Kitabı oxu: «Coming Home: An uplifting feel good novel with family secrets at its heart»

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Prologue

Part One: Adela’s Only Love

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

Part Two: Sennen Comes Home

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Part Three: Ella’s Wedding Day

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

A Year Later

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the same author

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE
Trevay, 1993

The house was still.

Her heart was hammering – she could hear it in her ears, hear her breath whistle in her nostrils.

She tried to quieten both.

In the dark of her bedroom, she strained her ears to listen for any noise in the house.

The church bell rang the half hour. Half past eleven.

She’d gone up to bed early, her mother asking her if she was feeling all right.

‘Yeah. I’m fine.’ She’d shrugged off the caring hand her mother had placed in the small of her back.

‘If you’re sure?’ Her mother let her hand rest by her hip. ‘Is it your period?’

She had hunched her shoulders and scowled at that. ‘I’m just tired.’

‘Ella and Henry had a lovely day with you on the beach,’ said her mother, bending her head to look up into her daughter’s downcast eyes. ‘You’re doing so well.’

Sennen shrugged and turned to head for the stairs. Her father came out of the kitchen. ‘Those little ’uns of yours asleep, are they?’

‘She’s tired, Bill,’ replied her mother.

‘An early night.’ Her father smiled. ‘Good for you.’ She could feel her father’s loving gaze on her back, as she ascended the stairs. She wouldn’t turn around.

‘Goodnight, Sennen,’ chirped her mother. ‘Sleep tight.’

Her parents had finally gone to bed almost an hour ago and now she picked up the heavy rucksack she’d got for her fifteenth birthday. It had been used once, on a disastrous first weekend of camping for the Duke of Edinburgh Bronze award. Even now the bone-numbing cold of one night in a tent and the penetrating rain of the twenty-mile hike the following day made her stomach clench. Back home she refused to complete any more challenges and dropped out. She used Henry as an excuse. He had just started to walk and her mother expected her to come home from school every weekend and do the things a mother should do for her child. On top of that she was expected to work hard for her exams. Why the hell would she want to learn how to read a map and cook a chicken over a campfire as well?

And then Ella came along.

Sennen had sat in the summer heat of the exam hall, six weeks from her due date, hating the kicks of her unborn child, hating being pitied by her teachers.

She rubbed a hand across her eyes and tightened the straps on the rucksack. What a model daughter she had been. Two babies by a father unknown and now she was leaving. Leaving them, her A levels, her over-indulgent liberal leftie parents who had supported her through it all – and leaving Cornwall.

She hovered on the landing outside Henry and Ella’s room. She didn’t go in. She knew she would never leave if she saw them, smelt them … She kissed her hand and placed it on their nameplates on the door. Downstairs, she tiptoed through the hall. Bertie the cat ran from under the hall table with a mew. She put her hand to her mouth to stop her startled cry then bent down to tickle him. ‘Bye, Bert. Have a nice life.’

Slowly she turned the handle of the downstairs loo and edged in carefully, making sure that the rucksack didn’t knock over the earthenware plant pot with its flourishing spider plant. Bert came with her and she had to nudge him out with her boot before closing the door behind him. The front door was too noisy to leave by.

The loo window always stuck a little and the trick was to give it a little thump with your palm. She held her breath, listened for any noise from upstairs. Nothing. She wound the small linen hand towel around her fist. It took three good pushes, each stronger than the last before the window swung open, noiselessly.

She threw the rucksack out first and then carefully climbed out after it.

She pushed the window shut and stood in the moonlit, tiled courtyard. In a corner was Henry’s little trike and in another, Ella’s beach pushchair. She had meant to take both in in case of rain, but had forgotten. She looked up to the night sky. Cloudless. It would be a dry night.

She picked her way over the sandpit, held in a wooden box that her father had made for her when she was little and now given fresh life to with a coat of scarlet paint, and made her way to the gate. The hinge creaked a little, but before it had shut itself she was already gone. Around the corner, down the lane and out to the bus stop by the harbour.

PART ONE

1

Pendruggan, 2018

Kit Beauchamp stirred the tomato soup in front of him. ‘When will your brother get here?’

Ella put her bowl down on the kitchen table and sat opposite him. ‘Why? Nervous?’

Kit looked up into Ella’s golden eyes. ‘Should I be?’

‘He’ll adore you,’ she reassured him. ‘And if he doesn’t, you’ll know about it pretty quickly.’

‘Oh blimey.’ Kit really was nervous.

Ella loved that her boyfriend was taking this meeting seriously. Her brother was the only family she had left. His opinion counted for everything. She picked up her spoon and replied, ‘Tomorrow lunchtime. He’s getting the early train down from Paddington. Should be at Bodmin by about one.’ Ella pushed curls the same colour as her soup behind her ears and dipped her spoon into the steaming bowl. She sipped and burnt her top lip. ‘Ow.’

‘Careful,’ Kit said, blowing on his own spoon.

Freckles bounced across her face as she opened her mouth to fan cool air onto her burning tongue.

Kit tore at the centre of his crusty French roll and handed her some. ‘It’ll cool you down.’ She took it gratefully.

For a couple of minutes neither spoke, quietly enjoying their simple lunch.

‘I suppose,’ frowned Kit, ‘I don’t want to make a bad impression.’

Ella giggled. ‘I think Henry is the one who needs to be more worried. He can be a total arse.’ She pulled Kit’s hand over the table and rubbed it against her cheek. ‘You’ll be the brother he never had.’

Kit let his hand trail her cheek and chin. ‘He’s very important to you, isn’t he?’

She blew on another spoonful of soup and nodded. ‘We are the last of the Tallons.’

Kit wiped the final crust of bread around his bowl. ‘Why do you think the solicitor wants to see you both?’

‘The usual, I expect. Mum has either hidden herself so well that she doesn’t want to be found, or she’s dead.’ Ella put her spoon down. Kit saw the lost child in the woman in front of him.

‘He’ll find her,’ he said with a certainty he didn’t feel.

‘I don’t know.’ Ella sighed. ‘Pass me your bowl.’

‘I’ll wash up,’ he said glancing out of the window and looking at the sky. ‘Fancy a walk? The dogs could do with one. Or are you too tired after all that vacuuming for your brother?’

Ella looked over at Terry and Celia who were lounging in their separate beds looking as disdainful as only Afghan hounds can.

‘Well, Doggies? Fancy a walk?’

Terry managed a discreet waft of his feathery tail while Celia sighed and raised an eyebrow. ‘What a pair of lazy gits,’ laughed Ella. She put her arm out to Kit as he passed on his way to the sink. ‘But can it be to Trevay? I need to pick up some steak to make pasties for Henry tomorrow.’

Henry couldn’t wait to get out of London. When the most recent solicitor’s letter had arrived last week he had managed to wangle a decent chunk of leave in Cornwall. He wasn’t too bothered about the letter. Another routine meeting. He and Ella had had so many since their grandmother had died. The problem lay with his unreliable, irresponsible mother who had left him and Ella when they were just tiny. He had been about two and Ella just over one. She’d disappeared to God knew where for God knew what whim and never come back. It had left Granny and Poppa heartbroken. Not to mention Henry, who still had vague memories of his mother. Sitting on her lap, being folded into her arms … Stop it, he told himself. Hopefully the solicitor would tell him and Ella that his mother was lost forever, or dead. Either would be fine with him. Then at last they could sort out Granny’s estate and move on with their lives.

He returned his attention to the work on his desk. Two reports to finish, three phone calls to make and a handover to his colleague on how to deal with any issues that might arise in his absence and then – he rubbed his hands gleefully – Cornwall here he came.

Ella and Kit closed the door of Marguerite Cottage and waved at their nearest neighbour, Simon Canter, the vicar of Holy Trinity Church.

‘Good afternoon,’ Simon greeted them as he walked through the churchyard. ‘Beautiful day. Enjoy it.’

‘We will,’ Ella called back.

He was right. It was a lovely day and as she waited for Kit to open up the car and load the dogs, Ella took time to absorb the moment. The Pendruggan village green with its cluster of old and new homes around it. Above her, tiny white cloud puffs floated in the bluest of skies. The smell of gorse on the wind, bringing with it the light rumble of surf on Shellsand Beach.

‘Come on. Jump in,’ said Kit, jangling the keys of his slightly aged car.

She climbed in. ‘It’s a day to be happy.’

‘It’s always a day to be happy for me,’ he replied reversing out of the short drive.

She laughed. ‘You’re always so bloody happy. It’s exhausting.’

‘I’m a glass half-full man.’

‘Don’t I know it. My healthy scepticism, hoping for the best expecting the worst, balances us perfectly.’ She waved and smiled as she spotted Queenie, owner of the village store and harbinger of all news, taking a quick fag break outside her shop. ‘Queenie, however, is on permanent standby for disaster. Like Henry.’

Kit shoved the car into first gear and set off around the village green towards Trevay. ‘So your brother’s a miserable sod, then?’

‘Yep. But he cheers up when he has beer inside him.’

‘I’m the man for that job.’

They drove in friendly silence up the dappled lane that took them past their local, the Dolphin Pub and out to the top road headed towards Trevay.

Ella had always loved this road, even as a child living in Trevay with her brother and grandparents. She unwound the window and watched as the trees and small cottages gave way to high hedges with gateways offering tantalising vistas of the sea beyond. As the road reached its highest point the trees and farms opened to acres of green fields, with the glittering Atlantic below, crashing onto the rocks of the headland that sheltered her childhood village.

The final descent into Trevay revealed the busy harbour with its working fishing fleet tied up on the low tide. How she loved this place. How she had missed it when her old family home had been sold as a bed and breakfast business.

‘Which way?’ asked Kit as they got out of the car.

‘Over to the headland?’ Ella was opening the hatchback boot and putting Celia and Terry on their leads. ‘These two can run around safely over there.’

The walk took them up the steep hill to the left of the harbour, past the Pavilions Theatre and onto the coastal path. The view from here was breathtaking. Jagged, slate-layered cliffs fell to the rolling boil of a gentle sea. Celia and Terry were unleashed and ran like cheetahs through the gold and purple of gorse and heather, forcing the shy skylarks to take to the wing and sing their beautiful song.

Kit pulled Ella towards him by the collar of her jacket and kissed her. ‘Happy anniversary,’ he said.

‘Happy anniversary, my love.’ She kissed him back. ‘How many months is it now?’

‘Five.’

She sighed. ‘Five months. The best five months of my life.’

‘And mine, sweetheart.’ He kissed her nose and they walked on hand in hand. ‘Fancy dinner out tonight? I mean five months is a hell of an anniversary, isn’t it?’

‘I’ve got to make the pasties for tomorrow. Henry will be disappointed if I don’t.’

‘Okay. How about coffee and a cake when we get back to Trevay?’

‘Done.’

They walked and talked and threw Celia and Terry their balls until all four of them were ready to go back to the car.

‘They’ll sleep well tonight,’ said Kit, shutting them in the boot.

‘We all will.’ Ella took off her jacket. ‘I’m ready for that cake too.’

The Foc’sle was an old-fashioned teashop on the quay, two doors down from the Golden Hind pub.

‘We could have a quick pint if you want?’ said Ella.

‘Much rather have a pot of tea.’ Kit perused the slightly sticky, laminated menu. ‘How about a cream tea? You need fattening up.’

‘Do I?’ She fluttered her eyelashes winsomely.

‘Yes, indeed,’ he said seriously. ‘Being as lovely as you takes up many more calories than the average person. Fact. All that smiling and thinking kind thoughts is almost aerobic.’

‘Well, in that case …’ She nudged his knee under the table with her own. ‘I can always do some exercise … at bedtime. You could join me if you wanted.’

‘Oh, Miss Tallon,’ he shrieked, pretending to be shocked, ‘Just because you are a blazing firework of a woman with marmalade curls, you think you can do what you want with me?’

Ella giggled, ‘Yes.’

‘Then I am helpless, pulled by a current so strong I can’t resist. Do what you will, but …’

She raised an eyebrow and in a deep voice said, ‘Yes?’

‘Be gentle with me.’

‘Can I help you?’ asked the middle-aged waitress with a name badge saying Sheree, who was standing over them.

Without missing a beat, Kit said, ‘Two cream teas, please.’

The pasties didn’t get made that night after all. When Ella came down in the morning the remnants of a chicken salad and a bottle and a half of wine were winking at her from the coffee table in the sitting room, reminding her of the evening they had spent curled up together, talking about everything and anything.

As she collected up the plates and stubs of candles she thought back to what they had talked about last night.

Ella wanted to talk about her plan to offer short painting courses for locals and holidaymakers. ‘The cliffs, the harbour, the church. There’s so much here for little children. We could go to the beach and find shells to paint or pebbles to paint on. That would be fun.’

‘Like your granny did for you? Revisiting your childhood?’

‘Oh.’ Ella was anxious. ‘Is that a bad thing?’

‘Not at all,’ Kit reassured her. ‘It’s lovely, and I think taking the little darlings from their parents for a couple of hours is a wonderful thing – for the parents.’

She flapped her hand and took another sip of wine. ‘What about you? When are you going to get on the cliffs and paint?’

‘I’ve got that portrait of Lindsay Cowan to finish, with her cat, dog and horse.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘She’s lovely, but what she sees as handsome, intelligent companions, I see as bloody pains in the arse. The cat is a toothless bag of bones, the dog stinks and growls at me and the horse farts and tries to bite me. But,’ he topped up his glass, ‘she pays well.’

‘When you’re done with her,’ Ella lifted her hands and began to draw in the air, ‘I want you to paint a huge canvas of a darkly rolling sea with stars twinkling and a lighthouse flashing across the waves. It’ll be perfect above the fireplace.’

‘One day,’ he put his glass down and kissed her knee, ‘that’s exactly what I shall paint for you.’

Ella’s hand was around his shoulders as he lay his head in her lap. The candlelight flickered warmly creating a cosy cocoon. ‘This is nice,’ she said sleepily.

‘We won’t be able to do this tomorrow. Your brother will be here and Adam will be back.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘And the day after, you might find out what happened to your mum.’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you think happened to her?

‘A million things. I have spent my whole life thinking about her and why she left. Sometimes I want her to come back and other times I hope she’s dead. It would be easier. I could build a picture of a mum I want. Not a phantom built from questions.’

Ella wondered if what she had said last night was true. She felt no anger towards her missing mother. Just a need to know why. She took the dirty plates and glasses from last night and stacked them into the dishwasher before putting the kettle on for a pot of morning tea. As she waited for it to boil, she tidied the rest of the sitting room, plumping cushions, opening the curtains to the early sun and picking up a chewed slipper and a rubber chicken, both toys left by Celia and Terry.

She heard both dogs yawning from their room next to the kitchen and went to let them out. Terry came out, then sat scratching like any human man under his armpits and Celia strode out as if she was wearing thigh-high boots.

‘Good morning,’ said Ella.

The Afghan hounds ignored her and, pushing through her legs towards the kitchen door, took themselves into the garden.

Leaving the back door open, knowing there were no escape routes from the garden, she took a tray of tea up to Kit.

He was propped up against his pillows, waiting for her.

‘And how is the mistress of the house today?’

Ella gave a little bob of a curtsey, and as she put the tray down and went to climb into bed, the phone rang.

‘Leave it,’ said Kit.

Ella picked it up. ‘Hello? Henry, where are you? Okay. Lovely. Can’t wait to see you.’ She smiled at a scowling Kit. ‘And Kit can’t wait, either! Bye. Love you.’

Kit watched her as she put the phone down. ‘I suppose this means I’m not going to see your ankles, Ruby?’

She grinned at him. ‘There’s always time for ankles, m’lord.’

‘Ow!’ Ella squeaked, putting the hot baking tray down quickly.

Kit, coming downstairs freshly shaved and smelling delicious, popped his head into the kitchen. ‘You okay?’

‘The tea towel was a bit thin and I burnt myself on the pasty tin.’ She ran her fingers under the cold tap. ‘I’m fine.’

‘They smell good,’ said Kit checking his watch. ‘Anything I can do?’

She looked at him over her shoulder. ‘I just want you and my brother to get on well. It would mean so much to me.’

She looked so anxious, cheeks pink from cooking, hair caught up in a bun with a pencil allowing curls to escape over her ears, and her singed fingers under the tap. Kit got a clean tea towel and went to her. ‘Here, let me dry your hand.’ He turned the tap off and gently wrapped her hand, kissing the tips of her fingers as he did so. ‘Of course I’ll like your brother. But will he like me?’

Ella began to laugh. ‘Well, he will if you take him to the pub!’

‘I think I can manage that.’

The rattle of a taxi in the drive heralded Henry’s arrival.

‘He’s here!’ Ella ran to the front door and opened it. ‘Henry!’ She charged out of the house and ran at him, smothering him in a hug and kisses. ‘I’ve missed my bro.’

‘Whoa, let me pay the driver,’ he said, disentangling himself as best he could.

As he got his bag from the back seat and handed the driver his fare, he saw a man he assumed must be Kit. He gave him a quick scan. Thirtyish. Checked shirt and shorts. Nice tan. Looked okay.

He put his bag into his left hand and extended his right. ‘You must be Kit. Henry.’

‘Henry. Good to meet you.’ It was Kit’s turn to run a discerning assessment of Henry.

Long legs. Expensive jeans and jacket. White open-necked shirt. Flash watch. But he looked okay.

Ella looped her arms through each of the boys’ and dragged them into the house. ‘Welcome to Marguerite Cottage.’

Inside the hall, Henry dropped his bag on the flagstones and looked around him. ‘Very nice, Ell’s Bell’s.’

‘Come into the garden. Tea? Coffee? I could make a jug of Pimm’s?’

Henry followed her through the lounge with Kit, and out through the double doors into the pretty garden. ‘You have landed with your bum in butter, haven’t you, Ellie? Very nice.’

‘Yes, I have.’ Ella replied, squeezing her shoulders to her ears and grinning in delight. ‘And I’ve got pasties for you. Homemade.’

‘Fancy a pint?’ asked Kit.

‘Do I?’ Henry smiled. ‘With an offer like that, if Ella doesn’t marry you, I will.’

Ella was mortified and dug Henry in the ribs. ‘Shut up.’

‘Just saying,’ he said, clutching his side. ‘Will the pasties keep for an hour?’

‘Yes. Go on. They’ll keep. I’ll take your bag up to your room. You’re in Kit’s studio. For now.’

‘I’ll take it up later. It’s heavy.’ He opened it and hauled a bulging carrier bag out. ‘Here, take this bag – it’s got a huge pile of post for you. When you left me in London I didn’t think you’d be falling in love and not coming back.’

Ella couldn’t keep a blush from her cheeks. ‘God, you are so embarrassing.’

Kit saved her. ‘Neither of us expected to fall in love, but we did. I love your sister very much.’

Henry half closed his eyes and weighed up this open declaration. ‘Good on you. Don’t muck her about or I’ll flatten you.’

‘Fair enough.’ Kit smiled. ‘Now, how about that pint? Ella, do you want to come?”

‘No thanks. You two go and get to know each other. I’ll make myself a Pimm’s and have a look through the post Henry’s brought.’

She waved the boys off with their promise to be only an hour, or so, and took the Waitrose bag of post to the garden.

Getting a glass of Pimm’s, she settled herself at the garden table and sifted through the mail.

The piles in front of her grew tediously. Catalogues. Charity requests. Bank statements. A postcard from an old school friend now living in Peru. Pension firms. Insurance firms. Funeral savings plan. And, a letter from a publisher. Months before she had written and illustrated a children’s book called Hedgerow Adventures. She had hoped that her departed granny would guide her to a fruitful contract. She opened the envelope.

Dear Miss Tallon,

Re Hedgerow Adventures

Thank you for your submission. Unfortunately this is not the sort of book we would publish. We will return the manuscript under separate cover,

Yours etc …

She sat back and blew out a long breath of frustration.

‘Granny,’ she said, ‘you got me excited for a moment. Ah well. C’est la vie.’ She picked up her Pimm’s and took a long, cool, self-commiserating mouthful.

Her phone buzzed. It was Henry.

‘Hi, Henry, is everything okay?’

‘Have you looked at your emails?’

‘No, I’ve been going through the post. So much crap …’

‘Check them now,’ he said urgently.

‘Okay, hang on.’ She put her phone on speaker and looked at the screen. There was an email waiting to be opened. ‘I’ve got it. It’s from Granny’s solicitor.’

‘Open it.’

She did so and as she read it her heartbeat began to accelerate ‘Oh. My. God,’ she whispered. ‘It can’t be true.’

‘It is true.’ Henry’s voice was gruff with anger.

Ella’s hand was shaking as she gripped the phone. Swallowing hard to stop any tears she said, ‘Our mother is alive?’

‘Yes,’ said Henry. ‘And she wants to see us.’ He was having difficulty keeping the shock from his voice. As soon as he had read the message, relaxing with a pint on the Dolphin’s oak bar and chatting to Kit, he’d excused himself and gone to the relative privacy of the pub car park to phone Ella.

He was scuffing the gravel with his shoes. ‘I can’t believe she’s got the nerve.’ He bit his lip, his face the definition of rage and pain. ‘After all these years.’ He pushed his free hand into his floppy fringe and pulled his hair. ‘She’s bloody alive. Well, I can tell you now, we are not seeing her.’

Ella sat down. ‘But she’s our mother.’

‘Ha! She lost the right to call herself that years ago.’

‘Henry, this is shock talking, we need time to think about it.’

‘No, we don’t. There’s only one reason she’d come back. Because Granny’s solicitor has told her that Granny is dead and that she is in for an inheritance. That’s all there is to it.’

Ella loved her brother very much, but she didn’t always agree with him. ‘It must have been a shock for her to hear that. Her mother dead, her father too.’

Henry snorted and ran his hands through his floppy blond hair. ‘Well, it was a bit of a shock for me too, you know, when I heard that my mum had run away. I was only two.’

‘I know.’ Ella looked at the garden she and Kit had started to plant. ‘I can’t imagine how she could leave you. She knew you. It was easier for me. I was just a baby. She didn’t have time to know me. I don’t have a clue what she was like … and that’s why I’d like to see her.’

Henry sat on the wall of the pub’s entrance, all the adrenalin leaving him. ‘I don’t know what to think. I was hoping they wouldn’t find her. Or if they did, that she had died.’

‘Don’t say that!’ Ella flopped into her squashy sofa. ‘Is Kit still with you?’

‘He’s inside. I saw the email and came out to tell you first. He doesn’t know.’

‘Come home. The pair of you. Come home now.’

Ella had been hugging herself with joy just ten minutes ago. How quickly everything can change for the worse.

Ella took Henry’s bag up to Kit’s small studio and put it next to the single bed. It was getting on for late afternoon and through the open window a blackbird was singing in the magnolia tree. Instantly anger rose in her. How dare the bloody birds be so happy while her world was turned upside down? She shut the window with a bang, making the bird fly off. Good riddance, she thought to herself.

Downstairs she heard Kit’s car pull up. She ran down and opened the front door.

Kit was looking serious, as if there had been a terrible accident and he now had the responsibility of the fallout. Which he had, she supposed.

Henry was pale and blowing out his cheeks in a childhood mannerism that always signalled upset.

‘Hi,’ she said softly.

Kit came to her immediately and put his arms around her. He felt the softness and sweetness of her incredible red curls then stood arm’s length from her, his hands on her shoulders. ‘You okay?’

She shook her head and at last felt hot tears springing to her eyes. ‘Not really.’

Kit shepherded brother and sister into the kitchen and made them sit down. ‘You both need a drink. Tea or alcohol?’

Ella settled for a cup of tea while Henry and Kit had large gin and tonics.

‘Right,’ said Kit, pulling out a chair from the table and sitting down. ‘Tell me exactly what has happened.’

Ella looked at Henry. ‘Do you want to tell him?’ she asked.

Henry shrugged in reply and looked at his hands clenching the icy glass.

She looked at Kit. ‘The solicitor has found our mother and she wants to see us.’

Kit was looking at her attentively. ‘What do you think she wants after all this time?’

‘Granny’s money,’ said Henry, flatly.

‘Or,’ said Kit trying to sound positive, ‘she might be coming because she wants to see you two, after all she hasn’t seen you for …’

‘Almost twenty-five years.’ Henry picked up his glass and drank.

Ella swallowed hard. ‘The thing is, Henry has memories of her. Nice ones, I think.’

Henry grunted.

‘They had had time to get to know each other. It was much more painful for him.’ She looked at her brother. ‘I should think.’

Henry said nothing but looked at the floor.

‘Whereas I don’t remember anything about her. I mean she left when I was only just over a year old,’ said Ella, still watching Henry. ‘That’s why I want to see her.’

Henry glared at her. ‘Really?’

Ella twiddled her fingers anxiously. ‘I want to know what she looks like. Do we look alike? What she’s been doing? Why did she leave us?’ She wiped her nose as a tear ran down her cheek. ‘Everything, really.’

Henry was angry. ‘She’s one selfish cow who doesn’t deserve to be listened to. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s lied through her teeth anyway. She might not even be our mother. Just some strange woman who thinks she could get lucky. I wouldn’t believe a word she said.’

‘But, Henry, we must try. Then decide whether we want to be friends or not.’

‘Friends? What are you talking about? She’s a madwoman. We don’t know anything about her. Correction, we know that she had two children by the time she was seventeen and she never told her own parents who the father – or fathers – were, and despite Granny and Grandad being kind and supportive to her, she ran away in the night and never looked back. What kind of person does that?’

‘A sad person?’ Ella said quietly. ‘A person who finds themselves in a really hard place at the start of their adult life and can’t cope. People run away all the time. Every day. She was not in her right mind.’

‘Why didn’t she come back?’ demanded Henry.

‘She was scared,’ Ella said. ‘Once you’ve done something like that, maybe there is no coming back.’

Henry gave a short laugh. ‘Really? Not to have any curiosity about how your children turned out? Not even to see your own parents? Who, in case you had forgotten, never recovered from the worry of what might have happened to her?’

Ella drained her cup of tea, gripped by a sudden anger at his unkindness. She scraped her chair back and took her cup to the sink. She kept her back to her brother. ‘Have you no empathy?’ There was a tea bag in the sink. She fished it out and put it into the food bin. ‘She was just a young girl, Henry. One who had got herself in a mess and she wanted to change that.’

‘By walking out and leaving her shit to be cleared up by her parents?’ sneered Henry. ‘Brilliant.’

Kit, who had been listening to all this quietly, now intervened. ‘You two getting angry with each other isn’t going to help.’

‘Oh, shut up. You know nothing about it,’ said Henry, waving his hand dismissively.

‘I know Ella,’ Kit replied calmly, ‘and I agree with her. You both need to meet this woman and find out who she really is. If you don’t like her after that, then fine. It’s over. You can all move on.’

Ella softened and, walking to Henry’s chair, put her arms around his neck and hugged him. ‘Kit’s right.’

Henry clasped his sister’s hands and pulled her closer to him. ‘It hurts …’ He spoke quietly.

‘I know,’ she said.

‘Was it me?’ His voice caught. ‘Was it my fault?’

Ella took her arms from his neck and knelt by his side. ‘How could it be your fault. You were only two. It might have been my fault. I was the final straw. A second mistake.’

Henry’s tears began to fall. He angrily wiped them away. ‘I hate her, Ellie. I don’t want to see her and I don’t want you to see her either.’ He took her upturned face in his hands. ‘Promise me you won’t see her? I couldn’t bear it.’

Ella saw the pain in her brother’s eyes and made her decision. ‘I promise I won’t see her for as long as you don’t want me too. But I can’t promise that I’ll never want to see her.’

He nodded and let his hands drop. ‘Thank you,’ he answered simply.

2

Agra, India, 2018

Sennen was nervous. More than nervous. What was going on in Cornwall? Her solicitor had promised to phone as soon as he had heard back from Ella and Henry and she’d been restless all morning. She walked to the shuttered windows of her hotel room and looked down on to the bustle of the street market. She could almost feel the heat and smell the dust through the glass. It was monsoon season, and although the clouds had now cleared, the last downpour had left deep puddles on the muddy street and in the awnings of the market stalls. She watched as a young woman in a rose-pink sari stepped out into the busy road and neatly sidestepped a couple of hungry dogs who took a sniff at her shopping, a plastic bag filled with colourful vegetables and herbs. A passing tuk-tuk beeped his horn and she waved at the driver in recognition, rows of golden bangles slipping up her arm and glinting in the hot sun.

Sennen watched as the woman continued her journey until she was no longer in view. How jealous she was of that woman.

She began pacing her hotel room once again.

What had she done?. She twisted her wedding ring and stared at the phone by the bed, willing it to ring.

The letter that had started this turmoil was next to the phone.

A letter postmarked ‘Cornwall’.

Cornwall. She’d walked away a long time ago. She thought of a quote from The Go-Between: ‘The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.’ Who wrote that? If Kafir were here he would know. Kafir … one of the most erudite men she knew. Not that she knew many men. Her life hadn’t all been roses, and right now it was just the thorns.

She sat on the bed, closed her eyes and began her private ritual of summoning Trevay in her mind’s eye and walking its narrow streets and lanes. What were the little boats in the harbour doing now? Would any of the ones she remembered still be working or were they left in the silt, their hulks rotting down to skeletons? Or perhaps they’d been dragged up to The Sheds where all boats rested, used and unused.

She could smell the seaweed and the salt.

Hear the gulls laughing.

The splash of water as children launched their crab lines into the deep harbour.

Her mother painting at her easel on the beach. Her washed-out linen shirts and faded trousers glowing in the sun.

Poppa sitting at his pottery wheel. The shiny slip of water and clay covering his hands to his elbows.

She dared, for a moment, to think about Henry but, as always, the electric nerve pain of the thought stopped her. She couldn’t even summon his face now. Or Ella’s. She had been a wicked woman. And now, with the letter from Cornwall, they had found her and would make her pay.

It had come like a ghost summoning her to her grave.

There were several old addresses written on the envelope as it had chased her around the globe, before finding her here, in India.

When she had read it, locked in her bathroom, away from any inquisition, the sense of fear had almost compelled her to run again.

The letter told her that her father had died some years ago, her mother three years ago. They had died intestate, had made no will, so she was the sole heir to the estate. The house had been sold for a good price when the solicitor, acting as trustee, had rightly thought the market was at its highest. That money was now in a high interest account and it was hers. She or her solicitor should come to Cornwall. All that needed to be done was to prove her identity and sign some forms. She didn’t even have to come to Cornwall, she could send a solicitor as her representative.

There was nothing about her children.

It took several days before she could formulate her reply. In it she expressed a desire to meet Henry and Ella and would only return to Cornwall if they wanted to see her.

The solicitor agreed to phone her when he had their answer.

She lay on the bed and allowed memories of her childhood to fill her thoughts.

She was on the beach at Shellsand Bay. Her father, nut-brown and strongly muscled, was swinging her round and round. He was smiling. His bright blue eyes twinkling in his tanned face and his deep laugh making her giggle. ‘Daddeeeee.’

‘Bill, darling, she might be sick,’ said her mother.

‘Are you going to be sick?’ he asked Sennen.

‘Noooooo,’ she giggled.

‘Would you like to come swimming with me and Mum?’

‘Yeeessssss.’

He put her down on the warm sand. ‘Get your rubber ring and we’ll look for the mermaids, shall we?’

Sennen ran to her mother. ‘Mummy, Daddy’s taking us swimming.’ She’d pulled at the slender, elegant hand of her mother. ‘Come on.’

Her father stood ready in his dark-blue swimming shorts.

Her mother smiled, ‘Of course. Let me just sort myself out.’ Adela had been painting in the small sketchbook she always carried with her, capturing the likeness of fishermen mending their nets or lobster pots piled high on the harbour or the holidaymakers napping in the sun.

‘I like that,’ said Bill peering over her shoulder at her watercolour of the beach scene in front of them. ‘Good colours.’

Adela stood up and put her hands on her husband’s bare chest. She kissed him. ‘Thank you.’

He kissed her back then held her slim body in his arms. She pressed her cheek against him and smelt the warmth of his skin.

‘I do love you,’ she said.

‘And I love you.’

Sennen bashed her mother on the back of the knees with her sand spade. ‘Come! On!’

Bill and Adela laughed and, taking Sennen in a hand each, they ran to the waves, swinging her between them. She had grown up surrounded by so much love and kindness. How could she have turned her back on them?

3

Cornwall, 1972

Adela was Cornish to the heart. Her parents had been wealthy landowners from Bodmin, her father the quintessential country squire and her mother a beauty of her day. Adela had wanted for nothing. The only awkward thing being that they were none of the things she actually wanted. Money, comfort, beauty, beaus – all were hers for the taking. But it wasn’t what she longed for. She dreamt of being a great artist, living a rackety bohemian life in London, preferably Pimlico, which she had heard about and liked the sound of.

When she finally told them, it had caused much consternation for her parents, who had planned a husband, Anthony, handsome and untroubled by intellect with a rather lovely medieval manor house on the banks of the Tamar.

But it was not to be. At the age of eighteen she won a place at the Slade School of Art on Gower Street, Bloomsbury.

She refused her parents’ offer of a nice little flat in Baker Street and, instead, put her name down for a flat-share with any of the new, female, students she would be joining up with. She would find out who when she arrived for her first term.

Her mother, a woman with a great capacity for organisation, decided her talents would be best spent taking her only child to Truro for the day and kitting her out with a new wardrobe of fashionable dresses and accessories and, as an afterthought, paints.

Come early September her father ordered his cherished Morris 6 to be serviced, polished and refuelled and drove her up to London in what he noted was record time. Nine and a half hours. It would have been even quicker if it hadn’t been for the thick fog that had rolled over Dartmoor and a puncture on the A38.

Adela had waved him off to his club, where he would spend the night before the return journey the following day, and set about her new life with enthusiasm.

Her new flat, off Marylebone High Street, was small but clean and her flatmates were fun. There was Elsie, who was Irish and smoked, and Kina, who tied her hair with bright cotton scarves and wore boy’s jeans. She was from Jamaica and was the most exotic person Adela had ever met.

Together they shared everything, including Kina’s fashion sense. Within days Adela’s pretty dresses and gloves, were taken off their hangers and bundled into Adela’s suitcase under her single bed. Now Adela hunted the jumble sales and bric-a-brac stalls for overgrown jumpers and men’s shirts which she knotted at the waist and loose canvas trousers. For a brief moment she tried smoking too but she really couldn’t get on with it so took, instead, to drinking halves of bitter when she met fellow students in the pub.

The first year flew by and, returning to Cornwall the following summer, she was surprised by how much she had missed it.

Her mother wanted to know all the London gossip. She had none. Had she been to Harrods? No. At which restaurants had she dined? Again, none.

Had she met any nice boys as she would be delighted to invite them to tea? No, but if I do I shall let them know.

Why did she wear such shabby clothes? I like them.

Wouldn’t she like to get her hair styled? It’s fine as it is.

It was towards the end of August that Adela took herself up to the golden fields of swaying corn in order to paint the local men who were getting her father’s harvest in.

Her mother had hung string bags of bread, cheese and pasties on her handlebars and in her panniers she had placed bottles of cider to give the men a snack. When Adela had arrived, the men, stripped to their vests, had cheered and stopped work to enjoy their break. She knew most of them by sight, if not by name, as they had been getting the harvest in for as many years as she could remember.

Perching on whatever they could find, the bolder amongst them asked about her new life in London. She told them about the London pubs she visited and the life-drawing classes where the models were naked.

There was one boy, wide-shouldered and sunburnt with very blue eyes and very white teeth who lay on his shirt and listened but didn’t look at her or join in.

She had never seen him before.

When the snack was done and both thirsts and appetites quenched, Old John, her father’s stockman, called the men back to their labours.

The new boy thanked her for the food and drink and introduced himself as Bill. His hand was rough and strong in hers as she shook it. ‘Will you be here tomorrow?’ he had asked. ‘I’m not sure,’ she replied.

He smiled as he put his cap on and picked up his pitch fork. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said and strode back up the field.

‘Who’s that new boy helping with the harvest?’ she asked her father over dinner that night.

‘Aha,’ smiled her father. ‘No need to ask you which one. All the girls are after him.’

Adela looked at the asparagus on her plate and stabbed it. ‘I was just wondering.’

Her father gave a sly look to her mother and said innocently, ‘He’s a good chap, actually. I know his father. Nice man but awfully worried for the boy. He doesn’t want to join the family firm. He’s down in St Ives, working with some pottery chap. Pity.’

Adela couldn’t help but bristle. ‘Pity? Because he prefers art to business?’

Her mother leant over and touched Adela’s hand. ‘No dear, your father is mischief-making. The boy – William, I think his name is?’ She looked at her husband who nodded. ‘William, is a super chap, although a bit of a leftie.’

Adela couldn’t help but laugh. ‘We are all a bit “leftie” now, you know.’

‘We are not!’ Her father banged the table.

‘Well, I am,’ said Adela calmly.

Her mother gasped and clutched her throat. ‘Oh darling, is that why you dress like a man?’

Adela shook her head smiling. ‘No, Mother, I dress like this because it’s comfortable and practical and all my friends do the same.’

Her father took a mouthful of pork pie and mumbled, ‘I told you we shouldn’t have let her go to London.’

Her mother ignored him. ‘But, Adela, dear, if you want a husband you must at least try to look pretty.’

‘I’m not sure I want a husband.’

‘But, dear …’ Her mother was putting two and two together and making six. ‘Do you not like men?’

Adela put her knife and fork neatly on her plate and said nothing.

‘I mean,’ her mother continued, ‘it could be just a phase you’re going through. I remember at boarding school there were girls who got quite friendly but they got over it in the end.’

‘Mother, stop, you are embarrassing Father, me and yourself.’

‘Your father’s a farmer, he knows all about these things.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Don’t you, dear?’

Her father finished his wine and stood up. ‘I’m going to let the dogs out.’

‘Mother, you are terrible,’ said Adela watching her father go. ‘Now let’s clear the table.’

The next day, Adela went back to the fields and was pleased when William waved at her and was one of the first to get a glass of lemonade and slice of cheese. ‘Hello again,’ he said. ‘Are you painting today?’

Adela was putting out the bread and cheese and a few apples on to a linen cloth for the lads. ‘It’s so lovely up here, I thought I would.’

‘May I see it when you’re done?’

‘It depends.’ She smiled. ‘I hear you’re a potter?’

He took an apple and rubbed it on his trousers. ‘My father has been talking to yours, I suppose?’

Adela smiled wryly.

‘I’m an apprentice,’ said Bill, ‘down in St Ives?’

‘Ah, Bernard Leach country.’

‘I’m impressed.’ He took a chunk out of his apple. ‘Nobody here seems to have heard of him.’

‘I’m studying art at the Slade.’

‘Yes, I heard. Your father has been talking to mine.’

Adela laughed and Bill looked at her closely. ‘That explains it.’

‘Explains what?’

‘The way you look.’

She looked down at her crumpled linen smock and rolled up trousers, and said defiantly, ‘What’s wrong with the way I look?’

‘Nothing.’ He grinned. ‘I like it. You look like the type of girl who wouldn’t mind getting caught in rainstorm, or pushing a car out of a ditch.

‘Oh,’ she said disconsolately.

‘It’s a compliment, believe me.’

‘Didn’t sound like one.’

She looked down at her scruffy sandals and brown, unshaved ankles. Self-consciously she tucked them under herself.

From the top of the field she heard Old John calling the lads back to work.

‘Tell you what,’ said Bill standing up and tossing his apple core into a hedge, ‘what are you doing tonight?’

She looked at him suspiciously. ‘Why?’

‘I’m taking you out. I’ll pick you up at seven.’

She had nothing to wear. The bed was littered with half a dozen garments which she’d had for years. Amongst which was an old dress she’d had since she was fourteen that was too short and much too tight; a pretty cotton skirt with a broken zip – and a horrible taffeta bridesmaid dress she’d had to wear for her cousin’s wedding. Red faced from her bath and the putting on and taking off of so many things, she sat on the edge of the bed in despair. There was a soft knock at the door.

‘It’s Mother. Can I help?’

Adela sighed and flopped backwards on to the bed in despair. ‘Come in.’

Her mother put her head around the door. ‘I thought so. I found this. Any good?’

She was holding a Liberty-print cotton summer dress. ‘I bought it ages ago. In a sale. It’s too young for me. Too small, too. Try it.’

In the mirror, even Adela was pleased with her reflection. The dress was simple and hung a little loose on her but it was perfect. Her mother had brushed her hair into a neat ponytail and had attempted a little rouge and lipstick but Adela had been firm about saying no. Finally, her mother had stepped back. ‘You’ll do,’ she said.

From downstairs they heard the bang of the old doorknocker and her father calling up the stairs, ‘Prince Charming has arrived, Cinders.’

Bill had borrowed his father’s car and drove Adela through the lanes and down to the pretty fishing village of Trevay. His shirtsleeved arm leaning on the open window, he chatted about this and that and gradually the knot in Adela’s stomach began to loosen. As they came down the hill towards the harbour, Adela saw that the fishing boats were coming in on the tide, ready to land their catches on the quay. The sun was bouncing on the surface of the rippling sea making the light sparkle and flash.

‘I love it here,’ she said. ‘I haven’t been for ages. I could paint that sea every day.’

Bill parked the car outside the Golden Hind, picked up his jacket from the back seat and helped Adela inside.

‘What will you drink?’ he asked.

‘Half a bitter, please.’ She didn’t see his amused smile as she looked around the dark and cosy bar. ‘It’s nice in here.’

Paying the barman, he carried his pint and her half towards the door. ‘Let’s take our drinks outside.’

The sun was beginning to set and the day was losing its warmth. She shivered a little as they sat on the harbour wall across form the pub and watched the fishing boats unload.

‘Would you like my jacket?’ he asked. ‘Or I have a jumper in the car?’

‘You’ll need your jacket but the jumper would be lovely thank you.’

‘Don’t go away.’ He set off for the car, Adela watching him. He was undeniably handsome, tall and muscular with an easy smile, the sort of man, she thought, one could fall in love with. She checked herself and looked back at the boat. She was only eighteen and she and Elsie and Kina had sworn to each other that they would play the field as men did, would never settle down with the first man they met. She looked over to him again. He was leaning into the car and reaching for something on the back seat. When he reappeared, he had the jumper in his hand and looked over at her with such a look that her heart jumped a little. She quickly returned her gaze to the boats, as if the unloading of their catches was of the utmost interest. She decided that, when he came back, she would be polite and cool. She would give no indication that she might find him attractive.

Adela waited a few seconds longer then glanced in his direction to see what was keeping him.

She saw at once.

Two girls were talking to him. Two pretty girls. One had her hand on his chest as she was talking to him, the other was pulling at his hand.

Adela’s hand was shaking so much that she had to put her drink down. She looked over again. He was pointing at her and all three of them were laughing. At her? She felt her breath quicken and her cheeks redden. How could she escape?

Too late, he was coming towards her. ‘Adela, meet a couple of old friends. Barbara …’

‘Hello,’ pouted Barbara, still holding Bill’s hand.

‘And Jill.’

‘Hi,’ said Jill, giving Adela a full top to toe scope.

‘Bill …’ Adela stood. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m not feeling very well. I’ll get the bus back.’

Bill frowned. ‘Don’t be silly, I’ll drive you.’

‘No, it’s no trouble. I’ll get the bus or ring my father. I don’t want to spoil your evening.’

‘Spoil my …’ Bill was confused and exasperated. ‘We’ve only just got here.’

Jill butted in. ‘She’ll be fine on the bus. Stay with us. We’ll have a laugh.’

Adela stood fixed to the spot. Was she to be so easily shaken off?

Bill shook out his jumper and placed it around Adela’s shoulders.

‘Adela needs to go home and I shall take her.’

In the car, Adela said nothing. Her emotions were running high. She was elated that he had brushed those girls off but angry that he even knew them. Who were they? How well did he know them? Her father had said that all the girls were after him. Well, she wasn’t. This would be the first and last time she would accept a date from him.

Her eyes slid over to look at him. His profile in the dark of the car was strong but his lips were tensed as he ran his hand through his hair. He felt her gaze and looked over at her. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Okay.’

‘Are you sure it wasn’t something else?’ She wondered if he was teasing her.

‘Too much sun maybe,’ she said.

‘You don’t get sun in London?’ He was teasing her.

She turned to look out of her window and didn’t give him the courtesy of an answer.

‘I was looking forward to tonight,’ he said. ‘What did I do wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Was it the girls?’

She shook her head, refusing to look at him.

‘I grew up with them. They’re fun.’

‘Good for them.’

He slowed the car in the lane leading down to her family farm. The headlights picked out an owl on a gatepost as he brought the car to a halt and turned the engine and headlights off, then they sat without speaking. Only the gentle ticking of the engine cooling broke the silence.

‘Adela,’ he said gently.

‘Why have we stopped?’ she asked.

‘I wanted a chance to talk to you. Without interruption. We’ve got at least two hours before your parents will be expecting you back.’ He settled in his seat, his back to the driver’s door. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Feeling better?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. So talk to me.’

‘About what?’

‘Tell me about who you are and what you want out of life.’

‘I’m Adela Trip. I’m eighteen. I’m an artist and I want to make a living from my work. Is that enough?’

‘Uh huh. Do you have a boyfriend?’

She shook her head, then dared to look into his eyes. ‘Do you have a girlfriend?’

‘No. Not at the moment.’

‘Oh.’ She smiled. ‘And so who are you and what do you want to do with your life?’

‘Right now I’d like a pint and some fish and chips. That was how I had planned tonight.’

‘Sorry I messed it up,’ she said shyly.

‘I forgive you.’ He was teasing again. ‘Shall we start afresh?’

She bit her lip but managed a smile. ‘Yes please.’

‘Good.’ He turned the engine on and reversed the car. ‘We’ll go over to Pendruggan village. There’s a great pub there called the Dolphin. Proper beer, good food and quiet. Fancy it?’

From then on the evening went smoothly. Bill was an easy person to be around and Adela made him laugh with her stories of her flatmates and her tutors, two of whom were Graham Sutherland and Lucien Freud. He told her about his work with the pottery and the great Bernard Leach who was teaching him. ‘He’s a genius, Adela. I’d like you to come down and meet him.’

‘That would be lovely.’

‘Good. By the way, can you play darts? The board has just come free.’

She surprised him with her skill at darts and took a game off him straight away.

‘Have you been having lessons?’

‘Beginner’s luck,’ she laughed. ‘Or maybe I’ve spent the last year in London learning to play in our local?’

‘Right, if that’s the case,’ he picked up his darts, ‘no more Mr Nice Guy.’

The drive back to the house was very different to either of the previous drives that evening. Now they were comfortable together, the small silences between them serene and pleasant.

At the front door, she thanked him.

‘Will you be up at the harvest tomorrow?’ he asked.

‘It’s my job to bring you all your snack, isn’t it?’

‘Ah yes. That’ll be the reason you come up.’

‘Nothing else.’ She chewed her lip, hoping and fearing that he might kiss her. She tipped her head up to his and in a low voice said, ‘So. See you tomorrow?’

She half-closed her eyes and waited. He hesitated, then stepped off the front step and walked backwards towards his car.

‘Yes. See you tomorrow.’ He opened the driver’s door and bent to get in. She watched the way he folded his long legs into the seat and sat down. Being so tall, his head touched the roof. As he started the engine and the car began to pull away he leant out of the window and said, ‘Did I mention how lovely you look in that dress?’

She stood for a long time, watching his taillights grow smaller until they disappeared from sight.