by Liz Eeles
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Good grief, I sound like the parents of my friends at school. They always envied me my cool mum who let me come and go without comment.
‘Don’t fuss, Annabella.’ Alice glances at her reflection in the hall mirror and uses a finger to blot her lipstick. ‘I promised a friend that I’d see her this afternoon and I don’t want to let her down.’
‘Which friend?’
‘Penelope.’ The hesitation was tiny, but definitely there. ‘She’s going to pick me up in her car from outside the phone box.’
Penelope has picked Alice up a couple of times recently but never comes to the house, which seems odd.
‘Would you like me to walk to the phone box with you?’
‘That’s not necessary. I’m feeling better now and I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.’ She puts on her hat and glances in the mirror again to adjust it. ‘I’ll see you later.’
As the front gate clangs shut behind Alice, I come over all Sherlock and feel an overwhelming urge to follow her.
Don’t do it, Annie, says the calm, reasonable voice in my head while I’m slipping on my shoes and peeping outside to see how far she’s gone. But since when have I listened to my calm, reasonable voice? Making sure that Alice is almost out of sight, I close the front door behind me as quietly as possible and start stalking my great-aunt.
It’s incredibly hard following someone who walks at snail’s pace. My technique involves a lot of loitering while pretending to admire people’s gardens, and bending down to retie my shoes, which is painful when you’ve got a bruised bum. I bet Sherlock never had this problem. He worked everything out and left following people to Watson.
At last Alice reaches the phone box and goes inside it while I hide behind a ruddy great tree on the river bank. Celine is playing nearby in her garden and spots me but seems to accept a grown adult playing hide and seek as perfectly normal.
While I skulk, Alice makes a brief phone call and then sits on a bench that faces the fast-flowing water. She looks back a couple of times but moves her neck so painfully slowly I have plenty of time to flatten myself against the tree trunk.
Nothing happens for ages. And ages. And ages. Being a detective is pretty boring if the person you’re following isn’t a murderer. Bits of itchy bark keep falling off the tree and I’m scooping some out of my cleavage when a taxi drives along the road and stops next to Alice. The driver gets out to open the passenger door and Alice climbs slowly inside before the car heads out of the village. I’m not sure who the taxi driver is but he sure as hell isn’t Penelope.
There must be a logical reason why Alice would lie to me and behave so furtively. Perhaps Penelope sent the taxi after being taken ill, but then surely she’d have cancelled the whole visit. Or maybe Alice has a fancy man and she’s off to enjoy a little afternoon delight. Ewww. Alice is a good-looking woman and deserves some passion but disturbing images involving kinky sex and Zimmer frames are now whizzing round my head.
Alice gets back from ‘Penelope’s’ soon after six o’clock and says she had a lovely time with her friend, though she’s vague when pressed for details of how they spent the afternoon. I don’t push it because what can I say? ‘I stalked you to the phone box and hid behind a tree while you got into a taxi.’ It wouldn’t end well.
I also don’t mention that Toby rang while Alice was out. He’s taken to calling me on the landline every few days to check on my plans and my ‘declining mental health’ (his words).
During today’s call, he hinted there could soon be a temporary job going at Fulbright and Linsom which might suit me, and he asked casually if I’d seen any more of Josh Pasco. When I said I had, he muttered something about Josh being an untrustworthy womaniser and a dickhead, which has been on my mind ever since. A dickhead maybe, though he’s gone up in my estimation since his solid thighs saved me from certain death, but a womaniser? He’s never hit on me, which is great, obviously. Though if he is a womaniser, that’s like being ignored by the office lech – relief is tinged with wondering whether it’s your face or personality that’s so repulsive.
Putting Toby and Josh out of my mind, I spend the next couple of days concentrating on the search for Alice’s live-in carer. Looking online and blitzing local carers’ forums comes up with zilch so I re-write Alice’s ad for local shops and get Jennifer on the case. And it’s Jennifer who comes up trumps via the friend of a friend whose daughter Emily is looking to change her job.
‘Emily’s one of a kind,’ explains Jennifer. ‘She’s young but she has an old soul and I think she’d suit Alice. You’ll see what I mean.’
My first impression of Emily, when she arrives to meet Alice and me, is that she’s eighteen going on eighty. Studious-looking and skinny, she’s wearing an A-line skirt in green crimplene and a patterned blouse which could be her grandmother’s. A long, mousey-brown plait snakes down her back, ending just above her skirt’s elasticated waist. She’s nothing like the sassy, fashionista teenagers I’m used to in London, who would eat poor Emily for breakfast.
She takes a seat opposite Alice, blinking nervously behind her thick-framed glasses and looking close to tears, and I like her. There’s an aura of gentleness around her that hints she's from a nicer world; a world where no one nicks stuff or slags people off on Twitter.
‘What do you do in your current job?’ enquires Alice, while I pour Emily a cup of tea from the pot on the table next to her. Alice tends to spill the tea when she is shaky so I’ve taken to pouring it these days.
‘Admin work, mainly. Lots of filing and typing and some answering the phone. And before that, while I was still in the sixth form, I worked in Tesco on the tills.’
‘So you don’t have any care experience?’ Alice sounds disappointed so she must have picked up the good vibes from Emily, too.
‘Yes, I do. I have loads.’ Emily tilts her cup when she sits forward and a splash of tea soaks into her skirt. ‘Mamm-wynn lived with us when I was growing up and I helped my mum look after her. I kept her company and when she got ill I helped with bed baths and taking her to doctor’s appointments, and sorting out her medicines and lots of other stuff. I was often her only carer when Mum was at work.’
Alice smiles at me. ‘Mamm-wynn is an old Cornish word for grandmother.’ She turns back to Emily and passes her a tissue to blot her wet skirt. ‘I presume your grandmother is no longer with us?’
Emily’s eyes fill with tears and she scrubs her cheeks furiously with the tissue. ‘Sorry, sorry. She died a year ago, but I still miss her.’
Alice pushes herself forward and pats the girl’s hand. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. You looked after your grandmother very well and I’m sure she appreciated that. You might actually have the experience I need but I don’t think you realise that I’m looking for someone to live in, and I’m not sure a young girl like you would want to live here with an old lady like me.’
‘Please, I’d love it,’ gabbles Emily. ‘Our house in Penzance is so small. I share a bedroom with my younger sister who’s really annoying, and Patrick, my brother, has moved his girlfriend in, and my mum reckons my auntie will be moving in too now that my uncle has run off with Derek. And there’s so much space here.’ She gazes round Alice’s elegant sitting room and out of the window towards the roiling sea. ‘There’s enough room to think and to breathe. Would I have my own bedroom?’
‘Absolutely,’ I say, charmed by the young girl’s openness. ‘You’d have a room looking out over the harbour and the cliffs.’
Emily’s eyes light up and she glances at me shyly. ‘I heard you come from London.’ She says ‘London’ in hushed tones. ‘Is your place up there as big as this?’
I picture my expensive Stratford shoebox. ‘Not quite.’
Alice sinks back in her chair and steeples swollen fingers under her chin. ‘You would have bed and board here but I’m afraid I couldn’t pay much, Emily.’
‘That wouldn’t be a problem because I don’t spend much.
I’m a really hard worker, Mrs Gowan, and I don’t go out clubbing or anything. I have hardly any friends.’
She says it with no trace of self-pity, simply an air of loneliness that folds around her like a cloak. Alice has got to give her the job. Turning her down would be akin to booting a helpless puppy off the harbour wall into deep water. A fluffy puppy with doe eyes that can’t swim. Is telepathy a proper thing? I transmit my thoughts Alice’s way, just in case. Please let Emily be your new carer. Give her a chance.
Alice catches my eye and nods, which is freaky. ‘You’re younger than I was anticipating, Emily, and it would be a leap into the dark for both of us, but I’m willing to give it a go if you are. I’d need to take up references, of course, before our new arrangement could be confirmed.’
‘Of course.’ Emily’s face lights up when she smiles and her pale blue eyes, almost hidden behind her glasses, sparkle. ‘Thank you so much, Mrs Gowan. You won’t regret it. I’ll look after you really well.’
‘I’m sure you will, dear, and you’d better start calling me Alice.’ She smooths down her snow-white hair. ‘Who would be best to provide references?’
Emily bites her lip and frowns. ‘My current employer, I suppose, and maybe Mrs Scholes, the deputy head at my school. Though I’m not sure she ever noticed me because I wasn’t one of the clever girls.’
I can imagine Emily slipping under the radar.
We note down the reference details we need and Emily leaves after thanking Alice repeatedly and assuring her that she won’t regret her decision.
‘I don’t believe I will,’ murmurs Alice as we watch Emily almost skip down the garden path. Long strands of thick hair have escaped from her plait and are caught by the sea breeze. ‘She seems the kind of girl I won’t mind having around, someone who can keep an eye on my traitorous body and not blab about my business to everyone in the village.’
‘What sort of business? Do you have deep, dark secrets then, Alice?’
‘Of course not.’ There’s that slight hesitation again. ‘I’d just rather that my business stayed my business.’ She walks slowly upstairs, holding on to the bannister with both hands. ‘I’m feeling tired after seeing Emily so I’ll have a lie down.’ She looks over her shoulder, ‘Thank you for helping me find Emily but I will miss you when you leave, Annabella.’
When I hear Alice’s bedroom door click shut, I head into the sitting room and perch on the thick stone window ledge. So that’s it. As soon as Emily moves in, I’ll be able to get back to London. Woo-hoo, that’s great news, though I don’t feel as relieved as I thought I would. I think I might miss Alice, too.
While Alice is napping, I nip to the pub with my laptop and email Emily’s teacher with a reference request. And in spite of Emily’s misgivings, she emails me back the same afternoon with a glowing report of her former pupil. Mrs Scholes describes Emily as ‘serious, studious and caring’ and paints a picture of a quiet, trustworthy girl who kept herself to herself. We’ll have to wait for a reference from Emily’s current employer – she promised to request one when handing in her notice – but the signs are looking good. It seems that Emily will be a perfect live-in carer for Alice.
Things are working out just the way I wanted, so I buy a huge bar of chocolate to celebrate and stuff my face with calories while trying to quash the ridiculous feeling that I’m being pushed out.
Chapter 23
Knowing I’ll be leaving Salt Bay very soon gives me a different perspective on the village. The cliffs don’t seem as leg-achingly steep, the village as boring, or Jennifer as annoying, and my imminent departure brings into sharp focus the things I’m going to miss. Top of the list are Alice, Kayla (who’s helped to keep me sane) and the choir, whose rehearsals are starting to be fun.
Then there are the views from Salt Bay. Nothing can beat standing on Waterloo Bridge at midnight, with old and new London lit up around you – St Paul’s Cathedral and the London Eye, the Palace of Westminster and the Gherkin. It’s awesome. But there’s something profoundly soothing about the huge Cornish sky and the ever-changing sea and being able to see the horizon without a mahoosive office block in the way.
A couple of times I wonder whether I’ll miss Josh – his soft Cornish accent, how his face lights up when he talks about Freya, his skinny jeans. But I nip those thoughts in the bud and focus instead on things I can’t wait to leave behind.
That list includes: Cornish ‘mizzle’ (a potent drenching drizzle which can hang over the village for hours), the smell of Alice’s vapour rub which permeates the house, and a complete dearth of celebrities. You never know who you might see in London. I once spotted Bill Nighy, Jamie Oliver and a singer from The Saturdays during a shopping trip to the West End. But so far in Salt Bay, all I’ve spotted is one emmet who looked like Jennifer Saunders but wasn’t.
I decide to keep my impending departure quiet at the next couple of choir rehearsals and none of the singers asks if and when I’m leaving – presumably expecting me to stay forever now I’ve experienced the endless delights of Salt Bay.
One reason for keeping schtum is Cyril, who’s been shuffling into rehearsals at seven thirty on the dot and giving me a curt nod before finding a seat. I don’t want to give him any reason to stop coming because the choir is doing him good. I’m sure of it. His shirt might still be frayed and creased, but he’s clean-shaven these days and I was moved almost to tears when he arrived wearing a smart blue tie.
Another reason is Josh, because I want him to get his feet fully under the choral society table before I ask him to run it. Fortunately he hasn’t asked about my departure, and I haven’t enquired whether he and Felicity are back together again, either. To be honest, we’ve hardly spoken since I almost castrated him on the cliffs and he held my hand all the way to safety. He seems embarrassed and I’m all too aware that I’m a hopeless idiot compared to fragrant Felicity.
But Josh has taken up my suggestion of conducting occasionally – and he’s a natural. His tall body sways as he moves his arm in time to the beat and the tension that usually bristles round him like an aura evaporates. Sometimes he seems almost serene when he gets caught up in the singing, which proves my point that music can be magic.
So I’m hopeful that Josh will agree to the whole taking-over-the-choir-forever plan, especially since he suggested that we give a public performance in a few weeks’ time to mark the anniversary of the Great Storm. It's a great idea and a shame, in a way, that I won’t be there on the day. I might even have met Florence’s unfortunate husband Bob, who, according to her regular updates, is now suffering from piles. My singers are a strange bunch but I’ve grown rather fond of them.
Kayla knows I’ll be leaving soon and is sworn to secrecy. But she almost lets the cat out of the bag when I tell her in the pub that Emily has confirmed when she’ll be moving in. Which means that I’ll be leaving Salt Bay for good in a fortnight’s time.
‘That’s too soooon,’ she wails, giving me an awkward hug while balancing two plates of steaming pasta. ‘We’re going to miss you so much. Who will I drink hot chocolate with when you’re back in London?’
‘Shush, Kayla. I haven’t told the choir yet, or Josh.’
‘Don’t you think you should, seeing as you’re expecting him to run the choir when you desert us?’ A strand of spaghetti slithers off the plate and snakes onto the stone floor.
‘I’m building up to it. First I want to make sure he’s so involved in the choir, he can’t possibly refuse.’
‘Hhmm.’ Kayla stoops to pick up the spaghetti, looking unconvinced.
‘Or you could take over the choir, maybe?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! There’s no way I’m waving that poncy baton about and putting up with Arthur sighing every time we sing anything written later than the 1700s.’ She has a point. Arthur has become the doyen of passive-aggressive protest recently. ‘Anyway,’ she raises her voice, ‘I’m far too busy with my new man.’
‘Still chasing Ollie?’
‘Nah, I’m moving on, Annabella Sunshine,’ she declares far more loudly than I’d like. ‘I’m young, free and single, and I’ve got another man in my sights. A real man.’ She winks at a young lad nursing a drink in the corner, who blushes furiously.
‘Him?’ I mouth at her, incredulously.
She shakes her head, red Pre-Raphaelite curls bouncing round her face. ‘No, don’t be silly, that’s Kieran. He’s just a kid. I’m not saying who my new man is because I’ll jinx it, but I’ll let you know. Anyway, must get on ’cos the pasta’s getting cold. Can you dump this in the bin behind the bar for me?’
She drops the slimy spaghetti strand into my hand and sashays past me with an exaggerated hip wiggle and a wink. Yep, I’m really going to miss Kayla and her irrepressible Aussie-ness. She’s at the very top of my Miss List.
* * *
The choir might be in the dark about my leaving plans but Serena corners me about them the next evening, while I’m reading in the kitchen. A thick sea-mist has blanketed the house and all’s quiet, except for the mournful low tone of the foghorn keeping boats away from the treacherous rocks. It’s perfect weather for my crime thriller and I’ve just reached a really juicy part when Serena walks in.
‘So when exactly are you leaving, then?’ She plonks herself into a chair and puts her elbows on the table.
Reluctantly dragging myself away from a homicidal psychopath, I focus on Serena, who’s got her jacket on and is clutching her wages from Alice.
‘Quite soon, once Emily’s able to move in. Actually’ – I’m going to have to start telling people soon – ‘I’m going back to London in a fortnight.’
‘Forever?’
‘Yes, forever. That’s where I live. But Emily will be here to look after Alice.’
