The Girl Who Came Home to Cornwall

by Emma Burstall

  After helping herself to a generous squirt, she lathered her hands thoroughly and then repeated the procedure all over again, imagining Simon watching, beady-eyed, to make sure that she was doing it properly.

  The soap had an unusual, peppery scent, which only a man would go for, perhaps mixed with bergamot. It wasn’t particularly pleasant, but it wasn’t nasty either and it did leave her hands feeling very soft and clean.

  Having dried them carefully on his beige towel, she was about to re-join him in the front room but couldn’t resist poking her head in the kitchen first.

  Like the rest of the cottage, this was shipshape and orderly, with a small, square wooden table in the centre, just big enough for two people, plain, tan-coloured cupboards and walnut worktops that were remarkably free from crumbs, gadgets, cookery books or unopened letters.

  A rectangular window above the sink looked out onto a smallish, grassy back garden with a gnarled old apple tree in the centre. This seemed to lower its branches, stooping respectfully towards the rocky cliff that was guarding the house from beyond the fence.

  Some wooden shelves to the right of the window were laden with large jars containing different varieties of pasta, brown and white rice, green and red lentils and yellow split peas. Above these was an impressive assortment of spices: cumin, cardamom, cinnamon, fenugreek, garam masala, ginger, mustard seeds, saffron, turmeric and so on, all neatly labelled and in strict alphabetical order.

  An old black Aga dominated the other side of the kitchen, with a cast-iron pan on top, and beside it was a large wooden knife block, which must have contained at least nine or ten knives with serious-looking black handles.

  The only other piece of equipment on show, save for a heavy wooden chopping board, was an electric bread maker, which would probably account for the warm, slightly yeasty aroma that she’d noticed when she first entered the cottage.

  He must do a lot of cooking, she thought, presumably just for himself, and she found herself wondering if he ever felt lonely. She had trained herself not to pine when Alfonso was away, and she’d managed to find a way of being happy, mostly, in her own company. But it was always with the knowledge that her lover would come back to her eventually.

  Did Simon have a girlfriend waiting in the wings? She very much doubted it. He struck her as the confirmed bachelor type, who preferred being alone. She was rather envious; it would be so much easier never to have fallen in love or needed anyone.

  When she returned to the front room, he had migrated to the sofa where she had been and put the plastic folder and the other piece of paper on the adjoining seat. There was no room for her. She wondered for a moment whether he meant her to take the opposite sofa, but then he picked up the papers, slightly testily she thought, and beckoned to her to sit beside him.

  ‘You need to be very careful,’ he said, easing the original letter out of its plastic folder and placing it on the coffee table. ‘Perhaps you’d rather look at the digital copy first?’

  Having been ticked off about her dirty hands, Chabela was keen not to be reprimanded again and decided there and then that she wouldn’t risk touching the original at all.

  Picking up the copy, she quickly scanned the words, which were written in a large, slightly childish-looking script.

  The address at the top of the page was in Real del Monte, Hidalgo, Mexico, and it was dated 3rd March, 1867.

  Dear Fred and Dolly, and of course, the rest of the Hosking clan,

  I’m writing to tell you the wonderful news – I’m a married man! I wed my beautiful bride, Jacinta, last Saturday at the Methodist church in Pachuca. So what do you think of that!

  The work on my hacienda was completed just in time and we are at last man and wife, living together in wedded bliss. Jacinta has brought her little cat, Elodia, with her from her mother’s house, and so we are three.

  I hope you will one day meet my Jacinta. I’m certain you’ll love her. She’s beautiful, kind, funny, gentle and sweet. She speaks little English, so I have arranged for her to have lessons with the wife of one of our foremen. However, her lack of words hardly seems to matter. Her eyes are the windows to her soul and we understand one another perfectly. I truly believe that I’m the luckiest fellow alive…

  There was then a section on the weather – extremely hot and uncomfortable, apparently – before he went on to talk about his work.

  On another subject, I have persuaded people with money to invest in a third abandoned mine that I came across some time ago on my travels and have wanted to open up. I feel certain that we shall be lucky again and strike a good vein.

  Soon, I hope to be able to put aside more money, some of which will find its way to you, my dearest friends. It is the least I can do after all the kindness you have shown me.

  I enclose a photograph of me with my beloved Jacinta on our wedding day. It was taken in the drawing room of our hacienda, which overlooks the main square. As you can see, it’s quite grand! My mother and father would have been amazed to think of their Jimmy living in such a place. They wouldn’t have believed it.

  I trust that you are well and that Fred’s cough has cleared up with the better weather. I expect the daffodils are out by now and the hilltops are a blaze of yellow.

  How are the Penrice lot? And Annie and Christopher Dawes and old Ma Hopkins? How I miss you all! I would give anything for a pint of Walter Hicks’ ale. God willing, one day I will return to Tremarnock with my wife. I know that you will take her to your hearts as she will take you to hers.

  Until then, I send you my warmest good wishes.

  Your ever grateful friend and surrogate son,

  James Penhallow.

  Simon must have been following Chabela’s gaze, as he waited until she got to the bottom of the page before speaking.

  ‘The photograph is lost, unfortunately,’ he said. ‘It’s pretty extraordinary that we’ve still got the letters. In one of the others, James mentions how he and Jacinta met. He was playing football with some of his friends in the village square. The Cornish tin miners brought football to Mexico, you know, in the eighteen twenties. It had never been played there before.’

  Chabela nodded. ‘I believe there’s a plaque in Real del Monte which marks the spot.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Simon. ‘Jacinta was out with her sister and they stopped to watch the lads. They must have seemed very strange and foreign to the girls, with their pale skin and light hair and the odd language they spoke. It would have been quite incomprehensible.

  ‘James himself was red-headed. We know because he mentions how amazed Jacinta was. She caught his eye and he went over to talk to her, presumably in his broken Spanish, and he said she was fascinated by his “cabello rojo”.’

  ‘May I see them – the other letters, I mean?’

  Simon got up and left the room to fetch them.

  Once again, Chabela touched only the copies that he had made, and was charmed by James Penhallow’s almost childlike enthusiasm. In one letter, where he talked about meeting Jacinta for the first time, he mentioned that he’d managed to save enough from his earnings as a miner to buy himself a mule.

  It seemed clear that the two events were connected; he must already have been thinking about marrying the beautiful Mexican señorita and was hoping to make enough money through his own enterprise to be able to provide for her.

  On my days off, I intend to travel on my mule to abandoned mines in the area. There are many of them and I’m convinced that some could be worked again lucratively.

  Of course I shall have to persuade rich people to invest. That won’t be easy, but if I succeed then one day, God willing, I hope that I might have the means to marry and start a family of my own.

  In the second letter, he mentioned that while he was working down the mine, a large rock fell on his head.

  Fortunately I was saved by my hard hat, but I lost two teeth in the process. I am not quite so handsome now, to be sure, but I’m grateful to be parted only with some teeth and not
my life!

  ‘I’m quite surprised he could read and write,’ Chabela commented, when she’d finished. ‘He sounds so articulate, but his father can’t have earned much money in the mines, and then he was orphaned so young. Would he even have gone to school?’

  Simon pulled an ‘I don’t know’ sort of face. ‘He might have attended a charity school of some sort for a while. There were quite a few around at that time, specifically for poor children. He could have learned the basics there. He was obviously an intelligent, ambitious chap, so maybe he taught himself after that, or took night classes. Later on, of course, once he’d made his fortune, he could have hired a private tutor and bought all the books he wanted.’

  It all happened so long ago but having seen the letters, Chabela found that her interest had only been further piqued. Whether or not she and James were related, she realised that she wanted to know more about this man whose surname she shared.

  ‘Do we know what happened to him and Jacinta?’ she asked. ‘Did they stay in Mexico? Did they have any children?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you,’ Simon replied. ‘I’ve always wanted to do some research but so far I haven’t got round to it. I rather hoped you might have some information, but I gather that’s not the case?’

  She shook her head apologetically. ‘My mother was a strange, difficult woman. For whatever reason, she cut herself off from family and hardly had any friends, either. The only thing I do know is that my father’s father was called Rodrigo Penhallow Aguado. He once sent me a birthday card with a little note inside. My mother normally refused to allow me to read any letters from him or any other member of the family; she’d tear them up. This one must have slipped through the net.’

  Simon looked thoughtful. ‘Rodrigo? OK. Well that’s something, anyway. I don’t suppose you know the name of his wife – your grandmother?’

  Chabela shook her head again.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t tell you more,’ Simon went on. ‘I hope you don’t think I’ve brought you here under false pretences.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Chabela tucked a strand of hair behind an ear and pushed up the sleeves of her sweatshirt. The sun had moved around and was shining right on her, making her quite hot.

  ‘To be honest, your letter came at just the right time. I’d wanted a holiday and it gave me a great excuse to visit somewhere new. I’m curious about the Penhallow link, but if I don’t ever find out anything more, I won’t be too bothered.’

  Simon removed his glasses for a moment and rubbed his eyes. He looked even younger without them, almost boyish. Perhaps not having a spouse or children to worry about kept the wrinkles at bay.

  Folk sometimes said the same thing to Chabela, which made her smile. ‘You look like a teenager!’ they’d marvel. ‘How do you do it?’ Then the penny would drop and they’d nod knowingly, as if they’d just unearthed some great truth. ‘Ah! Of course! No children…’

  When she looked at herself in the mirror she could never really see what they were talking about. In any case, she thought that she’d rather have Alfonso and a family than an unlined complexion, but of course she took the compliment with good grace and kept schtum.

  ‘I may know someone who can help,’ Simon said now, referring back to the Penhallow link, and Chabela’s ears pricked up.

  ‘He’s called Rick. He runs a rather shabby gift shop in the village. Don’t tell him I said that, though,’ he added as an afterthought.

  ‘I think I met him! Lots of hair?’ Chabela made an exaggerated beard shape around her chin with her hands.

  ‘That’s the one.’ Simon gave a small smile. ‘He’s an amateur historian. He might have a suggestion or two.’

  For some reason she rather liked the idea of joining Simon in a spot of sleuthing; if nothing else, it would be a good excuse for them to meet again. Otherwise, she suspected that he might go back to burying himself in his books and she’d never set eyes on him again.

  She started to ask him about his own family now, taking care not to sound too nosy. He had, it seemed, been born just outside Tremarnock. His father was a farmer and his mother had stayed home to raise him, an only child. Both parents were now dead.

  She didn’t dare enquire if he had ever been married or even if he had any children. His tics and spasms appeared to have subsided and the last thing she wanted was to stir them up again. In the event, however, he gave the information voluntarily.

  ‘If I’d married and had a family, I might have wanted to live somewhere a bit livelier. Not London, maybe Bath or Bristol. But this place is perfect for antisocial old me. In the school holidays, I can go for days without speaking to anyone at all if I don’t want to,’ he added, without a hint of irony.

  Something about his expression – slightly wistful, perhaps – made her wonder if he did have some regrets but was doing his best to hide them. He soon put her right on that score, however.

  ‘I’m not at all the marrying type.’ He screwed up his nose as if there were a bad smell. ‘I like my own space.’

  There was silence for a moment when she couldn’t think of anything to say. She wondered if he might ask about her own personal circumstances, but he didn’t. Instead, he leaned forwards and picked up the coffee pot, which was still half full, and topped up both their cups without asking.

  When he reached for the milk jug and peered inside, though, he found that it was empty.

  ‘I’ll get some more.’ He started to rise but she was quicker on her feet and nearer to the door, too.

  ‘I’ll go. Presumably it’s in the kitchen?’

  By the time he answered she was already halfway there. It didn’t take her long to locate the fridge or the milk on a shelf just inside the door.

  The interior was sparkling clean, but there seemed to be very little fresh food – just a small wedge of hard, yellow cheese, carefully wrapped in plastic film, a ceramic butter dish, half a cucumber, two spring onions, also carefully wrapped, a few potatoes and a carton of orange juice.

  In a glass drawer at the bottom, she noticed two breasts of chicken, a cauliflower and some sprigs of broccoli, but that was all.

  Her own fridge, by contrast, was usually bulging. Jars of half-eaten jam, mayonnaise and assorted condiments wrestled for space with leftover meals. They would most likely never get eaten, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to waste them.

  Having remnants lying around didn’t bother her unless the food went mouldy, at which point she would finally throw it out. Simon was clearly much more disciplined. He probably bought only as much as he could consume and never had to throw anything away.

  Although she could see the merits in such an approach, it seemed a bit too frugal for her liking. Where were the naughty half-eaten bars of chocolate and comforting packets of cookies? Where were the tasty soft drinks and bottles of beer and wine?

  If a monk or a nun possessed a fridge, this is what it would look like, she decided, resolving there and then to tuck into a very large dinner tonight complete with starter and pudding. All this evidence of abstinence was making her feel hungry again.

  At that moment, an idea popped into her head and stayed put. Closing the fridge again quickly, before Simon could accuse her of snooping, she returned with the carton of milk, which he poured into the jug.

  She waited until they’d finished their second cup of coffee before making her proposal.

  ‘Well,’ she said, rising and pulling down her sweatshirt at the same time. ‘I really think it’s time to go.’

  ‘Must you?’ he replied, rising also, but he didn’t look too upset. In fact, she suspected that he was really rather relieved. He was probably looking forward to getting back to his books. After all, they’d been talking for at least two hours, which was probably quite a lot for him.

  ‘I wondered…’ she said, feeling suddenly uncharacteristically shy, ‘if I could come here and make the churros? Instead of doing them at the manor, I mean?’

  She watched his face for signs of dism
ay or panic but couldn’t see any. Emboldened, she carried on.

  ‘I could cook you a whole Mexican meal, if you’d like that? Of course—’

  Knowing his penchant for tidiness, she was about to add that she would be sure to do all the clearing up, too, but he interrupted her.

  ‘That would be nice, thank you.’

  He looked genuinely quite pleased and her face broke into a huge smile.

  ‘Muy bien!’ She clapped her hands while he stood with his arms hanging awkwardly at his side, looking for all the world as if he’d never witnessed such a startling display of enthusiasm. ‘I’ll wait for you to tell me which day would be most convenient,’ she went on. ‘You have my phone number?’

  He gave a small, restrained nod. ‘And I’ll speak to Rick the amateur historian.’

  It was after one o’clock when she set off for the village once more, having responded to his rather stiff farewell handshake with a kiss on his surprisingly smooth cheek.

  By his expression, you’d think that she’d gone for his lips instead, which made her giggle inwardly, and she was still laughing as she climbed back up the cliff, going over their conversation and remembering all his little peculiarities.

  The nervous twitches, the almost military-style neatness, his fondness for brown and beige, his frugal eating habits; he could hardly be more different from most of the Mexican men she knew, including Alfonso.

  And yet, despite all this, she found being with Simon quite reassuring in a way.

  For one, he had taken her mind right off her problems and secondly, it was clear that he wanted nothing from her at all, other than that which she might choose to give.

  If he never saw her again, she thought, he wouldn’t be too bothered, yet on the other hand, he was perfectly happy for her to cook him a meal if that’s what she wanted to do.

  Such self-reliance in a man was a revelation to her. At the height of her affair with Alfonso, he had been so needy, expecting her to drop everything the moment he was free, calling her any time of the day or night when he wanted her advice, or just to be reassured how much she loved him.