Secrets and Seashells at Rainbow Bay Read online

  Ali McNamara attributes her overactive imagination to one thing – being an only child. Time spent dreaming up adventures when she was young has left her with a head bursting with stories waiting to be told. When stories she wrote for fun on Ronan Keating’s website became so popular they were sold as a fundraising project for his cancer awareness charity, Ali realised that writing was not only something she enjoyed doing, but something others enjoyed reading too. Ali lives in Cambridgeshire with her family and beloved Labrador dogs.

  To find out more about Ali visit her website at:

  www.alimcnamara.co.uk

  Follow her on Twitter and Instagram: @AliMcNamara

  Or like her Facebook page: Ali McNamara

  Also by this author

  From Notting Hill with Love . . . Actually

  Breakfast at Darcy’s

  From Notting Hill to New York . . . Actually

  Step Back in Time

  From Notting Hill with Four Weddings . . . Actually

  The Little Flower Shop by the Sea

  Letters from Lighthouse Cottage

  The Summer of Serendipity

  Daisy’s Vintage Cornish Camper Van

  Secrets and Seashells at Rainbow Bay

  Ali McNamara

  SPHERE

  First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Sphere

  Copyright © Ali McNamara 2019

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-0-7515-7431-9

  Sphere

  An imprint of

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  An Hachette UK Company

  www.hachette.co.uk

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  ‘When it rains look for rainbows,

  when it’s dark look for stars’

  Oscar Wilde

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  Forty-eight

  Forty-nine

  Acknowledgements

  One

  ‘Yes, Mrs Greening, I quite understand; really I do. I’ll certainly speak to Charlie about this. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.’

  I stand up and excuse myself from the room, feeling as though I’ve gone back in time twenty years, and I’m once more the pupil, summoned to the headmistress’s office for misbehaviour that was not always my fault.

  ‘Come on, you,’ I say to my nervous-looking son as he waits outside the office on a long wooden bench. ‘Let’s go home.’

  ‘Exactly how much trouble am I in, Mum?’ Charlie asks as we walk through the school gates and out on to the street.

  ‘At the moment, not too much.’ I see him grin with relief, so I hurriedly continue, ‘But, if you hang around with the sort of boys you are at the moment, then I’ve a feeling it could get much more serious in the future.’

  Charlie looks down at his scuffed trainers.

  ‘You’re ten years old; you’re too young for me to be worrying about this sort of thing. I’d have expected you to at least be at secondary school before I got called to the headmistress’s office because she’s concerned that the sort of people you’re making friends with could be affecting your behaviour and your schoolwork.’

  Charlie pauses by the bus stop and looks up at me hopefully.

  ‘Sorry,’ I apologise, ‘no money for the bus today. We’ll have to walk. Anyway,’ I carry on as he sighs, ‘it’s a lovely afternoon; it will do us good and we can have a nice chat on the way home.’

  Charlie rolls his eyes, but I pretend not to notice.

  ‘So, what’s going on?’ I ask as we set off along the road together. ‘Who are these boys that Mrs Greening is so worried about you being friends with at school?’

  Charlie shrugs.

  ‘Charlie?’ I prompt.

  ‘They’re not at my school,’ Charlie says eventually in a low voice.

  ‘So who are they, then?’ I ask, starting to worry even more. You hear such horrific things these days about gangs and . . . I shake my head; I don’t even want to think about my little boy involved in anything worse. ‘Why aren’t you spending time with your friends from school?’

  Charlie shrugs, and kicks at a tin can rolling along the pavement.

  ‘Come on, love, you can talk to me, you know you can; we’ve always been a team, haven’t we, you and me?’ I nudge him playfully, trying to lighten the mood, and he smiles ruefully up at me. ‘That’s better. Now pop that can in the bin instead of kicking it around. There’s one just over there.’

  Begrudgingly Charlie picks up the tin and tosses it into the bin. ‘The reason I hang around with those boys is because they live on our estate,’ he says quietly as he returns to my side.

  I desperately want to take hold of his hand like I used to when he was little, to protect him and cosset him away from any trouble he might be in. But I know those days are sadly now long gone, and I have to deal with this in a mature way. Charlie is growing up – faster than I’d like, and I just have to get used to that.

  I put my hand firmly in my pocket.

  ‘Go on,’ I encourage him.

  ‘All my old school friends live in the posh area of Hamilton, don’t they?’ Charlie continues. ‘Where we used to live. And you won’t let me go all the way back there on my own after school, will you?’ He looks at me accusingly.

  So that’s it. I breathe a huge sigh of relief. No drugs or gangs – for the moment, anyway. Just the simple case of a ten-year-old boy whose mother won’t let him travel back to the place they used to live.

  ‘You could always ask some of your friends to come to ours after school?’ I suggest helpfully. ‘Maybe their parents could drop them off in one of their many cars.’

  ‘Tried that. Their mums won’t let them come. They say where we live now is dangerous.
’

  We turn a corner and walk past the row of shops that we often pass on our way home, and I’m saddened to see yet another has closed its doors and boarded up its windows. Already some colourful graffiti has appeared to decorate the newly erected boards.

  ‘That’s ridiculous. The Spencer estate isn’t dangerous – it’s just not a cosy little close or an exclusive avenue, that’s all.’ My mood is swiftly changing from anxious to irritated. Bloody stuck-up parents with their four-by-four cars and their triple-glazed five-bedroom houses. There’s nothing wrong with where we live. Fair enough, it might not be the prettiest area, or the most sought-after, but the community spirit is high, especially in the block of flats we live in.

  Charlie shrugs. ‘That’s what they said. Maybe I should have changed schools when we moved instead of staying at my old one. That way the kids I went to school with would be the same ones I saw after it.’

  I’d wondered whether keeping Charlie at his old school was going to work when we’d had to move to our new home, but I’d wanted to keep the upheaval in his life to a minimum.

  ‘Perhaps,’ I say diplomatically. Or perhaps we shouldn’t have had to move here in the first place. ‘Anyway, this is the situation we find ourselves in now your dad’s gone, so we have to make the best of what we’ve got. And,’ I remind him, ‘we must remember that just because other people think and do things differently to us, it doesn’t mean we have to, does it? Does it?’ I ask again, ruffling Charlie’s sandy hair. ‘You’re your own person, Charlie, with your own thoughts and opinions; don’t let anyone tell you differently.’

  Charlie nods.

  ‘And remember, everyone is equal in this world. Just because some people are lucky enough to have comfortable lives and plenty of money, doesn’t make them any better than those that don’t.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘Good boy. Now, as long as these new friends don’t get you into any trouble,’ I warn him, ‘or affect your school work, then I’m happy for you to continue hanging out with them – okay?’

  Charlie smiles.

  ‘Just don’t tell Mrs Greening, all right?’ I wink at him.

  He winks back. ‘You’re the best, Mum!’

  ‘I know.’ I grin. ‘Now, what would you like for tea? I got some pizza in earlier, how about that?’

  Charlie’s smile broadens. Pizza is his favourite.

  We walk the rest of the way back to the Spencer estate, the place we’ve called home for the last six months. It’s not ideal, and probably not where I’d have chosen to bring up my son, but currently it is all we can afford.

  We both look hopefully at the lift as we enter the building where our fourth-floor flat is, but it still has an out-of-order sign hanging from its doors.

  ‘Looks like it’s the stairs again,’ I say brightly. ‘At least it keeps us fit!’

  We race each other up the staircase – a game we’ve played far too often since we moved in here, with Charlie as always getting there first. Then I unlock our door, and let us into our flat. While I carefully lock and bolt the three locks on the back of the door behind us, Charlie heads off to wash his hands, knowing he won’t be allowed any snacks until he’s done just that.

  There’s a pile of letters on the floor by the door. Bills, no doubt, I think, barely glancing at them. Instead, I toss them on the little wooden table by the door, planning to look at them later when Charlie isn’t around. At least two of them will have bright red writing somewhere on the envelope, and I don’t want Charlie to worry. He’s a smart kid for ten, but he already knows far too much about the adult world for my liking.

  There’s another pile of envelopes on the table that I didn’t deal with yesterday, so my new bundle simply slides off the top of them and on to the floor.

  Damn, I think, bending down to pick them up. I begin to stack them into a neat pile, but one envelope stands out from the others – instead of having a clear window with my name and address typed neatly into it, this one is handwritten in black ink, and the envelope is made out of a thick, cream paper.

  I turn it over in case there’s a return address, but it’s blank.

  ‘Mum, can I have a biscuit?’ Charlie calls from the kitchen. ‘I’ve washed my hands.’

  ‘Sure,’ I call back absent-mindedly, still looking at the envelope. ‘Only one, mind; we’ll probably have dinner early.’

  I tear open the envelope, still having no idea who it might be from. Inside is a piece of equally thick paper, and the text covering it is also handwritten.

  Dear Ms Chesterford,

  Wait, that’s what’s unusual about the envelope – I knew there was something other than the writing. It’s addressed to my maiden name of Chesterford.

  I haven’t been known as Amelia Chesterford for eleven years. How strange? I continue to read:

  I write to you today with what I hope will be good news.

  My name is Alexander Benjamin, and I am a genealogist. I was recently hired by the law firm Davies & Davies to find the beneficiary of an estate that came into their possession some months ago.

  I am delighted to inform you that after much research, I now believe that the beneficiaries of this estate may be yourself and your son, Charles.

  So I write today to ask if you would initially confirm that you are indeed Amelia Jane Chesterford, your date of birth is 1 November 1980, and you were born in St Mildred’s Hospital, Southampton. We may then proceed further with the application for you and your son to inherit the estate known currently as Article C.

  You may contact me in any of the ways listed at the top of this letter. But I ask that you do so, please, at your earliest convenience.

  Yours sincerely,

  Alexander Benjamin

  I read the letter through twice and then I laugh: these spammers are getting far too silly for their own good these days. As if I’m going to ring someone and divulge all my personal information – do they think I’m stupid?

  I throw the letter on the pile with the others, and I’m about to head into the kitchen to find Charlie when I stop.

  But they already know all of my personal information, don’t they? And more importantly, they know about Charlie. If they’re spammers, that’s particularly worrying.

  I pick up the letter and head into the tiny kitchen/diner/ living room. Charlie is already sitting down in front of the television.

  ‘Can I borrow your laptop?’ I ask him, putting the letter on the table.

  ‘Why?’ he asks, not taking his eyes from the screen.

  ‘Because I want to use the internet and I’ve run out of data on my phone,’ I lie. The truth is I haven’t got the money to top it up right now, and I need to go easy on the little credit I have left in case Charlie needs to call me in an emergency.

  ‘Why don’t you connect your phone to the Wi-Fi then?’ Charlie asks smartly.

  ‘You know my phone isn’t great with Wi-Fi,’ It was far too old and basic. ‘It’s too slow, and I need to search for something. Can I use it or not?’

  ‘Sure, okay then,’ Charlie shrugs amiably, his eyes still glued to the TV.

  I pull Charlie’s laptop from his bag and open it up. Then, relieved we haven’t had our own internet cut off just yet, I pull up Google.

  First I type in ‘Davies & Davies Solicitors’, and find there is indeed a law firm in Berwick-Upon-Tweed with that name. Could be a coincidence, I think, still suspicious. Then I type in ‘Alexander Benjamin – genealogist’ and I find to my surprise a professional-looking website telling me all about this Alexander, with very authentic-sounding testimonials from satisfied clients who have found long-lost relatives, and law firms just like Davies & Davies who Alexander has worked for with amazing results.

  I close up the laptop and think.

  It’s becoming harder and harder for me to believe this is a scam. But why would someone leave me anything in a will? An estate, the letter said. That was usually more than a few pounds or an antique vase. And for this law firm to h
ave hired this Alexander fellow, it must be pretty important.

  I stand up and head into our little kitchenette. I fill the kettle and put it on to boil. Then I open up the fridge to get out some milk.

  The emptiness of the fridge suddenly scares me. There’s the pizza I’d promised Charlie for his tea, a nearly empty bottle of milk, some cheap margarine and half a tin of beans left over from last night’s tea of beans on toast. But that’s it. I know there isn’t a lot more in the cupboards, either, and it’s still three days until I’ll get paid again.

  What if this will thing was a small sum of money? It would come in very handy, that’s for sure. My job at the local supermarket is never going to pay me much; maybe this ‘estate’ might be enough for me to start that little business I’ve been thinking about for a while. After all, what’s the point in spending three years at university to end up working part time in a supermarket? And even if it isn’t that much money, it might still pay a few of those ‘red’ bills that are waiting for me on the hall table.

  Stop right there, I tell myself. You’re getting carried away as usual. Good things like that don’t happen to you, Amelia. Not any more. This estate will probably be a scruffy dog you’ve inherited or something else worthless, something that’s going to cost you money.

  But as I sip on my weak tea – made for the second time with the same teabag – I can’t help but wonder . . .

  ‘Just going to make a quick phone call,’ I tell Charlie. ‘Won’t be a mo.’

  ‘Thought you didn’t have much credit?’ Charlie asks distractedly, changing the channel on the TV.

  ‘And I thought you had a school project to finish tonight?’ I retort as I head towards my bedroom.

  ‘Yeah, I do. But you said you’d help me with it, didn’t you?’

  ‘Did I?’ I ask, hovering in the doorway. ‘Which one is it?’

  ‘The one about castles – remember? We’ve been studying all about them this term and Miss said we had to make our own model of one. That’s what I’ve been saving all the boxes for.’

  ‘Oh, yes, that’s right, I remember,’ I fib. ‘And when has that got to be in?’ I ask. Please don’t say tomorrow . . .