The Cornish Cream Tea Bus. Cressida McLaughlin

darling.’ She was swept into her mum’s perfumed embrace.

      ‘Take care, my girl,’ her dad said, squeezing her shoulders. ‘Of you and that dog and that bus. Are you sure you want to take it?’

      Charlie turned to look at Hal’s bus. Her bus. She had not survived her mud bath unscathed, and looked as bad as she had before Clive had worked his magic, if not worse. There was some scratching along the bumper where the tow truck had got hold of her, and the makeshift serving area had come away from the wall. Everything was dishevelled, splattered with dirt or coffee stains, broken or dented.

      Charlie had vowed that she would fix her up, and do it properly this time. She had decided, at the last minute, that she would take her down to Cornwall instead of her old Golf. Juliette had told her that she needed time away from everything to think, but how could she make any decisions when she was in Cornwall and the bus was here, in the garage? If she had Gertie with her, then they could give it a second run, somewhere with beachside car parks and market squares with firm, unyielding concrete. She was sure there would be somewhere in Juliette’s village where she could park a vintage bus.

      ‘I’m going to take her,’ she said confidently. ‘I know it’s a long drive, but we’ll stop on the way. And it’ll be worth it once we get there.’

      ‘All right then, treasure. Be safe.’

      ‘I will, Dad. And you look after yourselves. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.’

      As Charlie put Marmite in his crate, then lifted herself into the driver’s seat, she wondered if her parents would be OK without her. Her dad was still so upset about Hal, and her mum did such a good job of appearing capable and brusque, she was worried they would circumnavigate their large house entirely separately, dealing with problems in their own ways. And, aside from everything else, without her to make tray bakes and muffins and Scotch eggs, what would they actually eat?

      Charlie found the drive to Cornwall cathartic. She knew all Gertie’s quirks, the slight catch of the gearbox and the way the left indicator stuck occasionally. The heater blew alternate hot and cold air for the first hour, and Marmite yowled plaintively about not being allowed to sit on her lap, but as she drove south the sun rose higher in the sky, white clouds puffed in attractive streaks across a pure, fresh day, and she began to relax.

      The roads were busy with weekday traffic, salespeople’s hatchbacks and trucks ferrying goods to destinations across the country. Gertie got several hoots, as she always did, and Charlie waved back, touched that people still took time to delight in the vintage bus and weren’t entirely distracted by the miles of tarmac they were eating through.

      They took a rest-stop at a farmhouse-style restaurant with benches outside, warped and dusty from years of soaking up the elements, and Charlie demolished a cheese toastie while Marmite ran in ever-decreasing circles and then fell asleep at her feet. Her senses were alive, as if anticipating all the new sights, sounds and feelings that would wash over her in the coming weeks; her brain had switched to holiday mode. But, she reminded herself, she was also hoping to give Gertie a second run. The café bus wasn’t dead in the water just yet.

      Porthgolow was on Cornwall’s north coast, between Padstow and Newquay, where the most spectacular, wild coastline was. She’d never heard of the village until Juliette had moved there, and wondered if it had anything to set it apart, like the artists and culture in St Ives, the fish restaurants of Padstow or the surfing and nightlife in Newquay. She turned off the main road and wended her way carefully down narrow, hedge-lined lanes with fields and dotted farmhouses beyond. She could see the point where the world ended, a deep blue strip of sea cutting through the pale grey-blue of the hazy spring sky.

      She reached a T-junction, peered at the road signs, and turned left when she realized the faded, weather-beaten sign read: Porthgolow, half a mile.

      She drove slowly, the sea to her right, beyond only a few metres of cliff top. And then, suddenly, the village appeared below her, cut into a typical Cornish cove, houses rising steeply up the cliff that faced a sandy, crescent-moon beach. There was a stone jetty at the far side of the sand with buildings beyond, including a single, primrose-yellow house out on a jutting lower promontory. Charlie could imagine a large wave sweeping it off the cliff in a single, devastating moment. How did anyone survive out there?

      A sleek black BMW shot out of a driveway on her right, and Charlie slammed on the brakes. As it disappeared down the steep incline ahead of her, without a honk or wave of thanks, she peered at the gap through which the car had come.

      The walls were high and smart, made out of sandy brick, and an understated brass sign read: The Crystal Waters Spa Hotel. The building beyond had a glass-fronted entrance; two bay-tree lollipops with twisted stems stood either side of the doors. She could see all the way through to the glass walls at the back of what must be the reception area, the glint of water beyond. It was a perfect sea-view haven, built on top of the cliff. It looked exclusive and unattainable.

      A horn sounded behind her and Charlie raised her foot off the brake, taking the steep road into Porthgolow at a snail’s pace, her insides light with excitement at the thought of seeing her best friend. As she got closer to the heart of the village, she noticed that some of the buildings had considerable sea damage, their stone and paintwork battered and warped. She passed a small convenience store, the windows crammed with beach balls and nets for rock pooling. A local newspaper board advertised a Ten-page spring events pull-out inside! One of the houses on the front had a B&B sign swinging outside it, black lettering against a dirty-white background. A wooden board in one of the blind-covered windows announced they had vacancies.

      At the bottom of the cliff, below the luxurious glass hotel, between the road and the sand, there was a patch of concrete with a couple of cars parked facing the beach. Charlie swung the bus onto it and brought it to a halt. Leaving Marmite sleeping in his crate, she went out to look at the charges. She had to read it twice before she realized that parking was free out of season. That was a bonus: she had anticipated paying a fortune to park Gertie until she found somewhere more permanent.

      She stood, hand on hips, and surveyed her surroundings.

      A woman and a young boy stood close to the waves, as if they hadn’t quite committed to paddling. Otherwise, the beach was empty. Charlie did a slow circle, taking in the stone jetty glistening under the weak sun, the houses rising in layers of small, neat roads up the cliff. Juliette had said to her. ‘We’re one road back from the beach, a two-minute walk. We can see the sea from one corner of the garden.’ The road she had driven in on passed along the sea front and then rose, equally steeply, on the other side of the cove, travelling out of the village again and, no doubt, joining the main coastal route once more. A second road cut up the middle of the cliff, at right angles to the beach, straight through the houses. Charlie assumed it was this one that would take her to Juliette’s place.

      She leaned back to look up at The Crystal Waters Spa Hotel, but from her position could only see the very edge of the building, a hint of space-aged glass contrasting with the dark grey rock below it. She snapped a couple of photos on her phone, catching the glint of sun on the water, the spray as it hit the edge of the jetty. She would post them on her Instagram page, but what would the caption be? Time for a new start. Was that what this was?

      She sighed, feeling unsettled. It was beautiful, as Juliette had told her it would be. It was quaint and picturesque; it had all the elements of a perfect seaside village. And it was still early in the year – of course it wouldn’t be busy right now. She let Marmite out of his crate and took his lead, pulled out the handle of her wheelie suitcase and made sure that Gertie was secure, locking the door Hal had added so that the back of the bus wasn’t permanently open.

      As she followed the directions Juliette had given her to their terraced house, a seagull wheeled in the sky above her, letting out a plaintive, haunting cry, and Charlie landed on the word she’d been searching for. It was a word that took her back to that moment, in Hal’s garage, when she’d first seen Gertie after her uncle’s death. Forgotten.

      Porthgolow looked forgotten.