by Fern Britton
Bill and Adela took in four art students and set up a new daily routine. Adela began to enjoy cooking the 8 a.m. breakfasts for seven and Bill started to shake off the malaise which had dogged him since Sennen’s disappearance. He began to lead stimulating conversations about art, politics and religion around their old kitchen table.
On wet days the students would have lessons in painting and drawing with Adela, or working clay by hand or on the wheel with Bill.
Once or twice a week there would be outings to Bodmin Moor, the cliffs around Trevay, or the beach of Shellsand Bay.
Laughter was again spontaneous in the house.
Henry did well in his GCSEs and was opting for Economics, Maths and Business Studies for his A Levels. In contrast, Ella excelled in English and her short stories were achieving some acclaim in the school magazine, but it was her painting that was her strength. From canvases of wild seas whipped by fierce winds, to small and delicate watercolours of field mice and wild flowers.
Lying in bed one night, Adela with Bill’s arm around her and her head on his chest, said, ‘I hope we’ve been good parents to Ella and Henry.’
Bill stroked her hair. ‘Better than with Sennen, you mean?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Perhaps we were too good to Sennen.’
‘I think of her every day.’
‘I know.’
‘I hope she’s happy.’
‘That’s all we can hope for.’
‘I’ve never stopped loving her.’
‘There was a time I thought I hated her, but now I can remember her with love.’
‘Do you think we’ll ever see her again?’
Bill inhaled deeply and Adela felt her head move against his ribs. ‘I really don’t know. But we have each other, Adela. And Henry and Ella. You’ve been so selfless with them. I was no help, was I.’
She pulled herself up and looked into his loving, familiar eyes. ‘Do you regret burning her photos?’
He nodded. ‘I was not in my right mind.’
‘I know. But we pulled together.’
‘Little did I know that the girl I fell in love with at harvest time would be so strong. It’s been hard for you.’
Adela kissed him softly. ‘Love at first sight for me.’
‘Foolish girl.’ He smiled at her.
‘That’s me.’
‘Don’t ever leave me, will you?’
‘No.’
He hugged her. ‘I love you Adela.’
‘I love you, Bill.’
Adela woke early. Bill was still sleeping so quietly she left him to make herself a cup of tea. She loved mornings like this. It was late September and the house was slumbering around her. She opened the back door and went out into the small courtyard to sit and drink her tea. The air was warm and fresh. She filled her lungs with it and leant back in her seat to feel the early sunshine on her face.
She thought about Bill. He had been so badly hurt when Sennen had left, and suffered so deeply. But now the Bill of old was coming back. She could see a future for them both now. Not the one they had imagined, but there was a future. They were still young, only in their fifties. Henry and Ella would be leaving home in a few years and then the world was their oyster. She’d always been keen on taking a cruise. Bill laughed at her. ‘How very middle class of you, darling.’
But she knew that if she asked him to join her, he’d come like a shot.
Bill wanted to keep chickens. She had always said no, but, why not? Life was for grabbing with both hands. Sennen had done it. Why not them?
She finished her tea and went back into the kitchen to get breakfast started. The smell of coffee and sausages was always enough to get everyone out of bed and around her table. Bill was the only one absent.
‘Ella, darling,’ said Adela, ‘go and get Poppa, would you?’
‘I’ll go,’ said Henry, ‘I’ve forgotten my phone anyway.’
When he returned a few minutes later, ashen and alone, Adela knew.
She put the milk jug she was carrying down and flew past Henry and up the stairs.
Bill was lying on his side as he always did. He was pale, but still warm to her touch. She stroked his forehead and kissed his lips before lovingly closing his sightless eyes.
PART TWO
16
Pendruggan, 2018
Ella was a cat on hot bricks. She needed to spend the day cleaning Marguerite Cottage so she shooed the dogs out into the garden and sent Adam and Kit out to collect Henry from Bodmin Parkway station.
‘Don’t come back too early. Go for a pint or something. Supper will be ready at eight.’
Kit pulled her to him. ‘Darling, the house looks great. You look great. Your mother will love all of it – and if she doesn’t, she’s not worth a jot.’
Ella swatted him away. ‘Go.’
When they had gone, Ella started on the bathroom. She had no idea whether her mother would want to stay the night, but she would probably need the loo in any event, and she’d better have the spare bed made up in case. In the end they had decided that Marguerite Cottage would be the best place for the meeting.
When upstairs was as she wanted it, she went downstairs. The lounge was dusted and vacuumed, the small cloakroom scrubbed, and the kitchen floor, sink and cupboards wiped and polished.
The last job was to empty the bin. She gave it a quick spritz of air freshener before putting a new liner inside it.
Done.
‘Right, Ella,’ she said pulling off her apron, ‘you can have a coffee.’ She opened the cupboard above the kettle and pulled out a jar of instant. It was empty. She swore under her breath and took a quick inventory of anything else she might need to buy. Loo paper, tissues (there were bound to be tears) butter, milk, tea bags and bread (in case her mum stayed for breakfast).
She had made a quiche and a chilli con carne that were awaiting in the fridge, and she had plenty of beer and wine.
‘Right, if I’ve forgotten anything, it’s tough,’ she said to Terry and Celia who had been allowed back into the house and were lolling in their beds, and set off for the village shop.
Queenie was behind the counter as always, reading the words on a packet of nicotine gum with an unlit cigarette in her mouth. She looked up as Ella came through the door, ringing the little bell above it.
‘Ella, duck.’ She coughed. ‘Do you think this is any good? It says chewing it will help me cope with the withdrawal of not having me cigarettes.’
‘Do you want to stop smoking?’
‘No. I love me fags.’ Queenie waved her cigarette as proof.
‘So why are you looking at the gum?’
‘I dunno. Maybe I should think about me health in the long term.’
‘How old are you, Queenie?’
‘Oh, you cheeky mare.’ Queenie pushed her smeary, pebble-thick glasses up her nose. ‘I’m as old as me tongue and a little bit older than my teeth.’
Ella smiled. ‘How long have you been smoking?’
‘About a hundred years.’ Queenie’s wheezy laugh brought on a coughing fit.
‘Well,’ said Ella, ‘it’s up to you, but after a hundred years it’s not going to make any difference now.’
Queenie took her hanky from her sleeve and wiped her eyes. ‘That’s what I thought. Now, how can I help you, duck?’
Ella passed her scribbled list to Queenie who squinted at it and began collecting the bits together. ‘’ave a look at them magazines while I do this. That celeb, the one with the big bum, ’as got a lovely new ’airdo. It would suit you with all them lovely red curls you got.’
‘I haven’t got time at the moment. My mum is coming to see Henry and me tomorrow.’
Queenie, searching the grocery shelf, snapped her head round, on the alert for gossip. ‘Oh yes?’ she said. ‘Your mum that left you and Henry when you was nippers? The local papers had her picture on the front pages for weeks.’
‘Yes,’ Ella replied, feeling uncomfortable.
; ‘Oh my gawd, you’ll be feeling a bit mixed, I expect?’
‘Yes.’ Ella scratched her cheek and tried to swallow down the sudden lump in her throat. ‘Mixed is the right word.’
The bell on the shop door rang again. It was Simon, the vicar.
‘Hello, Ella, Queenie,’ he said jovially. ‘Lovely day today.’
‘Hmm,’ said Queenie putting her head to her shoulder and nudging it towards Ella in a secret signal to Simon. ‘Ella’s got quite a lot on her mind, though.’
‘Oh really?’ asked Simon, not being able to fathom Queenie’s coded signals. ‘Why’s that?’
‘My long-lost mum is coming to see Henry and me tomorrow for the first time in more than twenty years.’
Simon looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
Ella shook her head slowly and tried to smile, but the waiting tears beat her to it. Simon took a clean cotton handkerchief from his pocket and, as he passed it to her, pulled up one of the old armchairs that Queenie had scattered around for just this sort of emergency. ‘Sit down,’ he said.
Ella sat and apologised. ‘I’m so sorry. I’m fine. I’m just being silly.’
‘I’ll make you a cuppa. You stay there,’ ordered Queenie.
Simon dragged another chair over and sat down next to Ella. ‘I remember how Penny was when her mother – well, her stepmother – died. It was something she couldn’t possibly prepare for.’
‘I’m so nervous.’
‘Of course you are.’
‘Will she like me?’
‘She jolly well should do. You are a daughter to be proud of.’
‘But Henry is so angry with her and I’m worried he’s going say something awful that will make her go away again.’
‘Where are you meeting her?’
‘At Marguerite Cottage.’
Simon thought for a moment. ‘Why not use the vicarage? Penny and I can be there, not to interfere, but to be on hand if things get a bit … emotional?’
Ella wiped her eyes. ‘Oh, Simon, you are so kind.’ Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘But I couldn’t do that to you.’
‘But wouldn’t you like to? It would mean a neutral space.’
She nodded. ‘Yes. It would be lovely.’
He patted her hand. ‘Consider it done. What time is she arriving?’
‘We don’t know yet. Her solicitor is ringing in the morning.’
‘Well, the vicarage will be ready for you at any time. It is yours for the day and Penny and I will be right there for you.’
Sennen’s flight from India had arrived at Heathrow at the same time as Ella left Queenie’s shop, feeling a lot better than she had and excited to tell Henry that the meeting would be at the vicarage.
Sennen unbuckled her belt and looked out into grey drizzle. Nervousness gripped her. Why was she doing this? She should be back home in India with Kafir, her husband. But he’d been so angry with her when she had had to tell him about Henry and Ella.
‘How could you deny the existence of your own children? To me? You are someone I don’t know any more. What else do you have in your box of lies?’
He had told her to leave their home. To go back to Cornwall. To apologise and make peace with her children. Only then would he consider the future of their marriage.
He had frightened her with his appraisal of her. He was a good man. A moral man. What sort of woman was she? For years she had managed to bury the past. She had never forgotten a birthday or Christmas, always sending a card, but she had given neither her parents or Ella and Henry an address with which to find her. And now her parents were dead and her children had agreed to see her. But they must hate her.
In the terminal she handed her passport to the Border Control guard. ‘Welcome home at long last, Mrs Tallon-Kaur,’ he said, smiling.
Guiltily, she held her hand out for the passport. ‘Thank you. Yes. It’s been a long time.’ And scurried through to baggage reclaim and customs before exiting the building and taking her first breaths of British air for so many years. After a moment or two she steadied herself and found the car hire office.
The M4 was wide and clean and well-organised, nothing like the madness of India’s roads. The rental car smelt new and was easy to drive. She had never driven on the left before, but after a few miles her confidence grew. At Bristol she stopped for a coffee and the loo, then pressed on to Cornwall and arrived in Trevay in the late afternoon and drove to her solicitors, Penhaligon and Palmer. Deborah Palmer, young and new to the family firm, welcomed her into the office with a handshake. ‘We meet at last,’ she said, smiling.
‘Yes. At last.’
Sennen estimated Deborah to be in her late twenties, petite in her smart suit and with an air of complete professionalism.
Sennen looked around her. The offices were old and crooked, smelling of dry rot. Built at the top of Trevay, the building was surrounded by new-build homes and a large supermarket with a petrol station. Sennen remembered when it had all been open fields where ponies had been kept. She would often walk up to feed them hay and Polos during the school holidays.
Deborah was opening a file on her desk. ‘How long is it since you’ve been back?’
‘A very long time,’ Sennen said wistfully. ‘A lifetime. It’s changed a bit.’
Deborah looked up and smiled. ‘I’m sure it has, but I think the old town is recognisable. I’ve booked you into the Starfish hotel, near the harbour. Do you know it?’
Sennen’s mind went straight to the horrible morning that she had walked into that hotel with Henry in her arms, ready to be with Ali for the rest of her life. The look of dismissal on the receptionist’s face, the humiliation. She squeezed her eyes tight, the shame burning her.
‘Yes. I know it.’
‘The best on this coast.’ Deborah flicked through the file. ‘I’ve just had a phone call from your daughter, Ella.’
‘Yes?’ Sennen was anxious. Had Ella decided not to see her after all?
‘They have chosen the vicarage in Pendruggan as your meeting place.’
‘Why?’
‘I think that she and Henry – and I rather agree with them – believe that neutral ground, No-man’s land, if you like, would be sensible.’
‘Are they very religious?’
Deborah smiled. ‘The vicar, Simon Canter, and his wife Penny are friends of theirs. In fact, Ella was nanny to their daughter, Jenna. I think she does still do the occasional day for them.’
‘That’s nice.’ Sennen’s mind was racing. There was so much she didn’t know. ‘And Henry?’
‘He works in London, something to do with property. A commercial surveyor as I recall.’
‘Golly. That sounds grand. He must work very hard.’
‘He has come down on the train today. Ella suggests that tomorrow’s meeting is at eleven o’clock. How does that suit? You may be tired after your journey and want to start later?’
‘No, that will be very good. Thank you.’
‘Right, I shall pick you up from the Starfish at about ten thirty.’ Deborah closed the folder and stood up. ‘Here’s some reading for you.’ She handed the folder over. ‘Just to get you up to speed. Nothing too difficult. Just some background and legal stuff that I shall be asking you to sign.’
Sennen took it. ‘Thank you.’ She collected her coat from the back of her chair and then said, ‘I’d rather not stay at the Starfish if that’s okay?’
‘Of course. Would you like me to book somewhere else?’
‘I’ll find a B and B. I’d like to find my feet a bit. I’ll phone you to let you know where I am.’
She followed her nose to the main road into Trevay. It was all so familiar and yet so dreamlike. Had she really lived here? Left here?
She turned onto the hill that would take her down to the pretty little fishing town and almost gasped as the beauty of the harbour and the houses that lay spread out beneath her. Her memories had faded the sheer beauty of the place. How could she have f
orgotten?
Her hands shook as she changed gear, slowing down to take it all in. Instinct took over and she guided the car to White Water, her parents’ home. Which was just the same although much smarter. It had a conservatory, now, and pretty shutters at the windows. She inched past slowly. The front door was a different colour but there was the downstairs loo window she’d climbed out of and the gate she’d walked through as she made her escape. There was a sign on the wall. White Water Bed and Breakfast. Vacancies.
It took a split second for her to make her mind up. She was coming home.
The landlady came to the door, wiping her mouth of crumbs. ‘Do excuse me. I’m just making a batch of scones for tea tomorrow and I can never resist one while they’re warm! Can I help you?’
‘Hello,’ said Sennen shakily, ‘I see you have a vacancy.’
‘For tonight?’
‘Yes.’
The landlady, a slender woman in her forties, wearing a simple dress and with her hair piled on the top of her head with tendrils escaping attractively, opened the door wide. ‘Come in.’
Sennen stepped over the threshold and looked around. In her parents’ day the house had been full of Bill’s pots, large and small, some gathering dust, others filled with dried grasses or teasels.
The walls had been filled with Adela’s large canvases of nudes or swimmers or both, which burst with exuberant colour and movement.
In their place now were subtle grey painted walls and stark window sills. It was lovely. But it wasn’t her home.
‘I’m Amy and my husband, John, is usually here, but he’s out on the boat. Come into the lounge and I’ll get you settled. Would you like a drink? Glass of wine?’
‘That would be lovely,’ said Sennen, following her into the room where her parents had sat in their old armchairs discussing art, or politics or listening to the radio. Adela had painted the walls sunset orange and on the old table there had always been bowls of fat chrysanthemum, daffodils or sweet peas depending on the season.
The room was now a shrine to grey in all its hues. The floor tiles were graphite, the walls a light slate, the ceiling a shade of mist and the linen curtains … well, Sennen could only describe them as Drizzle.
