by Liz Eeles
‘Good idea. I bet she knows.’
Katrina looked at the two of them and blinked. ‘Knows what?’
‘Just some information I need. Nothing important.’
‘Hmm.’ Katrina started twirling her dark curls around her middle finger. ‘So I assume there’s no Spanish husband yet then, Rosie?’
‘No, my boyfriend, Matt, is English actually.’
‘Your boyfriend?’
‘Yep, that’s right. I’ve got a boyfriend too.’
Nessa giggled into her vodka and lime.
‘Has he come over to Heaven’s Cove with you, to help you sort out your mum’s stuff?’
‘He had to work.’
Katrina’s sympathetic tilt of the head was accompanied by an exaggerated frown. ‘Really? That’s a shame he couldn’t come and support you.’
Liam wiped foam from his upper lip with the back of his hand. ‘He’s been ringing Rosie, begging her to go back to Spain.’
‘Wow, that’s so romantic,’ squeaked Nessa, before being silenced by a look from Katrina, a look that Rosie remembered from school – sharp, cold, intimidating.
‘Perhaps you’d better head back as quickly as you can, then, Rosie.’
‘I will before too long, don’t you worry. I miss the wonderful weather, and Heaven’s Cove seems pretty boring compared to southern Spain.’
Katrina looked sour, which was what Rosie was aiming for. But she regretted point-scoring when she spotted Nessa’s downcast face. Liam was staring into his pint.
‘Though there’s a lot I’ve missed about this place,’ she added, quickly.
‘What, exactly?’ asked Nessa. ‘The rain, the smell of fish and the total lack of privacy maybe?’
‘Of course, all that goes without saying. I’ve missed the view from Sorrell Head too, and the change in seasons, and people who’ve known me for a long time.’
She was only saying it to be polite and make Nessa feel better, but there was some truth in it. In Spain, surrounded by people who barely knew her, Rosie was a blank canvas on which she could project anything she wished. Over there, she was confident, bold, funny – sexy, according to Matt. In short, nothing like the timid Rosie of her school days. But sometimes she missed parts of who she was back then and what she had in Heaven’s Cove: security, permanence, family.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a smashing glass at the bar, and a huge cheer from everyone in the pub – everyone save for Belinda, whose floral dress was now drenched in spilt beer.
‘I think she might be leaving,’ shouted Liam, nodding at Belinda, who was gathering up her coat and bag.
Rosie stood up quickly, almost knocking over John’s pint and prompting another cheer from the people around her.
‘Sorry. I’m still as clumsy as ever. I really must have a word with Belinda, and then I’ll head back to Driftwood House because there’s a lot to do. But it was lovely seeing you all again.’
‘See you tomorrow,’ said Liam, eliciting a jaw drop from Katrina.
Rosie pushed her way through the throng and caught up with Belinda outside, as she was pushing her arms into the coat being held up by her husband.
‘Hello, Belinda and Jim, how are you? I hope you didn’t get too wet in there.’
Jim! Rosie had just realised something, but she shook her head. Just because Belinda’s husband had a name that began with J, that didn’t mean he was her mum’s secret love.
‘If Fred drank less and served his customers more efficiently, fewer accidents would happen,’ said Belinda tartly, mopping at her dress with the handkerchief produced from Jim’s pocket. ‘This dress is dry clean only.’ She stopped mopping and stared at Rosie. ‘And how are you doing in that big house all on your own? I hear you ordered supplies from Shelley’s. Paint and the like.’
‘I’m giving the place a bit of a facelift before I leave.’
‘For what reason?’ asked Belinda, waving her husband away when he tried to mop the beer that was dripping off the hem of her dress onto the cobbles.
Should she lie? Tell Belinda… what, though? However you looked at it, decorating a house that was earmarked for demolition was not the most sensible of actions. If she told Belinda the truth, it would be all round the village like a shot – but people would find out soon enough, anyway.
‘I’ve suggested to the Eppings that, rather than building a new hotel, Driftwood House would make a wonderful guesthouse. They’ve given me a few weeks to spruce the place up and show them its potential.’
Belinda gasped, her mouth gaping open. If Rosie had thrown off her clothes and danced naked around the quay, Belinda could not have looked more surprised.
‘You’ve been in touch with Charles and Cecilia Epping?’
‘I went to see them.’
Belinda’s jaw dropped further. ‘You went to see Charles and Cecilia Epping? Where?’
‘At their house on Dartmoor.’
‘Were you invited?’
‘No, I turned up on the off-chance that they were in.’
Belinda grabbed hold of the low wall next to her for support. ‘You went, uninvited and unannounced, to High Tor House and demanded that they turn Driftwood House into a guesthouse, rather than demolishing it and building a hotel?’
‘That’s right. Though “demanded” is a bit strong. I requested.’
‘And they did what you asked?’
‘Kind of. Cecilia is still keen on her hotel idea but Charles gave me a chance to show Driftwood House’s potential.’
‘Unbelievable!’ Belinda was now sitting on the wall, with silent Jim beside her. ‘I have been trying for weeks to elicit their financial support regarding the village hall which is in need of more repair. But all of my efforts – letters, emails, phone calls – have been ignored. Not that I was ever confident the Eppings would help. She’s rarely seen in the village and I don’t believe he’s set foot in Heaven’s Cove for years.’
‘Yet they’re still very influential.’
‘They’re rich and they own local land and property, including Driftwood House, as I’ve only recently discovered.’ She tutted as though her lack of knowledge about the house’s provenance was Rosie’s fault. ‘Mind you, I’ve heard from my source that they don’t seem as flash with the cash as they used to be. Though rich people can be quite tight, I’ve found. Do you think they’ll agree to your guesthouse plan?’
Not if Cecilia had her way. Rosie shrugged. ‘Maybe. Probably not, but it’s worth a try.’
‘Personally, I’d rather have Driftwood House up there on the cliff than a hotel. But the parish council, which I head, is far too busy to get involved in another project. Especially one that, no offence, has so little prospect of success.’ Lowering her voice, she leaned forward. ‘You didn’t hear it from me, but the Eppings are not always to be trusted. They have a very bad reputation around here. They show very little interest in the village and, as landlords, they’ve proved themselves to be hard-headed and intransigent.’ Belinda rubbed her finger across her mouth. ‘But my lips are sealed on the matter.’
Well, that was a first. Jim caught Rosie’s eye and the corner of his mouth twitched upwards.
‘But tell me,’ said Belinda, unsealing her lips pretty sharpish, ‘why are you bothering to try and save Driftwood House when you’ll be back in Spain before long? You’ve certainly made your dislike of Heaven’s Cove clear.’
‘I’ve realised that the house is full of memories and means a lot to me. And just because I choose to live somewhere else, that doesn’t mean I dislike the village.’
‘Hmm.’
Belinda looked unconvinced and Rosie suddenly felt ashamed. This close-knit community in a beautiful part of England meant the world to the people who lived here.
‘I suppose it’s that I don’t always feel a part of Heaven’s Cove, that’s all.’
Belinda’s sour expression softened as she moved closer and took hold of Rosie’s hands. A strong smell of lager wafted between them. ‘O
f course you’re a part of Heaven’s Cove, you silly girl. You’re one of us. Always have been.’
Rosie gulped, her eyes suddenly prickling with tears. ‘Thanks. I appreciate that.’
‘Yes, well.’ Belinda dropped Rosie’s hands and stepped away. ‘Jim and I had best be getting home so I can get out of this wet dress.’
‘Before you go,’ said Rosie, remembering why she’d followed Belinda outside in the first place. ‘Do you happen to know someone called Morag MacIntyre?’
‘Midwife Morag? Yes, of course. She lives in Callowfield, next to the grocery store, I think. She’s not a midwife now, of course. She must be well into her eighties. But she used to be…’ Belinda trailed off, her eyes narrowing. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘No particular reason. She was in a photo that I found at the house. Her name was on the back of the picture and I wasn’t sure who she was.’
‘Hmm.’ Belinda still looked far from convinced but she’d started shivering in the stiff breeze blowing off the sea, so made no fuss when Jim linked his arm through hers and led her off towards their cottage.
A midwife. That would explain why Morag was pictured with Rosie so soon after she was born. But why had her mother kept the photo in her box of secrets?
The breeze was strengthening, rustling through the leaves of the ash trees that flanked the pub, and scudding dark clouds across the navy sky. A smell of rain hung in the air, but Rosie walked to the quayside and sat on the cold stone, with her legs over the edge of the harbour wall.
A lone seagull, ghostly white, flew above her head while she drummed her heels against the stone and checked her phone. Matt hadn’t been in touch since their conversation this morning which meant he was still annoyed with her for not heading home immediately. She could call him now but, as it was ten thirty on a Saturday night in Málaga, he was probably in a bar and not in the mood for a chat.
Pushing her phone back into her bag, Rosie listened to the soft suck and whoosh of the waves and thought about her next move. The list of jobs to be done at Driftwood House was ridiculously long and time was running out. But she could spare a couple of hours tomorrow morning for a trip to Callowfield. And perhaps Morag could shed some light on the secrets her mother had taken to the grave.
CHAPTER 15
It was a very modest house, right next to a Spar store and opposite a meandering stream lined by trees in full leaf. But the small garden leading to Morag MacIntyre’s front door was pristine, with rows of pink and purple hyacinths.
Rosie pushed open the wooden gate and walked along the path, breathing in the sweet scent of the flowers. Their perfume was delicate, unlike the powerful smells of citrus and baked earth that she’d grown used to abroad. It was funny but she wasn’t missing those brasher scents at all.
Rosie rapped on the door with its gleaming brass knocker and waited. Midwife Morag appeared middle-aged and weighed down by life in the photo Rosie had found, so she wasn’t prepared for the sprightly white-haired woman who answered the door.
‘Hello, are you Mrs MacIntyre?’
‘Yes, that’s me. Can I help you?’
‘I hope so. My name’s Rosie Merchant and I live at Driftwood House in Heaven’s Cove.’
‘Driftwood House, up on the cliffs?’ There was the faintest hint of a Scottish accent.
‘That’s the one. I think you might have delivered me twenty-nine years ago.’
‘Rosie Merchant, you say.’ She hesitated and wrinkled her nose before her face broke into a huge beaming smile. ‘Rosie! After all this time. My, you’re all grown up.’
Before Rosie could reply, she was pulled into a hug, and it was so unexpected, so comforting, she relaxed and let herself be held for a few seconds.
‘How marvellous to see you after all these years,’ breathed Mrs MacIntyre in her ear. ‘I do so love meeting my babies. Come in, and please call me Morag. We’re both adults now.’
She released Rosie and beckoned for her to step inside, straight into a stuffy living room. A gas fire was pumping out heat in the corner, even though the day was overcast and mild.
‘Take a seat, won’t you, and I’ll get you a cup of tea.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs… Morag. I wasn’t sure that you’d remember me. I really am who I say I am. I brought my passport in case you need proof.’
‘Oh, I rarely forget a baby,’ said the elderly lady, gesturing at Rosie to put her passport away. ‘I remember your delivery well, and your mother too. How is she?’
‘I’m afraid she died recently.’
‘But that’s terrible news! She can’t have been very old.’
‘She had a stroke. It was very sudden.’
‘I’m very sorry to hear that. I moved away from Heaven’s Cove many years ago, so I’m not very up to date with village news.’ She pushed her gold-rimmed glasses further up her nose and gazed at Rosie, her brow furrowed. ‘So what brings you to my door so soon after the death of your poor mother? No, don’t answer that! Let me get you a cup of tea first and then we can chat.’
While Morag disappeared into the kitchen, Rosie took a proper look around the room. It was cluttered and cosy with a sofa, a squashy armchair, side tables covered in crocheted cloths, and china knick-knacks on every available surface. Not a speck of dust could be seen.
A small sideboard was covered in silver-framed photos of Morag in her younger days, holding a succession of tiny babies. She must have delivered them all. Was Rosie among them? She scanned the pictures but wasn’t sure she’d recognise herself anyway. All babies looked much the same to her.
‘Here you go, my dear,’ said Morag, walking back into the room carrying a tray. She placed it carefully on a table and gestured for Rosie to sit on the sofa, before taking a seat in the armchair opposite. ‘Tell me, do you still live at Driftwood House? It’s such an interesting house and in such a marvellous location.’
‘I’m staying at Driftwood House at the moment but I live abroad most of the time.’
‘How exciting.’ Morag poured a dash of milk into a china cup before adding tar-dark tea from a pretty teapot. ‘Do you take sugar?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘So why don’t you tell me why you’ve come to see me after all this time?’
Rosie took the cup, wondering where to start. She’d planned to move into this slowly, via a little chit-chat about the old days and Morag’s work as a midwife. But it seemed that the woman who delivered her preferred the direct approach.
Rosie took a deep breath. ‘Since Mum died, I’ve discovered that she hadn’t always been completely… truthful with me. I don’t mean that she lied, just that she didn’t always tell me everything. She kept secrets from me and I don’t understand why.’
‘You know, people often keep things secret for a good reason,’ said Morag, with a definite Scottish lilt.
‘I realise that. But now my mum’s no longer here, I need to make sense of what’s been going on.’
Morag slowly stirred sugar into her tea. ‘I can understand that. But how can I help you?’
‘I found an old photo, taken shortly after I was born, of you, Mum and me – your name was on the back of it. Mum had hidden the photo away with an old letter she’d received, and I wondered if you could shed any light on why she might have done that?’
‘What sort of letter are we talking about?’
‘A love letter.’
‘From your father?’
Rosie hesitated before shaking her head.
‘Can’t you ask the person who wrote the letter?’
‘It’s not properly signed so there’s no one I can ask apart from you.’
‘I see.’
A carriage clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly as Morag sipped her tea and Rosie waited. Morag seemed in no hurry to tell her anything.
After the fourth sip, Rosie asked gently: ‘Can you tell me anything about my birth? You probably don’t remember very much about it because you’ve delivered so many babies.’
Morag stopped sipping and stirred another lump of sugar into her tea.
‘Actually, I’ll never forget it! I received a call from your father in the middle of a fierce storm. Sofia’s waters had broken so I drove up that blessed cliff in the wind and rain because she wanted a home birth. I had to abandon my car in the mud halfway up and walk the rest of the way. I wasn’t sure I’d make it but I was determined, and far younger then, of course, so my legs worked properly.’ She chuckled quietly and massaged her knees. ‘Happy days.’
‘It sounds like quite a night.’
‘It was memorable.’
‘Were there any complications with my birth?’
‘I don’t think so. Not that I remember. You were a bonny baby.’
‘Was I premature?’
Morag’s hesitation was slight but it jarred with Rosie, whose nerve endings felt exposed. ‘That I don’t remember. Why do you ask?’
‘Mum told me years ago that I was a honeymoon baby and very small, so I assumed that I came early. She and Dad were married seven months before I was born.’
‘That must be right, then. Would you like a biscuit? I’ve got chocolate digestives here, or pink wafers. The wafers are my favourite.’
‘No, thank you.’
Morag was keeping something back. Rosie was sure of it, but what could she do? Thumbscrews weren’t allowed and she wasn’t a thumbscrews sort of person anyway. She was suddenly overwhelmed by a longing for everything to go back to the way it was, when her mum was alive and Rosie knew nothing about the secrets she’d kept.
Rosie rested her head in her hands for a few moments and, when she looked up, Morag was staring at her intently.
‘Sometimes it’s best to let things lie, especially after a bereavement when everything is up in the air. Couldn’t you speak to your father about this?’
‘Mum and Dad got divorced when I was a child and he died a few years ago. He’d moved away by then and I only saw him every now and again.’
‘Ah, I see. Don’t you have other family who might have known your mother well? I’m not sure I’m the best person to speak to about things that happened so long ago.’
‘There’s no one else.’
