The Returning Tide

by Liz Fenwick

  Cassie studied her. ‘You wouldn’t have walked out for no reason. I know you, and it was Pierre who wanted out.’ Lara flexed her fingers and Cassie touched her hand. ‘You need a break. Enjoy being here and hopefully you can find out more about Amelia.’ She raised her glass. ‘Here’s to you being head chef of your own restaurant – but only after a good break.’

  Lara tapped Cassie’s glass, wondering what she really wanted. For the moment it was to discover more about Amelia. That would be enough for now.

  Fifteen

  Constantine, Falmouth, Cornwall

  2 September 2015

  The large package sat on the kitchen table. Lara recognised her mother’s writing. Puzzled, she picked it up and carried it through to the living room – but then stopped in surprise.

  From the sofa, large yellow eyes watched her.

  ‘And where did you come from?’ she asked.

  It was a cat – although ‘cat’ didn’t seem to cover the size, grandness and fluffiness of the creature sprawled comfortably on the sofa. Lara suspected it might even object to being described as ‘fluffy’, and would probably prefer something like ‘magnificent’. Cassie hadn’t mentioned a cat and Lara hadn’t seen one in the past few days. She wondered where it could have come from, until she registered that the terrace door was open, which meant it must have just wandered in. Lara wasn’t sure whether the cat was a he or a she, but the lion-like mane of white fur and the disdainful stare made her think it could be a he. With his golden eyes he was regal, and scrutinised every move she made as she placed the box down on the table in front of the sofa.

  She turned from the cat and read the customs form on the box. After that she pulled at the tape until she had one side of the box partially open. She tugged at the rest of the box but it wouldn’t open without a knife, and by now she had collapsed beside the great white cat who was refusing to move from his prime position on the couch.

  ‘What do you think Mom has sent me?’ she asked her feline companion.

  The cat replied by beginning to clean his paws while Lara stuck her left hand into the box to investigate the contents. Underneath the layers of paper and bubble wrap, it felt like two – no, three books. Her fingers then brushed a letter, which she pulled out and opened. It was from her mother, Maeve, and she carefully read it, thinking how strange it felt in these days of email to be receiving a letter.

  August 25, 2015

  Darling Lara,

  As you know, Eventide has been sold and it’s all moving rather quickly. Betty is being ruthless and much of the contents have been auctioned. I have saved a few things for you in Gerard’s garage, but I suspect they’re probably not the things you might have liked, as they had to be small. I did manage to grab the Cornishware but Betty had thrown out most of the cookbooks. Here are the few I salvaged. I don’t know if you want them but I couldn’t bear to see them thrown away, knowing you had used them so much. Also I found another picture of Grandie in his uniform. I knew you would treasure it and Betty didn’t want it. I have never understood their relationship. She’s dispensed with the past without a glance.

  The rest of the pictures are from the local antique dealer who returned them to me. You remember the Winthrop desk? When they were cleaning it up they found these photos wedged at the back under the bottom drawer. I thought they might be of interest.

  Am missing you more than ever. The sense of relief has arrived here on the Cape, with Labor Day around the corner and the weight of summer visitors gone. You know I love that freshness that arrives on the breeze, yet the heat of the sun is just as intense. Love you, my darling, and I hope that you are enjoying your adventure and a rest. Send Cassie my best wishes.

  Hope to Skype soon if we can sort out this five-hour time difference.

  Mom xxx

  Lara dropped the letter on the top of the box, thinking of the scents of fall on the Cape, the slow turning of the leaves. She longed to walk the beach in front of Eventide. The cry of a seagull outside reminded her she wasn’t far from the water and she could easily reach a beach. She wished she had enjoyed Eventide more when it was hers to use, but then wasn’t it always the way to look back with longing?

  She went out to the stone terrace, all the while feeling the cat’s eyes upon her. Lara didn’t know where the feline had come from, but her limited knowledge of them told her that if she didn’t feed him he would disappear soon. Cats were creatures of comfort and Lara had to agree with him the couch was comfy – plus, it must have been bathed in sunlight most of the afternoon. Now the sun was behind the converted barn and out of view. However, golden light still hit the tops of the trees and turned everything softer. Because Cassie was so busy, tomorrow Lara would face the dragon, as she’d begun to think of the bride’s brother, and deliver the new wedding cake.

  The phone rang, and moments later Lara heard Cassie answer it. Lara went back inside and picked up a knife to properly open the box. On top of three old cookbooks – one of which was the beloved La Veritable Cuisine de Famille par Tante Marie – she found a small collection of oddly sized photos. Her hand stilled as she came to one. It was an out-of-focus shot of a couple on their wedding day, but there was no mistaking Grandie. His erect posture, uniform and broad shoulders were clear despite the fact that the camera was focused on the building. The couple were off to the right of the photo with the sea behind them and a bit of lawn in front. Strangely what was in clear focus was the side of a bay window made from grey stone to the centre left.

  This must be the photo Betty had mentioned. Lara stared at it, running her finger over the image of her great-grandparents. She could see it was most likely Cornwall from the vague outline of the ocean and the headlands in the background. She had to be close to finding Amelia. She squinted at the picture, hoping she could perceive more detail, but all she got for her trouble was a mild headache.

  3 September 2015

  Lara drove with both hands on the wheel, leaning forward slightly as she tried to see around the hedges that blocked her view of the road. In spite of having driven a little bit every day, she still hated it and walked everywhere if she could. But there was no possible way that she could carry the cake to Windward, so here she was, inching her way along tiny lanes towards the house. Roads narrowed without warning, bends appeared out of nowhere and people drove as if they had plenty of room.

  Although the cake was well secured in its special box on the back seat of the car, Lara still took each turn with caution and had already been passed by four drivers frustrated at her lack of speed. She didn’t care. This cake would be delivered whole.

  Passing a small Catholic church on the right, she thought about Grandie. He’d been dead three weeks. The pain of his absence hadn’t abated as she’d expected. Of course, being in an area that he had visited and trying to find out about her great-grandmother hadn’t made it easy to forget. She wasn’t sure she wanted to either. He was a huge part of her life. Losing him, her job, and her husband all at once had left her wondering who she was without them. She had no idea. She was empty. Only when she was cooking did she feel whole.

  Windward’s gates finally appeared and she breathed a sigh of relief. One part of the ordeal was over. Now all she needed to do was to put the cake into the kitchen without dropping it. She flexed her shoulders, parked the car and carefully collected the cake from the back seat.

  The wind came whistling around the house and held the chill of autumn. Lara could tell that despite today’s blue skies the house needed the strength of the grey stone that made up its walls. It was a beautiful setting but Windward obviously took the full force of the weather on a regular basis, sitting as it did high above the bay.

  However, the garden showed no signs of the approaching colder days or damage from the prevailing wind. Roses were coming into flower again. She turned from admiring it, making sure she didn’t lose her footing. Just like the last time, the kitchen door was open and the room in darkness, but unlike the previous visit, it was filled wi
th the sweet scent of tomatoes cooking.

  Lara hesitated on the threshold, waiting to speak until her eyes had adjusted to the gloom. ‘Hello?’ No response, so she ventured forth and put the cake on the large table that dominated the room. She ran her fingers over the bleached wooden surface while she noted the Mason jars lined up on the counter by the Aga. A butcher’s block was covered in chopped onions and herbs with large containers of vinegar standing by. It was an impressive setup for preserving and someone was being industrious with a glut of end-of-season tomatoes.

  ‘Hello?’ Lara looked around. It was clear someone was home but nobody was in sight. ‘Hello?’ she called again. When no answer came she spied a pencil and a pad of paper by the phone. Quickly she wrote a note and then fled into the sunshine before she encountered anyone.

  Once out in the garden she slowed her pace and slipped her sunglasses on. The vegetable patch was large and she saw still more bright red fruit weighing down the tired stems. They were at their sweetest at this time of the year, in many ways wasted on sauces and chutneys. Served with a lunch of cheese – preferably goat’s – alongside fresh sourdough bread, the achingly ripe tomatoes would be perfect. Her mouth watered. Walking towards the car, she stopped to admire the orchard. The trees were heavy with fruit. A lazy wasp circled her, and she waved it away before slipping into the car.

  Her delivery done, she carefully departed from Windward and made her tentative way towards Trebah Garden. Grandie had embarked from there for the D-Day invasion. She was halfway there when her cell phone rang, Cassie’s number flashing on the screen. She pulled over into an entrance to a field and answered it.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Sorry. Two of the waitresses have gone down with flu. Can you come back and give me a hand?’

  ‘Of course. See you soon.’ Lara sighed. She could just make out the blue of the river. Trebah would wait for another day.

  Windward, Mawnan Smith, Falmouth, Cornwall

  5 September 2015

  Peta was on her knees with a mouth full of pins adjusting the hem of my wedding outfit while I tried to stand upright without the support of my cane. This was becoming harder to do recently. The weather had been good, but what dampness there was always seemed to find its way into my hips and knees. My other joints didn’t suffer in quite the same way.

  ‘Shouldn’t I hold the cane so that you know where it’s catching?’ I asked.

  Peta shook her head and mumbled something that might have been ‘Be still.’ But that was the problem. At the moment neither my mind nor my body would be still. It was only a week to Peta’s wedding and my thoughts kept returning to the same day seventy years ago. And because I didn’t want to remember it, I kept myself busy.

  I had dug out my will. It was worrying me. My heirs were Jack and Peta, which was what I wanted, but the difficulty arose from my sister. Her name was on the deed of the house. She owned half but it was for my sole use for my lifetime. I should have contacted her years ago, but some things went too deep and couldn’t be undone.

  The pain had been locked away for so long, but nothing could keep it away forever except death. And there was the rub. I wasn’t dead, despite my aching bones and advancing age. The doctor insisted I was in good health, but it wouldn’t last indefinitely. I didn’t want it to. I had to sort things. My sister could be dead for all I knew. I hadn’t felt her for so many years.

  ‘Keep still.’ I felt the prick of a pin as Peta’s hand slipped.

  It wasn’t fair to leave the mess for Jack and Peta. Was Amelia still alive? I sighed and tried to focus on her but there was nothing. It was the way I had wanted it for so long.

  There was probably a way to find out now. If I asked Jack he would look into it for me, but then there would be questions. Assuming that Amelia’s children or grandchildren would want or even have any interest in Windward, of course. But everyone had an interest in money.

  ‘There, that will be better.’ Peta rose from her knees and placed the last pin into the pincushion. She touched my arm. ‘Come back from those dark thoughts.’

  I focused on her, frightened that she could see into my mind.

  ‘No, Gran, I can’t see details. Just pain, and that you’ve never shared it – but recently you’ve spent a lot of time delving into it, haven’t you?’ She lifted the dress carefully over my head. ‘And that worries me.’

  ‘It’s because you are happy.’

  ‘No, that’s not it. Darkness isn’t good, Gran.’

  I smiled ruefully. No, darkness wasn’t good but I couldn’t escape it any more.

  ‘Think of something happy – like the fact that Eddie will be here in a few days. It’s been ages since we’ve seen him.’

  I smiled. Eddie.

  ‘That’s much better. Although I do detect sadness there as well. Focus on the happiness, Gran. Think of my grandfather, or even another lover’s kiss, or your first kiss.’

  I laughed, remembering while she helped me into my clothes and handed me my cane.

  ‘I hadn’t realised you kissed quite so many frogs.’ Peta chuckled.

  ‘There are many things you don’t know about me.’

  ‘I know.’ She smoothed my cardigan over my shoulders.

  ‘It’s best that way.’

  ‘Yes, a bit of mystery is good as long as you don’t dwell on it. I have to go and meet Cassie, my caterer. Is there anything you need?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fine. Keep thinking kisses – the good ones, that is.’ She tucked my wedding finery over her arm and flew down the stairs. Before long I heard her car leave.

  Kisses. Even now I still remember the first time he kissed me in love and not just in passion. That one action had taken my heart forever with its tenderness. I knew then that I would never be in love with anyone else.

  Windward, Mawnan Smith, Falmouth, Cornwall

  8 September 2015

  The bottom drawer of the desk was filled with papers that I hadn’t looked at since my grandmother died. I wasn’t sure I wanted to sort it but if I didn’t, Jack or Peta would have to, and I didn’t know what they would find. It was only when lying awake last night that I realised one of the biggest gifts I could give them was to be ready for the end. And that meant clearing everything out. They didn’t need the fragments of my past that would raise more questions than provide answers. To them I was the widow of their grandfather who had no family except for them.

  The black bin liner lay empty on the floor beside me and somewhere I could hear music. I think Peta was meeting with the man who would be the disc jockey at the wedding when the band finished. As my bedroom overlooked the bay I hadn’t a hope of getting a wink of sleep in a few days’ time, not that I’d had much sleep this week. My dreams were filled with the past – not as it had happened but as I wished it had. The pain was so great when I woke and realised that it hadn’t been real, that it was just the power of the mind creating what it wanted to have happened.

  Pulling a pile of papers out, I flipped through the fragile newspaper cuttings and smiled. It was Grandmother’s engagement announcement in the Times, alongside both Mother’s and Uncle Reg’s birth announcements. There was a thin photograph album of her debutante year. She had been a beautiful woman. From minor aristocracy to middle class in no time at all. The money had gone and so had the gloss. All that remained were a few pieces of jewellery, and Windward. It hadn’t been the First World War that had broken the family but the Second.

  I tucked the clipping into the photo album. Peta might like to see the dresses that Grandmother had worn. I dug through the back of the drawer and it appeared to be mostly the paperwork regarding Windward. Grandmother had left the house to my sister and me. To my mother she had given the jewels but by then it was the last thing Mother had needed. All the best ones had already gone to Aunt Margaret.

  ‘What’s brought on this bout of activity?’ Jack sauntered in and peered over my shoulder. ‘First you venture into the attic and now the bowels of the desk. Is the
re a lost treasure I don’t know about? Is this where the map is?’

  I laughed. ‘Sadly no, but have you thoroughly checked the caves on the beach below?’

  ‘Checked, and rechecked more times that I can count.’ He shook his head. ‘That looks like a title deed.’

  ‘It is. It’s the original paperwork on this place.’ I held it up to him.

  ‘Don’t bin it. I’d love to look through it but I’ve got to head out to meet a client.’

  I raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Yes, I know, in person.’ He kissed the top of my head. ‘I’ll be back in time to cook dinner though. I don’t fancy one of your burnt offerings. Get some rest while I’m out. You’ve been very pale the last few days, like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  My breath caught. I was living with my ghosts now, more than ever. ‘I’ll take a nap.’

  ‘I won’t be long.’

  While I put the paperwork on the house back in the drawer, I contemplated whether this meeting with a client was a fluke or a new direction. Jack didn’t do people unless he had to. Numbers were his thing and had been for years. He understood them.

  Sixteen

  HMS Attack, Portland, Dorset

  17 February 1944

  Katherine handed me yet another cup of coffee. I nodded my thanks while slipping the headphones off one ear and watched her walk back to her headset at the end of one of the long tables lining both sides of the room. She fiddled with the dial while listening through one ear. Daytime shifts were normally quiet and more a case of keeping track of vessels coming in and out. Mostly it was general broadcast stuff, which could be tedious and hard, sometimes writing down more than 200 blocks of four-or five-letter codes. There was just another hour to go before this shift was finished. It had been peaceful except for one operator who had cloth ears, meaning we’d gone back and forth for ten minutes repeating the same message. Eventually he received it correctly. I was sure I’d dealt with him before; he had a way of writing Morse that was like a signature. I supposed I did too.