Coming Home

by Fern Britton

  That night, after Adela had bathed Henry and Ella and dressed them in sweet-smelling pyjamas, Bill came upstairs to read the nightly story. Adela kissed the children and sat on the floor between their beds as Bill settled down with Enid Blyton’s The Magic Faraway Tree. He read one chapter and then, after much pleading, read another.

  ‘One more?’ asked Henry sleepily.

  ‘Ella is asleep. She’ll be cross if we read on without her,’ whispered Bill.

  Adela stood up and gently tucked Ella and her teddy a little more cosily. Then she dropped a kiss on Ella’s sleeping forehead. ‘Night-night darling.’

  Bill was settling Henry down. ‘Did you read Mummy that story,’ Henry asked, his bright blue eyes sharp with a need to know.

  ‘Yes,’ said Bill. ‘I did.’

  ‘Did she like Moon-Face best?’ Henry settled himself more deeply into his duvet.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Sleep tight now. See you in the morning.’ Bill ran his hands through Henry’s soft hair.

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Night-night, Hen,’ said Adela kissing his head. ‘Love you.’

  ‘Love you too.’ Henry managed, before accepting sleep’s kidnap.

  Downstairs Adela watched as Bill mixed two gin and tonics. ‘I dreamt about Sennen today. On the beach. She was being so good with Henry … so good.’

  Bill clinked two cubes of ice into each glass and handed her one. ‘But she couldn’t keep it up.’

  ‘She tried so hard, we expected too much of her.’

  Bill sat in his favourite armchair and sipped his drink. ‘Are you hungry?’

  Adela swallowed the threatening tears no. ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ he said impatiently.

  A tear slipped down Adela’s cheek. She raised her hand to wipe it away.

  Bill shifted in his chair and after a while said, ‘Cheese and biscuits? I’ve got some nice Yarg.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I’ll bring it in on a tray.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He left for the kitchen.

  Adela looked out onto the small courtyard beyond. On the washing line hung their swimsuits and trunks and beach towels. They’d be dry by morning if it didn’t rain tonight, and another day would take her further away from her daughter.

  Where was Sennen?

  What was she doing?

  Was she well?

  Was she thinking of them?

  Did she miss her children?

  Adela put her hand in one of the deep pockets of her cotton, sun-bleached trousers and pulled out a handkerchief. She rubbed away the drying, salty track of her tear and wiped her nose.

  It was more than five years since Sennen had gone, leaving Henry and Ella in her and Bill’s care. Her heart had begun to grow a thicker tissue around the damage that had been caused, but now and again the pain caught her unawares.

  Bill suffered too, although he couldn’t admit it. Or perhaps, she wondered, he didn’t have the words. There were no words big enough.

  Friends had tried to empathise, well-meaning and kind.

  Some of them had said harsh things about Sennen. Selfish. Cruel. Better off gone.

  But the gravitational pull of the hole that was left drew Adela and Bill deeper until their fingers were clinging by the tips.

  Bill arrived with two plates.

  ‘Here you are.’ He handed her one. Cheese, two digestive biscuits, a few slices of apple and celery. ‘Enough?’

  She nodded.

  ‘So,’ he said, easing himself back into his chair, ‘what’s the plan for tomorrow?’

  ‘I thought I’d paint the courtyard walls with Ella. She wants a mermaid. She wants to glue some shells to it.’

  ‘Good.’ Bill carefully cut into his cheese and balanced it on his biscuit. ‘Henry and I are going to work in the studio. He’s getting very good on the wheel. We might try a jug tomorrow. Good practice.’

  At bedtime that night, as Adela waited for the milk to boil for their Horlicks, she saw a spattering of rain on the window. She called out to Bill who was at the top of the stairs. ‘I’m just going to bring Sennen’s bathing costume in. It’s started to rain. I’ll bring the Horlicks up in a minute.’

  Bill hesitated a moment on the stairs. Should he correct her? Remind her that the costume was Ella’s not Sennen’s? He closed his eyes and shook his head. No. He would say nothing. Remembering one of his mother’s old sayings, he murmured to himself, ‘Least said soonest mended, Bill. Least said.’ And walked slowly to the bathroom.

  8

  1993: The Night Sennen Ran Away

  Down the narrow lane she ran. Down to the bus shelter. It was empty. Her pulse was thumping at the base of her throat. She looked at her watch – eleven forty-five – and checked all around her again.

  ‘Hiya,’ said a voice in the shadows.

  Sennen jumped. ‘You scared me.’

  ‘My dad took ages going to bed!’

  Sennen shrugged. ‘Are you nervous?’

  ‘A bit.’ Rosemary was Sennen’s oldest school friend. She was shivering. ‘A bit cold, too.’

  Sennen checked to see if anyone had spotted them. The coast was clear.

  ‘Let’s do it,’ she said. ‘Come on.’

  They walked up the hill and out of the village, leaving Trevay and its sleeping inhabitants behind.

  At the top of the hill the two girls stopped and looked around. The moon was streaked across the low tide and the black silhouettes of the roofs and church spire were geometric and inky against the horizon.

  Ella blew out a long stream of breath.

  ‘You sure you’re cool about this?’ asked Rosemary.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Henry and Ella will be all right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  The main road out of Cornwall was ahead of them. ‘Listen,’ said Sennen. ‘Car.’

  A set of headlights came into view and Sennen stuck her thumb out. ‘It’s now or never.’

  The car slowed and stopped. ‘Where are you going?’ asked the lone, middle-aged woman driver.

  ‘Plymouth, please,’ said Sennen.

  ‘Both of you?’ asked the woman, clocking their appearance and their rucksacks. ‘Running away?’

  ‘No,’ said Sennen, ‘it’s my parents. They’re in France, on holiday. Our dad’s been taken ill so we’re catching the overnight ferry to see him. Mum said to hitch. We haven’t got much money, you see.’

  ‘Roscoff?’ asked the woman.

  Rosemary couldn’t speak but Sennen said, ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’re lucky it was me who stopped, then,’ said the woman, reaching round to unlock the door to the back seat. ‘There are a lot of funny people about. Hop in.’

  Sennen got into the front seat, leaving Rosemary to get in the back.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said Sennen. ‘My sister and I are ever so grateful, aren’t we, Sally?’

  Sennen looked around at ‘Sally’ with a cheeky grin. ‘Aren’t we?’

  ‘Yes. V-very,’ stammered Rosemary. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Hello, Sally and …?’ said the woman looking in her wing mirror and pulling away.

  ‘Oh, I’m Carrie,’ said Sennen with conviction. ‘What are you doing out so late tonight?’

  ‘I’m a midwife. Just delivered twins. Two little boys. Identical. I’m on my way home now.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Sennen. ‘Sally and I are twins too. Not identical though.’

  The journey was remarkable only for the number of stories Sennen could weave about her bond with her twin, their father’s weak heart and their mother’s enormous worry about them all. Finally, the illuminated gates of the ferry terminal were in front of them.

  ‘We’ll jump out here, please,’ said Sennen, feeling a fresh thrust of nerves and adrenalin.

  ‘Sure? I can take you to the ticket office if you like?’

  Sennen and Rosemary were already climbing out of the c
ar. ‘No, this is fine. We’ve got our tickets. Bye.’ They shut the doors and waved at the woman who was doubtful about leaving them but she was tired and ready for bed and the girls seemed nice and sensible so she waved to them and headed for home.

  The girls shouldered their rucksacks and headed off to the ticket office. ‘Two tickets for Spain, please,’ said Sennen as she delved into her bag for her wallet and passport.

  ‘Santander return?’ asked the tired man behind the glass.

  ‘We’re not sure when we’re coming back,’ said Rosemary, finding her courage.

  ‘Two singles, then.’ The man didn’t look up as he printed out the tickets and took the cash. ‘Follow the signs to the ferry. Sails in twenty-five minutes.’

  The two girls spotted the signs and ran to the boat. They clattered onto the gangway, laughing and breathless. Stepping on to the deck, Sennen dropped her rucksack and hugged Rosemary. ‘We’ve only bloody done it! We’re on our way to Spain.’

  In Trevay, Ella woke and began screaming from her cot. Adela woke too. She listened. Would Sennen get up and see to her? After a couple of minutes, with Ella’s crying becoming more agitated, the answer was clearly, no.

  Adela didn’t want Bill to be disturbed. He would stop her from helping, so she got out of bed as quietly as she could and padded onto the landing. Sennen’s door was closed. Sighing with frustration and irritation at her daughter’s lack of commitment to her children, she crept into the children’s room.

  Ella had managed to pull herself up by the cot rails, her tear-streaked face scarlet with the effort of crying.

  The crying stopped when she saw her grandmother, to be replaced with shuddering gulps.

  ‘Come on, you,’ said Adela, lifting Ella into her arms. She put her hand under Ella’s bottom and felt the damp creeping through her Baby-gro. ‘Got a wet bum, have you? Let’s get you comfortable.’

  Adela changed Ella’s nappy and Baby-gro then walked around the small room with her granddaughter on her shoulder, cooing soft words until the precious baby rubbed her eyes and grew limp. Back in her cot with teddy close by, Adela left Ella sleeping. On her way back to her own bed she glanced at her daughter’s closed door and forgave her her selfishness. What seventeen-year-old, with A levels looming, wouldn’t be asleep?

  At six fifty the next morning, Henry shook Bill awake. ‘Poppa?’

  ‘Yes?’ rumbled Bill, emerging from deep sleep.

  ‘Where’s Mummy?’

  Bill stretched his arms above his head. ‘If she’s not in her bed she’s maybe downstairs.’

  He turned over and put an arm around the sleeping form of Adela.

  Henry shook him again. ‘She’s not, and Ella done poo.’

  Bill lay still for a moment reluctantly allowing the realisation that he had to get up seep into his muscles. He turned round to face Henry.

  ‘All right, old chap. Tell you what, you wake Granny and I’ll make tea.’

  Bill stood on the landing and glowered at Sennen’s closed door. She really hadn’t been pulling her weight recently. Yes, she had exams, but he and Adela were bending over backwards to help her through school while doing all they could to support her and Ella and Henry. He tucked his cotton sarong a little more tightly around his waist and headed downstairs. He would have words with Sennen later. She had to stop leaning on her mother so much.

  Adela, woken by Henry, changed Ella’s nappy. ‘Shall we wake Mummy up now? She might give you a nice cuddle in bed.’

  Henry said crossly, ‘Mummy not in room.’

  ‘Well, let’s go and look for her,’ said Adela smiling at both children.

  ‘Where the bloody hell is she?’ demanded Bill, having searched the house and garden.

  ‘Shh. You’ll frighten the children,’ said Adela, full of fear herself. She closed the door to the lounge where Henry and Ella were watching Bananas in Pyjamas.

  ‘Maybe she’s gone over to Rosemary’s for breakfast. Or to do revision,’ she said, trying to keep the wobble from her voice.

  They called Rosemary’s family who told them that Sennen was not with them and that Rosemary still asleep.

  Five minutes later they called back.

  Bill rang the police.

  The church bells were ringing five in the afternoon when Sennen and Rosemary disembarked in Spain.

  The sun still warmed the day and the girls were hungry.

  They found a small pavement café and ordered coffee and eggs. Cheerfully, they raised their cups to freedom.

  Adela and Bill ushered the uniformed officers into the kitchen, and offered coffee and biscuits as a way of making things appear normal. The disembodied crackle of speech from their radios was unsettling and the gleam of the badges on their hats, which now lay on the table, were alien and officious.

  The officers sat on one side of the table, Bill and Adela on the other. One was broad-chested and ruddy-faced. The other reminded Adela of a vole, long-nosed with prominent teeth and sandy hair.

  Adela told them all she knew since she’d last seen Sennen the night before.

  Officer Vole was hovering his sharp pencil above his notebook.

  ‘So, the last time you saw or spoke to her was when she went up to bed?

  Adela squeezed the tissue in her hand. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did she seem upset at all? Last night or in the past few days?’

  ‘No.’

  The sharp pencil scratched a note.

  ‘Did she take any money with her?’

  ‘Oh,’ Adela looked at Bill puzzled, ‘I don’t know. She didn’t have much.’

  Bill was glad to be able to do something. ‘I’ll go and look.’ He stood up, scraping the kitchen chair on the floor.

  ‘I’ll come too,’ said the other policeman, cramming the rest of a digestive biscuit into his mouth and followed Bill out of the kitchen.

  Adela swallowed the rising lump in her throat. Left alone with Vole she said, ‘She’s never done anything like this before.’

  ‘A lot of youngsters do this sort of thing. They usually come home when the money runs out.’

  He looked up as Bill and his colleague returned.

  ‘Darling,’ asked Bill, putting his hand on Adela’s shoulder, ‘do you still keep the housekeeping in your dressing-table drawer?’

  ‘Yes?’ answered Adela with fresh anxiety.

  ‘How much?’ Bill asked gently.

  ‘Almost three hundred pounds.’

  Bill sat down heavily. ‘It’s gone.’

  Adela let her tears flow.

  The broad-chested constable coughed uncomfortably. ‘How was she coping with the children?’ he asked, reaching for another biscuit. ‘To have two kids before you’re seventeen is pretty tough.’

  Bill raised his voice. ‘My daughter is a very good mother and, as a family, we have pulled together. My wife and I have given her every support. She loves Ella and Henry. There’s no way she would abandon them.’

  The police officers gave each other a sceptical glance.

  The vole said, ‘But she has.’

  Bill felt his anger rising. ‘No.’

  ‘Can you give us the name and address of the children’s father?’ asked his colleague.

  ‘No,’ Bill spat.

  Adela put a cool hand on his arm and said, ‘We never knew who the father was. Sennen wouldn’t tell us.’

  ‘I see,’ said Vole, jotting this down in his notebook. ‘So it’s possible there could be two different fathers?’

  ‘Look,’ said Bill, ‘my daughter—’ Adela looked at him sharply and he corrected himself, ‘Our daughter …’ He took Adela’s hand. ‘Is missing. We want you to find her.’

  The policemen left, promising to keep them in touch with any developments but repeated that most runaways turned up pretty quickly.

  The next three days passed in a turmoil of worry, grief, anger and disbelief. Rosemary’s parents came round and the four of them tried to think if there had been any clues to their daughters’ disappearan
ces.

  Henry and Ella were fractious and naughty. More than once either Ella or Bill would raise their voices at them which only brought more tears and tantrums.

  At the end of the week, the police began to take the idea that the girls may have come to harm, seriously.

  Photos of Sennen and Rosemary were given to the newspapers and the local television station.

  Witnesses came forward.

  A psychic said she had spoken to them in the spirit world and their bodies would be found in a disused tin mine.

  A taxi driver said he’d given them a lift to a party out in Newquay until the genuine passengers came forward.

  A midwife turned up at Plymouth police station to say she had given two girls answering the description, but not the names, a lift to the Plymouth Ferry Terminal. They were going to Roscoff, France to see their sick father.

  A man who had been working in the ticket office that night thought he might have seen them and that they had bought two tickets to Santander, Spain.

  Slowly the police put the runaways journey together and got in touch with the Spanish police.

  ‘They’ll be back before you know it,’ Tracey, the family liaison officer, told Bill and Ella. ‘With their tails between their legs.’

  Sennen woke up cold and stiff and with a hangover. Next to her Rosemary twitched in her sleep and murmured something unintelligible. ‘Hey,’ said Sennen shaking her. ‘What’s the time?’

  Rosemary turned away irritably. ‘Dunno.’

  Sennen gave up and crawled out of the makeshift bed in the basement apartment. She rubbed her face and gave herself a scratch. Last night the room had looked okay, but this morning she saw it for what it was. A shaft of sunshine from a narrow window illuminated the mattress on the floor and the worn blankets on top of it. She needed a pee. Stepping over her abandoned shoes she opened the bedroom door onto a corridor. She smelt coffee coming from a room at the end. ‘Ola!’ a cheery female voice with a Mancunian accent called from what Ella assumed was the kitchen.

  ‘Hi. Which door is the loo?’ asked Sennen.

  ‘The one with Che Guevara on it,’ the voice replied.

  The mouldy smelling bathroom housed a shower, a loo with a wobbly seat, and a small basin with a dripping tap.

  She had her pee then swilled her mouth with cold water and splashed her face. A speckled mirror told her she had a spot on her chin. ‘Shit.’ She gave it a squeeze, rinsed her face again, retreated and followed the smell of coffee.