Shipwrecks Happen

By Ellie Philpott

Shipwrecks Happen is a beautifully crafted story of love, loss and renewal set against the backdrop of an iconic Art Deco house located on the edge of an isolated, windswept beach in Kent. It is peopled with characters that will remain with you long after you have turned the final page.

When Ozzie moved back to her grandfather's huge four-storied Art Deco house at Gull Cove, she began collecting people around her. The vast upper room at the very top of the building was turned into studios for local artists and during weekends, the house played host to a seemingly endless round of glitzy parties.

But when the money began to run out, people drifted off, leaving Ozzie alone with her four grace-and-favour tenants; Isaac, a retired local fisherman; Milly, an elderly actress who had been a close friend of her mother's, Toby, an artist who suffered a breakdown when his wife left him some years previously and his young son Noah, who refuses to attend school and spends most of his time running wild on the beach with his dog Oscar.

And now Ozzie is dead, succumbing at last to the cancer that had been eating away at her for the last year. The house has fallen into serious disrepair and urgently needs major renovation work. Ozzie has chosen to leave the house to her niece, Catherine, who was under the impression that Ozzie died years ago and wasn't even aware there was a family home to inherit. Catherine is a virtual recluse and leads a lonely existence writing books and avoiding people. The fate of the house and its occupants lie in Catherine's hands, and she is about to discover that the house holds more secrets for her than she could have imagined…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ellie Philpott
• Release date: Feb 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301265329

Ellie Philpott

Ellie Philpott grew up in Kent, before she spent a number of years travelling around the world for various employers, including a Dutch human rights agency. Her most vivid memories of her work include being held up at gun point in southern Mexico, spending time trapped in the fighting in the West Bank during the second Intifada and dodging the authorities in Vietnam. Her life is a bit tamer now and involves writing and managing the PR for a French company. Ellie lives in Kent once again, with her husband and Eric the puppy, Fudge and Toffee the call ducks, four chickens and several hundred thousand bees spread across four hives. She is also the author of My Enemy My Friend, a non-fiction book describing her encounters with Palestinians and Israelis involved in various reconciliation projects.

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Shipwrecks Happen

Ellie Philpott

Copyright 2013 Ellie Philpott

Cover design: Brian Calderwood

Cover image copyright Valdecasas/Shutterstock

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

About Ellie Philpott

Chapter 1

How could somebody die twice? The question rolled endlessly around Catherine’s mind as she drove along the rutted coastal track that wound its way through a series of low, gorse-covered hillocks. On either side, bedraggled looking sheep ripped at the coarse sea grass growing in tufts on the Kentish marshland. Overhead, seagulls swooped and dived, keening a dirge that should have matched Catherine’s mood, but she could hardly mourn somebody she’d barely known.

A bright, jangly lady running through the garden. A child’s small legs trying to keep up with Ozzie’s swift, darting movements, searching for imaginary fairies behind the bushes and underneath the trees, Ozzie’s long earrings sparkling in the sun. Ozzie collapses, laughing in a heap on the ground, the small, skinny older lady puffed long before the child had run out of energy. Catherine reaches out to touch Ozzie’s brightly-coloured bead necklace. Ozzie takes it off and puts it around the child’s neck. ‘Keep it darling, I’ve got plenty of others…’

Catherine wondered where the necklace had gone. She hadn’t seen it for years. She glanced over at the solicitor’s letter lying on the front passenger seat next to her. She’d brought it along in case she needed some kind of proof of who she was. The letter was short and icily formal. Following the recent death of her aunt, Osanna Petit, Catherine was the sole beneficiary of her estate, which amounted to a house located on the edge of the shoreline at Gull Cove. In fact, it was the only house at Gull Cove, Catherine had been informed when she turned up at the solicitor’s office to take possession of the keys, so it wouldn’t be difficult to find.

It wasn’t. In front of her, a huge square 1930s white Art Deco house stood proud of the skyline, nestled on the edge of the shingle like a modern-day castle. A strange sensation, which had been growing in intensity as she’d driven further along the track, rose and became a prickling feeling in her stomach. I’ve been here before, Catherine realised.

The question still harried her. How could Ozzie have recently died? She died years ago. Catherine’s thoughts flicked back to when she was a small child. Perhaps five or six. She could hear her mother’s voice calling her in from the garden into the study. The contrast between the blazing heady sunshine from outside, and the cool darkness of the room was like a shock of cold water thrown over her.

Now she thought about it, Catherine realised her mother had delivered the news of Ozzie’s death with an unnatural calmness, Darling, I have some sad news for you. Your aunt Ozzie has died. I’m sorry, I know you are – were – very fond of her...

Before she’d had a chance to respond, Catherine had been dismissed. Her mother was in the last stages of finishing her latest novel and the publisher was hard on her heels. Catherine knew better than to hope for more information. She wandered out into the sunshine, the words sticking like pins into her.

Catherine swallowed and the memory vanished, only to be replaced by a nagging worry. It seemed that her inheritance wasn’t completely straightforward. The solicitor had hesitated as he’d handed over the house keys to Catherine, and then informed her that there was a slight ‘technical issue’ with the legacy. Her aunt had a few grace and favour tenants who had been living in the house for some years with her. Apparently, Catherine could not force them to leave. Her immediate reaction was to bury the problem. Catherine was not fond of dealing with people.

She drew to a halt at the end of a huge walled garden which stretched out from the back of the property. The square, four-storey house was stark and angular with each successive tier smaller than the one below. Perhaps it would have been more attractive if it hadn’t been so dilapidated. The onslaught of the coastal winds whipping along the shore had left the white paint peeling, exposing huge slashes of dull grey concrete. Rusting metal balustrades lined the balconies, bleeding ugly brown scars into the white paintwork below.

Catherine sat in her car, her limbs unwilling to move. The soft whisper of the wind through the gorse bushes joined forces with the still-strong September sunshine to make her sleepy. She sat in the warmth, gazing out almost hypnotically at the sweeping bay, flanked by soaring white cliffs at either end, when a tap on the car window startled her. A voice boomed out of the stillness, Can I help you?

A wizened old man dressed in ripped jeans and a faded fisherman’s smock stood next to the car door. Catherine turned towards him in surprise and as she did so, Isaac felt a knot form in his belly. He knew who this girl was – her curly chestnut hair and angular, pale face so like her aunt’s. The resemblance was uncanny. Quickly, he regained his composure.

You must be Ozzie’s niece, he said softly.

Yes, she looked startled.

Then this is your house now, he pronounced, with a backwards sweep of his arm towards the white building. Isaac stood back to let her open the car door.

You’d better come along, he muttered quietly.

Catherine stepped out onto the track. The delicate crunch of tiny white shells under her feet exploded into her mind as long-forgotten memories trickled in; Catherine as a little girl walking down this same path - stooping to touch the shells, scooping them up and letting them run through her fingers. She could see in her mind’s eye two figures walking along the track in front of her; her mother, tall, upright, dark haired and a younger, smaller woman with wavy chestnut hair and a springy stride – Ozzie.

She blinked and realised the man was already striding down the path towards the house. His frame was tiny, almost dwarf-like. Catherine started after him, her heart racing. A slight movement at the top of the house caught her eye. A faded piece of material was flapping in the breeze halfway up a flagpole. The realisation hit Catherine. It’s flying at half-mast in memory of Ozzie. Of course, the people in this house are mourning her death.

At that minute a flash of colour burst from the white house – a young boy in a bright orange t-shirt emerged from the front of the building and ran towards the sea. A mop of curly black hair bobbed as he scrambled his way unevenly over the pebbles. A frantic barking started up and he was joined by a dog boasting a coat of similarly unruly dark hair. As he ran, the boy bent to pick up a pebble and threw it forwards, chasing the dog as it careered after the stone. She gazed at the pair until they were lost from sight, and then focused on the footpath in front of her again.

The track ran alongside the garden wall which had been painted white to match the house. Here too, gashes of ugly grey concrete showed through patches where the paint had peeled off. The old man spoke over his shoulder to her, You were very small when you were last here. I’d be surprised if you remembered much about the house.

The old man was clearly one of Ozzie’s tenants, but Catherine had no idea who he was. Before she could formulate any questions, they had turned the corner and come to the front of the house, the sun dancing on the waves in the bay beyond. He pushed a huge oak door and disappeared into the cavernous interior.

She followed him into the building and breathed out in surprised recognition of the huge circular entrance hall which rose high above her. A white concrete staircase with a black metal balustrade wrapped itself around the wall, corkscrewing up to the floor above. She lowered her gaze to the ground floor, finding herself looking for the long arched passageway that stretched in front of her, leading to the two back rooms and out into the garden. Under her feet, the old wooden floorboards were faded and scuffed, badly in need of a new coat of varnish. Light poured in from the windows, revealing dark patches of damp that had soaked into the white plaster.

They climbed up the seemingly endless staircase, Catherine’s hand on the balustrade, reaching for support. Her legs felt shaky. Under her feet, the concrete steps were solid and oddly familiar. To her left, a series of dark-framed black and white photographs were hanging on the wall. Most seem to have been taken here at the white house. She scrutinised them, hoping to find more clues of the past. The photographs showed the house in its heyday. In one image a group of people were gathered around a bonfire on the beach, misted in hazy swirls of smoke from the fire. Further up the stairs was a portrait of a young woman dressed in a sweater, standing on the flat roof of the house. Tendrils of hair were blown by the wind across a face with an angular nose and turned up smile. Catherine stared. The image was of her, but it couldn’t possibly be. Then she realised. It must have been Ozzie.

The head of the stairs opened out into a vast space which filled the entire first floor of the house. She glanced to the left where old white kitchen units ran along the edge of the wall. The black and white square tiles that formed the flooring in the kitchen space were cracked and one or two were missing, exposing a dark resinous patch beneath. In the middle of the kitchen area stood an enormous oak table, around which were randomly scattered some chairs and stools made out of driftwood.

In the far right hand wall, a huge fireplace had been built out into the room with a semi-circular pit made of slate. The only furniture consisted of an old brown leather armchair and a few more driftwood chairs, the wood bleached and sinuous, crafted into different shapes and sizes. Near the fireplace was a wicker dog basket with a moth-eaten red tartan blanket escaping over the edge. A half-gnawed bone lay abandoned a few feet away.

Catherine followed the man over to the kitchen area. He took out a box of matches, and lit a flame on an old gas stove that had seen better days. He filled a copper kettle with water and put it on the flame.

I’m Isaac, an old acquaintance of your family, he announced as he did so.

You’ll have to forgive me, even to Catherine, her words sounded prim and stilted, I’m not sure if I should know you. It sounds as if you are aware that I haven’t seen my aunt Ozzie for years. In fact, I didn’t realise she’d only died recently. I was under the impression…

She ground to a halt and then mustered herself again. Her words felt clumsy. She wasn’t used to dealing with strange situations. I feel I should know more about this house – I’m sure I’ve been here before, years ago. You seem to think I was here as a child. My mother, well, she never really spoke about her family. I’m not sure why, she finished lamely, her words trickling away into silence.

Isaac reached into a cupboard and pulled out two chipped mugs and an old brown teapot. He opened a tea caddy that was standing on the side, and carefully spooned tea into the pot.

I never agreed with what your mother did, even if she thought it was for the best. He sighed heavily, Let’s start at the beginning; Catherine, your great-grandfather had this property built with money from his father’s brewery business. Your grandfather lived here most of his life and raised his two daughters – your mother and Ozzie - in this house. This is your family home.

Chapter 2

How could someone know so little about their own family? Part of Catherine felt ashamed at her own ignorance. Another part wanted to justify herself – her mother’s refusal to speak on the subject, her father’s death before she was born which meant she had nobody else to ask. Sometimes Catherine had pressed her mother for more information, only to meet a tight-lipped silence. And then came the car accident that killed her mother when Catherine was only eighteen. The doors to the past had closed firmly then.

Catherine became aware of the strains of a piano insinuating itself into her thoughts, the music drifting up from the floor below. She screwed up her face as she tried to place the composer. Isaac’s face clouded over and he looked agitated.

Of course. Chopin. Catherine spoke aloud. It’s beautiful Isaac, she was captivated by the ebb and flow of the phrasing, who’s playing?

That would be Milly, the old man replied heavily. She is - was - a friend of your grandparents. She’s not quite all here, Catherine, Isaac tapped his head. I need to warn you…

The playing had stopped abruptly even as Isaac had been talking, followed by the slamming of a door and the tapping of footsteps up the stairs. An elderly lady, clothed in a lilac silk dressing gown, flowed into the room. White curly hair was pinned up on top of her head and fell in loose wisps onto an oval face with strong, almost Slavic cheekbones. She looked wildly at Catherine, scrutinising her from top to toe. There was an uncomfortable silence. Catherine stole a quick glance at Isaac, who seemed to be bracing himself for the storm. Finally it unleashed itself, as the elderly lady turned to him.

Isaac, I asked for grapes, and you brought me apples. This absolutely won’t do. It isn’t the first time you’ve totally disregarded my orders. What’s the point of paying you good money if you’re not going to achieve the simplest task that’s been set for you? She glared wildly at the ceiling and ran an elegant hand through her hair, pulling out the pins and pushing them in again nervously.

Isaac walked slowly towards her, and gently took hold of her elbow.

It’s okay Milly, don’t worry, she’ll see us right.

The elderly lady continued to glance around her – out of the window, at the kettle, now steaming furiously on the stove, at her feet – everywhere but at Catherine. She paused and spoke, The boy’s gone again. Can’t you do something about him? It’s not right, rushing off with that dog, wild on the beach. He’ll go the way of his mother…

That’s enough Milly, Isaac said in a sterner tone. Trust me on this, you’ll be okay. Why don’t you go on with your playing?

Catherine forced herself to step towards Milly, catching her gaze. Scared china-blue eyes flicked back at her. Catherine smiled, and spoke calmly, as if addressing a frightened child, That Chopin was beautiful Milly. It must be such a joy to you and others to have a gift like that.

Milly seemed to relax slightly, and looked at Isaac.

The milkman left three pints yesterday, I only asked for two, but I suppose we could make a junket with the third, she said, her voice less harsh than before.

Isaac smiled, and the lines in his face bunched together. A faint echo of the smile appeared on Milly’s face.

Well that’s settled that then. I can get back to the pianoforte. Just remember not to do it again.

She turned on her heels, her dressing gown and perfume shimmering around her, and glided back to the stairs. As she reached the top of the steps, Milly glanced back into the room, her eyes focused on Catherine, but speaking to Isaac.

Clothes are drab, her face is plain, but her heart seems to be in the right place. We could make something of her, my dear.

And she left the room.

Catherine picked up the cup of tea that had been proffered to her. She held it in her hands and sat down heavily on one of the driftwood chairs, trying to form the right words. Already she felt weighed down with the unlooked-for responsibility of the house and its occupants. She took a deep breath and plunged, If I’m honest, I’ve no idea what to do about this situation Isaac. I feel like I’m intruding on peoples’ lives - that you’re all resenting me – yes I noticed the little boy who was running away from the house. I guess he saw me coming from the window and realised who I was – part of me even feels a bit angry. I mean, how many more of you are there here? And what exactly is this place?

Isaac looked shamefaced. Catherine, he said in a cracked voice, Ozzie died a few weeks ago, although it’s been on the cards for a while. You have to understand it’s been a shock for us too. Ozzie had a habit of collecting people around her. Needy people. Some were just downright spongers. Others loved her because she loved them. When her money began to run out, the spongers drifted off. All the people left in this house now have lived with Ozzie for a while and genuinely cared about her – Milly and I have been here a good few years, Toby and Noah for less. It was Ozzie who gave us a reason to go on living. She was the core of this house. And now she’s gone. And none of us have anywhere else to go.

Catherine could see the speech had cost Isaac enormously. She sat and stared at the fireplace, eyes drawn to some blackened remnants of firewood, as her mind raced. Finally she spoke, Okay look, I’m not going to do anything in a rush. I need time to think. Let’s just wait and see for a while. She searched frantically for words and found them, Why don’t you tell me something about the house, and the people who are here? At least that way I can get an idea of what we’re looking at.

Isaac put his mug of tea down on the table in a measured gesture and leaned forward, his knobbly hands spread out in front of him.

"Ozzie ran away from this house a long time ago, after a series of events crushed her completely, I won’t bother you with the details right now. She was only just in her twenties. I’d known the family since Ozzie and your mother were girls. I used to bring fish round for your grandpa, and sometimes we’d chat late into the evening, in a companiable kind of way. After Ozzie left, she travelled around the world, kept by a series of rich men. She used to send me postcards, pictures – of her on yachts in the south of France, the Bahamas, Canaries – always a different man – and Ozzie looking stunning, but with terribly sad eyes. I knew she wasn’t really happy.

"One day Ozzie finally met a man who really cared about her – a much older man. I think he saw through the sadness. I knew Ozzie felt deeply about him, because she called him by his real name – Howard – she had only ever used nicknames for the others. Not long after she met him, Howard was diagnosed with cancer. Ozzie nursed him through it ‘till the end. Got accused of being a grave robber – I knew she wasn’t like that. She must have genuinely loved him because it wasn’t like Ozzie to be around sickness – she hated it.

"After Howard died, she came back here. Your grandfather was long dead and the house had been standing empty for some time. Your mother didn’t want anything to do with it – she hated the fact her father had seemingly preferred Ozzie to her and didn’t want to be reminded of her so-called miserable childhood. Ozzie had enough money to get most of it repainted and the odd repairs done. I remember the first day I saw her after she’d arrived back home. I’ve never seen her so pale and thin. She begged me to come and live in the house with her – ‘I can’t stand it on my own Isaac. Too many memories. Please come and live here too – the place is big enough for both of us – I won’t get under your feet. You can have a whole floor to yourself if you want to.’

"So I moved in. I was a fisherman at the time – I’ve been one for pretty much all my life. I’d been living in one of the little cottages further round the coast. It wasn’t much, but I was comfortable, and I was content with my own company. It took a while to get used to being with Ozzie. The two of us would rattle around this house like a couple of pebbles in a rip tide. Sometimes I would hardly ever see her – my working hours weren’t particularly sociable. Other times I was in and Ozzie would take herself away for long walks on the beach. I