Lyn McConchie’s Forever Cornwall Excerpt: Doc Di’s motorcycle came thundering in through the Manor gates, pulling up by the front steps, and when I say thundering, I’m not kidding. The Doc has a 1982 Harley-Davidson FLHS, a Shovelhead, and she added fairings herself since this model doesn’t normally have them. But it’s a real beast, and she rides it in a way that can intimidate even bikers.
In two fluid motions, she kicked it up on the stand, dismounted, and fixed eyes like stone on me where I stood. “Hugh, call everyone in, we’ve got real trouble, and it’s going to get worse fast, a lot worse.”
I looked at her, saw the look in her eyes, and knew this wasn’t a joke or even an exaggeration. I jumped for the emergency bell and rang it. Then I counted. Seven of us, including Di, plus the fifteen kids; all present and correct. Then there were the locals—Dave, the electrician who was just finishing up installation and cross-connection for the extra eco-electricity systems; two pensioners picking the final berries; and Paddy, the plumber installing more rainwater tanks and connecting the water-bore Thorne had paid to have drilled. We’d hit good, sweet water only twenty-five foot down. Plus, four kids belonging to the tradesmen, who often brought their children here in the holidays if they were working at the Manor.
Maureen muttered something to Mic and walked over to our people. “Come to the little hall.” Mic signalled our pupils and they followed, while I heard Maureen telling the four kids to go to their dads. It didn’t take long. We arrived at what was always called The Little Hall, and Thorne, who was last in, shut the door; then I heard a click and knew he’d locked it as well. A feeling like a shaft of ice slid down my back.
