Trenouth

by Bea Green

  The others didn’t take much longer to follow the first surfer. One by one they slowly gave up and walked out of the ocean.

  One surfer drew her attention because of his colourful surfboard. It looked as though he’d coloured it himself. In awkward, wacky letters, it seemed that the name ‘Doc Dude’ had been scrawled across it with spray paint.

  Elinor wasn’t sure she’d read the name correctly, and was so intent on watching the surfboard she hadn’t noticed its owner walk right up to her.

  She looked up in surprise as his shadow fell over her.

  ‘Hello,’ said the surfer quickly, noting the sudden alarm in Elinor’s eyes.

  Elinor relaxed.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone trying to take photographs of us at this time of year,’ the surfer said curiously.

  Elinor studied him. He had a shock of bleach blonde hair and a face pink and roughened by the icy cold of the seawater. His eyes were a warm shade of brown and his smile seemed to be genuine.

  ‘I’m visiting my uncle and I’ve enjoyed watching the surfers on the beaches around here. I was just keen to watch you all close-up today.’

  ‘With a camera?’

  Elinor smiled knowingly.

  ‘Why, yes! It’s a very good camera actually, with a fantastic zoom. It’s not the fastest in the world, but it’s actually the preferred choice for many renowned photographers.’

  The surfer looked at the camera with interest.

  ‘So you’re a photographer?’ he asked at last.

  Elinor paused for a moment.

  ‘No, actually I’m an artist.’

  ‘That’s a cool profession. We’ve loads of artists here in Cornwall. Every village seems to have one. Have you met Barbara Bligh?’

  Elinor shook her head.

  ‘She’s a well-known artist and she lives locally in St Merryn. Next time you’re stopping in St Merryn, you should look her up. She’s always happy to welcome fellow artists.’

  ‘OK, will do. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but I’m intrigued by the artistic doodle on your surfboard. What does it say?’

  The surfer looked at his surfboard and laughed out loud.

  ‘A friend did that for me. It says “Doc Dude”, which is what the other surfers call me, because I work three days a week as a GP over in Wadebridge. They like to have me with them out in the water, as it’s handy if any of them comes to grief on the waves. By the way, my name’s Tony Reece,’ he said, reaching out a hand.

  ‘I’m Elinor Campbell.’

  As she shook Tony’s hand, Elinor felt the icy chill of the sea in his fingers.

  Tony shivered suddenly, as though suddenly aware of how cold he was.

  ‘Right, I’d best get going. I’ve got some warm soup and a cup of tea waiting for me at home. Nice to meet you, Elinor.’

  He smiled, nodded at her, and walked quickly to the path leading out of the beach.

  Soon it was just Elinor and a few seagulls paddling in the shallow water. She surveyed the landscape around her. The beach was empty and, Elinor realised, surprisingly bleak without the surfers to liven it up.

  9

  As Elinor walked up the road from Treyarnon Bay to her uncle’s bungalow, she saw his garage door was open. Before going into the house she wandered over there, wondering what her uncle was up to now.

  She had fond memories of this garage.

  In the centre of it was a roughly made wooden table. She remembered it from her childhood. On balmy summer days, her uncle used to drag the table to the sheltered side of the house and they’d eat their meals outdoors. As they ate lunch in the garden they would revel in the luscious sunshine and the oxygenated air of the coast, complacently ignoring the interested stares of the walkers on the clifftop.

  Leo had made the table out of driftwood, hand picked from the coves near his house. The garage was filled with an interesting collection of objects from his foraging: small bowls filled with colourful bits of glass, softened and polished by the sea, a worn red and white safety ring float and a lobster pot with frayed rope at one end, amongst other things.

  As a child, Elinor used to hope avidly that the lobsters that had been caught in this lobster pot had managed to break free by slicing at the rope with their claws. She’d hated the sight of captive lobsters in the holding tanks at Padstow, with their majestic claws tied up in garish elastic bands.

  Those miniature titans of the sea had been captured and were ignominiously waiting to end up as someone’s dinner. The thought of them being boiled alive was utterly repugnant to Elinor. More so now that she felt she was herself a miserable prisoner to her fears and insecurities.

  She remembered as a child delving into a deep pool of seawater within a cave at Bedruthan Steps, and watching the dark shapes of the lobsters moving across the sandy floor as they tried to escape the blinding light from the torches.

  Her mother had scolded Leo for taking them into the cave because by the time they’d made their way out the tide had risen and they’d had to wade their way across to the steps leading up the cliff face. Many people had been caught out by the fast-rising tide at Bedruthan Steps. It was a deceptively beautiful beach with dangerous currents.

  Elinor looked at the back of the garage where some old wooden surfboards were stored. They were stacked vertically against one wall and covered in cobwebs. They clearly harked back to a different era. Intrigued with them for the first time, she walked up to the surfboards and traced her fingers down their roughened surface, feeling the texture of the wood under her fingertips.

  Elinor smiled as she imagined what the reaction of the other surfers would be if she turned up on the beach with one of these. She couldn’t quite believe how much the antique surfboards differed from the ones she’d seen that morning in Treyarnon Bay.

  Leo was nowhere to be seen in the garage. As she turned to leave, Elinor glanced briefly at a small collection of objects on the wooden table.

  A dark green-brown purse-shaped object was resting on the table. It was a cat shark’s egg case, with long tendrils at each corner to anchor it to the sea floor. Elinor had seen a few of them washed up on the beach at Treyarnon Bay.

  Next to it was a plastic bucket filled with mussels, giving her hope they’d be having them for dinner later on. Her uncle, having worked with fish for most of his life, was very handy at cooking seafood. The last time he’d picked mussels, he’d astounded her with the way he’d cooked them with garlic, white wine and cream. It had been a meal to remember.

  Naturally curvy, Elinor had always watched what she ate, but after living for a year in the private hell of extreme anxiety she’d realised her body shape concerns were petty and futile. Strangely, her anxiety had brought her complete release from hating herself and worrying about her looks.

  And now living here, far away from home and by the Cornish coast, she felt freed of all the expectations she’d placed on herself.

  10

  Elinor left the garage as she found it and went into the bungalow, hoping Leo was home. She felt in need of some company.

  Seeing his boots by the front door, she went through to the kitchen and put the kettle on. She wandered into the adjoining dining room and found Leo sitting at his desk, looking through what seemed like a pile of photographs.

  ‘What are you up to, Leo?’ she asked interestedly, peering over his shoulder and looking at the large pile of black and white photos.

  Her uncle turned and looked up at her.

  ‘Are you back already? That was quick.’

  ‘I’ve been out for a good hour and a half!’ protested Elinor indignantly.

  Leo looked at his watch.

  ‘My goodness, yes, time has got away with me today. It’s lunchtime.’

  ‘Stay where you are, I’ll bring you a cold plate of food. You look like
you’re busy.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been digging up some old photos and diaries. Our chat with those immigration officials got me thinking about the past. Our family members have lived on this spot for hundreds of years, as you know, and they were here when smuggling was at its height in the 18th century. I’m doing my own little bit of research today.’

  ‘Are you suggesting our family was involved in smuggling back then, too?’

  ‘But of course they were,’ said Leo impatiently, as though talking to an obtuse child.

  Elinor smiled to herself. Sometimes her uncle seemed to forget she was nearly thirty years old.

  ‘The majority of people here in Cornwall, in those days, were dirt-poor miners or fishermen, struggling to make a living. Smuggling was sometimes the only way they could survive,’ Leo explained, enthusiastically sifting through the pile of photos. He seemed to have separated many of them into individual piles. One pile seemed to consist solely of various sea caves.

  ‘Quite a few miners were enlisted to build tunnels to the coves, so contraband goods could be moved to shore unseen and avoid the taxman. I’m sure there was one such tunnel built near here... I’m trying to remember what my grandfather told me about it.’

  Leo picked a photo out of the pile and lifted it up to show Elinor.

  ‘See, here’s a photo of Pepper Cove, just to the right of our bungalow. You can see its long entrance and steep, sheer cliffs. It was the perfect cover for bringing in goods and avoiding the customs officials. Of course, that’s why it’s called Pepper Cove. Spices were taxed in those days too.’

  Elinor gave the photo a cursory glance. She walked past Pepper Cove just about every day and knew it well.

  ‘And we also have Wine Cove, of course, next to Pepper Cove.’

  ‘Now that one must’ve been a difficult one to negotiate,’ said Elinor. ‘It has a great big rock sticking out of the sea, right at the entrance.’

  ‘True,’ admitted Leo. ‘Although who knows what the coastline looked like back then. These cliffs are constantly crumbling. On the other side of our wall, there used to be a good ten metres of land before the edge of the cliff. Now today, thanks to rock falls, there’s probably two metres left, at best. One day, erosion will take this house away with it too.’

  Elinor was speechless for a moment, unwilling to entertain the thought for even a minute. A clear vision of their bungalow collapsing through the roof of the cave beneath it was already developing in her head. Realistically, Warren Cove’s cave was not yet deep enough for that, but there was no doubt the day would come.

  ‘There’s a good chance nothing will happen for another hundred years, though,’ Leo added hastily, seeing the look of apprehension on Elinor’s face.

  ‘Is it true that the Cornish people in those days used to cause shipwrecks deliberately, by luring vessels into dangerous waters with lights?’ Elinor asked, trying to change the subject.

  Leo chuckled.

  ‘There’s always been myths about wreckers. But that’s all it ever was. A myth. For a start, it would have to be one heck of a light to attract the attention of a ship. Ships would be avoiding bright lights anyway, taking them as a warning. Also, back in those days, the last thing you’d want to do is attract the attention of the authorities, which you would do if you walked about the cliffs with bright lanterns.’

  Leo pulled out a black and white photo of a tanker caught between the rocks, looking as helpless as the beached carcass of a whale. He passed it to Elinor to look at.

  ‘That shipwreck happened in Fox Cove, in 1969. You can still see the metal skeleton of it these days at low tide. Although it’s now covered in seaweed and crustaceans, of course.’

  He paused for a minute, as he pondered Elinor’s question about the wreckers.

  ‘What’s true of shipwrecks in Cornwall back in the 18th century, Elinor, is that the locals, trapped by poverty, were scavengers. As soon as they heard news of a shipwreck, they would race to it, often ignoring the plight of its crew, in order to salvage some of the goods for themselves. They were as avaricious as vultures, fighting amongst themselves and often attacking any customs officials that arrived, with stones or any other weapon that came to hand.’

  Leo chewed his lip as he thought about it.

  ‘In those days the authorities didn’t have enough customs officials to deal with the problem.’ He sighed despondently. ‘The officials who tried to intervene, and catch the thieves, were in an unenviable position. Although I’m sure the locals just saw them as fair game.’

  Elinor smiled. Leo was a law-abiding citizen. He didn’t fit the image of a descendent of crooked and ruthless smugglers. Elinor wondered what kind of smuggling their family had been involved in: brandy, gin, spices or tea? Tea Cove had a nice ring to it, she thought...

  Her stomach had started to rumble, so she gave her uncle a pat on the shoulder and went into the kitchen to rustle up some lunch.

  11

  ‘So, did you take any useful photos this morning?’ asked Leo, as they sat at the dining table, munching their lunch.

  Elinor wondered what he meant by ‘useful’. She looked suspiciously at her uncle, wondering for a crazy moment if her mother had been on the phone to him, egging him on to get her painting again.

  ‘I mostly sat and watched the surfers who were in Treyarnon Bay,’ she said at last, slightly defiantly.

  Leo didn’t rise to the bait. He calmly took another bite of his ham and tomato sandwich. He had a bad habit of talking through a mouthful of food.

  ‘Ah, yes. Surfing’s become extremely popular in Cornwall. The real surfers only surf here in winter, when the tourist crowds are gone and the waves are bigger. However, it can’t have been a good day for surfing today. The wind’s died down completely.’

  Elinor giggled.

  ‘Yes, they weren’t at it for long before they gave up. I spoke to one of them. He had a spray-painted surfboard that intrigued me. He said his name was Tony, I think, and that he works in Wadebridge as a GP.’

  Leo looked blankly at her, so he’d clearly never met the man before.

  ‘He also said there’s an artist called Barbara Bligh living in St Merryn,’ added Elinor, hoping Leo would know who this was. Leo’s eyes lit up.

  ‘Barbara Bligh? Yes, I know her. A wonderful lady and a very talented artist.’

  Elinor resolutely ignored the twinge of jealousy she felt on hearing him praise Barbara’s art. She had to accept her own career as an artist was long gone. She looked down at her hands, holding a half-eaten sandwich, and noted how healthy they were looking these days now that they weren’t dried out with white spirit and paint.

  ‘Barbara doesn’t exactly live in St Merryn,’ continued Leo. ‘She has a steading about ten minutes’ walk from there. It’s buried behind the barns at Blackheath Farm.’

  Leo took another bite of his sandwich.

  ‘She had a studio built in the garden four years ago, which caused no end of complaints from the farmer,’ he added, once he’d swallowed his mouthful.

  Elinor looked at Leo, remembering something he’d told her previously.

  ‘The same farmer you told me to steer clear of? Richard Glynn?’

  Leo nodded, pleased she’d remembered.

  ‘Yes, there’s always been bad feeling between our family and his. Although now that I think about it, he’s at loggerheads with quite a few people around here. He’s always resented his family selling off farmland and letting these houses get built on the coast. In those days it was worth nothing, but now any plot by the sea can fetch a small fortune.’

  ‘But that doesn’t explain why he should feel badly towards you. It’s not your fault your ancestors built this house.’

  ‘I know it’s ridiculous. But he’s a hot-tempered young man.’

  Elinor didn’t say anything, hoping the silence would encourage Leo to explain
things further.

  ‘There’s also the added complication that he’s solely responsible for dealing with the rubbish from the caravan park across the road, as well as our bins,’ said Leo with a trace of grim amusement in his voice. ‘The council doesn’t take our rubbish away; he does, and he resents it. He can’t do anything about it, as technically it’s in the deeds. He owns the field next to our house and the access road. He’s been mighty unpleasant when he’s come across me dropping off rubbish at the entrance.’

  ‘The surfer said Barbara Bligh likes welcoming people to her home and he gave the impression people drop in on her all the time. Surely that wouldn’t be the case if the farmer was a problem?’

  ‘Blackheath Farm is a huge farm. They have wheat crops, cows and the caravan parks in the summer. You’d be unlikely to bump into him. He’s a busy man. Besides, her steading’s just off the main road out of St Merryn. I can take you there if you like.’

  ‘That would be nice,’ Elinor said, smiling at her uncle. ‘I might as well get to familiarise myself with the local arts and crafts scene.’

  Leo looked pleased.

  ‘Let’s schedule that in for tomorrow, then. Today I want to finish having a look through those diaries, and then I’m having a pint at The Farmer’s Arms with a few friends. You’re welcome to join us,’ he invited, as he’d done ever since she’d arrived a month ago.

  She shook her head silently. She couldn’t stand pubs at the moment. She didn’t like watching people getting drunk.

  Her fiancé Mark had died at the hands of a drunken driver.

  He’d been walking home after work, as he usually did, when he’d been hit. One minute he was walking along the pavement and the next, a car, which had spun out of control, slammed into him. The car had run right over him and knocked down the two-metre high garden wall of a house. The driver was found to have been four times over the legal limit.

  And just like that a precious life was snuffed out and, in a domino effect, the other lives connected to it were irrevocably changed.