by Liz Eeles
I tail off when Josh lifts his head and fading light from the window catches his high cheekbones, which are magnificent. He looks at me properly for the first time since arriving home and I notice that his chocolate-brown eyes are flecked with gold, like tiny streaks of sunshine. Oh dear, this is confusing. It’s time to leave.
When I scramble to my feet, my chair scrapes noisily across the tiles.
‘Anyway, I’ve said what I wanted to say so I’ll get going.’
There’s a scrabbling sound from outside and, when Josh pulls open the kitchen door, I catch a glimpse of Serena scurrying away.
‘Younger sisters. They’re worse than Year Eights with a post-lunch sugar rush.’ Josh shakes his head and sighs. ‘I’m afraid she was probably listening in.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ I hesitate at the kitchen door. ‘Just to be clear, are you saying that you think I should go ahead with the choir or not? Only I got a bit confused.’
‘I don’t suppose what I think matters much either way and Mum wants it to go ahead. As long as it’s done the right way.’
I’m not sure what he means by ‘the right way’ but I nod as though I do.
‘I hear that Ollie, aka the Cornish Pavarotti, is one of your singers,’ he deadpans.
‘He's not the best singer I’ve ever heard but he’s enthusiastic and loves music which counts for a lot. I presume it was him who told you about the auditions?’
‘He left me a voicemail message while I was on the school trip but I didn’t hear it until I got back.’
‘Was it a good school trip?’ I ask, hoping that small talk might ease the awkward atmosphere.
‘Not bad. A week away and only one broken arm, one coach-vomit and a couple of missing children.’ I presume he’s joking but it’s hard to tell. ‘How are you getting back to Salt Bay?’
‘On the bus.’
Josh glances at his watch. ‘You’ll have to wait for ages. I’ll give you a lift.’
‘No, please don’t bother. I don’t mind waiting and I’d rather not put you out.’
‘You won’t,’ says Josh gruffly, fishing his car keys from his trouser pocket. ‘I’m parked down the road.’
Serena has abandoned her maths homework and is glued to her mobile when we go back into the front room. Her thumbs are moving like lightning across the screen. Marion is sitting on the sofa, leafing through a picture book with a small girl curled up on her lap.
‘All done? This is Freya, my gorgeous granddaughter. We were reading about Edith the elephant whose trunk has shrunk.’ The girl giggles and leans her head against Marion’s comforting bosom.
‘Wow, you don’t look old enough to be a grandmother,’ I blurt out, taking in Freya’s ebony plaits and pale, soulful eyes and wondering if Josh is Freya’s father. There’s so much I don’t know about him. Maybe he’s got a couple of kids and a wife tucked away that no one’s told me about, though it’s no business of mine if he’s married or not.
‘You can definitely come again,’ chuckles Marion, moving Freya from her lap onto the sofa. ‘My daughter Lucy, Freya’s mum, is at work at the moment. It’s a bit of a squash us all living here – Freya, Lucy, Josh, me and Serena – but we manage.’
No wife, then. Serena catches my eye and smirks as though she can read my mind.
‘I’m going to run Annie back to Mrs Gowan’s, Mum, so she won’t have to wait for a bus.’
‘OK my lovely, tea will be ready soon so don’t be long,’ says Marion in such a mumsy way I could cry.
‘I’ll only be half an hour.’ When Josh kisses his mum on the cheek, Freya leaps off the sofa, throws her arms around his legs and he leans over to hug her. He doesn’t come across as the sort of person who’s good with small children – or adults, for that matter – but she obviously loves him. She clings to his knees until Marion laughs and pulls her away. It would make a fabulous photo – three generations of the same loving family; a proper family. I experience a sudden longing for something I’ve never had and never wanted before. Salt Bay is making me soft.
‘Come again, Annie, maybe for tea next time.’ Marion briefly touches my arm, leaving a faint smudge of flour. ‘And good luck with the choir. It’s an amazing idea and I’m sure it will benefit the village.’
‘As long as it’s run in the right way,’ mutters Josh. Jeez, I wish he’d stop being so enigmatic and start saying exactly what he means.
‘Josh has misgivings about the choir, as I’m sure he’s told you.’ When Marion winks at me and smiles, dimples appear in her flushed cheeks. She looks like the roly-poly mum from a children’s book. ‘Why don’t you help Annie out with the first couple of rehearsals, Josh, and then you can make sure that it’s being run in the right way.’
Josh’s jaw drops in horror, though he can’t be as shocked by the idea as I am. My newly found enthusiasm for setting up the damn choir begins to evaporate.
‘I couldn’t possibly ask Josh to do that,’ I splutter.
‘Nonsense,’ soothes Marion. ‘It would only be for a couple of rehearsals and it would put my mind at rest because Josh has a point. The new choir needs to be a fitting tribute to the men who died. Do it for your dad, Josh. He would be so proud of you getting involved.’
Josh breathes out so heavily he seems to deflate as Marion puts her arm round my shoulder.
‘That’s settled, then. Give my regards to your great-aunt and maybe we’ll see you again soon.’
Josh doesn’t speak on the way to his car or while he drives out of town and into the countryside. He’s driving well today which is a relief. I was expecting him to motor along the winding lanes like Lewis Hamilton in a hurry, particularly after his mum’s bombshell idea, but he stops at red lights and everything. A fine drizzle has started falling and the wipers make a rasping noise every time they scrape across the windscreen. It’s putting my teeth on edge but it fills the silence.
We’re only a mile or so from the village when Josh says, ‘My mum has been very ill with heart problems.’
That’s a bit left field but I go with it.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. I wouldn’t have realised, she looks well. And she seems lovely.’
‘She’s much better these days, just so long as she takes things easy. That’s why I’m living with her.’ Josh takes his eyes off the road and glances across at me. ‘I was living in Penzance with a girlfriend but when Mum was ill she couldn’t cope with looking after herself and Freya while Lucy worked shifts. And the bills were piling up so I moved back home a few months ago to help out.’
Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask! ‘What happened to your girlfriend?’ Oops, I asked.
‘Felicity and I split up.’
‘It must have been difficult moving back home.’ I resist the urge to slag off Felicity who sounds like a grade one bitch for deserting someone whose mum was poorly. ‘Look, you don’t have to help out with the choir if you’d rather not.’
Josh’s sigh is almost drowned out by the engine. ‘I’ll help out with the first two rehearsals if it makes Mum happy, but you’re on your own after that.’
We drive on, through a faint mist that’s caught between the folds of the valley and is smudging the lights of Salt Bay.
‘Do you have any other family?’ asks Josh after a while. ‘What about your dad, or brothers and sisters?’
‘Nope, no dad and no siblings.’
‘Aunts and uncles? Anyone else apart from Mrs Gowan?’
‘No one. It’s just me.’
Josh pulls hard on the steering wheel to avoid a cat in the road whose eyes are shining in the headlights. ‘I’m not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse.’
It’s a blessing, of course. No doubt about it. But I can’t get the picture of Marion, Serena and Freya, all curled up together in the front room, out of my head. They seemed so at ease with one another.
When we reach The Whistling Wave, I start softly humming Mum’s favourite tune. ‘The Boy I Love is Up in the Gallery’ is an old music hall song she used to
sing when I couldn’t sleep, and it’s my go-to tune in awkward moments.
‘Are you singing?’ Josh couldn’t sound more disapproving if I’d just farted in his precious car.
‘Not really singing, just humming one of Mum’s favourite songs. It makes me feel closer to her now she’s gone.’ That shuts him up.
At last we’re on the narrow road that leads to the harbour and I can honestly say I’ve never been happier to see Tregavara House, whose lights mark the end of the village and the start of the black sea. Josh pulls up outside the house and leaves the engine running while I scrabble for my handbag on the back seat.
My fingers have just closed round the soft leather when he asks, ‘When are you going back to London?’
‘As soon as Alice has arranged some permanent help at home.’
‘I expect you’ll be glad to escape this provincial little life and get back to the big city.’
‘I’ll be glad to get home, if that’s what you mean.’ I push down on the chrome handle next to me but the passenger door doesn’t move. I try again but the door won’t budge.
‘And what happens to the choir then?’ asks Josh, leaning across me to give the door a shove. His body is heavy across my lap and he smells faintly of soap and cedar wood as the muscles across his shoulders strain against the cotton of his shirt.
‘I’ll sort something out. Don’t worry, it won’t be your problem.’
‘Huh. The Trebarwiths always seem to be my problem.’ He gives the door another almighty shove but it stays firmly shut.
What is Josh Pasco’s beef with the Trebarwiths? His constant digs make me feel protective towards my family, even Toby whom I don’t trust. But before I can leap to their defence, Josh removes his hot, heavy body from my lap and gets out of the car to try my door from the outside. It opens with a screech and Josh stands back to let me get out.
‘Thank you for the lift.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
A lone seagull swoops round our heads and flies towards the cliffs while Josh folds himself back behind the wheel.
I’m halfway along the garden path, my breath white in the wintry air, when the car window winds down and Josh calls out, ‘You do realise, don’t you, that Toby is an utter shit?’
‘That’s funny,’ I call back. ‘He says exactly the same about you.’
Josh snorts and drives off, the rear bumper of his car scraping along the road when he bounces over a pothole.
‘Who was that?’ asks Alice disingenuously when I let myself into the house. She knows very well who it was because she was peering round the curtains when we pulled up.
‘Josh Pasco, he gave me a lift home.’
‘That was kind of him.’
‘It was, though I think he’s probably the grumpiest man I’ve ever met.’
Alice’s laugh sounds faintly disapproving. ‘Don’t be too hard on him. He’s had a lot to cope with.’
God knows I’d be grumpy if I had to live with my dependent family in Cornwall forever. But I’m tempted to tell Alice that Josh has taken against the whole Trebarwith family because Toby once annoyed him. She doesn’t appear to know and it might make her think twice before sticking up for the grumpy bugger. But I don’t bother because there’s no point in upsetting an old lady who’s got enough problems of her own.
When I go quiet, Alice pats my hand with her cold fingers. ‘Don’t worry, Annabella. Once you go back to London you’ll probably never see Josh Pasco again.’
Wahey! I can’t wait to be shot of his snarky comments, designer stubble and general glowering. Though I don’t say any of that to Alice.
To be fair, he has some good points: many blokes would run a mile rather than move in with their sick mother, and his stubble is sexy. Very sexy actually. I shake my head to dislodge an image of Josh’s strong jawline. But overall he’s a pain and I’ll be glad when the first two choir rehearsals are over and he’s out of my hair.
Chapter 18
The next few days are taken up with contacting new choir members and trying to find a permanent helper for Alice before my flat goes totally tits up. There have been a couple of replies to her ad in Jennifer’s shop and both respondents call round for an informal interview.
One is a tall, spiky woman called Prudence who’s in her mid-fifties and dressed head to toe in black. She runs her finger along the top of the radiator when she comes into the house and purses her lips sourly when she finds a smidgen of dust. Miserable old bat.
Alice gives her the benefit of the doubt and talks her through the daily support she’s likely to need, including increasing personal care as time goes on.
‘That won’t be a problem,’ sniffs Prudence, her beady eyes flitting round the sitting room. ‘I’m experienced in giving effective, sanitary bed baths and my clients are always thoroughly cleansed. I don’t tolerate dirt in the home or on the body.’ She shudders at the thought and flicks imaginary dust from her squeaky-clean neck.
‘Utterly terrifying,’ is Alice’s verdict when we finally get shot of Prudence in her funereal clothes. ‘I’m not letting that woman anywhere near my private parts.’
Karen, the second candidate, is a middle-aged, dumpy woman who arrives late in a flowing floral skirt and chunky necklace. She seems more promising and is doing well until she starts patting Alice’s hand and – the final nail in Karen’s coffin – calling her ‘my dear’.
‘Patronising prig,’ mutters Alice, slamming the front door shut and shuffling off unsteadily.
I suggest calling a few care agencies to see what they’d charge and offer to do it myself, to speed things along, but Alice is adamant that it’s her care and she’ll make the phone calls.
‘I’m not sure I really need much care anyway,’ she says airily, tightening the Velcro on her slippers. Which is rich seeing as I picked her up from another fall this morning. It was just a tiny tumble with no injuries, but it’s a reminder that permanent support needs to be in place before I can escape back to London with a clear conscience.
In between doing choir stuff and keeping an eye on Alice, I’m mind-numbingly bored. I read a lot and walk a bit and listen to music on my phone, but there are only so many times I can saunter round the village without being tagged a total weirdo. So I end up spending time on the cliffs, looking at the view and dodging dive-bombing seagulls whose sole purpose in life appears to be shitting on my head.
Perched high above the village and the dishwater-grey sea, I think a lot about my mum and how Salt Bay must have stifled her. My London mum dressed in vibrant colours and revelled in new experiences and new people. Too many people, sometimes. Our flat was often full of strange, hippy types with their sweet, pot smell and laid-back attitudes.
There were times when Mum got overwhelmed and took to her bed, whispering, ‘It’s all too much, Pumpkin; all the colours and the sounds. I’m drowning and can’t breathe.’ That’s when I knew a bad patch was coming and the flat would fall silent while the hangers-on drifted away and Mum slept for days on end, as though she was dead.
But eventually she’d emerge, looking pale but gradually lighting up until she shone brightly again – a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis. And the friends would come back, and the flat would be filled with laughter and music until the early hours. Which wasn’t great when I was revising for exams, but Mum was happy and that was all that mattered.
Mum has become a taboo subject at Tregavara House since I slagged off my grandparents for abandoning her. Neither Alice nor I mention her, and my grandmother Sheila also seems to be on the taboo list and is no longer mentioned. Perhaps she fell out with Samuel and that’s why she’s buried in the churchyard rather than on the cliffs. But I don’t want to find out. The less I know, the easier it will be to leave Alice when the time comes.
Alice does talk about the choir and mentions it one afternoon while I’m unpacking food.
‘Where are you planning for the choir to meet?’ she asks, picking up a tin of baked beans and balancing it on
a tin of tomatoes in the food cupboard.
‘I’m thinking in the pub initially. Roger says we can use the back room.’
‘Or there’s always the church.’ Alice delves into the bag and brings out a cabbage. ‘You could ask the vicar; she’s a nice woman. Bit posh. The choir used to meet in the church and Samuel said the acoustics in there made singers sound better than they were.’
I haven’t considered the church but it makes more sense than a busy pub and, acoustics-wise, we can do with all the help we can get.
Alice scrawls the vicar’s phone number on a Post-it and sticks it on the kitchen table.
‘There you are. Hilary looks after lots of parishes so it’s best to catch her on the phone. Who will take over the choir when you go back to London?’
‘I’m sure someone will come forward. If I get it up and running, these things usually take on a life of their own. And there’s always Jennifer, who seems to have hidden musical talents.’
Alice looks doubtful and I mentally cross Jennifer off my ‘could run the choir after I escape’ list. There’s no question that she could do it, but there wouldn’t be a choir to run after she started barking orders at people and criticising them for being tone-deaf.
Fortunately I’ve already got a pianist lined up. Michaela, the young girl who played so well for Jennifer, was the obvious choice so I gave her a call and then spoke to her parents. They agreed that playing for us once a week wouldn’t impact on her homework, and Michaela was delighted when she realised we’d pay her fifteen pounds per evening. If everyone in the choir puts two pounds into a kitty each week, we’ll have enough to pay Michaela with some left over for juice and biscuits in the break.
The only thing that’s missing is music so, several days before the choir’s first ever rehearsal, I pay a visit to Penzance. The minibus wheezes out of Salt Bay and wends its way through tiny villages with pretty names until we reach the outskirts of the town. Only around 21,000 people live in Penzance – I looked it up on the web – but it feels like a huge metropolis after living out in the sticks. There’s a Boots and a Costa, people rushing around, litter on the streets and dog poo on the pavements. It’s almost like being at home, apart from the sea and the elegant, art deco Jubilee Pool jutting out into the ocean.
