Trenouth

by Bea Green

  ‘I see,’ said Leo, quietly amused, an annoyingly knowing look in his eyes.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Elinor hurriedly. ‘I’ve not got the hots for Tony Reece, if that’s what you’re assuming. It’ll just be good to get to know some other people who live around here.’

  ‘Absolutely. I wouldn’t have dreamt of you wanting to do anything else but that,’ said Leo placidly, but Elinor could tell he was blatantly and unabashedly lying. ‘I’ll be leaving around seven. If you’re OK walking on country lanes in the dark, with a torch, I’ll be delighted for you to join me. If not, you can always take a taxi. It’s up to you.’

  ‘I’d rather go with you. I won’t know anyone there apart from you and Tony Reece, and there’s no guarantee Tony will be there anyway.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he’ll be there if you let him know you’re coming,’ Leo replied cheekily, striding away up the road before she could answer back and leaving Elinor staring indignantly after him.

  She turned and walked purposefully down to the beach. She was not going to demean herself by texting Tony to let him know she was going to the pub tonight. She wasn’t that desperate...

  She jumped down the smooth rocks on the edge of the sandy beach, and then stepped through the cloying sand in her heavy wellington boots, scrunching up her eyes to see if she could see the surfers from a distance. There were several black dots in the midst of the swirling mass of moving water on the right hand side of the beach.

  She walked diagonally up to the edge of the seawater and started to snap photos with her camera, knowing she would delete at least half of them by the end of the day.

  It was so hard to capture a good picture of a surfer. They moved so quickly and often she thought she’d taken the perfect picture only to find that the photo was hopeless, more often than not depicting a figure with flailing legs and arms, or a surfboard that seemed totally disconnected to its rider.

  In her photos she wanted to show a surfer riding confidently on a wave, the master of the curling rollers, not a graceless, awkward figure on the verge of tumbling into the ocean. She was determined to depict the beauty and grace of the sport in her paintings and she knew that deep down, in the most secret part of her heart, she also wanted to be one of them.

  An hour later, with sixty-seven photos stored in her camera, she gave up and made her way back to Trenouth, this time avoiding the wheat field that seemed to be of so much interest to Leo and heading home up along the coastal path.

  Alexander plants intermittently lined the path Elinor was walking on and she bent down to break a stem off one of them. These plants were dotted up and down the cliffs near their home. She sniffed like an addict at the strong lemony scent emanating from the broken end and, as always, she was amazed that such a small stem was capable of producing such a pungent smell.

  Leo had told her once that these plants had been brought over by the Romans and, oddly, unlike many other more native plants they seemed to thrive in the salty air by the ocean.

  The tiny yellow flowers of Common Bird’s Foot Trefoil and the softer yellow woolly heads of Kidney Vetch dotted the clumps of tough coastal grass, alongside the closed heads of thrift that were waiting until early spring to bloom. In the distance the dense stems of heather congregated by a wooden gate, also waiting until the right time of year to display their pink glory.

  Elinor continued to sniff at her Alexander stem and watched the seagulls to the right of her showing off their acrobatic skills on the wind currents drifting up from the coves underneath them.

  Looking down into Pepper Cove she suddenly caught sight of a dark grey seal’s head popping out of the water and staring up at her curiously. The ocean water was bubbling and churning angrily around it, humming loudly like a hostile swarm of hornets. Like the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland, the seal head seemed to be both immovable and impregnable against the volatile water surrounding it.

  Elinor watched it for a minute or two and then walked on.

  As she moved away from the cove she looked back and saw that, just like the Cheshire Cat, the seal’s head had vanished into the water once more.

  She scrambled up to the top of the Cornish hedge bordering Trenouth’s garden and jumped down onto the soft grass on the other side.

  The garden was liberally covered with miniature hills where moles were clearly hard at work. A careful gardener would have been irritated by the unsightly bumps but Leo wasn’t bothered in the slightest. However, thought Elinor, once spring came and the need to cut the grass became more acute Leo might well have to do something to encourage the little miners to dig elsewhere.

  She skipped up the slate steps at the front door and let herself into the house.

  She made herself a cup of tea in the kitchen to warm herself up, and then sat down on her bed to go through her images. She was so absorbed in her photographs, weighing up carefully the ones that were worth keeping and ruthlessly deleting the ones she would never use, that she lost track of time.

  Leo knocked gently on her door at half past six, asking if she wanted some soup for dinner, abruptly making her aware of the late hour. Having agreed to some soup, she hastily started pulling clothes out of her chest of drawers, trying to think what she should wear for an evening at the pub.

  She ended up going for the conventional option: a black polo-necked jumper, black leather jacket, black jeans and black boots. Nothing very imaginative but it was a safe choice for a first night out in Cornwall. She wouldn’t look much different to how she looked in her wetsuit, she thought woefully to herself...

  And so an hour later she found herself clinging desperately to Leo’s arm as they walked along the uneven dark country paths to The Farmer’s Arms.

  There were no street lights near the fields they walked across. The full moon was out that night, so at least there was a ghostly white mantle on the surrounding countryside, but even with the dim shimmer of the moon and the blinding light of Leo’s torch, it was still very hard to see anything clearly. Elinor was deeply regretting her decision to accompany Leo to the pub.

  Eerie shadows laced their way across the hedges and trees on both sides of them. Little white rabbit tails bobbed in the darkness, the call of an owl swept across the quiet night and Elinor could sense, more than see, the other creatures of the night padding silently around them: foxes, field mice, weasels and badgers. Little, hidden eyes, no doubt gazing at them in amazement as they walked past. Shiny, wet noses would be turned upwards, sniffing at their unfamiliar scent.

  Elinor struggled to understand how Leo could be so comfortable with the darkness. Where she grew up, in the West End of Glasgow, there was light 24/7. All of it was artificial, of course, but also strangely reassuring. Street lights, tenement lights, car lights, shop lights. All signs that one wasn’t alone, that other people were out there going about their business with familiar monotony.

  She started to shiver with fear, not cold, and began to count the long minutes until they arrived at the bright lights and warmth of the pub.

  29

  The exterior of the pub was like a typical Cornish house: solid stone walls painted white on the outside, with a grey slate tiled roof. As soon as Elinor opened the door and stepped in, she felt the sudden blast of heat from the central heating system hitting her hard. Small beads of sweat started to form under her thick jacket.

  As she hastily removed her leather jacket she glanced around the room. It took her eyes a few minutes to adjust to the dingy surroundings after the bright lights outside.

  On the exterior of the building, lights were scattered plentifully, shining down on the outdoor wooden tables and chairs and on the pub sign. Inside, chocolate-brown tables and chairs, wooden beams and a black tiled floor merged with the dim interior lighting to make it feel like underground lair.

  Leo was hailed by a small group of older men who were huddled tightly in a corner of the
room. Leo put his hand on Elinor’s elbow and guided her across the room to his cronies, introducing her as his niece. The men politely made room for her and one of them got up to get Leo and Elinor a beer from the bar.

  Elinor cast small covert glances across the room to see if she could spot Tony and his friends. The room was surprisingly full of people for a cold, dark evening and it took her a while to let her eyes roam around the crowded room. Eventually she caught sight of Mick’s distinctive frizzy long hair at the other end of the pub. He was part of a big group of people gathered around three large tables.

  Eyeing the youthful party avidly, Elinor could make out Tony’s stocky shape and his thick thatch of fair hair. He was deep in conversation with two others, one of them a slim girl who had straight blonde hair reaching down to her waist and was wearing one of the shortest dresses Elinor had ever seen, which seemed all the shorter because the girl’s long legs stretched under the table with her canvas shoes peeking out at the other side.

  Seeing that Tony was totally engrossed in chatting with his two friends, she decided she’d better not approach him until an opportunity presented itself later on.

  Elinor turned her attention to Leo’s friends who, to be fair to them, were all interested in talking to her and asking her about herself. If they hadn’t all been so much older, she would have been flattered by their attention. It was obvious it had been a while since many of them had had the chance to chat to someone so much younger than themselves, and a girl at that. Gratefully sipping the beer that had been plonked in front of her, she chatted away to Leo’s friends, some of whom she’d already met during her excursions to St Merryn and Padstow.

  It must have been about twenty minutes later when Elinor heard her name called out amidst the babble of voices surrounding her. She turned around and saw that Tony was waving at her from the bar, a delighted smile on his face. She excused herself from the table and, ignoring the knowing looks Leo and his friends were exchanging with each other, walked over to where Tony was standing.

  She was suddenly very conscious of her flushed face and the strands of sweaty hair sticking to her forehead. It hadn’t been such a good idea to wear her thick black polo-necked jumper after all.

  ‘Elinor! I wasn’t expecting to see you here. When did you arrive?’

  ‘About three-quarters of an hour ago. We came by my uncle’s preferred mode of travel, torchlight.’

  Tony looked at her, confused.

  ‘I don’t understand. Are you saying you walked all of the way here in the dark?’

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. We walked here by torchlight, through country fields. Some of them even had cows in them.’

  Tony laughed.

  ‘Well, I’m on the non-alcoholic beer tonight and I’ve got my car with me. So I’d be happy to give both of you a lift back home if you like.’

  ‘It’s OK. Leo’s friend has to stay off the booze because of his diabetes and he usually drops Leo back home on a Friday night. But thanks for the offer.’

  Tony nodded abstractedly. The barman had come up to him to take his drink order and was waiting impatiently for it.

  ‘Would you like a drink, Elinor?’

  ‘I’ll have a beer, thanks,’ said Elinor remembering she’d emptied her half pint a while ago.

  Tony turned and gave a substantial drinks order to the barman who began to pour out the drinks.

  ‘Why don’t you come and join us?’ asked Tony, indicating his corner of the room. ‘We don’t bite, and if you can cope with listening to some surf speak you might enjoy yourself.’

  He looked speculatively at Leo’s table.

  ‘Plus we’re at least two decades younger than your table,’ he added, as though this had to be an enticement.

  Elinor could feel herself blushing. She didn’t think it would be cool to admit it but she actually enjoyed Leo’s company and that of his friends. By the time you reached their age you had nothing to prove and very little to lose, so communication tended to be honest and straightforward. She liked that because you knew where you stood.

  Elinor turned and looked at Tony’s group doubtfully.

  ‘Are you all surfers?’

  ‘Yes, why, is that a problem?’ asked Tony, looking defensive.

  ‘No, not at all,’ said Elinor, picking up her drink and waiting for him to lead the way across to his table.

  30

  Tony introduced Elinor to the table and rapidly reeled off the names of the seventeen people sitting there. They passed over Elinor’s head in a blur – she’d never been very good at remembering names anyway – but one name caught her attention.

  Richard Glynn.

  Looking across the table she realised that Richard Glynn was the scowling young man who’d stomped past her a few weeks ago when she’d been photographing the surfers at Treyarnon Bay for the first time.

  Tonight he was dressed smartly in a shirt and tie, his black hair combed back and glistening with some kind of hair gel. His harsh features weren’t scowling tonight. In fact, the deep bark of his laughter was repeatedly booming across the table.

  Richard Glynn...

  The grumpy farmer Leo had warned her about. And clearly a surfer too.

  Assimilating this interesting bit of information, Elinor sat down in a bit of a daze next to Tony, wedged in tightly between him and the blonde girl he’d been talking to earlier. She drank her beer absent-mindedly, listening to the chat around her and gradually realising, belatedly, that they might as well have been talking in Mandarin for all the sense she could make out of the conversation.

  ‘Yeah, Michael’s a Benny,’ said the girl next to her dismissively.

  ‘And a complete Barney,’ agreed Mick. ‘He’s totally clucked. I really don’t know why he keeps turning up. He’s a frube and I don’t see that changing any time soon. He’s been out there for five days now and nothing’s happening.’

  ‘Have you had your board fixed yet, Mick?’ asked Tony, noticing Elinor’s complete bewilderment and changing the subject.

  ‘No I haven’t fixed the crease yet... I was hit by a total bomb in the impact zone the other day,’ Mick said, turning to the others briefly. ‘It was so grim. I was totally worked. I’ll get the board down to Jim’s shop in Newquay on Monday. By the way, Elinor, I wanted to say to you that I think you’re ready to join us in Constantine Bay. In fact, I really think you should give it a try.’

  The girl next to Elinor turned to her in surprise.

  ‘You’re a dude?’ she asked.

  Elinor gazed back at her confusedly, not understanding her question. She noticed that the girl’s face was bare of make-up but that she was still a very striking young woman, with large, dark blue eyes and a quirky pattern of dark freckles on her tanned skin. She looked to be in her early twenties.

  ‘I haven’t seen you out there before,’ said the girl, perplexed.

  ‘She’s a grom, Jennifer. She’s still on the ankle busters in Porthcothan at the moment,’ elaborated Mick helpfully.

  ‘Oh right! A quimby,’ said Jennifer, losing interest. Elinor felt her hackles rise.

  One of the other men laughed.

  ‘Don’t bother with Jennifer, Elinor. She’s a radical surfer, always charging the waves. She’s only stoked when she meets her match.’

  ‘Oh shut up, Ed,’ said Jennifer impatiently. ‘Don’t you listen to him, Elinor. He’s just a junkyard dog.’

  ‘Hey, that’s out of order!’ protested Ed, after the others near them laughed.

  Elinor couldn’t help but feel their banter was incredibly juvenile, even though she couldn’t follow half of what they were saying. Despite her incredibly short skirt, Elinor could tell that Jennifer was a thorough tomboy and would have little respect for someone like her who was always beset by her fears and anxieties.

  She felt extremely out of place amo
ngst these experienced and knowledgeable surfers and, despite her fascination with them as a group, she was longing to be elsewhere.

  Jennifer, having lost interest in Elinor, was now talking to someone on the other side of the table, leaving Elinor to look down miserably at her empty pint glass.

  She felt a warm hand place itself over hers and squeeze it reassuringly. She looked up to find Tony looking at her apologetically.

  ‘I’m sorry, Elinor,’ he said kindly, bending down and talking into her ear. ‘I can totally see how it’s a bit overwhelming listening to these idiots. I’m sorry for bringing you into the group. They really don’t mean any harm but we’ve all become a bit cliquey, I’m afraid. We spend most of the winter together, which isn’t necessarily a healthy thing. Come on, let’s get up and get another drink at the bar. It’s the least I can do to make up for it all.’

  They both stood up and made their way to the bar unnoticed by the others who were now all arguing vociferously about something, with none of them showing any willingness to listen but instead shouting over one another with practised ease.

  Tony and Elinor climbed on to the tall bar stools and waited for the barman to attend to them.

  ‘Do your friends talk like that all the time?’ asked Elinor after a moment.

  ‘I guess they must do. I’m so used to the way they speak I don’t really notice it.’

  ‘It’s really confusing. Like they belong to some elite club or something.’

  ‘That’s utterly ridiculous! For one, surfers aren’t an elite club. We’re morons really, if you think about it. Who else would risk their life and limbs surfing on the waves?’

  ‘It seems to me to be more of an adrenaline addiction than an act of stupidity. I mean, I totally get it. I really do. I’d like to be able to do the same but the more time I spend around surfers the more I realise I’ll never get there. I’m too different and I’ll never be good enough.’