The Girl Who Came Home to Cornwall

by Emma Burstall

  This was framed by heavy, floor-length cream curtains with a pattern of fine, ink-drawn seashells, like something from a Victorian geologist’s sketchpad.

  More books ran across the sill, the biggest carefully stacked together at one end and the shortest at the other. There was an atlas, a thesaurus, a book of Buddhist teachings, some Persian poetry, James Joyce’s Ulysses, Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude, To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf and a selection of nonsense verse; his tastes were clearly eclectic.

  On top of the thesaurus was a small brass pocket telescope, which looked as if it were in constant use. The brass had long since lost its shine and the leather handle was worn. Chabela was tempted to pick it up and try it out, but resisted the urge, sensing that there was something rather personal about it.

  In one corner of the room was a battered pine storage unit with a neat, black flat-screen television on top and alongside it, a portable Bluetooth speaker.

  All in all, there was plenty of comfort and interest, enough to keep you occupied for a very long time. In fact she thought that if she lived here, she mightn’t need anything else at all, other than some seriously bright colours to cheer things up.

  A sudden feeling of sadness swept over her. Hadn’t she made her apartment in Mexico City exactly as she wanted? It was comfortable, vibrant and there were books galore. Yet somehow, without the prospect of any visits from Alfonso, it had lost all its charm.

  The rich colours of the sofas, blinds and paintings that she had chosen so carefully seemed to have become bleached and ugly. She no longer kept the place particularly clean and rarely opened the sliding doors or stepped out onto her shady balcony, which overlooked the busy street below.

  Until he’d gone, her life, despite its imperfections, had seemed mostly fulfilling. She simply hadn’t realised how much of her happiness had been invested in him. She had been unwise, to say the least, more likely downright foolish. Now, despite her intellect and all her interests, she struggled to find true meaning in anything.

  Simon came back carrying a wooden tray, which he set down carefully on the pine trunk. On it there were two cups of coffee in matching blue and white striped mugs, two small, blue and white striped plates, a dish of scones and two little glass bowls, one containing dark red jam, the other a dollop of thick, yellowish clotted cream.

  He’d clearly gone to some effort and Chabela was touched; Alfonso was in many ways an unreconstructed male. His doting mother had done everything for him, then his wife, and Chabela suspected that he wouldn’t know where the jam in his house was kept, let alone think of transferring it from a jar into a dainty bowl.

  ‘How pretty that looks!’ she said, settling down on the sofa facing the window. She noticed the tips of Simon’s ears go pink.

  ‘Here, do have some coffee,’ he said, swivelling the handle closest to her around the right way before sitting down on the sofa opposite. They were now some way apart, with the wooden chest acting like a barrier between them.

  ‘Well I must say,’ he went on, rubbing his palms up and down his thighs as if that might somehow help to bridge the gap, ‘it’s nice to meet you at long last.’

  Now that they were square on for the first time, she was able to look at him properly. He wasn’t unattractive: he had quite thick, slightly wavy hair that could have done with a trim, dark eyebrows and hazel eyes behind roundish tortoiseshell glasses, a straight nose, firm jaw and surprisingly full lips that lent him a slightly boyish, vulnerable air.

  He was naturally pale skinned, you could tell, with a light tan and a sprinkling of freckles across his nose and cheeks. The morning sun had started to warm up the room and when he took off his sweater, placed it on the back of the seat and rolled up the sleeves of his light brown checked shirt, she could see freckles on his forearms, too.

  Although he wasn’t a big man, he looked strong. He didn’t seem like the gym type and Chabela guessed that his fitness most likely came from brisk, solo walks up and down the cliffs and chopping his own logs for the fire. She couldn’t imagine him jogging or playing team sports.

  Pushing his glasses up his nose, he coughed awkwardly and she looked away quickly, hoping that her gaze wouldn’t have set off another volley of shrugs and jerks.

  ‘I was really happy to receive your letter,’ she said, reaching for her mug and blowing on the coffee to cool it down. ‘Were you surprised when you saw my name on the bottom of the article? What did you think?’

  Simon crossed one leg over the other and she clocked for the first time that his shoes were, indeed, brown. She almost laughed.

  ‘I was intrigued. It’s unusual to see a Mexican name juxtaposed with a Cornish one like that and I felt it couldn’t just be coincidence; there must surely be a link with that friend of my ancestors who had gone to Mexico – James Penhallow. I wanted to find out more but I didn’t know if you’d ever write back. It was worth a try, though. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’

  He caught her eye, gave a small, tight smile and she smiled broadly back. She wanted to put him at his ease; she was sure that they’d both have a much more enjoyable time if she could only get him to relax.

  ‘Well I’m very glad you ventured,’ she replied, taking a sip of her coffee, which was now cool enough to drink. ‘I wouldn’t be here otherwise and I’d never have seen Cornwall.’

  This was his cue to ask politely about her flight, and he wanted to know if she had settled in at Polgarry Manor and was comfortable there.

  ‘I understand the owners have done a lot of work on the place. They’re quite a young couple, too, I hear? From London. It’s a big undertaking.’

  Chabela was both surprised and amused. He spoke as if he’d never met them, yet Bramble had expressly said that she and Simon had talked at a party and that they acknowledged each other sometimes in the village.

  His mind was probably always elsewhere, stuck in his Oxford English Dictionary, perhaps, or some historical tome about the ancient Mayan civilisation. Chabela decided not to point out the error, switching instead to what she hoped was the safe topic of his cottage.

  ‘How long have you lived here? It’s got one of the most idyllic views I’ve ever seen.’

  He said that he’d bought the place more than twenty years ago, after he left university and teacher training college and started his first job.

  She did a quick mental calculation and reckoned that he must be in his early- to mid-forties, though he didn’t look it.

  ‘It was virtually derelict,’ he explained. ‘It had been a holiday let but the owners hadn’t bothered to maintain it and no one had come for years. It was extremely cheap, or I’d never have been able to afford it. I pulled it apart and rebuilt it bit by bit with my own hands.’

  She was impressed and said so, complimenting him on his skill and vision. But he seemed to find her praise embarrassing, so she quickly moved on to his job at the large comprehensive school that most of the local children attended from the age of eleven.

  This topic made him much more comfortable.

  ‘They’re great kids,’ he said, almost animatedly. ‘I like teaching the older ones best, because they’ve chosen to study languages; they’re not doing it under sufferance. But the younger ones can be very rewarding, too. They’re full of energy and so curious, well, most of them.’ He frowned. ‘Some are a real handful but when you find out about their backgrounds, it’s hardly surprising.

  ‘We have an exchange programme with a school in Valencia, which I organise. The children stay with Spanish families over there and vice versa. We’ve been doing it for years. It seems to work very well.’

  ‘You should bring a group to Mexico one year,’ Chabela suggested. ‘I’m sure I could put you in touch with a suitable school.’

  Simon visibly perked up, but then shook his head.

  ‘The flights would be too expensive. Most of our parents wouldn’t be able to afford it.’

  His gaze slid to the painting of watermelons to th
e left of the wood burner and her own eyes followed.

  ‘I bought that about ten years ago in a little town near Cuernavaca.’ He sounded wistful. ‘I haven’t been back to Mexico since. The artist was selling his paintings at the side of the road. He wouldn’t accept much for it. He looked hungry, so I ended up taking him for tacos in the market, then we drank tequila in a bar up the road. I have no idea what time I got home. Late, anyway. I don’t suppose he sold any more paintings that day, but I think he enjoyed himself. I certainly did.’

  The story surprised Chabela, because she had had her host down as the cautious type, not given to spontaneous acts and certainly not ones that involved talking to strangers.

  She could imagine that Simon would have thought long and hard before even sending her the letter, probably ruminating over the pros and cons and deliberating carefully over each word once he’d resolved to go ahead.

  Perhaps there was another, less restrained side to his character that only emerged on holiday, or maybe it had got lost somewhere in the mists of time.

  ‘Have you been to Mexico often?’ she asked, and he nodded before qualifying himself.

  ‘Well, on a few occasions, three I think, to be precise. I always had an interest, ever since I was a boy. I used to hear my father talk occasionally about his dead relatives and their relationship with the Penhallow family. I had no idea where Mexico was but I thought it sounded very exciting and far away.

  ‘I think I was intrigued by the idea of a young man from round here, someone a little bit like me, setting off to a completely unknown country and starting a new life.’

  ‘Did you ever do it yourself?’ she wanted to know. ‘I mean, did you ever live abroad, in Mexico or anywhere else?’

  At this, his shoulder shot up and his head jerked in that most uncomfortable-looking way, which made her regret asking the question.

  ‘Oh no. I’m not very adventurous,’ he replied, staring hard at his hands.

  She was about to approach the subject from a different, perhaps less obtrusive angle, but he jumped in to deflect her.

  ‘Would you like a scone?’ He rather clumsily passed her an empty plate, knife and a paper napkin. ‘I bought them from the village bakery this morning.’

  After her enormous breakfast, Chabela wasn’t remotely hungry but food always cheered her up. In any case, she felt that it would be rude not to accept. Plus, she’d read about Cornwall’s famous ‘cream teas’ and had been curious to try one. Now was her chance.

  Leaning forward, she helped herself to a scone from the large plate still sitting on the tray, along with a generous dollop of jam and cream. The scone was bulging with plump, juicy raisins and she cut it in two before spreading the dark red jam, complete with little chunks of raspberry, over both halves with a knife.

  Next, she slathered on the rich, buttery cream which had a crusted, grainy surface. It sat comfortably on the raspberries, blending slightly at the edges to create a pretty pinkish colour.

  Her mouth watered and without more ado, she sank her teeth into the food and closed her eyes, wanting to savour fully the combination of sweet, floury scone, slightly tart fruit and nutty cream, which had the texture of soft cheese.

  ‘Delicious!’ she pronounced after she’d finished the first mouthful. ‘It’s what heaven would taste like, if it had a taste.’

  After breathing a sigh of satisfaction, she opened her eyes again and would have repeated the experience straight away. Glancing up at Simon, however, she realised that he was staring at her rather hard.

  His plate was balanced on his lap and when she caught his eye, he looked away quickly, lifted his scone with both hands and nervously nibbled the edge, like a squirrel with a nut.

  Chabela was confused. ‘Aren’t you having jam or cream?’

  She tried to pass him one of the little bowls, but he shook his head, and a troubling thought crossed her mind: perhaps you were supposed just to look at the toppings, not eat them. Had she committed a terrible faux pas? But if so, why did people go on about these famous cream teas – and shouldn’t her guidebook have warned her?

  Putting down her plate quickly, she wiped her mouth with a corner of the napkin and gave an embarrassed little cough, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘I avoid sugar as a rule,’ he said seriously, ‘and I don’t eat cream or butter.’

  Chabela, who loved both, was genuinely shocked. ‘But they’re so delicious!’

  He gave a small shrug. ‘I don’t normally have scones or cakes either, but I thought I’d make an exception today.’

  ‘Don’t you like them?’ She couldn’t imagine what anyone could possibly not like about them.

  ‘I do, but I try to eat healthily.’

  ‘So do I! Well, sort of.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘But you’ve got to indulge sometimes. I mean, we only live once, don’t we?’

  Instead of replying, he took another nibble from the corner of his scone, and this time she felt an unexpected prickle of annoyance.

  ‘Well I’m not giving up anything,’ she pronounced rebelliously, before chomping again into her own food. Then, with her mouth still half full, she added in a most unladylike fashion, ‘In fact, I think I’ll buy a big tub of cream on the way home and eat the whole lot in one sitting all by myself!’

  Chapter Five

  Simon looked taken aback and Chabela felt slightly ashamed. Just because she was greedy didn’t mean that he had to be, too. Some people were into self-denial; it seemed to give them pleasure in the same way that a little hedonism from time to time suited her.

  ‘I wouldn’t really – eat a whole tub of cream in one go, I mean,’ she said apologetically. ‘It would probably make me sick – and imagine how fat I’d be! I’d go home looking like a great big churro de cajeta.’

  At this, she blew out her cheeks, guessing that he would be familiar with the popular Mexican dessert, consisting of flat fried dough stuffed with caramel sauce and laden with calories.

  She was right. His eyes lit up and he gave a loud, deep laugh, like a mini explosion.

  ‘That wouldn’t be good! No one would recognise you!’

  So he did have a sense of humour! Chabela had been starting to wonder. His amusement didn’t last long, however.

  ‘I haven’t had churros for years.’

  He looked quite mournful and without thinking, Chabela said she’d make some for him. She liked cooking, when she had the time to do it properly, that was; she found it relaxing.

  ‘My mother’s housemaid showed me the recipe. Lots of families have a maid in Mexico, you know,’ she added quickly, not wishing to sound grand. ‘It’s much more common than over here.’

  Simon nodded. He seemed a little doubtful about the churros, however.

  ‘I shouldn’t—’ he started, but she ignored him.

  ‘I hope the housekeeper at Polgarry Manor won’t mind me using the kitchen. Bramble won’t, anyway, and she’s the boss.’

  ‘I’m not really—’ Simon began again, but Chabela was so thoroughly taken with her idea that she scarcely heard him.

  ‘I won’t add too much sugar, I promise. Anyway, one or two churros won’t hurt. I wonder if I can remember how to cook the caramel sauce…’

  She was already thinking that she would make enough for Bramble and Matt, too, and Maria, if she behaved. Chabela liked the idea of giving her hosts a little taste of Mexico. They seemed to be lovely people and they’d already made her feel so welcome.

  Simon seemed to know when he was defeated and stopped protesting, offering instead to show Chabela one of the letters that he had in his possession from James Penhallow to the Hosking family, some years after James had moved to Mexico.

  So caught up had she been in the thrill of their meeting that Chabela had quite forgotten the real reason why she was here.

  ‘Ooh, yes please!’ she said, wriggling in her seat with enthusiasm.

  He got up and went into another room, returning shortly after with a see-through folder containi
ng a flat, yellowing page of writing in one hand, and a large piece of white paper in the other. Chabela gave a little whoop of excitement, which made his shoulder jerk violently and shoot up almost to his ear.

  ‘This is a digital copy,’ he explained once he’d recovered. He waved the white paper in the air. ‘And this other one’s the original. It’s in pretty good condition. I’ve got two other letters but this is the clearest.

  ‘For years, the letters were shoved in a drawer in my father’s bureau, along with all his other correspondence. Eventually, I persuaded him to let me look after them. I took some advice and bought an acid-free archive box to protect them from light, dust and pests. It seems to be doing the trick.’

  She could just imagine him eyeing his father’s messy drawer with distaste; Simon himself would no doubt have a neat, logical filing system for everything. In fact she’d bet he even had a special way of organising his pants and socks, and she was certain that he’d change his bed linen on the same day each week.

  But orderliness had its advantages, not least it meant that he’d been able to lay his hands on the precious letter immediately.

  Chabela herself was woefully untidy. Her main filing system consisted of a large folder emblazoned with the words ‘VERY IMPORTANT STUFF’. She wasn’t proud of it but there again, she didn’t seem to lose things very often; there was a certain order in the chaos.

  ‘Can I have a look?’ She stood up, expecting Simon to hand her the original letter, but he swung his arm above his head, so that it was well out of reach.

  ‘You need to wash and dry your hands first,’ he said fiercely, ‘or you might transfer oil from your fingers onto the paper; it’s very fragile.’

  Feeling like one of his naughty pupils, Chabela apologised profusely, and when he told her where to find the nearest loo, she scuttled off without a murmur, tail between legs.

  The small cloakroom was at the end of the hallway, and she was relieved to find a sturdy hand soap dispenser by the washbasin, proudly boasting its organic, environmentally friendly credentials.