by Fern Britton
Downstairs, sitting on the sofa with his mug of tea, he looked around his home. Above the fireplace was one of his grandfather’s paintings: a small girl with red hair sitting on the quay at Trevay with a crab line in her hand. It was unusual in that this was one of the very few canvases Poppa had painted. Poppa was the Potter – Granny was the painter.
In front of him was an Indian carved coffee table. His grandfather had brought it back from a trip to Rajasthan and Henry and Ella had always had their Friday night supper of fish and chips on it, rather than at the big kitchen table. It was their treat and marked the start of their weekends.
‘Argh,’ he said angrily to the empty room. ‘I am not going to see that woman.’ The sofa sagged as he leant back into it. His grandmother’s again. She and Poppa had bought it when they first married and moved into Pencil House. A ridiculously tall, thin house that was one of the landmarks of Trevay. A place where visitors still stood and had photos taken of themselves. His own mother, born in that house, had grown up with this sofa, just as he and Ella had. He tried to imagine his mother as a child, sitting where he was sitting, having a bedtime story read to her. Being hugged by Granny or Poppa just as he and Ella had been. Well, she was not coming back to take this from him. Or the paintings. Or the table. Or the bloody wine glasses. They were his. His and Ella’s, as was every stick of furniture or cutlery in this house.
5
Bill and Adela waited for two years before they married. Adela wanted to finish her degree and Bill wanted to make sure he had enough savings to begin married life in a home of their own.
Tucked up in the chill of Adela’s Marylebone bedroom they talked of their future.
‘Do you think we can afford to start a family straight away?’ Adela had asked hopefully, her face pressed into the warmth of Bill’s chest.
‘How much do babies cost?’ he had asked.
‘Not much. I’ll ask around the family for the essentials. I’m sure my old pram is stuck in the attic somewhere. We can use the kitchen sink as a bath and I’ll feed the little mite myself so …’
She heard his laugh rumbling in his chest as he tightened his arm around her.
‘What are you laughing at?’
‘Your practicality and frugality. Most women would want brand-new everything.’
‘Well, I don’t. And I have a few books of Green Shield stamps that I’m sure would get us a cot.’
He kissed the top of her head. ‘And where would we live? This garret of yours is fine for us but it would be a squeeze for three of us. And I don’t fancy carrying the pram up and down three flights of stairs.’
‘I always imagined us going back to Cornwall,’ she said quietly. ‘My parents have spotted a tiny place in Trevay, on the harbour.’
As she lifted her head to check his reaction to this piece of news, he saw the longing in her.
‘I’m not having handouts from your parents.’
‘No, no. Nor me. And I hadn’t said anything to them about looking for something. Honestly.’
‘Then how do they know about it?’
‘My mother sent me something.’ Adela shifted herself from her arms and slipped out of bed. She tiptoed across the icy lino and reached for a newspaper stuffed into her handbag and got back to the warmth of her bed as fast as she could. ‘Here, look.’ She turned to the properties page and handed it to him. ‘There.’ She pointed.
He scanned the small advert and blurry picture.
‘What do you think?’ she asked, tucking herself around him again.
‘It’s a derelict shop.’
‘An old chandler’s, actually.’
‘But not a residential home.’
‘That’s why it’s such a good price.’
‘No indoor bathroom? No bedrooms? No kitchen and no heating? And it’ll be freezing.’
‘But, stuck between those two houses as it is, it will keep itself warm.’
He said nothing.
She pressed on. ‘Bill, it’s so pretty, and I don’t mind living in a building site and I can do lots of labouring for you. Between us we could build the home we really want.’
He held her anxious gaze. ‘You really like it?’ he said.
She nodded, her fingers crossed under the eiderdown. ‘Don’t you?’
‘Hmm,’ he said, wanting to keep her in suspense. ‘We could go down this weekend and take a look at it?’
She sat up clutching her hands to her chest. ‘Could we?’
‘Why not?’
To their delight, the second-class train compartment was empty. Bill put their small, shared suitcase up in the netted luggage rack while Adela opened up their packed lunch. ‘It’s only egg sandwiches and ginger nuts, I’m afraid,’ she said, fussing over the greaseproof-wrapped packages and passing him one. ‘Oh, and I’ve put the last of my chicken soup in the flask.’
Sitting together, watching as the smoky London scene beyond the glass began to morph into suburbia then farmland, they munched and chatted and did the Guardian crossword until, leaning their heads together, they fell asleep to the rhythm of the train.
Newton Abbot, Exeter and Plymouth sped by in a drowsy haze until the guard, in a comforting West Country voice called along the corridors, ‘Bodmin Parkway next stop. Next stop, Bodmin.’
As the bus rattled onto Trevay Harbour and came to a stop, Adela and Bill collected up their bits and jumped off.
‘There it is,’ Adela said with renewed energy, pointing at a very tall, thin building, ‘I can see the estate agent waiting.’
They hurried across the road, past the Golden Hind pub and turned left into the narrow lane where the building stood, squeezed in between its neighbours.
It was at least a hundred and fifty years old. Dressed in clapboard, its white paint peeling, it carried two floors above the front door. The estate agent greeted them.
‘Mr and Mrs Tallon, I presume? Tim Baynon.’
They all shook hands.
‘Welcome to the Old Chandlery …’ Mr Baynon began his spiel. ‘There’s been a lot of interest in the property, I can tell you.’
‘Really?’ asked Bill incredulous.
Adela glared at him and addressed the agent: ‘I’m sure. It’s absolutely gorgeous.’
Bill shot her a murderous look. And as Mr Baynon took a set of keys from his pocket and put them in the rusted lock of the warped front door, Bill pulled his wife aside and whispered, ‘Don’t act too keen. He’ll bump the price up.’
Adela tutted, and whispered back, ‘I want him to know we are serious buyers.’
She pushed past him and followed the agent, who had given the door a couple of kicks to open it, leaving a lump of damp and rotting wood on the mat, into what had been the shop.
‘As you see,’ Mr Baynon was all pomposity, ‘all the original fixtures and fittings are still intact.’
Bill looked at the empty shelves lining the walls and the shop counter covered in dust. ‘Seen better days,’ he said.
‘So much character,’ countered Adela.
Mr Baynon continued his tour into the room behind the shop which housed an old Raeburn range and a large butler’s sink. ‘And beyond is the garden.’ Grandly he lifted the latch of the old back door and showed them a patch of wasteland no bigger than a couple of wheelbarrows. ‘Sun all day.’
Adela could see that Bill was losing interest. ‘Can we see upstairs?’
A steep and narrow staircase took them up to the first floor which housed two small rooms back and front. The second floor was the same.
Adela felt certain that Bill would never agree to live here. As he and Mr Baynon chatted on the tiny landing, she walked towards the window of the uppermost front room, her heels knocking on the bare floorboards. She rubbed the dust and grime from one of the small square panes and looked out. Trevay and its harbour were laid out before her like a drawing from a child’s picture book. She tried the rusty latch and after a couple of thumps with the heel of her hand it opened. Sunlight, sea air and the c
all of gulls flooded the room. She almost laughed at the simple joyousness of it all.
She heard footsteps behind her, followed by Bill’s hand on her waist as he stood next to her.
She laid her head against his shoulder. ‘Someone will make this into a lovely home,’ she sighed.
‘Yes, we will,’ he answered.
She looked up at him, all alert. ‘What?’
‘I’ve put an offer in. My Baynon is going to let us know in a couple of days.’
She hugged him, then pulled away and pummelled him. ‘You bugger! I thought you hated it.’
‘Just my poker face.’
‘Oh, darling.’ She kissed him, then a horrible thought crossed her mind. ‘You didn’t offer him a stupidly low price, did you? We’ll definitely lose it if you have.’
‘I’ve offered what it’s worth to us. Which is more than it’s worth to anyone else.’
‘I love it.’ She hopped from one foot to another.
‘I love it too. It’s mad. It’s too much work. It’s totally impractical. Who buys a building that’s as tall and thin as a pencil?’
Adela laughed and leant on the filthy window sill to look out at the amazing view.
‘That’s what we’ll call it. Pencil House.’
They got the keys and moved in within three weeks. The Raeburn only needed a good service and soon warmed the house through. Bill, always good with his hands, made the old shop counter into a kitchen unit, and built a sturdy kitchen table top out of the shop’s shelves. Adela started upstairs. She swept, she washed and she painted everywhere and everything. Slowly, Pencil House was becoming a home.
At weekends they would take themselves off on bus rides, discovering seaside towns and hidden coves and simply immersing themselves in each other and life they were building.
It was about four months into their arrival that Adela began to feel sick in the mornings. The doctor confirmed her pregnancy and the following spring their daughter arrived.
Bill and Adela were as besotted with her as they were with themselves.
‘What shall we call her?’ asked Bill holding her for the first time by Adela’s hospital bed.
Adela smiled. ‘I would like to call her Sennen,’ she said.
‘Sennen?’ asked Bill, puzzled. ‘Why?’
She grinned. ‘Remember that evening on Sennen Cove last summer?’
‘Oh.’ Bill remembered. ‘When I … when we …’
She nodded. ‘Yes, darling. Your daughter was conceived on Sennen Cove.’
A few days later Bill went to collect Adela and Sennen from the hospital. He’d bought himself an ancient red Ford Anglia for the occasion. ‘Oh, Bill, it’s wonderful,’ exclaimed Adela when she saw it. ‘Can we afford it?’
‘For my wife and daughter, nothing is too much.’ He opened the door for her and got her settled with Adela wrapped in her arms.’
When they got to Pencil House he told her to stay in the car while he opened up and took the bags in, then, when he was ready, he scooped Adela, who was still cradling Sennen, into his arms and carried them both over the threshold with Adela laughing and protesting until he placed her on the sofa.
‘Welcome home.’ He bent and kissed her. ‘I am so proud of you.’
‘What on earth for?’
‘For making Sennen for us.’
‘Well, it took both of us.’
‘But you did the hard work.’ He knelt by Adela’s knee and lifted the shawl his mother had knitted from Sennen’s face. ‘Hello, my darling. We are three – and nothing and nobody will ever tear us apart.’
6
Pendruggan, 2018
At Marguerite Cottage, the day that Henry had left Pendruggan, making Ella promise not to meet their mother when or if she came back, Adam and Kit were cooking supper. Although they were cousins they were more like brothers. Adam, the elder, making suggestions as to how to dice an onion correctly and Kit arguing that the kitchen was a shared domain and if he was cooking, he’d do it his way.
Adam shrugged and started to lay the table. ‘More wine, Ella? Supper will be a while.’
He poured a good slug of rosé into her glass and she excused herself. ‘I’ll take this into the lounge, if you don’t mind?’
The boys barely looked up as they had started a ridiculous debate about whether to put chives on the new potatoes or mint.
Ella sat on the rug next to Celia and Terry and rubbed their ears. ‘Don’t tell Henry,’ she whispered, ‘but I would really like to meet my mum. I wonder what she’s like? Do you think she’d like me?’ Terry rolled over so that she could tickle his tummy. ‘You don’t have a care in the world, do you, Terry.’ She turned to Celia who was in ear-tickle ecstasy, her eyes half-shut in bliss. ‘Celia, you’re a girl. What do you think my mum is like? Is she all bad? Selfish? Feeling guilty at what she did? Or is she funny and beautiful and clever and desperate for us to forgive her? Hmm? Do you think we could be friends? I’d like that. I really, really want to know. I want to see her. Is that too bad of me?’
In Clapham, Henry had ditched his tea and started on the wine. The anger inside him was building. If that woman was thinking of coming back and playing happy families, she had another think coming. But if she did come back, at least he would have the satisfaction of her seeing that, despite the pain and the chaos she had created, he and Ella had survived and done very well without her. Who needed her? She needed to be told some home truths. She needed to face up to the carnage, the wrecked lives of her parents, God bless them. Let her come and take the money and piss off back to wherever she’d come from. He didn’t need her. Ella didn’t need her. And he’d like to say that to her face. She deserved to see what she left behind and know what it’s like to be rejected. He took another mouthful of wine and swilled it down as he picked up his phone and, in an impulse of fury, dialled Ella’s number.
Ella stopped tickling the dogs and reached around for her phone. She checked the caller ID. ‘Hi, Henry.’
‘We are going to see her.’ Henry emptied the bottle into his glass.
Ella felt her heart jump. ‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m so glad …’
‘And I am going to tell her exactly what she’s done. I am going to look her in the face and really tell her what I think of her.’
7
Trevay, 1992
Adela and Bill had taken the children to the beach. Adela loved her grandchildren dearly but she was exhausted looking after two little ones. They were growing up so quickly, she wished with all her heart that Sennen could see them. As the sun beat down on Shellsand Bay, Adela rested her eyes, just for a moment, listening to Henry’s squeals of laughter above the crashing of the waves.
‘Mama!’ shouted Henry stamping his little feet in the shallow ripples of the sea. ‘Mama!’
Sennen crouched as well as she could with her burgeoning pregnancy, and said, ‘Smile, Henry. Smile for Mummy.’ She pressed the shutter on her Kodak disposable camera just as her one-year-old son scrunched his eyes and gave her the broadest of grins. ‘That’ll be a good one,’ she said, winding the film on.
Adela and Bill were sitting a little way up the beach, using the cliff face as a windbreak. Bill was asleep, Adela was watching her daughter and grandson.
‘Darling?’ She shook Bill gently. ‘Darling?’
Bill woke up. ‘Was I dozing?’ He stretched, then put a hand to his eyes to check on Sennen and Henry. ‘Are they okay?’
‘I think so,’ said Adela. ‘She’s being rather good with him today.’
‘I think you’re being very good with both of them.’ He looked at her affectionately over the top of his Raybans.
‘I do worry. She’s only just coping with Henry and now another baby on the way.’
‘It’s not quite what we were thinking of, is it?’
‘No.’ Adela steepled her fingers under her chin. ‘Every child brings joy, we know that, but …’ She shook her head. ‘I do worry.’
&nbs
p; ‘What are you worried about, Granny?’
Adela knew she’d been dreaming, but it was so real, so tangible, as she opened her eyes to see a smiling Henry standing in front of her with a crab net.
‘Did I fall asleep?’ She smiled at him.
‘Grandad wants to take me and Ella swimming but you have to come too, to help Ella because she’s not big like me.’
She reached out and stroked her grandson’s soft cheeks. ‘No, she’s not as big as you, yet. Your swimming is coming on nicely. But you will teach Ella when she’s big.’
Henry grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the nest of towels she’d created for herself against the cliffs where she and Bill always made camp.
‘Quick, Granny, or Ella and Poppa will be finished before we get there.’
Henry pulled Adela down the damp and rippled sand to the water’s edge where Bill was bouncing Ella’s toes in and out of the shallow ripples.
‘Hello, old thing.’ He smiled at her. ‘The water’s not too bad.’
‘Granny was asleep.’ Henry told Bill.
‘Was she snoring?’ asked Bill conspiratorially.
‘She was more sort of blowing air through her lips. Like Bert when he purrs.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Bill nodding his head as if Henry had given him the most important piece of information. ‘She does that.’
Adela wasn’t embarrassed. ‘Well, Poppa farts when he’s asleep.’
Henry burst into laughter. ‘Poppa Farts! Poppa Farts!’
Ella, catching the fun and laughter, stuck her bottom out and began blowing raspberries through her teeth.
‘That’s quite enough, thank you,’ said Bill, lifting Ella on to his shoulders. ‘Who wants to find the seahorses?’
‘Meeee!’ shrilled Ella holding tight to her Poppa’s ears.
‘And meeeee!’ shouted Henry running through the waves.
‘And meeeee,’ sang Adela as she skipped after them all, putting aside her post-dream sadness.
