Daughters of Cornwall

by Fern Britton

Greg was nonplussed, ‘Er … Hannah, anything other than the pub?’

  I grinned flirtily, ‘Well, there is that little guesthouse you stayed in when you visited us last time.’

  Francine pulled her painted lips into an unattractive pout. ‘I thought you said you didn’t know this place, Greg.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said impishly, ‘to be honest, he didn’t get to see much of the town on that visit. We were having too much fun, weren’t we darling?’ I nudged him in the ribs.

  He gave me a filthy look. ‘If you say so.’

  I laughed, then turned to the porter who had loaded the baggage. ‘Can you think of a suitable place for our guest to stay?’

  He lifted the front of his cap and scratched his forehead. ‘Well there’s always The Railway Hotel. It’s expensive, mind.’

  Francine perked up. ‘It sounds perfect.’

  I shook my head. ‘Sadly, they are fully booked. I checked yesterday. But I’m sure the pub will find something for you.’ Opening the back door of the cab, I ushered Francine and Greg in, then, jumping into the front seat, I said to the driver, ‘The Golden Hind, please.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Hannah, Trevay

  August 1947

  The pub did have a room for Francine. Rather small with two sets of steep and narrow stairs to get to it, but it was pretty enough. Curtains that matched the counterpane of the single bed. A dressing table with a small mirror only slightly cracked. And a convenient bathroom and lavatory just across the hall, shared with a travelling salesman in the room opposite.

  ‘And look!’ I said. ‘You are lucky enough to have a view of the sea.’

  Francine gave me a look that told me she knew I was a moron. No surprise there, but she was mollified by the obeisance of the landlord’s wife, Olive, who turned out to be her greatest fan.

  Olive rustled up a large Bloody Mary and a handful of celery sticks, as ordered, and offered to iron all the modelling outfits, pouring from one of the large suitcases, required for the shoot that afternoon.

  I took the decision to snaffle Greg while all this was happening. Pulling his arm, I said loudly, ‘Come along Greg, I must show you the location before the tide comes in.’

  I led him to the harbour, then turned left down to the small beach that bordered the estuary and the sea. He remained silent and brooding all the way.

  On the sandy beach I stopped and waved my arm to the view. ‘The tide is at its lowest now, which is the best time to start. Just look at the colour of the sand against the sky. It’s perfect, don’t you think?’

  I couldn’t read his eyes as he was wearing his sunglasses again. After an uncomfortable silence he spoke. ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said breezily.

  ‘You think I am sleeping with her, don’t you?’

  ‘Do I?’ I turned back to the view. ‘It really is a glorious setting. I shall give Francine half an hour to eat her celery and then I will pop back and do her make-up. You can set up while I do that. I’ll ask Olive to bring the clothes down. We can put them up on that rock there. It should be dry. I will hold a towel up to save any modesty Francine may have.’

  ‘Hannah, stop it,’ he said, at last looking at me.

  ‘Stop what?’ I answered.

  ‘I am not sleeping with her. She is an important, famous model and, as her chosen photographer, I have to keep her happy.’

  My façade dropped. ‘I saw the way you looked at her as you lifted her from the train.’

  ‘It’s what I do,’ he answered with an exhausted sigh. ‘To get any model to trust you, they have to think you are flirting with them. It’s my job.’

  ‘Pathetic,’ I sniffed.

  ‘Yes, it is, and the way you are behaving is pathetic too.’

  ‘And what way is that?’

  He took his glasses off and looked at me properly. ‘Jealously. Darling. Please don’t spoil our few days together. I can’t wait to be alone with you.’ He caressed the top of my arm. ‘You are the one light in my life. Do you think I wanted to spend all those hours on the train, listening to her bitching, her need to be the centre of all attention?’

  I drew a line in the sand with the toe of my canvas shoes. ‘You looked as if you were enjoying it.’

  He took a step closer to me and wrapped his arms around my shoulders, pulling my head to his chest. ‘Darling, there is no need for you to worry about her. She’s a clotheshorse with a small brain. God, I was furious when she told me Maurice wasn’t coming down. They had some sort of argument and he wouldn’t even drive her to Paddington. I had to pick her up from their house, while trying to pretend I couldn’t hear Maurice screaming insults at her from upstairs. She was crying, he was screaming; it was all most unedifying.’

  I lifted my head from his chest. ‘Is this the truth?’

  ‘Yes.’ His smile melted my heart. ‘And, by the way, you look so goddamned sexy in that outfit.’

  ‘Do I?’ I almost purred.

  ‘Uh-ha. You make Francine, with her perfectly groomed face and tailored haute couture, look dull, dull, dull. You, on the other hand,’ he held me away from him, passion flaring in his eyes, ‘you are a real pin-up.’

  ‘Stop it.’ I laughed.

  He took me in his arms again and kissed me, his hands roaming over my waist, hips and bottom. ‘I could make love to you right now. Right here.’

  His words gave me shivers. ‘Maybe tonight?’ I said.

  ‘Shall we? A blanket, a bottle of wine?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Consider it done.’

  I left him to decide on where and how he wanted to set up the pictures and went to get Francine ready. As I got in view of The Golden Hind I saw a large, blue, open-topped car thunder to a stop outside. A small man with a deep tan and a thick white moustache leapt out and headed for the pub entrance, as a group of interested bystanders gathered to admire the gleaming machine.

  By the time I got inside, the man was thumping the polished bar and shouting at Graham the barman, ‘Where is my wife? I know she’s in here somewhere.’ He saw a door and rushed to it. ‘If she’s with that bloody snapper, I’ll bloody kill him.’

  ‘Sir,’ shrieked Graham, ‘I don’t know who you are looking for, but that is the door to the kitchen.’

  The man, who I now assumed was Maurice Wallis, rounded on him. ‘Which damn room is she in?’ His eyes were bulging as he squared up to the barman. ‘I’ll knock your bloody block off if you don’t tell me right now.’

  ‘The door to the upstairs rooms is that one.’ Graham pointed shakily.

  Maurice growled throatily, ‘It better had be.’

  ‘Excuse me.’ I stepped up to get between Maurice and the door. ‘I may be able to help you. Are you looking for Mrs Francine Wallis?’

  He stopped. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘I am her make-up artist for the shoot she is working on this afternoon. I am about to get her ready. Would you like to follow me?’

  As we mounted the stairs he began shouting: ‘Francine? If you are here with that pansy, I am warning you, I will kill the pair of you.’

  Above us I could hear a door open. ‘Maurice?’

  ‘Francine? Is that you?’

  Francine began to have hysterics. ‘Darling. You’ve come. I have been put in this ghastly place under false pretences. I am expected to sleep in this hovel. It’s awful. I want to go home.’

  By now Maurice had pushed past me and was taking the stairs two at a time. ‘If that floppy piece of shit put you in this fleapit, I swear to God I will kill him.’

  As he got to the final step, Olive appeared from Francine’s room, an expression of pure vengeance on her face. ‘What did you call my pub?’

  ‘I said it’s a bloody fleapit.’ He was now nose to nose with Olive, who gave him a good clump on the chin.

  ‘I don’t know who the hell you think you are,’ she said, ‘but no one speaks to me or my guests like that.’

  ‘He�
�s my husband, you stupid woman,’ Francine screamed.

  Olive whipped around to face her. ‘Oh, you’ve changed your tune. Stupid woman, am I? After I’ve got you your stupid celery and ironed your clothes. Get out, the pair of you, and take your lardy-bleddy-dah London ways with you. My husband and I, and our pub, are worth dozens of you.’

  ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’ Francine drew herself up like a cobra about to strike. ‘My husband and I have enough money to buy your filthy pub and this village a dozen times over if we wanted to.’

  ‘You just go ahead and try,’ Olive said, sticking out her upturned palm. ‘But first, you owe me two pounds for the room, six sticks of celery and a bleddy Bloody Mary.’

  ‘I’ll pay you twice that to get out of here,’ Francine said rashly. ‘Maurice, pay the peasant.’

  Olive laughed. ‘Oh dear. Insulting behaviour costs. It’s forty quid now.’

  Francine stamped her foot. ‘Maurice, pay her and take me home.’

  Patting his pockets, he looked at Olive. ‘Would you take a cheque?’

  ‘No problem.’ Olive smiled. ‘It’s sixty quid for a cheque. But be quick about it, or it’ll be eighty any minute.’

  As soon as I could, I went back to Greg. He had rolled up his cream trousers to just above his ankles and loosened a few more buttons of his shirt. His camera was in his one hand as the other was shielding his eyes, looking at the sun.

  ‘Greg!’ I called to him as I ran. ‘Greg!’

  He turned to me. ‘There you are. We’ve got about two hours of good light.’ He looked beyond me. ‘Where’s Francine?’

  ‘On her way home.’ I must admit I couldn’t keep the pleasure out of my voice.

  Greg’s face dropped. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  I told him what had happened.

  ‘And you didn’t think to stop her?’ he asked angrily.

  ‘Well, no. It was all very quick and then they were gone.’

  ‘Where are the clothes?’

  ‘For the shoot?’

  ‘Of course, for the damned shoot.’

  He was getting angrier every second, and I was afraid how he would react when I told him. ‘She took them with her.’

  ‘She took them with her? For God’s sake.’ He picked up his tripod and threw it to the sand. ‘What the hell am I going to tell the magazine?’

  ‘The truth?’ I ventured quietly.

  ‘Nobody wants the effing truth! They want the goods! Jesus Christ.’ He sat down on the sand, cradling his camera in his lap. ‘I know she’s difficult, but this takes the bloody biscuit.’

  I went and sat down next to him, putting my arm around his hunched shoulders. ‘I am so sorry. It’s all my fault. I should have booked her into The Railway Hotel.’

  He fumbled for my hand. ‘You couldn’t help that it was full.’

  ‘It wasn’t full.’

  He looked at me and said slowly, ‘It wasn’t full?’

  I shook my head sheepishly. ‘No.’

  He snatched his hand from mine. ‘You stupid cow.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Sorry?’ he spat as he stood up. ‘A fat load of good that is. You have single-handedly lost me a good commission job and you say you’re sorry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why don’t you just piss off and leave me alone?’ He began to walk away to the water’s edge.

  I sat where I was, confused and hurt by his nastiness. What had I done? I remembered Edward’s warning. Is this what he meant? He’s not exactly the man he pretends to be.

  I watched Greg go. He was heading to the open sea. I watched him until he was a small figure against the horizon and the setting sun. The sand beneath my bottom was getting cold so I stood up and saw how far the tide had come in since Greg had left me and I had been feeling so sorry for myself. If he didn’t turn around and come back in the next half an hour, he would be cut off, in one of the many rocky bays that the incoming tide made it impossible to escape from or reach.

  I swiftly collected up his tripod and camera bag and placed them on the rocks I knew would remain dry, and began running in the direction he had headed for.

  He wasn’t more than three hundred yards away. Standing knee-deep in breaking waves, soaked from head to foot and furious to see me. ‘I almost drowned,’ he shouted. ‘And I dropped my camera and the bloody sea has taken it.’

  I was more concerned about getting him safe. ‘The tide is running in quickly.’ I reached him and grabbed his arm. ‘Hold onto me and don’t let go.’

  He pulled me off him. ‘I’m going to find my camera.’ As he turned away, a huge bulk of water rose up and dumped itself over us. I lost my sense of which way was up as I was tumbled underwater and scraped sharp sand and slate. My lungs were bursting as I managed to break the surface and gulp fresh air. I looked around but couldn’t see Greg. I would have to go under again to find him. The sand and seaweed billowing around me made keeping my eyes open impossible. I was a strong swimmer and pushed myself in what I hoped were ever increasing circles, my arms and hands stretched out, feeling for anything human. I could feel my heart racing with panic. Nothing. I could feel nothing but strings of weed. I surfaced again, took another deep breath and continued my search. I knew it was my last chance. The tide in the estuary had a reputation for taking people under. My only option was to get out and get help. I calculated that the lifeboat was about a seven-minute run away and again swam to the surface and dragged myself out against the suction of the water. I had to bend over, holding my knees to catch my breath before I ran.

  After half a minute I stood up, ready to sprint to the harbour, when I saw him. His head and shoulders were lying on the sand. The rest of his body was being nudged in by the incoming waves.

  ‘Greg!’ I reached him and dropped to my knees. ‘Greg!’ I put my hand to his neck to check his pulse. ‘Greg? It’s Hannah. Can you hear me?’ I thought I felt a faint pulse, so I stood over him, grabbed him under his shoulders and pulled him up the sand. I laid him on his side and immediately a gush of water poured from his mouth, making him splutter.

  ‘Greg.’ I shook him. ‘Breathe. Deep breaths. Come on.’

  I saw his chest begin to swell and he opened his eyes. ‘Thank God,’ he whispered. ‘Thank you.’

  Typical man, he wouldn’t let me take him to be checked out by the doctor, so I took him home. Both of us dripping wet. As we fell through the kitchen door, Shirley, who was at the sink, gave a cry of fright.

  ‘Oh, my goodness. What’s happened to you two?’ She pulled a kitchen chair out and offered it to me, but I pushed Greg down onto it. ‘You look half drowned, the pair of you! Let me put the kettle on.’

  ‘You don’t have any brandy, do you?’ He shivered appealingly. ‘Hannah just saved my life.’ If I knew then what I know now, I might not have.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Hannah, Trevay

  1947

  Shirley ran a hot bath and I insisted that Greg was the first one in it. He needed it more than me. Later I got into his water, topping it up with a boiled kettle.

  Shirley heated some soup for us.

  Greg was wrapped in Edward’s dressing gown, and I was dressed in my warmest pyjamas: we sat by the newly lit fire and told our story.

  ‘You were bloody lucky,’ Edward told us. ‘Anything could have happened.’

  ‘I would have been all right,’ David said, lounging on the rug in front of us. ‘I’m too strong a swimmer to let the sea beat me.’

  Shirley stepped over him to her seat, ‘That’s silly talk. The sea is no respecter of anyone.’

  ‘Thankfully the tide washed Greg up.’ I shivered at the thought of what might have happened. ‘I am not sure that even the lifeboat could have saved him if it weren’t for that.’

  Greg said, clearly irritated, ‘You’re all making a mountain out of a molehill. I was fine. But I must admit, I was relieved when I saw Hannah was OK.’

  I remembered hi
s anger at losing his camera and his almost lifeless body lying in the surf, and closed my eyes to block out the picture in my mind.

  ‘You said Hannah saved your life,’ Shirley pointed out.

  ‘Figure of speech, old girl.’ He turned to Edward. ‘Any more brandy?’

  ‘I can’t wait to tell Mum,’ David said.

  Shirley prodded him with her foot, ‘Oh no you don’t. You know what the doctor told us. Your mum needs peace and quiet when she gets home.’

  ‘Which reminds me,’ Edward said, ‘all being well she’ll be home on Tuesday afternoon.’

  ‘I will have everything ready for her.’ I realised how much I had missed her. ‘I’ll get the bakers to make her a welcome home cake.’

  We chatted about Mum’s homecoming and the jobs we needed to do beforehand. Edward would do a stocktake in the shop. Shirley got out her notebook and pencil and began to make a shopping list, and David promised to clean his room.

  I noticed Greg yawning. Shirley caught him too. ‘Greg, you are tired. Your clothes are still a bit damp, but when you get back to your room, you can ask if they’ll air them for you.’

  ‘That’s so kind.’ He smiled sheepishly, ‘The trouble is, in all the excitement of Francine and her room at the pub, I forgot to book one for myself.’ He stood up, wincing as he straightened his back. ‘But don’t worry about me. I’m sure I can find somewhere. If you could just tell me where my clothes are?’

  Edward got up too. ‘You can probably have the room Francine had at the pub. I’ll walk down with you. I might even buy you a pint.’

  ‘Er,’ Shirley interrupted, ‘neither of you are going anywhere. Greg can sleep on the sofa down here. It’s the least we can do.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I joined in. ‘Edward! Greg is your best friend. Of course he can stay here.’

  Greg shook his head. ‘I couldn’t take any more of your hospitality.’

  ‘Of course you can!’ Shirley gave me a sly wink. ‘Any friend of Teddy’s is a friend of ours. Isn’t that right?’

  Blankets and a pillow were found and the sofa made up invitingly.

  I checked the time, ‘It’s getting late. David bed, now.’