josie halt in her tracks. No, not voices, chanting. Voices rose and fell, feeding off each other, some baritone, others falsetto, creating an awkward discordance that made Josie wince.

Only a couple of trees separated her from the clearing. She looked down at her feet and realised she was walking on a well-trodden path. One more step and she broke through the tree line just as the grass in front of her seemed to move.

Josie let out a gasp of fright as the vegetation lifted up and turned, revealing the faces of four people wearing bizarre costumes made out of woven grass, leaves and tree branches. She started to back away but found a tree at her back.

‘Don’t hurt me!’ she cried, even as the group let out a howl that lay somewhere between fear and threat, as though it had been years since they had been faced with such a situation and were unsure how to react. Then, backed up against the cliff edge, they looked around at each other. Beards waved, long, unkempt hair swayed in the wind, and clothing Josie now realised was comprised of ancient rags repaired by whatever they could find in the forest, rustled. Then, with a low ‘coo’ that indicated a decision, they turned and rushed at Josie as one.

She stumbled backwards, trying to get away, but as she twisted, she caught her foot on a rock protruding out of the soil and fell flat on her face, scratching her cheek on a thorny bush and catching her forehead with a glancing blow against a sapling’s trunk that had just enough flexibility not to knock her out.

By the time she had recovered herself, the group had vanished. As she sat up, leaning back against the base of the tree, she looked around, wondering what was going on. Perhaps she had been knocked out, as the ground had disappeared, and as she peered back into the gloom below the trees, she couldn’t catch any sight of them. Rubbing her head as she looked across the clearing, she recognised the rotted remains of a picnic bench standing close to the cliff edge, so she climbed stiffly to her feet, brushed herself down, and went to take a look.

The bench was still intact, but the seats had rotted away. In their place, four metal-framed deckchairs had been arranged in a semi-circle, frames rusty, canvas seats sun-faded and frayed, repaired with twigs and baler twine. Beyond the bench, the ground dropped away, a steep grassy slope with a well-trodden path meandering back and forth. Halfway down to a crescent-shaped beach it intersected with another path following the line of the cliff. This had to be the southwest coast path, for it looked well-used. Where the path down from the clearing intersected it, there was a barbed wire fence and a wooden sign she couldn’t read from this distance. Beyond it, the downward path continued, meandering down to the shore.

She had never been much of a beach person, not liking the feel of sand on her toes or the saltiness of seawater in her hair. As she stared at the little beach, however, she felt a sudden sense of longing. On the right, a steep, curving jut of rock wrapped around it like a protective arm. Cragged and treacherous, the coast path rose up out of the valley then dropped over the headland’s shoulder, not attempting to make it out to the narrow end. Another clearing stood there, distant benches the size of doll’s house toys facing out to the sea. To her left, the cove was a little more open, the cliff a fat lump of shale rock with a stand of gnarled, misshapen trees on top. Together, the two cliffs held the tiny cove like a child in its parents’ arms, safe and protected. Small breakers lapped at a semi-circle of grey sand backed by a foreshore of lumpy slate rocks. In the water, three small rock stacks jutted out, one just offshore, two others at diagonals to the right and left, a little larger, a little further out.

As Josie stared, letting her eyes relax and her vision blur, she couldn’t help but think it looked like the smiling face of a man, the rocks the eyes and nose, the headlands large ears or even sideburns, the grey beach a smile. As a small wave broke over the shore, the whitewater resembled a bushy moustache.

Josie leant back against the bench, smiling to herself, the sun high overhead warming her skin. While it would never stand up against some paradisical tropical island, it was a rugged little gem of a place, and while she still didn’t have any confidence in herself, the view at least was enough to draw her out of her problems for a few moments.

Something rustled against her ankle, tickling the strip of skin above her shoes. She reached down and picked it up.

An empty wrapper, the design on the side reading Suncrust Pasties.

Josie frowned. She turned back to the trees, wondering where the strange people had gone, then to her horror realised they were still there, watching her.

Not on the ground, however, but high up in the branches of the trees, peering out from among the leaves, like a group of squirrels waiting for the fox to leave so that their foraging could resume.

As she stared at them, her neck prickling at the thought that they had been watching her during a moment she had thought she was alone, a sudden sound rose out of the trees, something that at first sounded like a strange animal cry, before Josie realised was the name of a man chanted over and over again:

‘Mike! Mike, Mike! Mike, Mike, Mike! ’