A Cornish Summer

by Catherine Alliott

  Gradually, of course, Celia and I had talked. And eventually, I told her everything, as she did me. About her overbearing parents – both professors – her excellent grades, her degree from Cambridge and their horror that all she wanted to do was paint. At least I’d never had any opposition to my career of choice. Instead, I told her about my dad, and then about Hugo. How it had felt to be bereaved all over again. Back then she hadn’t slandered him at all, knowing I was far too fragile; she just listened. Later, of course, being Celia, she’d been more expansive on the morals of a man who could persuade his pregnant girlfriend to marry him and then abandon her with the baby, and I knew some of the attraction of coming down here had been to size up this mythical, demonic creature in the flesh. This was some admission, then. No wonder she’d paused before answering.

  ‘I knew you couldn’t fail,’ I told her, trying to keep the smugness from my voice. It vindicated my enduring love, you see, all these years. Made sense of my tremendous emotional hiatus. A peculiar warmth and light radiated through me. I was so grateful for her endorsement. I walked quietly beside her in the dark, waiting for her to go on. Willing her to elaborate and exonerate me.

  ‘He has Peter’s gentleness, which is lovely, and that same endearing way of never quite looking at you, but shyly asking all the right questions. And not in a practised, nosy way, just in a genuinely interested way.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I even found myself talking about my mother’s obsession with antiques, how weird is that? How she has to polish everything lovingly every day, as if with every layer of polish she adds more value. How everything in her life is a means to an end, never mind how you get there.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said materialism often got confused with joy, and he thought it was because some people lacked hope. He said he’d been guilty of it a bit himself. I said: “That’s true. My mother is the enemy of hope.”’

  ‘Oh, you went deep.’

  ‘I suppose we did.’

  ‘Did you tell him about Edward?’

  ‘A bit.’ She scratched inside her wrist where she had a bit of eczema. ‘Yes, OK, a lot,’ she conceded. ‘And he didn’t even ask. I don’t know why I did.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said sex isn’t everything.’

  I stopped still. ‘Oh, you told him about that.’

  She shrugged. ‘You know me.’

  We walked on in silence. Our feet moved in synchrony for a bit. Sex isn’t everything. Interesting. Illuminating, even, in view of our own sex life.

  ‘But the point is,’ she went on, ‘we talked about me, and I’d so wanted to find out more about him.’ I gave this a knowing smile in the dark. ‘By the time I realized I’d monopolized the conversation and tried to talk about him, Janey had joined us.’ She made a face. ‘Sorry about that.’

  I laughed. ‘Oh, I wasn’t hoping you’d glean anything, I’m just so pleased you liked him. I’m so tired of trying to explain my addiction.’

  ‘Yes, well it explains it, but it doesn’t justify it.’

  I didn’t comment. Didn’t want to ruin anything by arguing. I liked what I had, what she’d given me. It was enough. I’d enjoy it later, in bed. We walked on.

  ‘His relationship with Belinda is weird, though,’ she said. ‘It’s as if he’s always trying to protect her, to stop everyone from seeing what she really is. He constantly reimagines her.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Celia had cottoned on to this family remarkably quickly.

  ‘She told Christina, at drinks, for example, that Theo might like a dog, he seemed so attached to Truffle. And Christina said unfortunately she was allergic to them – which, let’s face it, Belinda must have known – and so Belinda suggested a cat. Christina said awkwardly that she wasn’t mad about them and Belinda said: “Nonsense, everyone loves a kitten, Theo would adore it.” Hugo stepped in smiling and said the thing was, Belinda couldn’t imagine anyone’s home without a pet, which makes her sound lovely and cosy, when in fact she was twisting Christina’s arm.’

  ‘I know.’

  I did know. I knew all about the things Belinda gently suggested. And the way Hugo explained them, spinning them to something good. A couple of years ago she’d decided Peter needed a hobby, and although he loved boats we rarely got to the sea. So she sent a very expensive set of golf clubs to his school.

  ‘Really kind of Granny,’ Peter had said anxiously when he’d rung me, ‘but when will I use them? I’m up to here with revision. And there’s the school play …’

  ‘Well quite. Don’t worry, darling. Perhaps keep them in Cornwall for the holidays?’

  ‘Yes, perhaps. Not really my thing, though. I’d rather sail. And she did ask, last time I was down there, if I’d like to take it up, and I said no, I wasn’t interested. I think I even said it was boring.’

  ‘Right.’ I swallowed hard.

  Peter had never used the clubs, but had then felt bad when his grandmother asked, so he’d said, occasionally. She’d written and asked which courses he went to. He hadn’t replied and she’d sent another letter saying she was rather disappointed in him. I’d had to leave the room when Peter told me in case I threw my mug of tea against the wall. Hugo had ironed it out as usual and used the clubs himself, saying he’d always wanted to take it up.

  ‘Cele, I think I’m going to pop down to the beach for a bit.’ I looked up at her in the moonlight. We’d reached the cottage gate by now, were about to go up the path. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

  It was a beautiful warm night and not that late. I saw her face light up at the idea. But then she saw mine and knew at once.

  ‘Good shout. I’ll go up. It’s about time I had an early night.’

  We hugged and I walked on. Further on, the track ended as it met the dunes. As I picked my way through the cold sand, my feet sinking lower and lower with every step, sharp tufts of grass scratching my ankles, I thought, you see? She knew I wanted to be alone. No spiritual myopia for Celia. She was as clear-sighted as they come, unlike Belinda, who deliberately only saw what she wanted to see.

  It was a clear night and the moon, almost full, and high above the sea, reflected a rippling white path towards me across the water. The tide was out so the beach was peppered with marooned boats, which I always thought looked peculiar, embarrassed to be so exposed, their muddy bottoms at wobbly angles, not bobbing brightly on the water as they would be in the morning. Small, seaweed-strewn rocks dogged my path but I knew this beach well, had played on it as a child, and I picked my way easily amongst them like the eight-year-old I’d once been. Back in those days the Bellingdons were a distinctly mythical family, and the house – I stopped and glanced back at it now, standing white, proud and isolated, high up on the cliff – had been emblematic of all that stately grandeur. We knew of parties on the lawns, tennis matches, croquet, and in my childish mind’s eye I always had them in long Edwardian dresses.

  As I gazed back now, I wondered if tonight’s party had broken up. The lights strung above the terrace were still shining. Perhaps Janey, Tommy and Roger would still be drinking and chatting around the table, but Hugo and Christina would have gone up, I was sure. I saw them mounting the stairs companionably. Brushing their teeth, doing all the cosy, familiar things together. Reading for a bit, maybe. Then the lights would go out. Then what? Sex isn’t everything. Would he squeeze her hand, murmur something soft, then roll over and go to sleep, as he had done with me?

  I sat on a rock and drew up my knees, wrapping my arms around them. Then I allowed myself to indulge in something I very rarely did these days, but for which I felt Celia – the caustic, demanding Cele – had given me a green light. I had a proper think about Hugo. As I gazed up the path of the moon, I let him flood my mind, knowing, once the sluice gates had opened, he’d be there in glorious Technicolor. But for some reason my guilty pleasure wasn’t entirely satisfactory. Because the thing was, the qualities Celia had complimented him on – his gen
tleness, his compassion, his ability to listen – suddenly became suspect. Because she’d also so neatly skewered his ability to remould his mother. The kindness and loyalty in those circumstances were misplaced, which suddenly put everything else at a skew, too. I also recalled him catching my eye as I talked to Tommy, in a considerate, caring way, making sure I was OK. Knowing Tommy wasn’t my cup of tea. It was something I would normally have chewed salaciously over later, like a tasty bone. But the thing was, I really was OK. Was totally up to Tommy. Really didn’t need him asking. So disorientated was I by my unfamiliar thought pattern, by my feeling that Celia’s objective eye had cast a shadow she wasn’t even aware of, that when a male voice rasped loudly in my ear behind me, I actually toppled right off my rock on to the sand.

  ‘Orright, my loverrr?’ had trumpeted behind me, at full volume.

  I picked myself up from the sand and spun about, heart pounding. I was startled beyond belief. My eyes made out a shadowy figure looming over me, his back to the dunes. As I focused properly, and with the help of the moon, I realized it was Ted Fleming. He was grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘What the hell …?’ I clutched my heart which was still hammering.

  ‘Oh sorry. Did I startle you? I thought a traditional Cornish greeting would be just the ticket for a girl steeped in the dialect.’

  I stared at him, flummoxed. Then my mind flew back to our little exchange in the hall the other day. The dawn began to come up. I nodded in acknowledgement. Smiled thinly. ‘Ah. Right. Touché.’ I notched up a point in the air to him with my finger. ‘Well done you.’

  He inclined his head in gracious acceptance of his victory, still grinning.

  ‘Tell me,’ I asked at length when I’d composed myself. ‘Do you conservationists never sleep? Is your cause so urgent and worthy that you have to comb the beach all night?’

  ‘You make that sound like a bad thing. Easy to poke fun at good causes, of course.’

  I folded my arms. ‘I just wish they were done with a little more joy, that’s all.’

  ‘Really?’ His eyes widened, theatrically stunned. ‘What – all worthy causes? Dropping aid from planes in Ethiopia whilst singing a merry song? Handing out medical supplies in Aleppo and dancing the hornpipe?’

  I managed not to smile. ‘No, OK. Not all. You surprised me, that’s all. I was miles away.’

  ‘Well, only one.’ He jerked his head back to the house. Then he looked at me. ‘You were up there.’

  I followed to where he was suggesting, disconcerted. ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘With your ex-husband?’

  I frowned. ‘How d’you know he’s my ex-husband?’

  ‘Oh, Babs is full of chat. I had a drink with her. She seems to have slightly adopted me, didn’t you know?’ He grinned. Then he shrugged non-committally. ‘He’s a nice man.’

  I nodded slowly. ‘Of course. You had a meeting with him.’

  ‘Nice, but malleable. The intention is there, but the decision-making isn’t.’

  ‘Are we talking about beach pollution again?’

  ‘So wearying.’

  ‘There are other things?’

  He regarded me carefully a moment. Then he moved to the rock I’d been sitting on. Perched on it. Patted the space beside him. I hesitated, then went and sat down.

  ‘There are, admittedly, other things. But right now it’s pretty pertinent. Particularly here. Particularly with that family being so involved.’

  ‘It’s not Hugo’s fault,’ I told him defensively. ‘His hands are tied.’

  ‘Of course it’s his fault. He’s the CEO. His father’s hands were never tied, I’ve checked.’

  ‘Roger’s a different person.’

  ‘You mean he’s his own person.’

  ‘That’s a cretinous expression. Everyone’s their own person. It’s just whether or not you like what you see.’ I was horribly aware, though, that this man was spookily echoing thoughts I’d had myself, only moments earlier. ‘And anyway, what d’you mean, you’ve checked? What are you, the police?’

  ‘When Roger was in charge there were plenty of contentious decisions. Too much sewage being pumped into the wrong places, or ignored at sea. Not enough filtration – the waste water treatment in Plymouth is wholly responsible for Bio-Beads, incidentally, those minute things we’d carefully gathered into piles and which you galloped gaily through the other day. Even Roger would admit that. Although he’d also say they were unaware of the dangers back then, and he’s right. Mistakes were made through general ignorance. But everyone is so informed these days, there’s no excuse. But it’s not just that. Crucially, in Roger’s day there were far fewer anomalies.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know, exactly.’ He narrowed his eyes and gazed out to sea. ‘I’m not sure yet. But something here doesn’t quite stack up.’ He was quiet for a while. After a bit, he sighed. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps I just want someone to blame for something I care deeply about.’

  I grinned. ‘Ah, at last. A glimmer of self-knowledge.’ He didn’t smile, though. Looked depressed, even, and I rather regretted my barb. ‘You can’t help having a passion,’ I offered in recompense. ‘Hate that word, by the way. It’s so overused and devalued.’

  ‘Used as an excuse for anything.’

  ‘Exactly. Shopping, exercise – any selfish activity people want to do to please themselves for hours on end.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t apply it to your art?’

  ‘I wouldn’t, actually. I was thinking about it earlier. Painting is what keeps me grounded. In control. Even though, paradoxically, I’m out of control when I’m doing it. Exposed and completely at its mercy, if you see what I mean. It nevertheless roots me. I can’t really explain.’

  ‘You’re doing very well. And I wouldn’t begin to compare my joyless, beachcombing activities with anything truly creative, but losing myself in it comes close to what you describe. I do become consumed.’

  I remembered his concentration when I’d first seen him, wading and gazing forensically into the shallows, container in hand.

  ‘Which is healthy, I feel.’

  ‘Quite.’

  We were silent a moment. A light breeze ruffled our hair.

  ‘I feel we got off on the wrong foot, when we first met,’ I said abruptly. ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘My fault, too. Seem to remember I had a go at you about something. Ah yes, the riding.’

  ‘Well, you’re your “Own Person”,’ I said ironically. ‘That’s pretty much a licence to kill.’

  He smiled down at his knees. Nodded. ‘Truce?’

  ‘Truce.’

  ‘Drink?’

  I blinked. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Well, not now. I’m going to bed. But tomorrow maybe? In the Mariners?’

  ‘Oh.’ I thought for a moment. ‘Well. Yes. All right. Why not?’

  ‘Don’t panic, Flora, it’s a drink in the Mariners. Not a hot date. I’m usually there with some of my students at about seven. They like to ponce a drink off me. Babs is often there, too.’

  ‘I might bring Celia along,’ I said, remembering suddenly.

  He nodded. ‘I’ll see you then.’

  He got down off the rock and dusted his hands. Then, without looking back or saying goodnight, he walked away. A tall, solitary figure, roaming steadily back down the beach. He had a certain presence, I’ll give him that. I watched until he was around the corner of the bay and out of sight.

  14

  The following day, however, a more pressing appointment was first on the agenda; one at lunchtime, in Truro. The restaurant was crowded and much bigger than I’d imagined. I’d had trouble finding it because I’d nonchalantly assumed I knew everywhere there was to go in this city, only to find that the whole place had changed beyond recognition behind my back. It had always bustled and thronged with people, but in my day they were shuffling in and out of McDonald’s and Greggs in pac-a-macs, not sprawling indolently in cutting-edge fashion all ove
r the Cathedral square which appeared to have got itself up like an Italian piazza. In the surrounding streets, café society spilled from every conceivable eatery orifice, of which there were many, everyone sipping rosé and cappuccino and taking the mezze option or the sharing platter, not an egg sarnie or a pasty in sight.

  The restaurant to which I was headed was off the main square and in a similar vein, although we seemed to have moved seamlessly from Italy to France. I pushed through the revolving glass door into a long, bustling bistro. Its white walls were crowded with black and white photographs, and pedestal lamps were suspended from the ceiling. Shiny brass railings and wooden compartments sectioned off little areas of leather banquette seating and white linen-clad tables. The acoustics were presumably intentionally dreadful to give the place instant atmosphere, which it certainly did. It was mostly full of young, thrusting executives having noisy lunches as even younger waiters wove amongst them in long, crisp aprons, expertly balancing seafood platters on one hand above their heads. Oysters on a huge tray of ice swept past my nose. I mean for heaven’s sake, what did Truro think it was? Oh, OK. Bang next to a fishing port.

  The maître d’ was already leading me efficiently across the wooden floor, but I saw her before he did. My hand shot up in delighted recognition as she simultaneously saw me and got to her feet, waving both hands above her head in wonderful abandonment. She looked even more glamorous than I remembered. She was wearing a silky blue wrap dress and heels, whippet thin as ever, and her hair was neatly tied back in a velvet bow. We held out our arms dramatically. Grinning from ear to ear, we hugged each other tight. The maître d’ smiled and left us to it as we failed to unclench.