Homecomings

by Marcia Willett

  They part, Adam heading off towards Lemon Street while Jamie turns and walks back up the street, collapsible walking stick tapping the ground in that efficient cadence that he has developed since he started using it. At the estate agents on the corner of High Cross he stands quietly, leaning on the stick, reading the property descriptions. There are houses, cottages, apartments, all across the south-west of Cornwall; in the Roseland peninsula, Helston, Falmouth, St Mawes.

  But what is it he is really looking for? Unquestionably he knows he is ready to move, to put the air force and his former life behind him. To run away? The thought is uncomfortable. Say rather to put distance between him and the constant reminders of the life he used to live. But why, then, buy a property on the south Cornish coast? Surely his place is in the wild north of the county, within striking distance of Hugo, Ned, The Chough … Dossie? He suppresses a grin: steady boy, early days.

  What then has drawn him to Truro? He turns and looks up at the cathedral, towering over him like a cliff, and he walks west, struck by the contrast between the stark, concrete, oppressive ugliness of the BHS store on his left and the mellow, pale, almost white-gold stone of the building on his right. He pauses in the west square and stares back at the towering face with its twin towers soaring above him. So much smaller than Wells, he thinks, but so extraordinary in its ambition. Now, unthinkingly, he steps forward to the left-hand door and enters into the quiet. A few people are moving around the building, gazing at the stained glass or craning their necks to take in the immense space under the vaulted ceiling. Sunlight spears down from the south windows so that he can trace the beams in the dust motes that rise and fall at the whim of unfelt air currents. Jamie is drawn forward to the Quire, to the Willis Organ, one of the greatest instruments in the world. As he approaches, out of long habit, he bows his head to the cross on the high altar and then stands looking at the ornate wooden pews, which he had once occupied. How many years ago was it when he and Hugo came here from Wells to sing choral evensong, accompanied by that organ?

  He can almost see them, those half-forgotten faces of boys long grown up. It was never easy, being a chorister; so why does he remember it with such fondness? And what is it about cathedrals?

  Is it because I was happy then? thinks Jamie. Was life really that simple; uncomplicated, untroubled by thoughts of the far future?

  The thought is poisonous, unhelpful, dangerous. Abruptly he turns and walks briskly away down the nave, out through the west doors and into the pedestrian precinct. The weather has changed; clouds shield the cathedral from the sun. He finds little to spark his interest as he circles through the bustling shopping centre. The familiar, uninspiring shops that are replicated in every high street of every large town and city leave him longing for the quirky individuality of Cathedral Lane. He begins to walk back towards his starting point. The crowds, the lack of horizon, the cluttered sight-lines, the narrow streets, all combine to destabilize him. He can feel the onset of the dizziness, the increasing unsteadiness of the pavement. He moves slower now, keeping his head still, avoiding looking into the shop windows to his left and right as he reaches, and turns into, Cathedral Lane. The Place is quite busy and he is vastly relieved to find a corner table where he can settle. Out of habit he folds his stick and puts it out of the way in his overcoat pocket, as if he were removing his disability from view. He orders a baguette because he knows he must eat, and an Americano, then he leans back with eyes half closed to reduce the visual distractions and to allow the impending storm to pass. He can rest here, recover, replenish his energy, while he waits for Adam.

  His meal arrives and he eats slowly, keeping his head still, as far as possible. He takes his time, relieved that the dizziness is receding and that the worst is past. He’s nearly finished when the door opens and he looks up, checking to see if it is Adam. It’s a woman, about his own age, wearing jeans and a loose shirt under a suede jacket. Her reddish-brown hair is cut in a short bob and she’s attractive, slightly boho, and somehow familiar. He stares at her, frowning slightly, and, as her glance meets his, her eyes fly wide open and she claps her hand over her mouth. In that moment he recognizes her and as she approaches his table he rises automatically to his feet, as if he is pulled up by strings.

  ‘My God,’ she’s saying, beaming now. ‘How amazing. Oh. I can’t believe it.’

  He stares at her. ‘Ems?’ he asks, and he realizes that the really odd thing is that she isn’t truly surprised. Pleased, yes, but it’s as if she’s half expecting to see him.

  ‘Yes,’ she’s answering. ‘It’s really me. Hello, Jamie.’

  They stand staring at each other until he pulls himself together, struggling with several different reactions that he always associates with her: love, anger, resentment, jealousy. He loved her, trusted her, and she walked out on him, giving no real reason except foolish muddled excuses that made no sense – apart from the fact that she’d met Nigel Kent and wanted to be with him.

  Quickly she slides into the chair beside him and makes a gesture that pleads with him to sit down. Her expression has changed and he knows that she’s seen his reaction and understands that this is not going to be a happy reunion.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Honestly, I’m really sorry, Jamie …’ and he’s not certain if she’s apologizing for dumping him way back or for the shock this meeting has caused.

  He sits down, too, pushing the plate with the remains of his baguette to one side. He can think of nothing to say that isn’t banal. It’s totally impossible to greet her as some old friend, which it seemed that she was quite prepared to do right in that first moment. At the same time he is acutely aware of his situation, of the danger that the maelstrom will return. Please God, he prays, not now, not in front of her. He fumbles for words.

  ‘Are you in Cornwall on holiday?’

  She shakes her head but then nods. ‘Sort of.’

  It seems as if she’s trying to decide on what she is going to say, mentally trying out various plausible reasons to explain her presence in Truro, and suddenly he knows that she is no more in command than he is. He slowly and carefully leans back in his chair and picks up his coffee cup, watching her; waiting.

  ‘The thing is,’ she says, and hesitates, and then hurries on. ‘Actually, I’m staying at a cottage in Rock.’

  He raises his eyebrows: that’s very close to home. ‘In Rock?’

  ‘Yes.’ Once again she seems to be trying out phrases in her head, which puzzles him. But he waits. ‘And there’s something, Jamie. Something I need to talk to you about. It’s really important.’

  ‘Really?’ He looks disbelieving. ‘After all this time?’

  He drinks his coffee, fighting the urge to grip the table for balance as she opens her bag. She takes out a small notebook, scribbles down an address and a number, then tears the page from the book.

  ‘Would you come and see me?’ she asks. ‘Please.’

  He watches her coolly, drawing on years of professional training to hide his inner turmoil. He doesn’t trust her but his interest is aroused. He makes a negative face: why would he want to?

  ‘Please,’ she says again, insistently but pleadingly. ‘I don’t really want to talk about it here.’

  She glances round her and he is intrigued, if irritated, by all this secrecy and silence. His instinct is to get up and walk out, but now that presents a problem. His stick is folded, in his pocket, and he has the strongest desire that she should not know; not know anything about what has happened to him, what is happening to him. Ems reaches out and quickly pushes the piece of paper into his hand. Glancing down, he realizes, with a huge shock, that he can’t see the writing on the paper in front of him. The maelstrom is on him; he is falling into a full migraine attack.

  ‘Please,’ she insists, looking pleadingly at him.

  Just for a second, as he looks up into her anxious face, there is a treacherous revival of all he once felt for her and he hesitates, assailed from every side, battling a long-suppressed de
sire for companionship, for love … for help. Em closes his fingers round the paper. But Jamie is past caring. He is becoming desperate to leave; to leave now.

  ‘Sorry, I have to go,’ he says gruffly.

  He rams the piece of paper into his trouser pocket and stands, grabs his old leather jacket and pulls it on using the wall at his shoulder to keep stability. The weight of the stick is like lead in his pocket. The floor seems to pitch beneath him and it takes a supreme effort to start moving. He navigates from chair-back to chair-back towards the door. He doesn’t look back. Somehow he makes it without stumbling, turns right and moves unsteadily until he knows that he is out of her sight. He leans against the wall, his hands fumbling in his pocket for the stick. It flicks open as he jams it into the ground. He knows what is coming. As the migraine takes hold he will lose a large part of his vision and he needs somewhere to rest, somewhere to hide. Lurching forward, he heads towards the cathedral.

  Somehow he forces himself to walk calmly, controlled, even as the first traces of the crescent that characterizes his visual disturbances begin to sparkle in his mind’s eye. The dizziness is acute, but he is well practised in dealing with what once would have laid him out on the floor.

  ‘Keep moving,’ he mutters.

  Part of him dreads and expects a voice calling; feels certain that Ems will follow him and will see him like this. His fists clench in frustration. Jamie makes his way back to the west entrance of the cathedral. He pushes open the heavy door and walks into the nave. The cathedral is darker now, with few lights on. The visual turmoil is robbing him of his sight. He reaches the first row of seats and moves further down the aisle till he can turn right and feel his way to the end of a row where a chair is close by a pillar. He sits, laying the stick on the seats beside him and bowing his head as if in prayer. The migraine aura is fully on him now, growing, growing in his vision like a pulsing, jagged, sparkling crescent moon till it obscures all of the central part of his sight. He fumbles in his pocket for the emergency strip of pills that he keeps with him always. He takes two and swallows them with his saliva. But the pills will not relieve the turmoil in his mind.

  Emilia! What in heaven is she doing here, in Cornwall, in Truro? And what was that feeling that had assailed him, of need, of desire, of hope? He curses his frailties, railing silently at his vulnerability. But he also allows himself a sense of relief. He made it. For now he is safe.

  Emilia sits quite still, her hands clenched into fists, her eyes screwed shut. Her heart beats fast and she takes deep breaths as she rewinds the scene that has just played out. ‘Ems,’ he said. Just that: ‘Ems’. Funny how it really struck her to the heart. Nobody but Jamie called her ‘Ems’. And that way he looked at her, just at the end, for a moment it was as if he was remembering how it was all those years ago.

  Someone is standing beside her and she looks up quickly, hopefully, but it’s not Jamie come back to her, it’s one of the waitresses.

  ‘Are you all finished here?’ she asks politely.

  Emilia stares at the remains of Jamie’s meal and nods rather reluctantly. The waitress hesitates and then begins to clear the table.

  ‘Can I get you anything else?’

  Emilia thinks about it. She feels shaky and not quite ready for the drive home, but at the same time she knows she couldn’t eat a thing now.

  ‘Coffee,’ she says. ‘Could I have a cappuccino?’

  The waitress nods, smiles, and goes away, and Emilia reruns the scene in her head: the shock of seeing Jamie in the one place it never occurred to her that she might. He still looks good; tough, attractive. She wonders what he thought about her. How typical that, after all those times she’d got herself dressed up – hair looking nice, a bit of slap – to go to Relish or The Chough or Padstow in the hope of seeing him, she has to bump into him after an hour’s shopping in her old jeans.

  Her coffee arrives and she ladles sugar into it to help her cope with the shock.

  But will he come? she asks herself, stirring the coffee. And what will I do if he doesn’t?

  She wonders who Jamie was with and where he was going. She tries again to remember where the Cornish part of his family – some old aunt and uncle or perhaps grandparents – lived but shakes her head. Back in the day, Jamie’s parents were abroad a great deal but they met up from time to time, generally in London.

  He must come, she tells herself, sipping her coffee. He must.

  The hot sweet liquid strengthens her and she grows calmer. He’s got the address of the cottage in Rock and her mobile number. Thinking of this, she instinctively grabs her bag, rooting about for her phone, lest by some miraculous chance he’s already been in touch, but there’s nothing. She puts the phone on the table beside her, watching for the way it lights up when a text arrives, and drinks more of her coffee. It occurs to her that he might turn up at the cottage unannounced. What if he should go there later today? The thought causes her to swallow the rest of her coffee hurriedly, pay the bill and rush back to her car.

  Jamie sits quietly in his seat waiting patiently for the attack to recede, as he knows it will. If he is lucky then he might escape the worst of the headache that follows an episode like this; the pills are strong, and effective if taken early. It is only now, as his turmoil lessens, that he begins to be aware of his surroundings; only now that he begins to hear the voices ahead of him in the Quire. He observes the quiet discipline of the red-cassocked boys, attentive to the instructions of the master of choristers. Then the organ begins to play, and the voices harmonize as the rehearsal begins.

  He is summoned back to that summer’s evening years ago. In his mind’s eye he sees Hugo opposite him in the front row, the earnest expressions of his chorister colleagues, the feeling of command and of control. He revels in the rhythm of the rehearsal, in fragments of psalms and responses, of the Magnificat and the Nunc Dimittis. And then the choir begins rehearsing one of the most majestic anthems in the whole chorister repertoire. It is by John Ireland. Jamie listens in rapt silence, listening for the phrase that has resonated with him since childhood. ‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.’ As the pure voice of the young soloist rings out – as he, Jamie, sang so many years before – he realizes that he remembers every word and every note. The choir joins the soloist, carrying forward the musical theme, building the piece to its dramatic climax, and Jamie is once again a young boy, his soul soaring as he sang ‘That ye should shew forth the praises of Him who has call’d you, out of darkness, out of darkness, into His marvellous light’. The sublime final organ chord fills the spaces, swirling through the cathedral before it changes and quietens. And then, as the choir begins the slow, quiet, achingly moving final lines, Jamie crosses his arms and lowers his head. Nobody must see his tears.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘I’M GOING TO have to chuck you out,’ Dossie tells Hugo. ‘I’ve got a children’s party in St Breward and I need to get a move on. But thanks for coming over and for bringing the dogs. I love it when you bring the dogs.’

  ‘Still no decision about a puppy?’ he asks her.

  He doesn’t want to go. It’s been so nice to have her to himself, but he doesn’t want to make her late.

  ‘It’s crazy,’ she tells him. ‘Why should it be such a big deal?’

  ‘Because there’s a lot to think about,’ he answers. ‘It has to fit in with your work. Like this afternoon, for instance. How would you manage?’

  ‘Well, this is my difficulty,’ she agrees. ‘You can leave an older dog for a while but a puppy is more tricky. We always had two dogs so that they had company. One older, then when the older one died we’d bring in a puppy and the other dog would help to train it. It worked very well. But then Mo and Pa were here most of the time. I’m not very happy about leaving dogs in the back of a car.’

  She’s moving round, getting her things together, and he helps her to carry ice boxes and polythene containers out to the car, the dogs running ahead.r />
  ‘What’s the theme this time?’ he asks, amused.

  She rolls her eyes at him. ‘Frozen,’ she says. ‘Don’t ask. I’m more at home with Thomas the Tank Engine. Thanks, Hugo. See you soon.’

  She gives him a hug and a quick kiss and watches as he encourages the dogs into the car, climbs in and drives away. He gives a little toot, watching her in his mirror as her car comes out of the gateway and turns left, and she gives an answering toot. He pauses for a moment at the junction, fiddles about with his CDs and puts in Samuel Barber’s Toccata Festiva.

  The rain has stopped and the mist is clearing. The ditches are bright with colour: yellow celandine, red campion, bluebells, creamy cow parsley. Each year the miracle that is spring occurs, yet each year he is taken aback by it. He drives slowly, his window down, breathing the sea-salty air and thinking about Dossie: how easy it is to be with her. Perhaps, after all, it’s like a brother and sister relationship without the sibling rivalry; rather like his relationship with Jamie.

  At the thought of Jamie, at the prospect of his plan to talk to him, Hugo’s gut churns a little. He still hardly knows how he will frame the words. The familiar music, the sound of the organ, stirs him and gives him some kind of courage. How would it be if he and Jamie were to bump into Lucy and she were to greet him, talk to him, and then have to explain to his cousin why he’d never thought to mention meeting her before? It’s unthinkable. He must tell Jamie as soon as he comes in.

  Hugo drives down through the village and parks, but he has only just let the dogs into the house when the MGB slides in beside him and Jamie gets out. Hugo stares at him. Jamie looks grim, not terribly well, yet in some way excited.

  ‘Good day?’ Hugo asks apprehensively, as Jamie locks the car.

  Jamie doesn’t answer. He steadies himself and then hustles Hugo into the house and along the passage to the kitchen.

  ‘Is Ned out?’ he asks almost peremptorily.