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
