by Kate Ryder
Morwenna smiles and gives Cara a squeeze. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ she says, climbing in beside Tas. She lowers the passenger window. ‘Let’s all go out for a meal, and bring that American looker with you too!’
As Tas turns on the ignition, Cara stands back. In her arms, Toby waves his little fists at the big black Jeep. Tas engages first gear and glances out of the open window, as he drives towards the lane leading up the hill out of the cove. He smiles at Cara and Toby, but all she can see is the deeply inquisitive look on his face.
Forty-six
‘Here we are, boys,’ says Oliver, as the Range Rover judders over the cattle grid.
Turning right, he follows the farm track towards the bank of tall Scots pine trees in the distance. The paddocks on either side are awash with wildflowers.
‘Do we own all this?’ Sebastian asks, leaning out of the window.
‘Twenty acres of it,’ Oliver says.
‘Neat!’
Oliver glances in the rear-view mirror. Jamie gazes wide-eyed at the wild cliffs stretching for miles beyond the fields’ boundaries. As they pass under the trees, the slate roof comes into view, and Oliver pulls up beside Zennor’s car in the turning circle at the side of the cottages.
‘OK, lads. Time to discover your new holiday home.’
‘Wicked!’ exclaims Sebastian, already half out of the door.
Oliver gets out. Raising his hands high above his head, he stretches and breathes in the clean Cornish air; salty with a tinge of pine. Clouds trail across an azure sky above an ocean shimmering in welcome.
‘Look at all the boats, Jamie,’ he says, noticing Zennor standing at the edge of the cliff.
The boy nods.
The bay is alive with yachts of varying sizes and colours, their sails filling in a strengthening breeze. All at once Oliver’s mood lifts. For the remainder of her time at home, Deanna remained cool and only indirectly communicated with him through their sons. She made no comment when he suggested he took the boys to The Lizard for half-term. In fact, he thought she looked surprisingly relieved. Although she previously threatened no family member would ever visit him in Cornwall, she seems to have conveniently forgotten this.
‘Good morning, Oliver,’ calls Zennor, approaching across the long lawn. ‘You made good time.’
‘We left early to avoid the traffic,’ Oliver says, shaking her hand. ‘These are my sons, Sebastian and Jamie. This is Zennor. She found this home for us.’
‘Hi,’ says Sebastian. Jamie smiles sweetly.
‘I’ve just been looking at your beach,’ Zennor says to the boys. ‘There’s lots of flotsam washed up due to the large tides we’ve had during the past week. I’m sure you’ll have no end of fun exploring. You can go shrimping, crabbing and rock-pooling when the tide’s out.’
‘Cool,’ says Sebastian.
‘Looks busy out there,’ comments Oliver, indicating the bay.
‘Yes, the Fal River festival. It’s held every year,’ Zennor says, turning her attention to the boats. ‘You’ve moved in at the right time. The festival only started a couple of days ago. Loads of events take place at dozens of locations around the water. There’s music and drama, which will no doubt interest you, Oliver, and art, history, heritage, gig racing, swimming, walking, and lots more besides.’
‘Sounds like fun,’ says Oliver. ‘We’ve got a lot to pack in during the week, haven’t we, boys?’
‘Great,’ says Sebastian enthusiastically. ‘We’ll get up early.’
Jamie nods. A small, brightly painted sailing dinghy tacks across the water not far offshore and he watches its progress with interest. Two boys are on board; one about the same age as him.
‘I suppose I’d better do the key handover,’ says Zennor, producing a bunch from her pocket. ‘There are front and back door keys for each cottage, not that the derelict ones have substantial doors! The keyring is yours to keep, in case you ever need to contact me again,’ she says, colouring slightly.
Oliver takes the bunch of keys from her. The oblong keyring is hard to miss with its brilliant blue background and outline of a house perched on a cliff. He turns it over. On the back is etched ‘By the Sea Property Finders’ and the company’s telephone number.
‘Thank you, Zennor. You never know.’
Zennor’s blush spreads. Quickly, she adds, ‘Did you contact the Truro architects I told you about?’
‘Yes. They’re coming out this week to discuss my plans.’
‘That’s good,’ she says, not in a hurry to leave.
‘Would you like to see the cottage again?’ Oliver asks.
‘I’d like that very much,’ Zennor says. ‘It’s so lovely.’
Oliver smiles. She’s sweet and has worked well for him, understanding his brief and fulfilling her promise of finding a suitable property by the sea. Inserting the key into the lock, he opens the front door and stands back. ‘After you, Zennor.’
She steps over the threshold into the bright entrance hall, its slate flagstones as gleaming as on the previous occasion. Oliver follows with Sebastian and Jamie not far behind. Excitedly, the boys explore the ground-floor rooms, trying out the chairs at the kitchen table and flopping onto the sofas in the living room before rushing upstairs to check out their bedroom and squabble over which bed is whose.
‘It’s still exquisite,’ says Zennor with a smile. ‘Mr and Mrs Richardson were relieved you purchased it fully furnished so they didn’t have the bother of disposing of the furniture.’
‘It helped me out too,’ Oliver says, picking up an envelope lying on the kitchen table addressed to him. ‘While the builders work on the derelict cottages, we can stay here when we’re down.’
Lifting the flap, he extracts the note and reads. He crosses the room and opens the fridge door. ‘How thoughtful,’ he murmurs. Turning to Zennor, he says, ‘The Richardsons have stocked up on the basics for us. Saves me a trip to the supermarket!’
‘In all my dealings with them they seemed very nice people,’ Zennor says. She glances at her watch. ‘Well, I guess I’d better leave you and your sons to settle in.’
‘Thank you, Zennor, for all your hard work,’ Oliver says graciously.
‘It’s been my pleasure.’
‘Once the other cottages are knocked into shape, perhaps you’d like to come back and see what we’ve done?’
‘That would be great,’ Zennor says, trying not to show too much excitement and maintain a professional image. ‘I rarely get to see what clients do to the properties I find them.’
‘Well, then, it’s a date,’ says Oliver, walking her to her car.
‘Thank you for being a great client, Oliver,’ she says, turning to him and holding out her hand.
Ignoring the proffered hand, Oliver hugs her. ‘And thank you for being a great property finder, Ms Stacey.’
Before she has a chance to completely blow her composure, Zennor quickly climbs in the car. Lowering the window, she calls out as casually as possible, ‘Hope to see you around. If you ever need any help, you know where I am!’
He watches as her car disappears up the track, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. Then, opening the boot of the Range Rover, Oliver pulls out a couple of bags and walks back to the cottage.
‘Seb, Jamie, go and get your bags out of the car,’ he calls up to the first floor.
Sudden footsteps and Sebastian appears at the top of the stairs. ‘This is great, Dad. The views are amazing!’
‘Just you wait until the telescope is set up. You’ll be able to watch all the comings and goings in Falmouth and St Mawes,’ says Oliver.
As Sebastian runs out of the cottage, Oliver climbs the stairs. In the smaller of the two bedrooms Jamie kneels on the window seat, his nose pressed firmly against the pane of glass.
‘Well, Jamie, what do you think?’ Oliver asks, entering the room. ‘Do you like it?’
Jamie turns to his dad. ‘I do.’
‘We will have lots of fun. There’s so much to discover.�
� Joining his son at the window, he sees the yacht race is still under way.
‘I saw a boy in one of the boats,’ says Jamie quietly. ‘Will we get a boat?’
‘I expect so. Apart from the sea, there’s the Helford and the Fal to explore. Would you like that?’
Jamie bites his lip. ‘I think so,’ he says hesitantly.
Oliver puts his arm around his young son’s shoulders. ‘No one is going to force you to do anything, Jamie, but I think it would be good if we did different things when we’re down here. See this as a new start; an adventure waiting to happen. I think you may be surprised by what we will achieve.’
As Jamie looks up into his eyes, Oliver’s heart pinches. He’s so unsure, this young son – full of fear and anxiety. He squeezes the boy’s shoulder. ‘As I say, you’re not going to be forced to do anything. Let’s just see how each day pans out, shall we?’
Jamie nods, his attention once more drawn to the yachts on the water. A mixture of excitement and terror registers on his face.
‘What have you got in your bag?’ Sebastian pants, as he appears in the doorway. He drags two bulging holdalls into the bedroom. ‘You owe me one, brother!’
‘OK, boys, unpack while I make brunch,’ Oliver says, walking to the door. ‘I think we deserve a good one after the early start we had this morning.’
Forty-seven
From the glazed roof terrace, Cara gazes out over the picture-perfect, pristine white sands of Porthmeor Beach. A turquoise sea extends to the far horizon. At high altitude, powering its way to America, a jet plane draws a white trail across a cloudless blue sky. Summer months are not far away and a strengthening sun beats down upon the pretty town of St Ives, alive with half-term visitors.
Cara closes her eyes and stretches out her legs. Bliss! A rare day off. Her parents offered to entertain the children and Sheila was only too eager to jump at the chance of running the gallery in her absence.
‘One mochachino and one latte,’ says the waitress, placing two mugs on the table.
‘Thank you,’ Cara says, opening her eyes.
‘Do you want sugar?’ asks Johnny across the table. At the shake of her head, he adds, ‘Sweet enough.’
She laughs and sits up. ‘Sweet and sour, I’d say!’
He smiles. ‘Black and white, yin and yang; there’s always got to be a balance. But from where I’m sitting I’ll stick to my first thought.’
‘Too kind,’ she says, sipping her latte.
It’s been an enjoyable morning spent in Johnny’s easy company, and his appreciation of art has added another dimension to their visit to Tate St Ives. It’s nice discussing art with someone who doesn’t make her feel inferior. She knows it’s not Greg’s fault – he is so far ahead of her in that area – but, nevertheless, it’s a relief not to always have to second-guess how her observations will be received. She watches a family set up on the beach below, their brightly coloured picnic rug adding to a view already stunning in its colour palette. A shiver of excitement courses through her. This is why she paints. She is totally caught up in it, drinking in the atmosphere and absorbing it into her bones. As the view hits Cara at a cellular level, her fingers itch to get started on the next canvas.
‘I had no idea Virginia Woolf spent a lot of her childhood in St Ives,’ says Johnny, scanning a leaflet about the exhibition they’ve just enjoyed.
Led by the author’s writing, the gallery is showing works of over eighty artists, exploring feminist perspectives on landscape, domesticity and identity in modern and contemporary art.
‘I particularly liked the Laura Knight and Winifred Nicholson works,’ Johnny continues. ‘So many creatives are drawn to the area. Is that why you base yourself in Cornwall?’
‘Yes and no. My father is a wildlife photographer and was drawn to the region early on in his life. So the story goes, my mother came to Cornwall for a party and forgot to leave! I was lucky enough to be born in St Ives.’
‘So there was no getting away from it – you had to be an artist!’ Johnny says.
‘It was written in the stars.’ Cara smiles.
Johnny glances around the busy café. ‘It’s great you have this important art gallery here. I bet it brings in a fair amount of money to the town.’ He scans the leaflet again. ‘Yes, it does! A quarter of a million visitors bring eleven million pounds annually to the local economy.’
‘A good swelling to the coffers,’ Cara says, finishing her latte. She places the mug on the table. ‘Tate St Ives has recently been transformed. It took about four years from start to finish and now there’s double the space for showing art. For the first time, the gallery can provide a permanent presence to iconic twentieth-century artists who lived and worked in the town, demonstrating the role of St Ives in the story of modern art.’
Johnny gazes at her for a long moment. ‘You’re very knowledgeable, Cara.’
Hmm… Greg wouldn’t think so.
‘I like to take an interest in what’s happening in the arts, especially on my home turf.’
‘The sign of a true artist,’ Johnny says, ‘not just someone chasing fame and fortune.’
‘Goodness no,’ exclaims Cara. ‘In fact, I’ll let you into a little secret, if you promise not to tell.’
‘My lips are sealed,’ Johnny says, running his fingers across his mouth.
‘I’m dreading this forthcoming solo show. I feel out of my depth… totally.’ There, she’s said it. The cat’s out of the bag.
‘But why?’
‘Because the Kaplans are so glamorous and they know all the right people.’ She glances at him. ‘Which I suppose is a good thing,’ she adds, unconvinced. She can hear Greg telling her she must up her game and present herself carefully to these people and their contacts, ensuring she leave only a positive impression.
‘Cara, you’re crazy!’ says Johnny. ‘Your paintings are fantastic! The Kaplans know a thing or two when it comes to art. People “in the know” look to their New York gallery for setting the trend. The fact you’ve been offered a solo show at the opening of their latest gallery is huge!’
Cara gives a nervous smile. ‘It’s all Greg’s doing,’ she says, biting her lip. ‘He knows them personally. I’m sure he had to persuade them to take a risk.’
Johnny contemplates the talented, naturally beautiful woman sitting opposite him. Completely untainted, she has no idea of the emotions she inspires in others.
‘I know Latimer-Jones is well regarded in his area of expertise,’ Johnny says. ‘I’ve read his articles and he is an accomplished critic, but the Kaplans aren’t swayed by the opinion of others. They make up their own minds. That’s why they have such a following. Once they back you as an artist you’re made.’
Cara considers his words. ‘Oh, well,’ she sighs, still feeling unsure. ‘First night nerves will soon be over.’
Johnny smiles sympathetically. Changing the subject, he says, ‘When I’m next in London, I want to visit the Tate Modern. Isn’t it one of the largest museums of modern and contemporary art in the world?’
‘Yes.’ Cara puts aside her concerns. ‘You must visit. It holds not only the national collection of British art from nineteen hundred to the present day, but also international modern and contemporary art.’ She gazes at the young man sitting across the table from her: intelligent, full of enthusiasm, and at the start of a year’s travelling to wherever fate may take him. ‘When do you plan to leave for Europe?’
‘I thought I’d go to London for your exhibition, spend a few days sightseeing and then hook up with my buddy in Paris.’
Cara smiles. ‘Please come to the opening night. It will be such a relief to see a friendly face amongst all the inevitable highfalutin art connoisseurs.’
Johnny laughs.
She glances at her watch. ‘We’ve still got time to visit the Barbara Hepworth Museum and Sculpture Garden, and then I’ll show you the little cottage where I was born.’
Forty-eight
‘Hop in, Jamie,’
says Oliver, holding the canoe steady in the shallows, its bottom scraping on the shingle beach.
The lad dithers and bites his lip.
Sebastian, already settled in the bow, holds aloft a paddle in preparation for the adventure ahead. In an irritated voice, he says, ‘Oh, come on, Jamie, get in!’
Jamie takes a tentative step towards the red canoe.
‘That’s it. Climb aboard,’ encourages Oliver.
Grabbing hold of the side, the boy hesitantly lifts a leg over and scrambles frantically to the safety of the middle seat.
Oliver pushes the canoe out and climbs in. The idyllic and sheltered tidal inlet of Gillan Creek is a good place to start Jamie’s boating education. Having checked the times of the rising tide, he woke the boys early – three hours before high tide. All is peaceful. There’s no one about. Allowing the canoe to drift further out from the beach, Oliver is careful not to get caught in the current that would take them out around Nare Point and into the Atlantic. He imagines rounding the headland could prove quite challenging in rougher weather, with nothing between this coast and America. As a wind blows in from across the bay, whipping the surface into little waves, small breakers hit the jagged coastline and the canoe starts to rock. In sharp contrast to Jamie’s frozen face, Sebastian sports a grin as he looks eagerly ahead.
‘OK, Seb, take it away,’ says Oliver, dipping his paddle into the water and matching his second son’s confident strokes.
How unfair it is to Jamie his brother harbours none of his insecurities.
Holding his breath, Jamie sits bolt upright and his knuckles turn white as they grip the seat beneath him. His life jacket feels bulky and doesn’t offer him any sense of security.
Oliver concentrates on keeping the canoe steady and turns into the shelter of the creek as soon as he can. Once they leave behind the threat of the Atlantic, the surface of the water turns to glass and Jamie visibly relaxes. As the canoe glides across the mirror-like river, the sea mist starts to lift and the boy becomes aware of his surroundings.
A small variety of boats and pleasure craft are moored in the central channel. Oliver keeps close to the shoreline. Silently, they pass the twelfth-century village of St Anthony-in-Meneage with its Norman church and, unknown to them, the causeway beneath the water that can be walked across at low tide. Two swans swim out from a tranquil, shingle beach to inspect the red canoe as it paddles by and, on the opposite bank, four snow-white egrets balance effortlessly on a fallen tree trunk protruding into the water. Earlier in the week, Oliver read that with nearly thirty miles of shoreline providing an enormous variety of habitats, the whole of the Helford Estuary was recently designated as a Special Area of Conservation. He can see why.
