The Invitation

by A. M. Castle

  ‘Pastry chef. He’s the best. You won’t believe what the food was like when I got here,’ says Rachel. ‘I was just outside, having a chat with your Nessie. Such a lovely girl.’

  What on earth can Rachel and Nessie possibly have to talk about? And, though I love her dearly, I can count on the fingers of one finger the times when my Ness has been described as ‘lovely.’ ‘She’s very moody at the moment,’ I say carefully. ‘I hope she was polite.’

  Rachel just smiles. ‘Oh, hormones can play absolute havoc, can’t they? We have a lot in common, Nessie and I. You’d be amazed.’

  ‘I really would be,’ I say, racking my brains. I suppose there is a bit of an emo/gothic interface. That must be it. Rachel’s got her cryptic smile on so I won’t get any joy out of her even if I dig. She does love being enigmatic.

  ‘And isn’t this view incredible?’ she asks.

  I turn my head obligingly. She’s right, it’s spectacular. ‘What’s this treasure hunt about, later?’ I ask idly, taking a sip of my second divine cappuccino. Even her coffee machine is amazing. I feel another fleeting pang for Roderick. He probably thought he was managing this place really well, till Rachel showed up.

  ‘Oh, you’ll see.’ Her wink takes away some of the sting of being out of the loop, but not all. After a lifetime in journalism, I have a simple need for information.

  ‘Are there numbers on the clues, or something? One for each of us? How many even are we, this weekend?’

  She’s laughing one of her silvery laughs, as though I’ve just told the best joke in the world. ‘Can’t you guess?’ she twinkles. I look blank, and she leans over to me, even though we’re alone in the room. ‘It’s Halloween, Gita. How many do you think?’

  I sit back in shock. No! Even Rachel wouldn’t tempt fate like that … would she? I start totting up in my head, wishing Vicky were here to do one of her lightning tallies. I finally get there, Rachel smirking all the while.

  ‘Oh my God, Rachel. You can’t be serious,’ I remonstrate, but she’s smiling from ear to ear and despite myself I join in, trying to quash my dread. I’m not superstitious, really I’m not, but I hope Rachel knows what she’s playing at. On Halloween night, really? Thirteen.

  I’m just about to speak when someone pokes their head around the door, then retreats. No mistaking those features, it was Penny.

  ‘I always think of that line in Shrek, “Why the long face?”’ Rachel whispers, then giggles behind her hand. Somehow even this is musical. I join in – though I spare a thought for poor Penny.

  ‘When have you ever watched Shrek?’ I ask.

  ‘Those weekends with you, when the girls were babies, don’t you remember? The bigger two, anyway.’ The bigger two. She ought to remember Tasha’s name, at least. She’s her godmother. She jetted in for the christening, centre stage in all the photos. Then nothing, until the Shrek weekend, three full years later, when Nessie was on the scene. Honestly, what is she like? But then I think of the solid silver christening set stashed in the attic, the sporadic but lavish birthday gifts for Tasha (always a year or two too young, but fine to pass on to her sisters) followed now by very welcome clothes vouchers which I’m always tempted to snaffle for myself. I bite my lip.

  ‘Shrek was on repeat on the telly. Honestly, that’s the only way we got through it. Vats of cheap white wine, Shrek and nappies! It was hard work, but I loved it,’ Rachel smiles heroically, Florence Nightingale after a really tough stint in the Crimea.

  Her forty-eight hours of hell was my life, for year upon year. And then we did it all again with Ruby. I shake my head very slightly. Shards of Rachel on that weekend are coming back to me, through the haze of time and sleep deprivation.

  ‘I’ve brought you this little crate of Pouilly Fumé,’ she’d trilled, oblivious to the fact that I was breastfeeding and couldn’t drink. She has only herself to blame for the wine. Then, after the babies’ bedtimes, I found her snorting cocaine off the coffee table where Tasha played with her dolls. ‘Are you sure you won’t have a little toot? It would definitely mellow you out?’ she said, all eyebrows. She and Tom stayed up late both nights, while I dragged myself off to bed. Neither put in an appearance for the 3 a.m. feeds.

  ‘A long time ago, now,’ I say, and turn to look out of the window. This side of the castle has picture windows. There’s mist in the distance, where the French coast should be. I’m not sure whether Rachel did this revamp herself, or whether some past Tregowan thought he’d like a bit more light on his cornflakes. ‘This place must be amazing in a thunderstorm.’

  ‘Oh, it is. You’ll see, later,’ she says.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I’m instantly alert.

  ‘There’s a big one coming tonight. I can’t wait.’

  I stare at Rachel. The Cornish coast has, in the last two years, been swept by a series of devastating gales, ripping through the one train line, isolating the area from the rest of the UK, causing terrible flooding and wrecking local businesses. We’ve covered it in the paper. I turn back to the sea. Is it me, or are the waves mounting higher? ‘Should we get the others in?’

  ‘Of course not! Let them enjoy it. The fireworks won’t start until later.’

  ‘Ooh, I love fireworks,’ I say, feeling five again. The prospect encourages me not to freak out about the weather. It might never happen; systems get blown off course, don’t they? And Rachel does exaggerate. I make a decision to relax. Fireworks would be brilliant. Ruby’s not mad about the loud bangs but Tasha and Nessie absolutely adore them.

  ‘You have such a wonderfully literal mind, Gita. I’ve always loved that about you,’ Rachel says softly.

  ‘Is that a compliment?’

  ‘Of course it is! I’m so pleased you’re here,’ she says. I can’t help feeling she’s changing the subject. But I’m the same. I’ll do almost anything to swerve a confrontation.

  I said almost.

  Chapter 17

  Vicky

  Mount Tregowan, 31st October

  OK, so I’m getting fresh air. That’s what they all say, isn’t it? What the doctor ordered. Obviously I’m not going anywhere near a doctor. I know what their first question always is, to a woman my age. ‘How many units …?’ Then that look. Always the look. Like they know. And they double anything I say.

  Right, I’m striding onwards; I’m getting a walk. That’s what’s down on the email, apparently. I tried to make Tasha tell me the whole programme when I was collecting my breakfast, but she just hugged the information to her chest. ‘Perhaps you should go for a walk now, Vicky,’ she said, looking me up and down. What did she mean? How rough do I look? But she was off again. ‘Then there’s a treasure hunt, and we reconvene at the house afterwards. No, I’m not telling you about the evening now, you’ll only forget.’ When I remonstrated – I’m forty-five, not ninety-five, and I’m not her mother so she’s got no excuse for treating me like I’ve got one foot in the care home – she pointed out I was perfectly at liberty to look at my own copy of the email. Of course, she knows that none of us can get a proper connection today.

  I can’t lose my temper with someone else’s child. I can’t even lose it with my own. Not anymore. The lad just won’t stay near me for long enough. Admittedly, I was pretty sharp with him before he left home. Not intentionally. But when I’ve had a few … well, stuff leaks out. So here I am. Alone.

  Every now and then a gust of wind comes which suggests it means business. I look at my phone again, thinking I’ll just check the weather app – then I realise it’s useless here. How can Rachel stand it? How can she stay in touch with her pals, Gwynnie Paltrow and the rest, if both her mobile signal and the internet are up the bloody spout?

  Funny how like Gita Tasha has turned out, but somehow with the caring filter turned off. Maybe that’s the bit she gets from Tom. I wonder if people think Raf and I are similar? Doubt it. Though we’re both stubborn, that’s for sure. But he’s nothing like his dad, thank God.

  Gita sold this place to me on the
grounds that Raf would love it, but these look like the wrong kind of waves, not cresting but heaving up and down, more restlessly with every minute.

  From my vantage point, I can see a small walled garden below, on a sort of terrace cut out of the rock. Even this late into the season, there’s something flowering down there, a splash of bright purple against the gunmetal sea and the dreary boulders. I feel recovered enough to totter down there to have a closer look. And what else is there to do?

  Back home, I’d still be tucked up in bed, with Gita’s paper, and coffee and Nurofen on an intravenous drip, till I felt strong enough to venture out and start it all up again. But now I’m outside, I can’t help enjoying the wind on my face. I don’t think there’s been a real breeze through Canary Wharf’s skyscrapers for years, though on a good day, you’ll certainly hear the rustle of £50 notes. My hair is blowing everywhere and the salt air is stinging my cheeks, but it feels … healthy. Perhaps I should get out of the city more?

  Oh, who am I kidding? The feeling is going to last as long as this walk. But I’m enjoying this: the odd sensations of my feet slipping on rocks and the cries of seagulls far out at sea. Now, am I taking the winding sandy path, or the steps cut out of the rock that we clambered yesterday? There’s no contest; the steps will be quicker, more direct. On the way down, at least. I can take the winding path on the way back, save myself from the hill.

  I’m still a bit below par, and I really don’t want to lose my footing. Who’d have thought Rachel, who had twenty-five pairs of Christian Louboutins in her uni flat (I counted them, to great hilarity, one boozy night), would now be making us go on country rambles?

  Thank goodness, there’s a handrail, bolted into the rock. Looks like a new fixture. The Cadogan zillions strike again. The air is so fresh. I start to feel restored, cheerful even. This is why people like the seaside. It’s hard to hang on to gloomy thoughts when you can see the gulls wheeling, the underside of their wings as white and crisp as company reports against the louring sky. No, don’t come any closer, you bugger. God, they’re scary when they’re near, all claws and eyes. It’s flown further out, now. Maybe its dead black gaze is fixed on an unlucky fish beneath that shifting surface.

  The wind whips round and I almost lose my footing; I clutch the rail, move more slowly. I need to concentrate. Soon I’ve reached the level where the walled garden must be. It feels like I’ve been walking for hours. I check my watch; seven minutes precisely. I stop, bending over. Stitch. When did that last happen?

  Just as the pounding in my head is subsiding, there’s something in my peripheral vision. Moving fast, coming my way. Jesus, it’s a boulder – a good-sized one – hurtling down the side of the mountain towards me.

  As my heart thuds in my ears all I can do is cower, pressing myself into the rockface, making myself as small as possible, and hope it’ll fall past me or over me or away from me. And if it hits me, I pray it won’t be too hard.

  Then the boulder smacks into the cliff just above me and its trajectory changes. Thank God. It whistles straight past me and onto the winding path below, before rolling downwards, much slower now. That impact on the steepest bit of the mountain must have absorbed a lot of its speed.

  ‘Jesus!’ I’m trembling, still pressed into the side of the mountain. I slowly become aware of the pain in my hands and peel them off the rough surface. I can see its imprint pitted into my skin. Better that, of course, than a massive rock on my head.

  Now the fear has subsided, anger rushes in. Is the cliff crumbling – or did someone chuck that my way? It fell from somewhere up there. Was it the first level, nearest the castle, or the next one down? Impossible to tell, though from the speed at which it was travelling, I’d say it had fallen a long way. My neck is hurting, as I lean out to see. Up on the next level, I could swear someone steps back, out of sight.

  I’m inching forward again when Tasha suddenly greets me from the garden entrance. ‘Aunty Vicky,’ she says, all smiles. Then, looking more closely, she steps forward. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Did you see that boulder?’ I ask her, ashamed to find I’m breathless, almost shaking. Tasha’s looking blank. ‘Did you hear it crashing down the side of the mountain?’

  ‘Oh. I saw a stone or something falling – was that it?’

  She must be kidding. A stone? Next she’ll be saying it was a pebble. But something stops me. Is she right? Am I getting things out of proportion? Still feeling the effects of last night? I squint down at the path below again, and now I’m not even sure I can see the boulder. It must have rolled into that scrubby undergrowth at the side of the path. I put my hand to my chest, feel my racing heart. Well, my body certainly feels it’s been under attack. But then, it’s led me astray before.

  ‘Are you all right, Aunty Vicky?’ she asks again.

  I look at Tasha, still a bit uncertain. About the boulder, and about that name. I’m not sure Gita’s attempts to get the kids to call her friends ‘aunty’ ever really worked. It makes me feel a hundred years old. They’re so grown up, and in Tasha’s case, so gorgeous. Close to, while I’m feeling jaded, her skin looks unfairly wrinkle-free, spread like silk over pretty features. Did I ever look that good, even at her age? I’m really, really never drinking again.

  I take her arm. ‘Show me this garden, then, love. Didn’t know you were interested in plants?’

  She gives me a look. Neither of us know one end of an allium from another. Raf once grew cress, or tried. The sandwiches were gritty with un-germinated seeds. ‘Yummy,’ we told each other, before I sneaked the lot into the bin once he was asleep. The lad grumbled for a few days but it was a mercy killing. I know enough to acknowledge this garden is pretty, with the patchwork of plants I spotted from up above. ‘Do you think Aunty Rachel gets it all in a job lot from the garden centre, like Mum does with our window boxes?’

  Nice to know Gita is no more green-fingered than I am. And that Rachel is an honorary aunt too. Bet she hates that.

  The garden isn’t big. The rock walls are head height, and cut out the roar of wind and sea. The silence seems suddenly loaded, ominous. ‘Feels a bit like a church or something, doesn’t it?’ says Tasha, as we stroll. I look at her in surprise. I’ve grown used to teenagers not noticing anything but themselves. But maybe that’s just lads? Or one in particular.

  Then I notice something. Behind the purple bushes, there is a row of slabs, poking up at odd angles. There is writing etched on them, furred over with some sort of plant mould, lichen is it? Names, dates. God, they’re headstones. One is a little less ancient than the rest. I kneel and brush the moss off it. ‘Lady Tregowan …’ I read aloud.

  ‘What? That’s Rachel, isn’t it? She’s not dead! Is this some kind of weird joke?’ asks Tasha.

  I feel a prickle of dread for a second, then reason kicks in. ‘No, no, it must be the first Lady T, Ross’s previous wife. Look, Evelyn,’ I read out. ‘She died ages ago. Here’s the date: 1985.’ As I uncover the numbers – and take stock of the fact that this little graveyard is one of the few places Rachel hasn’t got round to gussying up – something she said at our Soho lunch comes back to me. Some horrible accident, with Penny in the car.

  You can see how it might have happened, on this island. The narrow paths, the sweeping turns. With that falling rock, they’ve nearly done for me already. I get up and brush off my trousers.

  It’s a funny place for a graveyard. Funny place, full stop. I suppose that little building further on is a chapel. When we reach the gap in the wall at the far end, I can’t get out fast enough.

  Then a gust of wind comes from nowhere, catching Tasha’s skirt. She’s dressed for an Instagrammable walk in Richmond Park, and the gossamer fabric flies up, reds and blues flashing as she wheels round.

  It breaks the mood, but it’s not just relief in our shrieks of laughter. There’s a touch of hysteria, too.

  Because there’s something about this place that is seriously giving me the creeps.

  Chapter 18

>   Rachel

  Mount Tregowan, 31st October

  Oh dear, I’m not sure this is going as well as I expected. Even Gita, my friend through thick and thin, seems prickly. Well, she has so much to put up with.

  All the more reason to get on with things. This weekend is going to be a breath of fresh air. A new start, not just for me, but for everyone I’ve gathered here.

  The secrets and the lies, the evasions and half-truths. How have they all lived with them? For me, just that little further away, it’s more than clear that they need this. A storm, a rocket up their backsides. Well, as usual, I’m the one who’ll make things happen.

  And, at the same time, I’ll be clearing a path forward. Into a new future, for me and for the Tregowans.

  I hope they’re all getting on well with my little hunt. It’s started in earnest now – even Gita has finally made it outside. That’ll give the staff time to deliver tonight’s costumes to every room.

  Yes, I did put it on my email, my expectation that everyone would join in with tonight’s theme. But I know this bunch. Half of them haven’t even pretended to read the small print I dictated so carefully. And the ones that have scanned it have not acted on it. Not properly, anyway. Never fear, I’m here to fill the gaps. They won’t look as spectacular as me – that would be no fun – but each guest will be getting a cape dropped off at their room. It’ll be hung either from the hook behind the door, or on the front of the wardrobe, or even be draped across the bed. The maids are under instructions to make them utterly unignorable.

  I had them run up while my own costume was being finalised. They’re less sumptuous than mine; of course. I’m generous, but I’m not crackers. It’s human, to have a little vanity, isn’t it? And I’m definitely that. If you prick us, do we not bleed? Funny how that line flashes into my mind. I can see the way my father’s mouth would twist as he said it, and the triumph in his eyes as he finished it off. ‘And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?’