Hardly more than a tacker she’d been in those days, helping her mum, earning a bit of pocket money. A few years later, when her mum was ill, she’d taken over some of her work. They’d been very kind to her, Lady T and the Admiral. Way back then she’d called Jack’s parents Commander and Mrs Tremayne, and it wasn’t until after Jack died that the formality was dropped. A kind of friendship was forged between the two younger women during those weeks that Margaret spent here alone with Lady T and the Admiral whilst Ned was at sea, and later at the MOD in London.
Rose remembers those earlier days: Ned and Margaret coming for a week’s leave, bringing Jack. Jamie and Hugo travelling by train from their posh school upcountry. As she scrubs and cleans, Rose smiles as she thinks about Jack: only a few months younger than she was but years older in worldly experience and confidence. Jack-the-Lad, she called him. Oh, how she’d loved him; how she’d wept for him, privately, when he was killed out there in the Falklands. She missed him, missed his laughter and his teasing, and his hands and his lips. She still relives those evenings, long past, down on the beach in the shadow of the rocks and up on the cliffs in the shelter of an ancient quarry.
‘Your mum and dad’d kill us if they knew,’ she’d say, clinging to him.
‘My mum and dad’ll never find out,’ he’d answer. ‘And, anyway, Dad …’ and then he’d fallen silent, kissing her into willing compliance.
She knew what he meant, though. Jack’s father was always polite and kind to her, but she could tell that he was the kind of man who loved women. She saw it when the Tremaynes had their friends visiting: that sparkle, the temptation to flirt just a little bit. That’s where Jack got it from, she reckoned. He was so easy in his skin; ready for a joke and a laugh.
His cousins were like him, Hugo and Jamie, but they were several years younger and Jack was their hero. They followed his lead, calling her ‘Petal’, ‘Blossom’, ‘Flower’. ‘Oh, watch out! Our Rose is in a thorny mood today,’ they’d cry. It’s good to have Hugo back – so much shared past; so many memories – though it took a while for Jack’s charisma to lose some of its power before she could really appreciate Hugo’s qualities.
Rose takes down the pretty plates from the dresser shelves, the mugs from the hooks, preparing to dust and polish. Presently she’ll make coffee and take some up to Ned. She knows how much he mourns Margaret and how much he still misses Jack. They came on leave here after Jack was killed, and Margaret stayed on when Ned went back to sea. Lady T and the Admiral took it all so bravely.
‘You’d never believe they were grieving,’ Rose said to her old dad, who was a fisherman.
‘That’s the stiff upper lip we keep hearing about, maid,’ he told her. ‘But they’re a family of sailors and they know, just like the rest of us, that the sea don’t have no favourites.’
Ned grieved, though. She’d see the tears start up in his eyes when Jack’s name was mentioned, see him standing at the open door of his son’s bedroom, and she wished she could give him a hug and tell him how much she missed Jack, too, but she knew that, for all Ned’s friendliness and kindness towards her, he would think it inappropriate. Apart from the generational difference, and his military background, she was Rose Pengelly: fisherman’s daughter, cleaner. She understood that. Her old dad had the same kind of pride.
Back then, Rose remembers, after their son’s death, Margaret remained strong and withdrawn and, watching Ned’s pain, Rose wondered how he assuaged his grief, though she could make a good guess. And now he’s going through it all again since Margaret died. Unexpectedly Rose thinks of the words of the old Burial service: ‘Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts …’
But Rose knows the secrets of this household, secrets nobody else knows, and she smiles to herself.
‘Never trust nobody,’ she tells the dogs, and goes to fetch the vacuum cleaner.
The shopping is done and packed away into the car, and Hugo glances at his watch. Plenty of time for coffee and a moment to regroup in Relish. He strides away into the town, across Foundry Court towards the café. Already, though it is still early in the year, people are sitting at the tables outside, the cherry trees are blossoming, the sun is shining.
With a sense of well-being he goes inside, waving to the girls at the counter, pausing to check out the deli, before ordering a flat white and sitting at one of the round, wooden-slatted tables. He thinks about his morning, about the rest of the day, but his attention is taken by a group of young women who sweep in, pushing buggies, toddlers at heel, laughing together. Hugo smiles at their liveliness, their energy, and one small boy particularly engages his attention. He has soft, very dark hair and dark brown eyes, and he glances at Hugo with a bright, intelligent look, which Hugo seems in some strange way to recognize. Even as he tries to define his reaction, one of the young women looks around, calls to the child, and smiles at Hugo almost apologetically.
This time the shock is much greater. Hugo’s expression is so unguarded that she looks surprised, raises her eyebrows questioningly as if she is wondering if she has met him but can’t remember him.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Hugo says at once. ‘Just for a moment I thought you were someone I knew. Forgive me for staring at you.’
She laughs and he thinks how pretty she is with her long red-brown hair, and how strong the resemblance to the girl he remembers so clearly.
‘Emilia,’ he says, unable to help himself. ‘She was called Emilia with an E. Sorry. This is crazy. You must think I’m out of my mind.’ He laughs too. ‘Honestly. This is not a pick-up line.’
‘But that’s seriously weird,’ she says, sobering a little. ‘My mum’s called Emilia with an E. We’re supposed to be very alike.’
He shakes his head in disbelief at this coincidence. ‘I knew an Emilia when I was at university,’ he says. His heart is beating fast now. ‘In Bristol. Her mother was performing in a Shakespearean season at the Old Vic and Emilia was with her.’
‘Really?’ The girl looks surprised and pleased. ‘Wow. That’s so amazing. They often travelled together when Granny was doing rep. What’s your name?’
Hugo feels anxious; there are so many complications here.
‘I’m Hugo,’ he says lightly. It seems natural to stand up, to hold out his hand and she takes it quickly, firmly, and shakes it.
‘I must tell her,’ she says. ‘I’m Lucy Weston.’ The small boy rushes up again, stares curiously at Hugo, studying him with his head on one side, then dashes away again. ‘And that’s Daniel,’ she says.
‘Are you on holiday?’ Hugo asks, not wanting the conversation to finish just yet.
‘I am at the moment but soon we shall be locals. Tom – that’s my husband – Tom and I have bought a cottage in Rock.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘I know. Isn’t it just the most amazing thing? A holiday cottage in Rock? I still can’t believe it. We’re over from Geneva getting stuff moved in.’ She laughs and shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry if I seem a bit hyper. It must sound as if I’m crazy or something but it’s just so exciting I keep telling everyone I meet.’
Hugo smiles at her, touched by her enthusiasm, reminded of Emilia’s natural open friendliness with complete strangers.
‘That’s wonderful,’ he says.
‘And what about you?’ Lucy asks.
‘Oh, I’m a local,’ he answers. ‘We’re practically neighbours. Well, sort of. Across the cliffs in Port Quin Bay.’
At this moment a member of her party calls to her, a child falls over and begins to cry, and she makes a face at Hugo, waves her hand.
‘I’ll tell Mum. Maybe see you around?’ And she hurries back to her friends.
He sits down, staring after her whilst other images jostle in his memory: Emilia, with her laughter, her passion for music – all music, any music – her love of dance. How she bewitched him. She was always surrounded by men but she liked to be with him. His knowledge and love of classical music impressed her. He took her to concerts at Colston Hall: to lunchtime recitals give
n by some of the university students. It was at one of these that she heard Schumann’s ‘Widmung’ played as an encore.
‘What was that?’ she whispered, deeply moved, leaning close to him under the cover of the applause. Her hair brushed his cheek and he longed to put an arm around her; to hold her close.
‘It’s the “Widmung”,’ he answered. ‘Robert Schumann. Liszt’s arrangement.’
‘Can you play it?’
‘I’m probably not up to the Liszt. I can play Clara Schumann’s arrangement.’
‘It’s wonderful. Could you learn it? Just for me?’
He laughed, then. ‘That’s a very big ask.’
‘But you could try?’ she insisted.
‘I could try.’
She slipped an arm around his neck and lightly kissed his cheek, and he had to shut his eyes and clench his fists to prevent himself from touching her. He prayed that the ‘Widmung’ might be the magic that would bring them closer together. He found a recording of it and invited Emilia to come to his room to hear it. He set the scene: opened a bottle of white wine, arranged a plate of smoked salmon sandwiches. Knowing Emilia’s predilection for sitting on the floor, he put some cushions beside the bookcase. As usual she seemed pleased to see him, giving him a hug, accepting a glass of wine and subsiding to sit cross-legged on the cushions. He put the record on, picked up his own glass. Her face changed as the ‘Widmung’ began – she seemed transfixed by it – and he watched her, holding his breath. And then the door opened and his cousin Jamie walked in.
Even now, thirty-five years later, Hugo can remember the expression of ludicrous dismay on Jamie’s face as he took in the intimate scene, and the way that Emilia got to her feet in one smooth, quick movement as she stared at the newcomer. There was a moment of utter silence and at that precise moment Hugo knew, quite surely, that all his hopes were vanquished. The atmosphere changed, re-formed, introductions were made and Jamie took a glass of wine.
‘I’m really sorry, mate,’ he said regretfully afterwards to Hugo. ‘I should have just walked straight out again.’
Hugo remembers how he gave an angry, resigned snort of laughter.
‘It wouldn’t have made any difference,’ he said bitterly.
But, oh, how hard it was to watch Jamie and Emilia falling in love. They were both so beautiful, so charismatic, so perfectly matched. How hard to hear about the parties and the summer balls and the fun they shared whilst Jamie was first at Cranwell and then at RAF Church Fenton. To everyone’s surprise he failed his Fast Jet course, but he did the Truckie course, graduated to RAF Finningley and got his Wings. He and Emilia got married the year after Jack was killed in the Falklands and it was whilst Jamie was a Hercules captain at RAF Lyneham, six years later, that Emilia left him.
Hugo sits staring at nothing in particular, remembering his jealousy and anger during those early months of their courtship – and how he felt slightly vindicated when the relationship broke up: they’d both lost her. Fragments of conversation with Jamie occur to him: ‘She was bored stiff most of the time.’ ‘She didn’t really connect with the other wives.’ ‘She should have found a job but she spent too much time going back to see her actor friends in London.’ And, tellingly, bitterly: ‘Emilia never wanted children.’
Hugo frowns, thinking of Lucy, and her small dark-haired son. Abruptly he swallows the last of his coffee, gets to his feet and goes out. Lucy is sitting at one of the tables with her friends, Daniel asleep in a buggy beside her, and she lifts a hand to him. He smiles at her and walks quickly away, back to the car.
Lucy watches him go, then turns to smile at one of the other mothers.
‘Who’s that?’ her friend asks. ‘Rather dishy.’
Lucy shrugs. ‘Apparently he met my mum when he was at uni. Weird or what? Seemed rather nice, actually. Thought I looked just like her.’
But the friend, distracted by her baby, who begins to cry, is not particularly interested in Lucy’s mum, and Lucy relaxes and thinks how odd it was that the man – Hugo, wasn’t it? – should see the likeness. Soon, though, her thoughts drift back to the tile-hung cottage with pointed eaves on the village street in Rock, looking across the estuary to Padstow. The cottage is small and the pretty garden is tiny but, hey, who cares with all this – the moors, the beaches, the cliffs – on its doorstep? The mortgage is huge, of course, but Tom’s bonus, combined with Mum’s generous contribution when she sold the house and moved back into Granny’s flat, was enough for the deposit. And, after all, thinks Lucy, Mum can use the cottage whenever she likes while we’re in Geneva. She can bring her chums down once it’s all been done up.
The owner was a tough cookie; not prepared to negotiate. The cottage had been in her family for years, apparently, but she was taking up a job in an investment bank in New York and just wanted to be rid of it – but at a top price – and since there was plenty of competition they didn’t dare to dither. Getting a cottage in Rock is the most amazing thing ever, and they’ve reconnected with some friends whose parents live in Polzeath.
Lucy sighs with contentment. She’s having the best time: making plans, choosing furniture.
‘Just don’t go mad,’ warns Tom.
The crucial thing is the new kitchen, which she is arranging to be fitted. She has to go back to Geneva soon but Mum will be coming down to supervise, bless her. On an impulse, Lucy takes out her phone and rings her.
‘Hi, Mum,’ she says. ‘Just sitting in the sun here, outside a café in Wadebridge. You OK?’
They chat for a while, make plans, and it’s only after the call that Lucy remembers that she’s forgotten to tell her mother about her old friend Hugo. Dan wakes, struggles to sit up, and she rummages in her bag for juice and forgets about the encounter.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘SO I THOUGHT I’d come down for the weekend,’ Adam is saying. ‘Have you got a problem with that, Doss? It would be good to have a catch-up. Perhaps see Clem and Jakey and Tilly. I know weekends aren’t necessarily a good time for Clem with Sunday services and all that, and you’re probably rushed off your feet with work and social engagements …’
Briefly, Dossie wonders if her instinctive wary reaction to his familiar, slightly negative approach is more her problem than his. Perhaps her brother genuinely feels, even now, that he might not be welcome here: that those past arguments and rows have not been forgotten – or forgiven.
‘It would be great,’ she answers, unable to thrust away the guilt she feels that she owns The Court whilst he got nothing. ‘Will you drive down or come by train?’
‘Are you kidding?’ he asks. ‘You mean, seriously, I might use public transport?’
‘It’s not that bad,’ she answers, amused.
‘As long as it’s not high tide at Dawlish,’ he answers, ‘or there are the wrong sort of leaves on the track.’
She gives an involuntary choke of laughter. He can often make her laugh, more so, in fact, in these last few months since Mo and Pa died. He’s becoming a tad less stressed, more open. As they fix the time that he’ll arrive, say their goodbyes, Dossie wonders how tough it must have been for him: sent back to England to prep school at eight years old, coming home at regular intervals to a different house in a new country, whilst his parents travelled with Pa’s job. Adam lives with his life in his pockets. He wears jackets with a multitude of them so the things most important to him can be zipped safely away, so that he can’t lose them, a habit acquired from travelling as a boy with British Airways aunties. Pa used to say that the relationship with his son went wrong when they came home and he was no longer someone Adam could brag about; that he preferred his parents living in exciting foreign countries than having them in Cornwall running a bed-and-breakfast establishment. But Dossie can quite understand that it wouldn’t have been easy for Adam to invite teenage public school boys, who were used to being taken to Gstaad or the Caribbean for their holidays, to come to stay at a B and B in Cornwall. She knows that Adam was not happy at boarding school. He
was neither academic nor good at sports. He was a cool, quiet boy. They were never particularly close, even in those early years of her marriage with Mike. Adam was still at university then and the six years between them no longer seemed to matter, but to her surprise Mike understood Adam.
‘The poor old fellow’s in a bit of a mess,’ he said. ‘He hasn’t found out where he fits in yet. He’s a very private kind of guy. Life’s not going to be easy for him, Doss, so cut him some slack.’
Mike took Adam motor-racing, out in his speedboat, introduced him to his friends. It was through one of these friends that Adam was offered his job at the big London country property agency. Clients liked him; he learned fast about properties and estates – and then he met Maryanne.
How happy they all were when he told them that he was marrying this bubbly, extrovert girl. How they hoped that she would unlock this self-contained, unemotional man, warm him into life. It seemed, instead, that Adam’s inability to connect chilled even Maryanne’s vitality. The marriage didn’t last and he never remarried, despite several relationships.
Dossie wanders into the kitchen, stares at her notice board, but she isn’t really seeing her work schedule. She’s thinking of the weekend ahead and how she can continue to forge a positive relationship with her brother. Perhaps, after all, it might be simplest to sell the house, split the proceeds between them, and hope that they might start again. She wishes she had someone to talk to – Hugo, perhaps – but it seems disloyal to discuss her brother and her family with someone she hardly knows. Maybe she could invite Hugo and Ned and Prune to lunch, or supper whilst Adam is with her; surely there could be no harm in that? That way they would come to know her brother and then, at some later date, it might be possible to talk her anxieties through with them.
Homecomings Page 4
