by Ruth Hay
In some deep and powerful way, I had come home.
Four
Two days later, I was returning to Perranporth.
I had done a deal with the car rental people and kept the little red one I could trust.
I had shopped in Exeter for groceries and these were in a box on the floor of the back seat. My few belongings were in my one case, and knapsack, and my shoulder bag held the essentials. My knitted blanket was on the front seat beside me for comfort.
Before I left Exeter, I called Simon.
“Where are you off to now, my dear?”
“Just south of where I was. I will send the details by secure line when I can.”
“Good. Make sure R&R is your priority this time.”
“That’s the plan, Simon.”
“Take care. Best wishes from all here.”
“Thank you.”
It was good to know I had friends if I needed them. A pang struck my heart when I realized Ramses, the Siamese, a very special kind of friend, was now far behind me.
Of course, it was too much to ask for continued good travelling weather.
It was not yet spring and sudden rain storms were still possible. I had the windshield wipers going at full force to clear the rain but I still lost my way once or twice. The female voice on the GPS sounded a trifle annoyed at my carelessness, but she soon put me back on track.
Perranporth did not look quite as appealing as before, with clouds low on the horizon masking the hills. A steady stream of water ran down the centre of the town’s hill as I drove up slowly, not wishing to overtax the engine.
It was with a deep sigh of relief that I turned off the engine, gave the red bonnet a grateful pat, and unloaded my possessions onto the front porch of Sea View.
Was the house smaller?
Was the street too distant from the town?
Had I chosen wisely?
I shook my head and opened up the door. A cup of hot tea would dispel all worries. When the sun decided to reappear, all would be as glorious as I remembered.
Nonetheless, I was tired from the journey.
I clutched my blanket to me and made for the kitchen with the box of supplies. Once the kettle was boiling, I searched for a source of heating. With no fireplace, there must be supplemental heat of some kind. In a hall cupboard, I found a small implement that might be a heater. I decide to plug it in and find out. It was small but mighty, and threw out a goodly amount of heat after only a minute. With this by my feet, I settled at the kitchen table with my cup of hot tea and considered my options.
Eat or sleep?
Unpack my belongings?
Move the heater upstairs to the bedroom?
All of the above?
I decided on the last choice, hung up my clothes, put my blanket on top of the pretty blue bed quilt, left the heater running in the bedroom with the door open for safety and went back to the kitchen to make scrambled eggs and toast.
It was remarkably quiet high above the town. Even more quiet than my last little house in Lenzie, in Scotland. No cars would be driving past this short street. Only hikers would tackle the crest of the hill. I wondered what lay above me. It was possible there was a river to account for the water running down the road.
With thoughts of exploring, I went to bed, turning off the heater and closing the curtains against the morning light. With no agenda, I hoped to sleep long and comfortably well into the morning.
It was not the future that occupied my dreams that night. It was, instead, the distant past.
I recalled it all in vivid detail as soon as I awoke.
I was a child again in the old cottage on the cliffs, not too far from me now.
My mother sat beside me on our bed, trying to get me to sleep.
“Do you want me to read another story, Justine?”
“No. Tell me about Aunt Ellen.”
“She was a lovely old lady, an older sister of my father’s. She lived here in this house for many years and when she died she gave it to us.”
“Why?”
“I used to come here in my school holidays and I loved it very much. She remembered that.”
“Did you play in the woods too?”
“Not often. I was a little afraid of the woods. Your grandmother and grandfather and I, went to the beach by car and I played and swam there.”
“When will I go to school?”
“When you are older, perhaps. The nearest school is far away.”
“Where is my father now?”
“Justine, I have told you often. Your father works in a big town.”
“Why doesn’t he come here to see us for his holidays?”
“It’s time to sleep now. No more talking. I will stay until you sleep.”
A child’s questions, unanswered, are the ones that linger the longest. I always knew when my mother was lying to me. She always grew annoyed when I asked about certain forbidden things.
School, and my father, were frequent topics to which I never received satisfactory replies.
The first topic was a mystery until much later when my mother took over my education and tried to explain that I was ‘an unusual girl, with special abilities that other children might not understand’.
This did not help me to understand. I had no playmates like the children in my story books. I was just Justine. I played in the wind-twisted trees behind our cottage for hours. I made friends with the animals and insects in the woods and welcomed the woods people who came to me now and then. I was not to know that others could not converse with animals and ghost people as I could do so easily.
As to the matter of my father’s absence, I learned more on that long ago bus trip to the lawyer in Newquay. I believe I had blanked out this information until it returned in the dream that night. The reason soon came back to me.
I sat listening as my mother requested a divorce. This was a word I had not encountered before then. It was followed by other incomprehensible words such as ‘maintenance’, ‘prenuptial’, ‘visitation rights’ and more. So much more, that it was to be years before I comprehended that my mother and father were never to reconcile.
It was a painful thought for me, made more so by my mother’s refusal to discuss her reasons for keeping me from my father. This was one of the reasons why we quarrelled so badly, and why I had not had contact with my mother, Estelle, in so many years.
All these troubling memories and thoughts ran through my mind on an endless loop as soon as I awakened.
I finally understood that I was being drawn back to live in a place where I had left much unsettled.
I was here for a reason.
Exploring Perranporth would have to wait. I needed to find out if my mother was still alive and living in the old cottage on the clifftop.
Five
As if I had always known the way by heart, I set out driving north on the coastal roads.
I saw nothing along the way, so intent was I on this mission.
Too much time had passed. Life was too short for such a breach to be endured for one minute more. I shook my head from time to time on the drive, trying to dispel the mental block that had kept me from solving this most important puzzle from my own life, instead of marching off to the four corners of the world attempting to fix the problems of people who were not really connected to me.
Why had it taken so long for me to apply my acute inner senses to my own issues?
One thing I did know now. I could never move on until my questions were finally answered, one way or another.
The road rose up toward the top of the high cliffs. It ended at a cluster of small houses. This was where our nearest neighbours lived back then. I noticed only one of the houses was still occupied. Such a remote location would not appeal to many folk. Perhaps some were escaping from reality as my mother was.
This did not bode well for my chances of finding my mother or even any information about her.
I left the car at the end of the road and walked uphill to wh
ere the dip in the land was marked by the trees and bushes of my woods. I did not see the cottage at first and began to believe it had finally been blown away in the bitter winter winds from the Atlantic.
With each further step, however, more was revealed. My woods had shrunk in size.
Or was it that I had grown taller?
The wind caught at me blowing my hair around my face and obscuring my vision. When I pushed my hair behind my ears and removed loose strands away from my glasses, I saw, to my amazement, that the cottage still existed.
When I walked closer, the wooden shack also seemed much smaller than I remembered. Surely this place was not where my mother still lived, if she still lived at all?
That first question was soon answered for me. The windows were broken and vines had taken hold of the gaps in the wooden boards of the walls. The front door was still intact but reaching it would be hazardous since the small porch had collapsed onto the ground below. When I saw the large sign stating:
DO NOT ENTER
CONDEMNED PROPERTY
I stopped, and turned away. No one had lived at Wychwood for many years. I debated about taking a walk into the woods but decided it would be a walk into the past and I was more interested in the future now.
By the time I returned to the cluster of houses and knocked on the door of the one remaining occupied house, I was clear about what to do.
“Excuse me! Could you tell me if the woman who used to live at Wychwood is still alive?”
A very elderly man seemed confused by this request from a complete stranger. He called for his wife and she made her way slowly toward me peering through heavy glasses at my face.
“Are you asking about Ellen? She’s long dead, I’m afraid. Long dead!”
“No. Ellen was a relative of my mother, Estelle. She lived at Wychwood with me, after Ellen died.”
The old woman blinked three times and leaned forward to get a better look at me.
“Justine? Estelle’s little girl? Goodness me!
Come in! Come away in! I truly never thought to see you again!
Your mother lost heart after you left to go to college. She used to come and sleep here when the winter snows came. She said she needed the company. Bert and me enjoyed her company too, ‘specially after the other folks all moved away. We’re the only ones left now and we are moving soon.
You only just caught us in time, my girl!”
I went inside and saw boxes packed and ready to go. I refused the offer of tea and worked my way around to asking if they knew anything about my mother’s present whereabouts. First, I had to manufacture a tale about moving far away to college and my subsequent work history, carefully skimming over the lack of contact with my mother.
Merle assured me Estelle was still alive. She produced a Christmas card as proof. I saw my mother’s signature and blanked out for a second. I felt her spirit was strong and she was happier.
That was enough to be going on with. I could have left the search there. The envelope was missing so I had no return address to go on. Neither Merle nor Bert could supply more information.
I wished them well in the assisted living home to which they were soon heading, and made my way back to my car.
There was one more place where I could obtain more information.
I had bridges to mend with my mother. The lawyer’s office in Newquay must be my next stop.
I took a break for food when I reached Newquay. The restaurant overlooking the bay and the beach that had attracted me as a child, was warm and welcoming. I saw the resemblance to the similar bay in Perranporth where I now lived and wondered how many of my recent decisions were actually driven by those old memories of Cornwall.
Reinvigorated by hot soup and home-baked crusty bread, I decided to walk around using instinct to direct me toward the lawyer’s office. I had no memory of a name. All I could recall of that place was a vague feeling of warmth. Perhaps it had been a summer day when Estelle brought me here. It did not make much sense as a clue, but it was all I had to guide me.
I believe now that the trauma of that day’s divorce revelations wiped out much of my memories.
I avoided the harbour area where most of the tourist shops were located and looked for a business district. I found a road where brass door plates announced insurance offices and financial investors. Further along I saw two solicitors’ premises.
I hesitated to enter one of these in case I chose wrongly and was embarrassed. Suddenly I noticed a red awning over the front door of Bennett, Farley and Jones. This must be where I once got the feeling of warmth. Standing under that awning everything around me had a rosy glow.
I entered with confidence.
A secretary heard my enquiry and conducted me to the door of Evan Jones.
“Our Mr. Jones will advise you. He has a client in fifteen minutes if you can conduct your business before then?”
I replied in the positive. I needed to know if Estelle Dixon’s legal affairs were still in the hands of this company, and if so, did they know where she now lived?
Evan Jones was Welsh, fast and efficient. First, he required some identification. This involved me in a shuffle inside my shoulder bag to produce an old credit card in my maiden name.
Evan subsequently consulted his computer and informed me that Estelle Dixon was now re-married and living in Exeter.
Once again, I was stunned by the coincidence of all my recent choices. Everything I was doing seemed to be drawing me back into my mother’s sphere.
I nodded when Evan Jones offered to supply me with contact information for Estelle Rosyth, as she now was. I took hold of the card and stuffed it into my handbag without looking. My brain was overloaded for the minute. I hoped to exit the offices of Bennett, Farley and Jones without falling over my feet.
Back outside, I stood for a few moments under the red awning, attempting to compose myself.
At the start of this day, I had misconceptions about everything relating to my mother.
Now I knew she had left the old cottage, found a new husband and moved with him to Exeter.
How many more errors had I been holding on to about her?
I could not absorb any more.
I longed for my quiet little house on the hillside in Perranporth where the vista of the sea brought calm and comfort.
I would, like an injured animal, retire there and lick my proverbial wounds in peace before trying to investigate more about this stranger, Estelle Rosyth.
Six
A month went by.
Spring brought flowers in the hedgerows, palm trees in sheltered southern places reaching for the sun again, and a calmer spirit in my heart. I put aside all thoughts about my mother. For now, I was concentrating on my own concerns.
These were simple indeed. I found the best bakery in Perranporth where Cornish Pasties still were baked in the traditional way. One was sufficient for a whole meal, since the bakers stuffed so much good food inside each half-moon-shaped pastry covering.
There was a town fishmonger with a marble slab in the window where locally-caught fresh fish, lobster, and huge scallops were displayed after being unloaded from fishing boats several times a week to the delight of all the town’s residents. I knew exactly when to be in the queue to get first choice of these delicacies.
I acquired a light tan that enhanced my skin and I often left the little red car in favour of walking up and down the hill road for supplies. My right leg was improving because of the exercise and I was sleeping better than I had in years.
I took every opportunity to walk on Perran Beach. Sunset was my favourite time and the gentle waves lapping on the fine-grained sands always soothed my spirit and gave me hope in a world torn by much trouble and fear. I kept that world at a safe distance and was glad Simon had not seen fit to contact me.
One fine evening, I extended my beach walk and found an ancient stone Celtic cross. I could not decipher the markings on the cross but that night I had a vivid dream of a holy man landin
g on the beach and bringing miracles to the people. The peculiar thing about this dream was that the man had a large stone hung around his neck. I could make no sense of the dream but as it was positive in feel, and did not haunt me, I dismissed it.
I ventured higher into the rough area behind my house only once or twice, as the ground was wet most of the time. I promised myself a good hike around as soon as the river had regained its banks. When the daffodils sprang up in their hundreds, I knew it was time to fulfil my promise.
I prepared as if for a day’s outing, with a knapsack of food and water, a wide-brimmed hat for sun protection, and a spare pair of socks in case I stepped into boggy fields.
There was no path to speak of, so I made my way cautiously, choosing higher land where possible. I met no other hikers and was glad to have this wild spot to myself. I had not yet met any of my nearest neighbours, other than to wave and smile in passing, and I did not feel this to be a lack.
I ate lunch sitting on a huge rock that must have tumbled down aeons ago. This rock was warmed by the sun and I threw off my hat and relished the feel of warmth on my skin.
From my perch, I could see the river that wound down through the hills from the peak. In the silence, the sound of the water burbling over small stones was hypnotic. I think I slept for a few minutes but when I blinked awake again, I wanted to walk by the river’s edge where it straightened out on a flat patch with bushes and stunted trees growing on its banks.
The sun had reached its full heat and out in the open it felt somewhat oppressive. I plopped down on the grass in the shade of the river’s trees and gave myself up to contentment.
With my eyes closed and my inner senses enhanced, as they always were in that state, I was startled by a small and unexpected sound.
For a second I was transferred to my former life on another continent where a certain bird had the ability to make a call that sounded exactly like a cat.
