The Girl Who Came Home to Cornwall

by Emma Burstall

  Most of the guests left first for the reception on Polrethen Beach, then Simon drove Chabela. As they travelled, the sky clouded over and she feared that it might rain. However, once they arrived at the Secret Shack, the December sun had peeked through again and was casting a cold, watery glow over everything.

  Chabela giggled as she teetered over the sand in her high heels, hanging on to Simon’s arm. She was wearing a white faux-fur shrug over her dress though it wasn’t particularly cold, and they stopped for a moment before they went inside to admire the view. The crescent-shaped beach seemed much wilder in winter. It was flanked by giant granite boulders on one side and rocky mounds on the other.

  Ramshackle wooden breakwaters stretched some way out to sea on which perched seagulls, preening their feathers and pecking at barnacles. Further out, a number of fishing boats bobbed friskily in the choppy silver-white waves, while a long way away, they spotted a battle-grey warship, which had probably come from the royal naval dockyard in Plymouth.

  ‘I love it so much here,’ said Chabela, closing her eyes for a moment and breathing in the scent of salt and seaweed.

  She was holding her husband’s hand, which felt large, warm and comforting.

  ‘And I love you,’ he said softly. ‘I can’t quite believe this is true, can you?’

  They turned around after that to admire the tepee, which was open wide at the front and already buzzing with people inside. The wooden poles that stuck out of the top had jolly flags on them and there was brightly coloured bunting around the entrance too, so that it all looked very festive.

  It was lovely and warm inside, owing to the giant brazier in the centre, filled with burning logs that licked and crackled enticingly. It was quite safe, because the cone-shaped tepee had a hole in the top, which drew the smoke upwards like a chimney, allowing it to escape into the outside air.

  Large ceramic pots filled with lush green ferns stood at intervals, and the slatted oblong tables with wooden benches underneath were positioned around the edges, leaving room in the middle for dancing later.

  Fairy lights twisted around the tepee’s internal lodge poles and industrial-type light bulbs hung from planks that were suspended from the roof poles.

  Chabela herself had done the floral arrangements, which were glass jam jars filled with rich, dark greenery and seasonal wildflowers – hebe, japonica and winter honeysuckle, which gave off a heady perfume.

  The whole effect was casual, pretty and rustic, and very soon the mariachi band struck up again and the guests listened and chatted while the waiters and waitresses – mainly local teenagers – passed around champagne, margaritas, soft drinks and canapés.

  Most of the fare was Mexican, but there were a few traditional British recipes for those with less adventurous palates or who simply couldn’t cope with anything spicy.

  When they finally sat down to eat, the numerous dishes included pozole – a hominy stew served with chicken – chiles rellenos – poblano peppers stuffed with fried cheese and tomato sauce – chiles en nogada – chillies filled with chopped meats, fruits and spices and covered in walnut cream, which Liz and the others had eaten in Mexico, and savoury tamales, or pieces of dough steamed in banana leaves and filled with meat, cheese and vegetables.

  Each table had on it a good bottle of tequila, for those who wished to indulge, as well as jugs of water flavoured with hibiscus or orange and lime. There was also as much beer and wine as anyone wanted, and there were plenty of soft drinks for the children.

  Chabela and Simon sat with Robert, Bramble and Matt, Loveday and Jesse, Rosie and Rafael, Tony and Felipe. They would have liked to ask Liz, too, of course, and Lowenna, but for obvious reasons, felt that Liz and Robert would want to be apart.

  There was so much food that folk couldn’t possibly eat everything, but everyone did their best, especially Tony, who was always hungry, and Rick, who had brought along his new squeeze, Olga, in a purple frock.

  By now, the mariachi band had gone silent, and the tepee was filled with only happy voices and laughter. As Chabela gazed around, the faces of all those she had come to know and love in the past six months seemed to smile back at her, and she had to pinch herself to make sure that she wasn’t dreaming.

  They had tres leches, or three milks cake, for dessert, with a soft, melt-in-your-mouth texture, as well as cookies made with pecans and butter, and hosts of special candies made of chocolate, coconut, amaranth and molasses.

  When at last people started to slow down and Tony could be heard exclaiming, ‘I can’t eat another thing!’, Robert rose, pinged a spoon against his glass and declared that it was time for the speeches.

  The day had already been so unconventional that no one batted an eyelid when he said the only speakers were to be the newly-weds themselves.

  Chabela rose first, her cheeks flushed with happiness and tequila.

  ‘I was sitting in my office at the University of Mexico City,’ she began, ‘feeling blue about the end of a relationship and wondering what to do with my life, when I noticed a letter in my in-tray with unfamiliar writing on the envelope…’

  She went on to explain about Simon’s correspondence, his family’s link with the Penhallows, and her spontaneous decision to book a flight to Cornwall to come and meet him.

  ‘I didn’t think we’d have anything in common, apart from the possible historic ties between our ancestors,’ she explained. ‘At that stage, though, I didn’t even know if James Penhallow and I were related.

  ‘The first time I set eyes on Simon,’ she went on, with a smile, ‘he was exactly what I expected – middle-aged, intellectual, a bit awkward – in other words, a typical English eccentric.’

  Simon pulled an abashed face then shrugged, as if to say, ‘What can I do? It’s just the way I am,’ which made everyone titter.

  ‘But I quickly realised there was more to him than met the eye. He spoke great Spanish, played the guitar and was a brilliant cook. What’s not to like?’

  This prompted an outburst of laughter.

  ‘Soon, I was making all sorts of excuses to find out more about the Cornish tin miners who moved to Mexico. He must have thought I was passionate about genealogy.’ She gave a cheeky grin. ‘But seriously,’ she continued, ‘isn’t it amazing? I came here to get over a break-up and I found a husband. When I married my darling Simon, we brought together the Penhallow and Hosking families once more and reforged the historic links between Cornwall and Mexico’s Little Cornwall!

  ‘Viva la entente cordiale!’ she cried, to rapturous applause. Then everyone raised their glasses. ‘Long live the entente cordiale!’

  Simon’s speech was shorter but by no means less heartfelt. He spoke of his love for Chabela and all things Mexican, as well as her new-found enthusiasm for wild swimming.

  ‘And now we have a baby on the way,’ he said, putting an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close, ‘we’ll have our very own James or Jacinta.’ He was referring, of course, to the love affair between James Penhallow and the young Mexican who became his wife.

  ‘Whether he or she will prefer clotted cream teas or tortillas, only time will tell. Hopefully, both!’ he added, with a flourish, to cries of ‘Hear! Hear!’ and ‘Definitely both – if you two have anything to do with it!’

  After that, staff cleared away the dishes, packed up the tables and the area became a dance floor, with chairs dotted around the edges for those who wanted to sit.

  By now, it was getting dark outside and the fire in the centre of the tent was still orange and smouldering. It was giving out so much heat that one of the door flaps had to be kept open, letting in the night sky, and the numerous fairy lights coiled around the wooden poles twinkled merrily.

  Rafael had offered to deejay and music blasted out of the speakers and seemed to hurtle headlong onto the beach before roaring out to sea. It didn’t matter that it was loud; there were no houses nearby.

  Little by little, people began to spill out of the tepee onto the sand, kick
ing off their shoes and dancing their hearts out. Their internal thermostats were turned up high enough to keep them warm, and there were colourful blankets on hand for those who preferred to remain still.

  At first, Liz seemed to hang back, watching the others rather wistfully from a distance. A little later, however, Chabela, who was dancing on the beach with Simon, looked over his shoulder and saw that her friend was now twirling Lowenna, while Robert jiggled slightly uncomfortably nearby.

  Before long, the little girl ran over, grabbed her father’s arm and literally tugged him towards her mother, plonking her hand in his and forcing their fingers to intertwine. Both Liz and Robert looked awkward, but neither tried to pull away.

  Esme, who didn’t normally do dancing but was making an exception tonight, sidled over and whispered in Chabela’s ear.

  ‘It’s such a shame, what happened to those two.’ She, too, was gazing in their direction. ‘They’re so good together. I do hope they can work things out.’

  ‘Me too,’ Chabela replied warmly, then she nudged Esme in the ribs. ‘Look!’

  The music had changed to a softer, bluesy number and both women couldn’t help gawping as Robert turned to face Liz full on. For a moment, she gazed questioningly into his eyes, before melting into his body. Meanwhile, his arms snaked around her shoulders, hugging her so tightly that she couldn’t possibly break free even if she wanted to.

  Despite her young age, Lowenna seemed instinctively to know when she wasn’t needed and she sidled away to join Rosie, who was dancing with Rafael. Rosie, too, must have noticed her mum and Robert because Chabela saw her whisper something to her boyfriend, who gave a furtive grin.

  The next thing Chabela knew, Mr and Mrs Hart were in a steamy, passionate clinch, completely oblivious, it seemed, to everyone and everything around them. They might have been the only people on the planet.

  ‘Thank heavens!’ Esme exclaimed, before discreetly turning the other way. Chabela and Simon did likewise, smiling to themselves and each other as they sidled off in the other direction, putting, they hoped, enough distance between themselves and the lovebirds so as not to interrupt their moment.

  ‘What’s happening with you and Caroline? I hope you can find a way to be together again,’ Chabela remarked at last, once they were well out of earshot.

  Esme’s long thin nose seemed to quiver slightly, and her mouth drooped at the corners.

  ‘It’s Philip,’ she began, referring to Caroline’s husband, who was becoming increasingly afflicted by his Parkinson’s disease. ‘She can’t—’

  ‘I know,’ Chabela said, reaching out to touch the older woman’s arm. ‘But don’t give up hope. I nearly did when I split up with Alfonso, and look what’s happened to me!’

  At that point the music slowed again and Simon gave her a gentle pull, as if he were jealous and couldn’t bear her focus to fall on anyone but him. His arms, which were already on her back, crept further around and she dropped her head on his chest, against his heart.

  She could feel his breath rising and falling, and their bodies seemed to move in synch, as if they were one and the same person. Meanwhile, the black velvety sky seemed to wrap itself around them like a soft blanket, keeping them warm and safe.

  Chabela caught some of the voices of nearby guests, including Audrey’s shrill tones and Lowenna’s giggle; it was astonishing that she was still awake, really. The excitement must have been keeping her going.

  Although the tide was out and the ocean was some way off, Chabela fancied that she could hear it murmuring to her. It spoke soft words of long voyages and joyful returns, of families past and present, with all their hopes, fears, triumphs and disasters, and of the generations to come that would plant their feet on this very sand and live and love and grow old, just like her and Simon.

  That she had finally sunk her roots into Cornish soil seemed suddenly so very obvious that she almost laughed out loud. Hadn’t Alfonso always said that she had far to go? She’d always thought that he meant she was destined for great things in terms of her career. Now, however, she decided that even back then, he’d recognised something in her that she hadn’t even been aware of herself: the need to find out where she really belonged.

  Well she’d found it now, in Simon and Kittiwake, in the sun, sea and sand of these shores, in Liz, Robert and her other new friends and, of course, in darling Tremarnock.

  Acknowledgements

  Big thanks to my gifted editor, Rosie de Courcy, and my equally brilliant agent, Heather Holden-Brown. Also to the fantastic team at Head of Zeus.

  I’m grateful as well to Stephen Lay and Gill Rifaat of the Cornish-Mexican Cultural Society, for providing me with so much colour and invaluable information.

  It was my friend Yael Brown who first tipped me off about ‘Little Cornwall’ in Hidalgo in deepest Mexico, and it was a huge thrill to visit the village with her and her family. Their warmth and hospitality were second to none.

  Finally, a big thank you to my precious family, whom I love very much.

  About the author

  Emma Burstall studied English at Cambridge University before becoming a journalist and author. Tremarnock, the first novel in her series set in a delightful Cornish village, was published in 2015 and became a top ten bestseller.

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