by Liz Eeles
Josh gazes at me coolly and raises the other eyebrow. ‘I didn’t realise I was “giving you evils”. I do apologise. And while I’m in an apologetic mood, I suppose I should say sorry again for alarming you near the pub after the auditions. I would have mentioned it when we last met but I was thrown when you ambushed me at home.’
‘Hardly ambushed! I came round to speak to you, not shoot you.’
‘Wrong choice of words,’ murmurs Josh. ‘I was thrown when you turned up at my home unannounced.’
‘I didn’t realise I was supposed to make an appointment,’ I fire back. Well, this is going swimmingly. Taking a deep breath, I attempt to lower the temperature a notch. ‘I hope the rehearsal didn’t upset you. I expect it brought back memories of your dad.’
‘Lots of memories. I remember him standing where you were, conducting the choir and joking with some of the younger men. It was only a small choir so losing seven men in one night was devastating. I knew them all.’ He closes his eyes for a moment and swallows. ‘And what about you? Your grandfather was one of the men who were lost.’
‘I don’t have any memories of him. It’s hard to miss someone you’ve never met.’
‘I remember him. He was tall and stern-looking and I was rather frightened of him as a child. But he loved music and he had a great voice. He often sang a solo when the choir gave public performances.’
‘Did he?’ It’s hard to equate such a harsh, unforgiving man with someone who revelled in the joy and beauty of music.
‘He’d come to our house sometimes to practise his solo with Dad, and I’d listen at the door with Mum.’ Josh shrugs. ‘But that was a long time ago.’
‘How is your mum?’
‘She’s doing well.’
‘And Freya?’
Josh’s face softens and he smiles in spite of himself. ‘She’s decided she’d like to be an astronaut when she grows up so we’re all having to pretend that we live on the moon.’
‘That’s sweet.’
‘She’s a very sweet child, and she liked you. She thought you were a princess because of your amazing blue eyes.’
There are muffled shouts outside from people passing by, but the air in here is very still.
‘Anyway, that’s what she thought,’ says Josh in a rush. ‘Um, how are your family?’ He winces and a deep furrow appears between his eyebrows.
‘Alice is doing pretty well, really.’ Whatever you do, Annie, do not mention Toby! ‘Considering her age and health problems…’
Josh steps closer to give me his sheet music that was rolled up in the back pocket of his jeans.
‘And considering the fact that she’s keeping a big house running…’
The paper is warm from being close to his body.
‘And she’s had no live-in help until now…’
He’s staring at my mouth, which makes me feel ridiculously flustered. Why is he staring at my mouth like that?
‘And Toby was OK, the last time we spoke.’
The spectre of my cousin steps between us as I wish I could take the words back. It’s official; I truly am a moron.
Josh backs away as though I’m toxic. ‘That’s marvellous news. I’ll sleep so much better now I know that Toby is OK.’
‘Toby’s not so bad.’ Toby is a bossy, patronising prig, but he’s my cousin and Josh’s attacks on him are beginning to feel like attacks on me.
‘Blood is thicker than water but you’ll find out what he’s like one day.’ Josh pulls car keys from his front pocket and scrunches them tightly into his fist. ‘I’ll leave you to lock up the church and get back to your precious family.’
The heavy door bangs shut behind him and I’m left with only the ghosts of drowned fishermen to keep me company.
Chapter 20
The next few days pass more quickly as I get into the rhythm of life in Salt Bay. London feels distant, a mythical place where there’s twenty-four-hour public transport, shops open in the evening, and wall-to-wall Wi-Fi. God, I miss Wi-Fi. I didn’t realise how much I relied on my mobile, although life seems more serene without Twitter trolls and Facebook one-upmanship. I’m still nipping into the pub to stalk Amber online, obviously.
It’s hard to admit but there are some things I like about Salt Bay. The weird heart palpitations I get on the Tube are gone and my body feels looser because I’m not tensing my shoulders all the time – only when I have a run-in with Josh, or Alice starts talking about the village like it’s my permanent home. I’m also looking more healthy although there’s no hairdresser for miles and the skin on my face is being scoured daily by harsh salt winds. My pale London pallor has been replaced by a glowing complexion and my longer hair has started curling softly on my shoulders. Maybe I should open a beauty parlour in Mayfair and charge women shedloads to stand in a wind tunnel and have their faces scrubbed with a Brillo pad.
But the thing I like most about Salt Bay is that looking after Alice reminds me of taking care of Mum and gives me a purpose I hadn’t realised was lacking. I like looking after people and I’m good at it. I’m even thinking about checking out care jobs when I get back to London.
Just before the weekend, Alice vets another couple of her potential carers and declares them ‘hopeless’, particularly the young girl with a tarnished silver stud in her nose. ‘She has an actual hole in her nose! What happens to the phlegm when she has a cold? Does she leak? It’s terribly unhygienic.’
When I insist, Alice finally sets up a meeting with a care agency and likes the woman who calls round, but the cost of a comprehensive care package almost gives her a heart attack on the spot. She does some sums and declares the agency option will work only if she does the decent thing and pops her clogs within a year or so. If she lingers any longer, both she and Tregavara House will be in trouble. I guess she doesn’t have a mattress stuffed with fivers after all.
With such a lot going on, I’m able to put super-sarcastic Josh to the back of my mind, but I can’t forget Cyril. Even Kayla admits she’s concerned about him during one of our regular walks together on the cliffs.
‘His luck’s been shite,’ she yells, trying to be heard above the waves pounding the rocks below us. The sea is ferocious today and strands of foam are swirling in the stiff breeze. ‘First his grandsons die, followed by his wife, and then his only daughter buggers off to, where was it, County Deadham?’
‘Durham,’ I shout back, not sure why we’re braving the elements when we could be drinking hot chocolate instead. We usually do when the weather’s bad but Kayla’s trying to lose weight off her skinny thighs.
She leads me into the clifftop cemetery and we sit with our backs to a gravestone, sheltered from the worst of the wind.
‘But try not to worry about Mr Barnley,’ she says. ‘The folk round here keep an eye on him and you can’t make him come to the choir. Just accept he’s the type of person who dies alone and no one notices for ages.’
Kayla is not the most reassuring of people, nor the most discreet if what she tells me about the pub regulars is anything to go by. That’s why I’ve kept quiet about Josh, not that there’s much to tell. She already knows he can be rude and grumpy.
A squall of freezing rain hits us and Kayla pulls up the hood on her bright yellow cagoule. ‘Bugger this, shall we abandon our walk and head to the caff? I’ll be good and have a calorie-free black coffee.’
Ten minutes later, we’re sitting in a cosy corner of the tea shop with our wet cagoules draped across the back of our chairs. The bunting-draped windows have steamed up so much, people walking past look like ghosts.
‘What? Don’t judge me!’ Kayla stirs in the Cornish cream on the top of her hot chocolate and licks the spoon. ‘I need some energy for my lunchtime shift and Roger is so lazy I’ll soon work this off.’ She gulps down a fat-laced mouthful and stretches her legs out under the table with its gingham cloth. ‘Are you feeling better about the choir now? I know you were worried that the locals wouldn’t like it but I’ve had some great feedba
ck in the pub.’
‘I must admit I feel happier now the first rehearsal is over.’
‘It was great, and you were right. It is good to have music in the village. Roger’s even talking about getting some band to come in one evening to play live music for the customers. It’s folk music’ – she pretends to spit on the floor – ‘but hey, small steps. The locals aren’t ready for Kanye yet.’
‘Live music of any kind will be brilliant.’ Best to keep quiet about my extensive collection of folk music because I was ribbed about my musical tastes when I was growing up. While my school friends were fangirling over Blue and Busted, I was listening to Tony Bennett and The Carpenters. Karen Carpenter’s smooth, rich voice still makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.
After we’ve demolished the hot chocolates, I walk Kayla to the pub before heading back towards Tregavara House. But I hesitate when I get to the tiny cobbled lane that leads to Mr Barnley’s cottage. Unlike Mum and Alice, Mr Barnley is not my responsibility, but what if he thought being alone was the best option and now he’s stuck? What if I’m stuck, too?
Shaking off such a self-indulgent notion, I knock on Mr Barnley’s door and write a quick note when he doesn’t answer.
Sorry not to see you at the first rehearsal of the choir. The next one is in the church on Wednesday at 7.30 pm. Maybe see you there? Annie.
Just before I pop it through the letterbox, I add a kiss after my name. He seems the sort of man who could do with some affection.
* * *
Much to my relief, everyone turns up for the next choir rehearsal, plus three new faces; Fiona, with unnaturally over-red hair, who’s married to Arthur, and young couple Pippa and Charlie. They’re so loved-up they wave sadly to one another when I separate them and sit Charlie with the tenors. He settles down beside Ollie with his back to the altar and pouts at his sweet fiancée.
The whole choir is facing the main body of the church this week because I raided the vestry for chairs and made a little semicircle with two rows. Josh gave a hand when he turned up early and helped Kayla to put music on each chair. He hardly said two words to me and then retreated to the back pew. But he beckons me over before the rehearsal begins.
‘I’ve got this for you,’ he says gruffly, handing over a long, thin wooden case with tarnished silver clasps. When I open it, my stomach sinks. There inside, resting on red satin, is a nut-brown baton that tapers from a bulb at one end to a rounded point at the other. Josh is looking at me closely, waiting for my reaction.
‘Wow, that’s gotta be better than a pencil,’ I laugh, wishing he hadn’t bothered. I don’t want to use a baton – mostly because I feel like a conductor imposter, but also because Kayla will take the piss if I come over all Simon Rattle. ‘Did you borrow it from school?’
‘No, it was my dad’s. He was presented with it by the choral society on his three-year anniversary as conductor.’
I gulp and run my hand over the polished wood. ‘I’m not sure it’s appropriate for me to use this when it’s got such history.’
‘The choral society has history and you’re its conductor so’ – Josh takes the baton from its case and hands it to me – ‘knock yourself out. It’s just on loan, obviously.’
‘Obviously, and thank you,’ I reply, gripping the baton tightly so I won’t drop it. I can feel Josh’s eyes on my back as I walk back to the choir, heels ringing on the worn flagstones.
Kayla spots the baton and sniggers but no one else takes a blind bit of notice. Not even when I tap it on the edge of my music stand, to call for quiet. Because that’s what conductors do, I think.
While we’re singing up and down scales to loosen our vocal cords, it registers that Cyril hasn’t turned up. I put out an extra chair, just in case, but my note didn’t convince him. Or maybe the kiss was a bad idea. Either way, it’s disappointing but Kayla’s right, he’s not my responsibility.
Putting Cyril out of my mind, I throw myself into the rehearsal and only realise an hour has passed when Gerald starts tapping his watch and panting like a dog. We break for refreshments and I find myself standing next to Pippa in the queue for orange squash and biscuits.
‘I love your ring,’ I tell her. The diamond in Pippa’s engagement ring has been dazzling me all evening. It’s ginormous.
‘It’s not real,’ she confides. ‘It’s cubic zirconia from Argos but no one can tell the difference.’
‘Except a jeweller,’ sniffs Jennifer, brushing past us to reach the digestives and deliberately waggling her fingers so her ring catches the light. Large square-cut diamonds glint and sparkle. Pippa mouths ‘the real deal’ at me and shrugs her shoulders.
‘You’ll have a proper diamond one day, from Tiffany’s,’ murmurs Charlie, slipping his arms around her waist. ‘As soon as I’ve made my fortune, you can have any jewellery you like.’ Gosh, what a lovely fiancé. For my next boyfriend, I want someone just like him.
‘We haven’t got much to spend on the wedding but it’s going to be amazing,’ gushes Pippa, her dark grey eyes sparkling more than Jennifer’s kosher jewels. ‘We want it to be special and wondered’ – she looks at Charlie shyly – ‘if the choir might sing for us during the service? We’d make a donation and invite you all to the evening do.’
‘This choir? Are you sure?’ I only ask because Jennifer has spent the last half hour singing vibrato to show off, Florence is refusing to sing at all because she can’t read music, and Ollie is singing any note he feels like. But Pippa nods enthusiastically.
‘That’s not why we’ve joined,’ adds Charlie quickly. ‘We heard about the choir and thought it sounded great because we both used to sing at school, and then Pippa's mum suggested getting you to sing at the wedding. She knew people who belonged to the choir before… well, before the bad stuff happened, so she thought it would be fitting. Our wedding is in the summer. What do you reckon?’
I reckon I’ll be back in London long before then, but why not? I say the choir would probably be delighted, and make a mental note to let the new choir leader know. Maybe I could even pay a flying visit for the wedding. Nooo, what am I thinking? Once I leave Salt Bay, that’s it. Kaput. Finito. No more Cornwall. Ever.
I’m doing my best to ignore Josh but his brooding presence is hard to shake off. Even though he’s talking to Roger and Gerald, every time I glance up he seems to be staring at me. It’s very unsettling, particularly in light of his appearance this evening. He’s got his pirate vibe going on big-time thanks to black skinny jeans, striped navy Breton jumper and thick dark hair that’s more unruly than ever. It’s sexy as hell, which is where I’ll end up for having lewd thoughts in church.
I’m fanning myself with a copy of ‘Amazing Grace’ when Jennifer nudges me in the ribs.
‘I’d never have believed it,’ she hisses in my ear. ‘Look who’s just turned up.’ She tilts her head towards the back of the church where Cyril’s standing, looking shabby in an old brown jumper and baggy trousers. By the time I reach him, he’s got his hand on the door latch and is about to flee.
‘Cyril, we’re so glad you came,’ I say softly, putting my arm round his thin shoulders and guiding him away from the door.
‘I thought I might pop in but then I thought better of it. There’s too many people here.’ His eyes dart around the church as he shuffles from foot to foot. His shoes are so scuffed it’s hard to see what colour they used to be.
‘Most of them are people you know who are pleased to see you. Please stay and we can find you a seat.’
Cyril grumbles gently but allows me to lead him to a chair next to Ollie, whose constant bonhomie will be comforting. Several of the men pat Cyril on the shoulder as they go back to their seats and lovely Mary grasps his hand and tells him how delighted she is to see him. There are some good, decent folk in Salt Bay and, for the first time, I really appreciate the sense of community here. Maybe belonging – to people and to places – isn’t only about tricky ties and overwhelming responsibilities after all.
Sadly, kind community spirit isn’t as apparent during the second half of the rehearsal when I ask for suggestions of more modern songs we might try singing in the future.
‘What about that nice Gary Barlow, the one who’s been on X Factor,’ pipes up Maureen. ‘Can’t we sing one of his Take That tunes?’
‘That’s a good idea. I’ll look into it,’ I tell her, dismissing Roger’s mutterings that Take That are for menopausal losers. But Arthur’s comments are harder to ignore.
‘For goodness’ sake,’ he booms, ‘I thought this was a proper choir singing traditional choral works. Not some tin-pot community sing-song, especially with you being an experienced and talented choral leader from London. What are your qualifications for doing this, exactly?’ Puffing his chest out, he leans forward with his hands on his thighs.
‘I love music and I’ve sung in lots of choirs and—’
‘Yes, yes,’ butts in Arthur, who was probably a bully at school, ‘that’s all very well but what are your proper qualifications?’ And he looks so fierce, I don’t think warbling on about music being therapy and bringing people together is going to cut it. I’m about to be outed as an imposter.
‘My dad led Salt Bay Choral Society for four years and he didn’t have any musical qualifications.’ Josh’s voice is low and measured behind me. ‘All he had was a love of music and a willingness to get involved, but the choir won the Kernow Choral Crown just the same. He even let me conduct during rehearsals sometimes when I was just a teenager.’
‘Ted Pawley was a fine conductor, God rest his soul. He was good to my grandsons,’ blurts out Cyril. His chin drops onto his chest and he shrinks back against the chair.
‘That’s true enough,’ says Mary, leaning across to pat Cyril on the shoulder. ‘Let the girl have a go.’
When the rest of the choir murmur in agreement, Arthur holds up his hands in surrender.
‘Just my observation but if you're all happy with things as they are, there’s no more to be said.’
