“Of course she didn’t! How could she when there was no proof Kit was dead?” I cry. Several other people in the pub look up from their steak pies. I lower my voice. “There was no grave and no evidence that he was dead, so of course she never gave up.”
“He was reported as missing in action,” Matt says gently.
“That doesn’t necessarily mean he died. You told me yourself that records were sometimes inaccurate back then. The paperwork wasn’t always completed, movements of troops were confused, index cards were stuck together—”
He holds his hands up. “OK! I admit it! There could have been a mistake but, and this is the problem, there’s no record of Daisy ever finding Kit, is there? He didn’t return to Rosecraddick, which means she never found him. That’s the tragedy of the whole thing. She wasted all that time and energy hoping she might find him when he was already dead.”
“But you don’t give up if you love somebody. You love them forever.”
“That’s how you feel about Neil, isn’t it?”
We’ve never mentioned Neil. He’s always there on the periphery – and sometimes he even chips in a word or two, although that’s been happening less and less lately – but I never talk about him and Matt’s never asked.
I’m the elephant in the room, Neil says from somewhere behind me. Just call me Nelly! Shall I blow my trumpet?
He isn’t here, of course, but if he were here, he’d be telling me it’s time to be brave.
“I loved Neil,” I say simply. “I love him still, Matt. I do and I always will. He was everything to me, just as Kit was to Daisy – but, unlike her, I know beyond all doubt that the man I loved is never coming back. I fought as hard as I could for him but it wasn’t enough. No matter what I did I let him down because I couldn’t save him.”
It still stings. All the prayers and positive thinking and clean eating had counted for nothing in the end, had they? A tear rolls down my cheek and splashes onto the table. It’s soon followed by another and another. Oh crap. The floodgates have opened.
“Oh, Chloe, of course you couldn’t.” At some point our food must have arrived without me noticing. Matt pushes the bowl of chips aside to hold out a napkin. “There’s no way you would have let Neil down. You’re the bravest and most tenacious person I’ve ever met, and I know you’d have done everything.”
“Brave?” I half laugh and half sob. “Hardly.”
“Yes, you are,” Matt insists. “You’ve moved here to a place where you don’t know a soul, taken on that mausoleum of a house and made it work. You’ve made friends and beaten the demons that stopped you painting for so long. You’ve even managed to stand up to Jill! If that’s not brave, then I’m not sure what is.”
I hadn’t thought of myself as brave. Daisy was brave battling polio and defying convention and later on nursing at the Front, but me? Most of the time I feel like jelly.
“I’m sorry I’ve upset you,” he adds. “I wouldn’t have done that for the world.”
I dab my eyes with a corner of the napkin. “You haven’t.”
“Fibber. I’ve made you cry.”
“Cancer taking Neil has made me cry, not you. You make me…”
I pause, lost for words because what does Matt make me feel? Not happy, exactly – but less sad, that’s for sure. I look forward to meeting up with him and I enjoy our conversations too. It’s just that I feel so confused. If I love Neil still, then how is it that I’m thinking so much about Matt Enys? I flounder, searching for the right words.
“You make me feel real again,” I offer. It sounds feeble but it’s true. When I’m with Matt I feel that I’m Chloe again. I can paint and talk and think clearly once more. The sadness is still there and I know I’ll carry it forever, but it’s no longer unbearable. That’s because, in some way I can’t explain, Matt is taking its weight too.
“You make me feel real too,” he whispers, and the way he says this makes my heart turn over. “I’ve never had what you and Neil or Daisy and Kit shared. I thought I did but it was only an imitation. I realised that fairly soon, even if I didn’t want to admit it. I tried my hardest, God knows I did, but I could never be myself and we never really talked. It’s not Gina’s fault either. We just weren’t right for each other.”
Neil and I always talked about everything and anything. Even years into our relationship we chatted away and never ran out of words. Sometimes we’d lie in bed, holding hands in the darkness, and talk until the night slipped into day. I know that Daisy and Kit were the same and I suspect Matt and I would be like it too.
That’s what terrifies me. Matt Enys comes very close to making me want to try again.
“That’s why you ran out on me that evening, isn’t it? Because you love Neil and you felt guilty about having dinner with another man?” he says now.
I think I’m going to pass out from the pounding in my ears and the rush of blood to my cheeks. I’d like to look away from his searching grey eyes but I can’t because they demand the truth.
They deserve the truth.
“Yes,” I say quietly. “It felt as though I was cheating on him.”
He sighs. “I’m so sorry if I made you feel that way. That was really insensitive of me. I never meant you to feel uncomfortable.”
“I know that, Matt. It wasn’t your fault and I’m sorry I ran out on you. That was unforgiveable.”
“No it wasn’t. I’d forgive you anything, Chloe.”
“Because I found Kit’s poems?” I try to tease, but there’s a strange tension between us now and the laughter withers on my lips.
“No, because of you,” he says quietly.
There’s a heartbeat’s silence. Then Matt grins and the tension melts like grey Cornish skies into blue.
“Maybe I ought to say I’d forgive you nearly anything? If you scoff all those chips then I may have to reconsider!”
And then we’re chatting easily again and he’s dolloping ketchup onto the dish as he helps himself to my chips. If it wasn’t for the damp napkin balled in my fist I might have believed I’d imagined the moment. Something’s changing between us, something which echoes the journey we’re following, and I hardly dare to name it.
But if I did? Then I guess I might say that it feels a little like falling in love.
Chapter 5
Chloe
Even tucked away in Rosecraddick, there’s been no escaping the festive season; as the big day draws closer, the village is as busy as it was in the height of the summer season. Holiday cottages that have been shut since September have been aired in readiness for visitors, and the Fisherman’s Arms is packed with day trippers enjoying hearty pub lunches after their walks across the cliffs. Even the beach is being visited by brave souls swaddled in scarves and hats and with their feet pushed into colourful wellies. The main street is festooned with bright lights splashing primary colours all the way to the seafront, and fairy lights twinkle from cottage windows and from the front door of the manor house. Now that Sue’s turned the Rectory into something that looks like Santa’s grotto, I can’t avoid Yuletide when I’m at home either.
Neil loved Christmas. A big kid at heart, he spent hours decorating our flat, draping everything in tinsel and playing carols at top volume through his beloved Bose speakers. If I hadn’t put my foot down I know he’d have put the tree up as soon as Halloween was over and the outside of the flat would have given the Oxford Street illuminations a run for their money. He’d mull wine in an old jam saucepan we’d liberated from the bowels of my mother’s kitchen cupboard and bring home carrier bags bursting with M&S goodies which we’d nibble in the soft glow of the fairy lights. Christmas for me always followed the busiest term at school, filled with parents’ evenings and dark commutes. By the time we broke up for the holidays I’d be so exhausted it was all I could do to carry my bag upstairs, so it was Neil who did everything to make it magical. When I lost him, Christmas lost its magic too.
This year I’m planning to keep myself to myself. My par
ents, after threatening to visit, are staying put in London – and my sister’s decided I’m not about to hurl myself over the cliffs and so has given up nagging me to go to hers. It’s going to be peaceful and I intend to let Christmas pass me by completely while I hide away in the attic studio and lose myself in painting.
Since finding Daisy’s diary and Kit’s poems, something deep inside me has unlocked and I’ve been painting all day every day, and sometimes late into the night too. As well as the commissioned pieces, I’m drawing the scenes Daisy describes and visiting the places she knew, in order to capture them in my sketchbook. I see the cove and the church and the manor house through her eyes and I even draw parts of the Rectory as I imagine it might have looked then. Maybe I’m hiding from my own reality by slipping into someone else’s past. That’s what Perky Pippa would probably say, but if it makes life more bearable then where’s the harm? I’d far rather hide in Daisy’s busy world than stumble about all alone in my empty one.
That sounds melodramatic. I’m not alone. Not really. I have the volunteers at the Manor to chat to, I see Sue most days (although she’s pretty busy in the run-up to Christmas) and, when he isn’t racing back to Exeter to see the twins, there’s Matt too. I’ve only caught him a couple of times since our lunch because he’s flat out with work. At least, I hope that’s the reason and not because he feels awkward. Something changed between us that day, and no matter how many chips we ate and how hard we tried to steer the conversation back to Daisy and Kit, it wasn’t possible to return to the way we were. On the surface all looks the same, but beneath there are all kinds of strange currents and riptides threatening to pull me under. The question I have to answer is whether or not I want them to.
I’m not ready to decide just yet. To be honest I don’t know if I ever will be.
Today I’ve been painting since sunrise. Time has slid by in the magical way it always does when I’m absorbed in my work; although it feels like minutes since I first picked up a brush, the reality is that hours have passed. As I work I think about Daisy – it’s impossible not to now that I know this was her room – and I have a gut feeling that I’m missing something. There’s a piece of the puzzle that I’m overlooking, but what is it? At least I’m able to keep hold of her belongings, as it’s been confirmed that Mr Sargent definitely doesn’t want them, but no matter how many times I go back over everything, the trail is still cold. Daisy has vanished.
“Can’t you tell me what happened to you?” I say, but Daisy’s long gone and there’s no reply. Matt and I are just going to have to carry on sifting through old documents and online databases until we get lucky. At least we have a wealth of information at our fingertips – unlike Daisy, who would have had to write letters and then wait patiently for replies. I can’t imagine she’d have found that easy. Knowing her as I feel I do, I’m not surprised she took matters into her own hands and searched for Kit in person.
Leaving my painting, the third in the commissioned series, I shut the door on the attic and wander downstairs. The hall’s bristling with tinsel thanks to the Perry family. Even the kitchen hasn’t escaped and, as I make a sandwich, I’m treated to a display of flashing fairy lights that Tim’s strung above the big window. They certainly look festive. With these, the heat of the range and the addition of a spotty red tablecloth that Sue donated, the room looks cosy and welcoming. All in all, the Rectory’s starting to feel more like home. I recall what Matt said about me being brave, but looking back on the woman who arrived in November with no clue about firewood or wood-fired ranges, I wonder whether “stupid” would have been a better adjective.
Having been in the attic for so long, I decide to stretch my legs and enjoy some fresh air. It’s a perfect afternoon for a walk across the cliffs and, as I set off along the path Daisy followed all those years ago, I admire Cornwall’s bleak beauty. The sea hurls itself furiously against the rocks, boiling like a cauldron, and it’s hard to believe that the long summer days of saltwater bathing and sailing will ever return. It’s too rough to venture down to the cove, so I continue along the coast path until I reach the war memorial. A young couple dressed in hiking boots and bobble hats are already there studying the names.
“Look how many died,” says the girl, pointing a gloved finger. “It’s really sad. They’re so young.”
Her boyfriend nods. “See these, Mel? Gem Pencarrow, Peter Tuckey, Samuel Trehunnist and George Samson. They were only teenagers.”
I recall how excited Daisy had said they all were. It was the adventure of a lifetime for these lads – and what a blessing it was that none of them knew just how short that lifetime would turn out to be.
“There were whole families wiped out.” The girl cranes her neck to study the names. “Michael Trehunnist, Samuel Trehunnist and William Trehunnist. Three members of the same family. How awful. Do you think that was all of them gone?”
“Maybe,” says her boyfriend, but it’s clear his mind is on other things as he checks his watch. “Come on, babe, we need to get a move on if we’re going to make lunch at the pub. It’s bloody freezing. I need some mulled wine to thaw out!”
He reaches for her hand and they turn towards the village, their thoughts now on food. The lost generation of Rosecraddick is forgotten in an instant. Once the two of them have gone, I step forward and study the war memorial again. I’ve seen it many times before, but something that young couple just said has jolted me.
The names of the two sons and the husband lost to Nancy’s poor aunt are on the memorial: Mick, Sammy and Will Trehunnist. Daisy had described how Anne Trehunnist, sick from the grief of losing two sons and a husband, had faded away to a thin shadow of herself. But Anne had another son, didn’t she? What became of Dickon? He who signed up first out of everyone in Rosecraddick and boasted about his prowess with a gun? He was her son too. Where’s his name on this memorial?
I step back and, shielding my eyes against the sun’s glare, scan the names again and again. The bold black text jumps and blurs as though alive but Dickon’s name doesn’t appear. I even walk around to check the back of the memorial just in case I’ve missed it, but the back is blank and I’m not mistaken: there’s no mention of a Dickon Trehunnist. Swaggering Dickon, who so spitefully relished telling Reverend Cutwell about Daisy and Kit, isn’t mentioned here. His name’s absent from the roll call of the deceased. That can only mean one thing, surely?
Dickon Trehunnist didn’t die in the First World War. He survived.
I sit on the bench and gaze out to sea. This revelation feels like an important part of the puzzle, but I’m not sure why.
“Think, Chloe!” I say impatiently, and the calling gulls seem as though they’re mocking me in response. We know! they cry. We know!
I do too. I just need to sift through the facts. Dickon was badly injured, I remember that much from the diary, and he’d been in hospital somewhere. He was shell-shocked, and just before the séance Mrs Polmartin told Daisy that there were some injuries worse than death – which suggested that Dickon’s trauma must have been severe. Kit’s poem Madness, like Wilfred Owen’s Mental Cases, paints a harrowing picture of the effects of shell shock. He could have died in hospital, I suppose, but in that case I reckon they’d have put his name on the memorial too.
So, if Dickon did survive, then he could be the missing piece in the jigsaw. Dickon knew about Kit and Daisy when everyone else who’d also known was either dead or had moved away. He could have been the sole surviving person to still possess that knowledge and to hold onto their secret. But a stained-glass window? That makes no sense. Dickon was no fan of either Daisy or Kit. He’d deliberately gone out of his way to cause trouble for them. When Daisy had visited the Manor, Lady Rivers had even alluded to him spying for her. It seems unlikely that Daisy’s spurned beau would have wanted her romance with another man commemorated, or that he’d have shared the story with somebody else who might have done so.
The truth is just a fingertip’s reach away but I keep missing it. Thin
k, Chloe, think. What would Matt do? I wish I could call him and ask for advice, but Matt’s with his family in Exeter and it isn’t fair to disturb the precious time he has with the children. I feel awkward too; as I said, something’s changed and I need time to process my emotions. As much as I like Matt Enys, and I do like him a great deal, my feelings for him are tinged with sadness and guilt because he isn’t, and should never be, Neil.
So, I’m not going to think about feelings right now. Instead, I’ll focus all my attention on facts. Matt would surely try to find out what he could about Dickon Trehunnist. I could kick myself for not thinking of this earlier. Maybe I could go online and see what information I can unearth. It’s probably easiest to do that at the Rectory on my laptop, so I might as well turn back. My head-clearing stomp across the cliffs will have to wait for another day.
I retrace my steps and I’m just passing St Nonna’s when a sudden thought occurs to me. Sue said that the memorial window wasn’t installed until the 1920s, and Matt’s told me that those who died later on from war-related injuries were often added to the list of the fallen. If Dickon had died just after the war, which sounded entirely possible given what Daisy had heard, then his name could be in the window – a detail that could save me hours of trawling through historical records.
The pretty church is dressed for Christmas. Greenery swathes the windowsills and tops the pews, fat candles burn at the altar, and oranges from an earlier Christingle service fill the air with festive spice. There’s a tree and a nativity scene too, and the end of each pew has a jaunty red bow taped to it. Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve and Sue will be celebrating midnight Mass. She’s invited me to come and I surprised us both by agreeing. I’m actually looking forward to singing the ancient words of the carols and welcoming the arrival of Christmas, and as I walk to the south transept I realise that the bitterness that boiled within me for so long has gone. I still ache for Neil and I know I’ll miss him every day for the rest of my life, but the anger’s evaporated. Coming here has soothed my heart – and although Neil doesn’t appear, I know he’s pleased by this.
The Letter Page 31
