Free Heartstones by Kate Glanville Page B

and patted her arm again.
    ‘If you’re embarrassed about last night, don’t be,’ she said gently. Phoebe could feel her face reddening. ‘We were all well away after that victory for Carraigmore. Your singing was lovely, but if you feel badly about the mess you made of young Tommy Gibson’s bodhrán we have a very fine collection of traditional Celtic drums for sale.’

Chapter Seven
    The road narrowed as it dipped towards the sea. Phoebe soon found herself walking down the winding lane that led towards the beach. Memories swept over her with every step; she could hear Nola running ahead shouting ‘Come on, last one in is a loser,’ and her father behind them, grappling with the body boards, calling, ‘Say hello to Granny first.’
    Her mother would have been beside him, one hand in his, the other carrying a basket filled with crisps and biscuits from the general store, contributions to the lunch of soup and bread her grandmother would have made in her ancient Baby Belling cooker.
    Phoebe had to consciously prepare herself for the fact that her grandmother wouldn’t be there as she turned the corner. She wouldn’t be standing outside the boathouse in her denim smock; she wouldn’t be wearing her yellow hat or waving a clay-covered hand. The boathouse might not be there either, and if it was it would surely look very different from the romantic little building that Phoebe remembered.
    She closed her eyes and took a deep breath – a few more steps around the corner and she’d be there. One, two, three. She opened her eyes and there it was, right in front of her. Not crumbling, not falling down or ramshackle but neat and white with pale blue paint on the doors and windows and a weed-free brick path leading to the door. Terracotta plant pots were grouped around the walls; daffodil shoots poking up through rich, dark soil. Phoebe could remember the apple tree her grandmother had planted and the pebbly stream that trickled through the garden on to the beach; how many hours had Phoebe spent sitting beside that stream as a child, floating buttercup petals down it or poking at caddis flies in their knobbly cocoons?
    Everything looked immaculate; no one would ever think it had been unused and neglected for over sixteen years. As she approached Phoebe wondered if someone could be living there. Maybe no one realised that it actually belonged to Phoebe and Nola. Phoebe stopped a few yards away from the boathouse door, reluctant to go too near as though she might be intruding. Instead she looked out across the beach.
    A long stretch of empty sand glittered in the afternoon sun, and the mountains of the opposite peninsula looked like pyramids against the sky. Phoebe could see white breakers crashing against distant cliffs and up above her a sea gull wheeled and cried out in the wind.
    The tide was far out, exposing a large black rock sitting on the beach like a monolith. It looked almost artificial, as if someone had placed it there: an ancient, man-made monument paying homage to the waves.
    The stream cut its way across the sand, widening as it approached the sea, rivulets fanning out like veins before being integrated with the foaming water. Phoebe remembered building dams across the stream to make paddling pools. As a child she’d made sandcastles, collected shells, flown kites, and played cricket on the beach but had never stopped to think how beautiful it was.
    Something caught Phoebe’s eye. A movement beside the rock, something quick and darting; too fast to focus on, in an instant it had vanished.
    Phoebe turned away and walked towards the boathouse, feeling certain that someone must be using it. She felt slightly indignant, had it been made into a holiday home?
    The front of the building had two huge sliding wooden doors running across its width, left over from the times when boats would have been stored inside. Phoebe stood on tip toes and peered through a window in one of the doors, expecting to see a neatly