The Girl Who Came Home to Cornwall

by Emma Burstall

  ‘The first year of living here was really tough. I had no money and the ceiling was falling down and I thought I might have to give up after all. Then amazingly, I found a painting that was worth a lot of money. I sold it at auction and the cash enabled me to do the refurbishment. It’s an extremely expensive house to maintain, which is partly why I started the bed and breakfast, but actually I love doing it – and putting on big events. They’re my favourite part.’

  It was an extraordinary story and Chabela was enchanted, all the more so because Bramble seemed so young, at twenty-eight, to have taken on such a big responsibility, yet appeared to be coping remarkably well.

  Tall and willowy, she had round blue eyes, a slender, arched nose and pale English skin, very different from Chabela’s own creamy-brown complexion. Bramble’s mouth was also quite large and there was a pronounced dimple in her chin. You couldn’t call her classically beautiful but she was attractive all the same, in a quirky kind of way.

  ‘Matt refused to come at first,’ she went on, tucking one long leg underneath her while the other stretched out in front. She was wearing a pair of old, pale blue denim dungaree shorts and a faded red T-shirt. ‘He didn’t want to leave London but he changed his mind, thank God. He loves it here now.’

  Maria arrived with a silver tray, which she set on the table in front of the women. On it was a dainty antique silver coffee pot, as well as two porcelain cups and saucers decorated with tiny violet flowers, two matching plates, a jug of hot milk, a dish of sugar with a set of tongs and another, larger, plate of home-made chocolate brownies.

  The smell of food made Chabela’s mouth water and she was glad when Bramble leaned forwards, picked up the plate of brownies and passed it to her.

  ‘What about you? Do you have to work or are you just here on holiday?’ she asked, as Chabela helped herself.

  She noticed Maria pause, as if wanting to hear the answer, and was relieved when Bramble dismissed her: ‘Thank you, Maria. I’ll pour the coffee.’

  Now, Chabela could relax properly and after a couple of bites of brownie and a sip of her drink, she set her plate, cup and saucer on the table and took a deep breath.

  ‘Well,’ she said, tipping her head to one side and feeling surprisingly bold all of a sudden. ‘I’m mainly here for a holiday – I really need one – but I’ve come to do a bit of research, too. You might have noticed my surname?’

  Bramble nodded. ‘I wanted to ask you about it, actually. There can’t be many Penhallows in Mexico.’

  Chabela smiled. ‘You’re right. I always knew it was a Cornish name when I was growing up, but that’s about all. My parents divorced when I was very young. My late mother cut my father out of our lives completely and she never talked about his side of the family. I suppose it was a bit of a forbidden topic, so I never asked and wasn’t particularly interested, to be honest. But then a few months ago, I was contacted out of the blue by a stranger…’

  She went on to explain how she’d been at the university where she worked when a letter had arrived from a man called Simon Hosking.

  ‘I know him!’ Bramble cried. ‘Not well, but he lives on the outskirts of the village. I met him properly for the first time last Christmas, at a party.’

  Chabela’s dark eyebrows shot up. ‘Oh? What’s he like?’

  ‘Quite quiet. Intellectual. Serious. In his forties and single, I think. He was quite friendly but we didn’t talk for long and he left early. I see him in the village occasionally. He always says hello but rarely stops to talk. I think he’s a bit of a loner. He prefers his own company.’

  ‘That figures,’ Chabela replied. ‘His letter was quite short and formal, though not unfriendly. He told me he’s head of modern languages at a school in Cornwall in the UK, and he knows Mexico well. By chance, he picked up an academic journal in the library and read an article that I wrote some time ago about the schooling experiences of bilingual children in my country. He noticed my name – Penhallow – at the bottom.

  ‘He said the Penhallows, like his family, the Hoskings, came originally from a little village called Tremarnock, which was where he still lived.’

  ‘Interesting!’ Bramble leaned back, her arms folded across her chest. ‘Go on.’

  Chabela took another sip of coffee before clearing her throat and resuming.

  ‘He said he’d been researching his family history and had discovered that in the 1840s, one branch of the Penhallow family had moved to the Camborne-Redruth area to find work. A man called Joseph Penhallow had got a job at one of the tin mines but there’d been an accident and he’d been killed. He had one child, James, then about eight years old, and soon after, James’s mother had died, too, leaving him orphaned.’

  Bramble tutted. ‘Poor kid. Life must have been so hard in those days.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Chabela leaned forwards and rested her elbows on her knees. ‘Now here’s the really fascinating bit: after James Penhallow’s mother died, he moved back to Tremarnock to live with some family friends – the Hoskings.’

  ‘Goodness!’ Bramble’s eyes widened. ‘How on earth did Simon Hosking find that out?’

  Chabela put the question to one side, because she didn’t want to lose her train of thought.

  ‘Simon told me that James Penhallow decided to leave Tremarnock in 1854, I think it was, when he was about seventeen. And guess where he went to seek his fortune?’

  Bramble shook her head.

  ‘Mexico!’ Chabela said triumphantly. ‘He got a job in one of the silver mines and eventually made a lot of money. And there’s more. While there, he met and married a Mexican woman and they had several children.

  ‘Apparently, Simon has a letter in his possession that James wrote to the Hosking family to tell them about his wedding. Simon said he hoped I didn’t mind the question, but Penhallow is an unusual name and he wondered if I’m a descendant of James.’

  ‘Wow!’ Bramble was impressed. ‘And are you?’

  Chabela shrugged. ‘That’s just it. I have absolutely no idea and now my mother’s dead, there’s no one to ask.’

  ‘Oh!’ It was a bit of an anticlimax and Bramble looked disappointed. ‘How can you find out? Maybe Mr Hosking can help?’

  Chabela nodded. ‘I’m hoping so. I thought about trying to do some research myself, but I wouldn’t really know where to start and besides, I’ve too little information to go on. Even if Simon can’t shed much light on it, I’ll be interested to see the letter. Whatever happens, it won’t have been a wasted journey to come here.’

  ‘I’d be curious, too, if I were you,’ said Bramble. ‘It’s amazing to think there might be a link between you and this village. It seems so unlikely.’

  Chabela grinned. ‘It does, doesn’t it? But even if it turns out to be rubbish, it’s given me a great excuse to get to know a new part of the world. I’ve never been to Cornwall before.’

  Bramble took a strand of blonde hair and twisted it around her finger. ‘So, when are you going to meet Simon Hosking? Have you made an arrangement?’

  The door creaked and they both turned to see Matt, Bramble’s boyfriend, making his way across the room towards them. Of medium height and solidly built, he had a small nose, soft grey eyes and fair hair that was just beginning to recede at the sides.

  Bramble had told Chabela that he was general manager of a gym in nearby Plymouth and that he worked unusual hours, sometimes going in and coming home late, or the other way around. He looked very clean, smart and businesslike, in a navy pinstriped suit, white shirt and a thick blue tie that was knotted rather tightly at his neck, giving him a slightly flushed complexion.

  Chabela had the urge to jump up and loosen the tie, but managed to resist, and after the introductions, Matt removed his jacket and sat down in the armchair opposite, his legs splayed in that way that men have, his feet, encased in shiny black lace-ups, set at a quarter to three.

  While he helped himself to a brownie, Bramble filled him in quickly on the reasons for Chabela’s
visit and he mentioned that he, too, was acquainted with Simon Hosking.

  ‘Clever as hell, always got his nose stuck in a book,’ he said, brushing some crumbs off his chunky thighs and onto the floor. Bramble didn’t bat an eyelid.

  It was clear from Matt’s tone that he wasn’t much of a reader himself.

  ‘The kids like him at school ’cause he’s a bit eccentric and makes them laugh. He’s a good teacher, too, apparently. Gets great results.’

  ‘Has he ever been married?’ Chabela wanted to know. ‘Children?’

  Matt put the plate back on the table before scratching his head.

  ‘He’s married to his work, by the sounds of things. Doesn’t socialise much. Rick – he owns the village gift shop – he knows him a bit because they both like local history, but he doesn’t seem to have many friends of either sex.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Chabela said, sighing. ‘It doesn’t sound as if we’ll have much in common.’

  ‘Except your ancestors, perhaps,’ Bramble replied, with a wry smile. ‘But don’t worry, if you can’t stand him you won’t have to see him again.’

  The subject changed to places of interest in the local area, and Matt invited Chabela along to his gym for a free trial.

  ‘Plymouth’s worth a visit. I’m driving that way now. I can give you a lift, if you like? You could do a class, have a mooch around the city and come home by bus.’

  Chabela thanked him, but said she was keen to stay away from busy places for the time being.

  ‘Mexico City’s so huge and the traffic’s a nightmare. It’s wonderful to come here and be close to nature. I think I’ll go for a long walk this afternoon to clear my head. ’

  Sensing that her hosts might want to be alone for a few moments before Matt left, Chabela rose.

  ‘Thanks for the coffee and the chocolate brownie.’

  ‘Same again tomorrow?’ Bramble said, smiling. ‘My stepmother always talks about having her elevenses. I never thought I’d get into the habit but since I’ve lived here, it’s become a bit of a ritual – and Maria does bake the best cakes and biscuits.’

  As soon as she was out of the room, Matt joined Bramble on the sofa.

  ‘Come here, you.’

  He put an arm around her shoulder and she snuggled into his side, resting her head on his chest.

  ‘She seems really nice,’ Bramble said, and he agreed.

  ‘Quite chilled. Her English is brilliant.’

  ‘She didn’t mention a husband or partner or anything. D’you think she’s single?’

  Matt shrugged. ‘No idea.’

  ‘It must be weird, travelling on your own. Quite brave, don’t you think? I wouldn’t fancy it.’

  Matt gave her a squeeze. ‘Since when have you gone all girly? Have you forgotten how you packed in your job and came here? That was pretty brave – or stupid.’ He grinned. ‘I’d hardly call you a shrinking violet.’

  Bramble laughed. ‘True, but the difference is, I had a friend with me. I wouldn’t have come if Katie hadn’t agreed to tag along, too.’

  ‘Well, our Mexican lady seems quite independent and sorted. I don’t think we need to worry about her.’

  Bramble considered this for a moment. ‘Mm,’ she said at last. ‘But I get the feeling she’s not happy.’

  ‘What do you mean? She seems cheerful to me.’

  A rustling outside on the terrace caught their attention and they both turned to look. A grey squirrel scampered from one side of the flagstones to another before darting up the nearest tree.

  ‘I’m not sure, I mean, there’s a sort of wistful look in her eye,’ Bramble commented. ‘Sometimes, when we were talking, it was as if she was here but not here, if you know what I mean.’

  Matt laughed. ‘Give the poor woman a break! She’s probably still jet-lagged.’

  Bramble tipped her head to one side as if attempting to view the problem from a slightly different angle. It didn’t seem to work, however.

  ‘No,’ she said, placing a hand on her partner’s knee and giving it a playful smack. ‘You’re wrong. She’s running away from something. Trust me. I wonder what it can be.’

  Chapter Three

  Chabela slept badly that night, despite having had a long, blowy walk along the cliffs, followed by a hearty supper in a local pub and a couple of glasses of red wine.

  She couldn’t fault her room or bed either – a grand old four-poster in one of the manor’s front wings, with ivory silk drapes and a matching, deep-buttoned chaise longue at the foot, just asking to be curled up on with a good book.

  The place had obviously been refurbished only recently, as the white walls and sand-coloured carpet were immaculate, as was the en suite bathroom, complete with freestanding, roll-top bath with dainty little claw legs. Chabela found it enchanting. Behind it stood a cast-iron fireplace with a mirror on top and beside that, a wooden rocking chair.

  She could just imagine what bliss it would be to turn the lights down low and lounge in the warm bath, watching the flickering flames dance up the chimney, but the hearth was empty and had clearly not been used for some time. There was no need, after all, as the house was centrally heated.

  She’d sat on the rocking chair after her bath and before going to bed, drying herself with a soft white towel, already looking forward to diving beneath the clean white sheets, closing her eyes and sinking into blissful oblivion.

  Instead, however, she’d tossed and turned, listening to the owl hooting in the distance, the occasional creak and groan of a floorboard, like an old man getting up out of his chair, the gurgling of a bathroom pipe next door.

  She didn’t feel spooked by being in a strange old house; what haunted her far more was a painful sense of severance. Once, she had felt so connected to Alfonso that she’d imagined she knew if he was thinking about her even when they were miles apart.

  Now, as she lay wide awake in the dark, try as she might she couldn’t find a direct link; it was as if the lines between them had become scrambled. Like a bad phone call, his voice seemed to fade in and out and she couldn’t grasp his tone or what, if anything, he was trying to communicate to her.

  The worst part was that she was straining so hard to hear, it almost hurt. She knew that it would be best to put down the receiver, so to speak, and walk away, but instead, she had it pressed so close to her ear that it seemed to burn.

  The idea that he might not be at the other end at all was just too much to bear. She had to picture him mouthing words to her, whispering messages that couldn’t get through, otherwise she might go mad.

  STOP! No matter how hard she tried, her thoughts kept swirling in concentric circles, always settling back into the exact same spot where they’d started, like a falcon returning to its perch. She wanted so much to break away and be free. It was torture.

  Snapping on the light beside her bed, she picked up the novel that she’d brought with her for the plane. It was a psychological thriller – quite gruesome in places.

  For some reason she’d recently taken to reading dark, sinister books for relaxation, instead of her usual diet of light, funny fiction. She couldn’t decide if it was masochism or catharsis. Either way, the horror seemed to jolt her out of her normal state, providing temporary relief from her ruminations.

  It was almost three a.m. when she finally fell asleep with the light still on, and she could hardly believe it when the alarm on her phone buzzed, because it felt as if she’d only just dozed off. Could it really be seven forty-five already?

  When she leant across to grab the mobile from the table beside her, she was astonished to discover that it was. Normally an early riser, she often set her alarm late, knowing that she’d most likely beat the clock and wake naturally. Now, there was barely enough time to shower and get down to breakfast.

  Flinging off the cotton duvet, she padded over to the floor-length taupe curtains and pulled them open. Bright sunlight flooded the room and it took a moment or two for her eyes to adjust.

  Once t
hey’d done so, she took a deep breath and gazed out, feeling just as awed as on her first morning here. The manor was perched on a headland and below her lay the neat front garden filled with shrubs. Stretching out behind it were green fields dotted with minuscule purple, yellow and white flowers that swept all the way to the cliff edge. And beyond that, as far as the eye could see, was the turquoise ocean, which seemed to glitter like diamonds, while seagulls circled overhead, wheeling and crying.

  Whatever else was happening in her life, she thought, nothing could take away the glory of this vista and for a few, blissful moments she felt happy just to be alive.

  Opening the window wide, she leaned out and filled her lungs and nostrils with the sweet scent of damp grass and salty morning air. She might have stood there for ages, but could hear noises coming from down below – pans clattering, a cutlery drawer, perhaps, being opened and shut, a kettle being filled – and she guessed that Maria, the housekeeper, was making breakfast.

  In truth, Chabela would have preferred to help herself to a bowl of cereal or some toast and jam, but she had already gleaned that this was not the Polgarry Manor way.

  Yesterday, when she had been five minutes later down for breakfast than expected, Maria had rapped quite crossly on her bedroom door and told her that her eggs were getting cold.

  Chabela couldn’t remember having asked for eggs, but didn’t dare say so. What Maria wanted around here, it seemed, Maria generally got. It wasn’t how the boss–servant relationships in Mexico normally functioned, but who was Chabela to try to change things?

  ‘When in Rome…’ she told herself, turning from the window and hurrying into the bathroom for a speedy shower. There was no way that she was going to give Maria cause to knock on her door again.

  She managed to find her way to the dining room – a big, square, wood-panelled space with a long rectangular table in the centre and windows looking out onto a neatly cut lawn.

  Maria was already there, standing rather stiffly in front of a heavy sideboard, on which were placed two antique silver breakfast dishes, a toaster, an uncut loaf of brown bread and a jug of orange juice.