A Cornish Summer

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Ignore them,’ I told him, panting. The sand was deep here and hard to run on. ‘They’re pissed.’

  ‘You don’t say.’ He grinned. ‘By the way, I’ve just got your text.’ He produced his phone. ‘Only works when you’re off the beach.’

  ‘I know. Ted, I need to ask you something.’

  He glanced at his watch. ‘Can it wait? Aren’t we having supper tonight? I’ve stayed for longer than I should have done, had no idea it was such a jamboree. I’ll shoot back for supper later, though.’

  ‘No, no, it – it can’t wait.’

  He blinked. Saw the seriousness in my face. ‘OK.’ He shrugged. ‘Fire away.’

  I walked on a few steps towards the dunes. Sat down in front of one. He looked surprised then followed suit and sat beside me. I’d thought about this in the car. No recriminations. No how dare you go behind my back to my friend Shona. I felt it, but I wouldn’t say it. I was growing up, you see. And I wanted something from him. Making him my enemy was not going to help.

  I licked my lips. Gave myself a moment. ‘Ted, I know everything you know about Bellingdon Water. About the infrastructure. How badly maintained it is.’

  He instantly looked defensive. ‘Shona.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who was not supposed to tell you that.’

  ‘But she did.’

  ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘That you spoke to Shona?’ Yes. Bloody hell, yes. ‘No, of course not.’

  He relaxed. ‘I had to, Flora. It’s too big not to. I know I went behind your back but – you know.’

  ‘Sure.’ No. I don’t know. I don’t behave like that. ‘The thing is, Ted, I know they’ve got a lot wrong.’

  ‘Oh, you have no idea,’ he said bitterly.

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘We’re talking a criminal investigation here.’

  My heart pounded. ‘I know.’

  We regarded one another: his strong features were framed by salty greying curls, whipped around in the breeze. His weathered face showed his years of research and academic study, his time by the coast, by the sea. His life.

  ‘Ted, I know you’re horrified,’ I said quietly. ‘And I understand that. It is horrific.’

  ‘Years of neglect, years!’ His face tightened with anger. ‘And if I’m right – covered up, in a frantic, cowardly fashion. Known about, there’s the rub, Flora. Aware that pipes were leaking raw sewage, that fish poisoning was endemic, protracted – and not stopped! It’s one thing to be unaware of corroded pipes under the sea, the ground, but to know and cover it up! To submit fictitious reports, fairy-tale stories about detailed repairs and maintenance that never happened – it grips my shit!’

  ‘I know, I know. And I feel it, too. I lived here, I grew up here. I’m a native, Ted. I love these beaches, these waters.’

  I watched him take this on board. He couldn’t speak, but he nodded curtly in acknowledgement.

  ‘All I’m asking—’ I said as levelly as I possibly could, knowing he was on the brink.

  ‘What are you asking?’

  ‘All I’m asking for is some time. Just, please, give Bellingdon some time.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘To fess up. To go to the Environment Agency, to let them do it. Tell the truth.’

  ‘They won’t,’ he sneered. ‘Or if they do, they’ll fudge it. Make excuses, cite environmental problems – the weather, frost – as they did before. No, Flora, I’m blowing the whistle. I want them and I want them badly. I want them all over the front pages of the papers. I want them dead in the water they poison.’

  My breathing was very irregular but I kept it together. ‘I understand that, Ted. I understand, after all your years of research, clean-up operations, and – and the fact that someone is deliberately doing this, I understand you want your pound of flesh. But I’m asking you to do this for me.’

  ‘While you talk to Hugo.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who you’re still in love with, I know that, Flora.’

  ‘At our age we’ve had a lot of loves in our lives. Still have some. You know that, too.’

  He looked away and narrowed his eyes out to sea. His arms linked around his bare knees in his shorts. The sky was grey and lowering now. After a while he spoke. ‘Are you threatening me, Flora? Do this for me or we won’t have a relationship? I won’t have supper, I won’t be your girlfriend – is that it?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Yes. Definitely. But that particular die was already cast, in any event. And I also knew what he was going to say. He shook his head.

  ‘I can’t do it, Flora. You can tell me you’re a Bellingdon, that your son’s a Bellingdon, you can plead with me, but I still can’t do it. I know too much. And it’s too fucking enormous. They’re shits. Not the father – it would never have happened in his day, in fact he was one of the first subcontractors to encourage stricter maintenance measures, to sign up to scrutiny, one of the first to recognize the environment. But that disaster of a son of his, the one you love so much …’ He regarded me with a mixture of dismay and horror.

  Still I kept control.

  ‘Hugo was under pressure. So much. You’ll never know how much. His mother, the shareholders—’

  ‘His mother! Jesus fucking Christ, he’s a man, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘Ted, sometimes personal issues, problems, can seem bigger than – than—’ I grappled for the word, ‘than world problems. Don’t you know that?’

  He stared. ‘Of course.’

  ‘And sometimes – sometimes sacrificing personal life for the greater good – is impossible. For some people. Not for you, I get that. The cause was bigger than your marriage, for instance.’

  He looked at me sharply.

  ‘That’s why she left you, Jilly. Isn’t it? Because you loved the environment more than you loved her. She realized that. She couldn’t play second fiddle.’

  He stared out to sea. ‘Is that so wrong?’

  ‘No, plenty of other people, plenty of righteous, famous people – the Pankhursts – God, I don’t know, Martin Luther King, off the top of my head – have done the same. But some people can’t, Ted. They’re not strong enough.’

  ‘Weak. It’s what sorts the men from the boys.’

  I let that go. ‘Everyone’s different,’ I said evenly. ‘You sacrificed your family. Hugo can’t do that.’

  ‘You mean his mother,’ he said bitterly. ‘And, yes, I sacrificed my wife. Having kids. Much bigger.’

  ‘And me. On a smaller scale.’

  He nodded. ‘And you. If that’s how you see it. Or want to see it. And on a … different scale. No longevity between us, no past, but lots of feeling. I like you, Flora. Don’t know you, haven’t known you long enough to say I love you, but I like you a lot. Think we could have had something together. A future, maybe.’

  ‘And I like you. But Ted, I lied when I said earlier I didn’t mind you seeing Shona.’ I closed my fist and put it on my heart. ‘I do. I am one of those “personal” people, not a “greater good” person. I mind. About personal relationships, loyalty. It does matter that you went behind my back and told tales about my son’s family. I’m not like you.’

  He was quiet a moment. We both watched the crabbers coming in, laughing and tooting their horns now, whole families on board. The race was over, they were on their way to the shore. Ted’s mouth twitched ironically.

  ‘I suppose supper’s out of the question, then?’

  I smiled down at the sand. I think we both knew the answer to that. Sad, but not devastating. Not by a long chalk. And I’d have walked, eventually, as Jilly had done, I knew that, too. Better now. Ted needed a very particular kind of woman: one burning with the same fire, perhaps. Or perhaps no woman at all. No kids at all, to get in the way of his real passion. His driving force. The blood in his veins.

  He cleared his throat. ‘And, incidentally, just as it’s a “no” to supper, it’s a “no” to what you’ve just
asked me, too. I’m blowing the whistle. Loud and clear. In fact, you might be too late.’

  I gazed at him, uncomprehending. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘No, not too late. I haven’t done anything formal yet. But I saw Hugo, earlier. Down here on the beach, cooking sausages. Like he was the nicest man alive. Cooking supper in his pinny for all the poor local kiddies. The ones who swim in his polluted waters. My arse,’ he snarled. ‘I couldn’t resist letting him know I knew.’

  ‘What did you say?’ I breathed.

  ‘Oh, not much. Just let him know his dirty little secret wasn’t safe with me. That’s all I said. “You’re not safe, Hugo.”’

  I stared at Ted. He looked impassively back. Then I looked down the beach, to where the Bellingdon clan were doing their usual annual thing. Running around with plates of food, putting burgers on racks, even Roger, barbecue tongs in hand, a green Bellingdon Water apron on. But I couldn’t see Hugo. And then I realized, he was the only one I hadn’t seen since I arrived on the beach.

  29

  I stood up. Scanned the beach. ‘He’s not there.’

  ‘He is. They’re all there. Publicly exhibiting their magnanimous, charitable, philanthropic sides. But it’s all show. Unlike the grandfather who donated the beach to the village, sadly all the real compassion has filtered away. Got contaminated. Like the murky water they produce. Goodbye, Flora. I hope we can still be friends. I’ve offended you, I know, but I can’t help myself. And I think we both know about not being able to help ourselves.’

  I turned to him, but I wasn’t really listening. ‘Yes, yes, I do,’ I muttered, half realizing he was talking about me not being able to help loving Hugo, and even submitting willingly to the hug he gave me. A fierce one from his vantage point, holding me tight, but my eyes were still roving the beach, over his shoulder. He gave me another squeeze, and, as I broke away his hand went to clasp mine, but I was off.

  I ran down the dunes, which is impossible with shoes on, so I paused and whipped them off. Then I raced across to the large gathering on the beach, which had swollen to a couple of hundred people. Luckily the green Bellingdon Water aprons helped. Ted was right; Belinda was very much emphasizing her family’s noblesse oblige status today, giving everyone the same broad smile as she served them but never doing more than move her mouth. I saw her bustle across to Roger at the long row of barbecues which every family had brought down, the Bellingdons’ obviously the biggest, and I realized I had to keep this casual, offhand, no panic. I therefore avoided them both and Peter, too, with Ibby and Theo as he showed them how to turn sausages over without them sticking to the racks. I headed instead for the salad bar, where Christina and Iris were helping people pile their plates.

  ‘Christina, you haven’t seen Hugo, have you?’ I asked, as nonchalantly as possible.

  ‘He went up to the house to get more burgers. Why? Problem?’

  ‘No, not at all. I met an old friend who was asking after him, that’s all. But I’ll tell him he’ll be back in a mo.’

  ‘Hope so, we haven’t got nearly enough food. Plus I think we need to feed them quickly as I reckon it’s going to rain.’ She glanced up at the heavy, leaden sky: the air was thickening and contracting as if thunder was imminent. Perhaps signalling the end of the heatwave. She leaned across the table. ‘And I wouldn’t get involved, if I were you, Flora,’ she added in a low voice. ‘Belinda is on the warpath and at her very worst today, probably because she’s under-catered. Anything you do will be wrong. She’s already told me my potato salad is dismal and hasn’t got nearly enough seasoning.’

  ‘Thanks, I stand warned.’ I smiled and left her to it, but already, I was somewhere else in my head.

  I had a vague idea both she and Iris watched me curiously as I left the beach at speed and fled up the dunes, taking them as if I were out hunting and they were Irish banks, but I was too concerned to care. Not panicked, note, because he’d simply gone back to the house to get burgers, but I badly wanted to find him, set eyes on him and reassure him … reassure him of what? That all would be well? It wouldn’t. But – yes, with Tommy’s help, it would. And I’d help him back with the food, my excuse for going to find him.

  Car or walk? I dithered. The lanes were choked with cars, everyone having to pull over and wait in hedgerows while others passed in the opposite direction, so although driving should be quicker, I put my shoes back on and ran instead. Or jogged. I wasn’t that fit. I must have cut an unusual figure puffing up the sandy track past our cottage, which was also a public footpath, and I was aware of families with picnic baskets making their way down for the beach supper giving me strange looks as I went against the traffic.

  As I soldiered on, I recalled Christina’s chumminess over Belinda: I liked it. I’d never heard her criticize her before, but then I’d never talked to Christina much at all. She’d tried but I’d been difficult. Frosty. And to her credit, she’d nonetheless never stopping trying. As I jogged on, feeling the strain in my thighs now, breathless and hot, it occurred to me that our relationship could be very different and my heart soared as I realized how happy Peter would be about that: Hugo, too, as we had lunch, or shopped together. What a difference it would make to everyone. As long as there wasn’t a family scandal, of course, with the Bellingdons on the front page of every paper, as Ted had threatened. Headlining the six o’clock news. Feeling slightly sick, I quickened my pace.

  Around the next bend the track finally became gravel, the prelude to the Bellingdon estate proper. A cattle grid heralded the entrance, no formal gates. Roger had put his foot down even though Belinda had wanted them. ‘A cattle grid was good enough for my father and his father before him, so it’s good enough for me!’ he’d roared. One of the few battles his wife hadn’t won. I hopped over it now and then jogged on up to the gravel sweep, complete with stone fountain in the middle, very definitely a Belinda addition, installed when Roger was in India for a month. With Babs, as it happened. Even Belinda had realized she had to distress it, so pristine and nouveau did the stone appear, so she threw yoghurt and cow dung at it, and perhaps imagined Babs’ face, as she did.

  Exhausted, I held my sides and staggered on, too tired to run now. No cars in the drive. So either Hugo planned to carry the food back, or take the Land Rover, perhaps? Yes, that’s what he’d do. Walk up, and take the Land Rover back. I found second wind to jump up the steps and push the front door, which was on the latch. Truffle padded down from the kitchen, old tail wagging slowly, but, other than that, the house was still and quiet, just the familiar ticking of the long-case clock. I flew down the passage and through the green baize door to the kitchen. Sure enough, signs of fridge and freezer raiding were evident. Large white polystyrene trays from the butchers had been discarded, with torn bits of cellophane, as Hugo no doubt decanted the whole lot into – I crouched to the cupboard below – ah yes. The large Aga pans had gone. OK, so was he still toing and froing, back and forth to a car in the yard? I glanced out of the kitchen window which looked on to the stable yard but couldn’t see any sign of him.

  On an impulse, I decided to search the rest of the house. I raced around downstairs, throwing one door open after another and spinning about. Empty. Empty empty empty. Finally, the drawing room, whose huge double doors I threw wide. No one there. I fled upstairs. Taking the stairs two at a time, past the – we now know – bogus ancestral portraits, I tried all the rooms off the landing, four or five, and mostly spare. Nothing. Then down the corridor to Hugo and Christina’s bedroom, which ratcheted up my anxiety levels, but thankfully, was empty, and very tidy, as was their bathroom. Roger and Belinda’s room, right at the end, vast and with windows on three sides, was equally immaculate. Obviously it was Belinda’s room really, since Roger slept in his dressing room, and it was a long time since I’d been in here; in her inner sanctum. It gave me a jolt to see all the photos and paintings of Hugo on the walls.

  I remembered that first Christmas morning, when we’d been bidden to assemble in here and
open our stockings with Roger and Belinda – in our pyjamas on the bed. Peter too, of course, a tiny baby. I’d perched on the very end of the bed, where Belinda had indicated. Belinda had sat in regal splendour, propped up on lacy pillows; Roger, in his paisley dressing gown, dapper and groomed, was in a chair; but Hugo got in beside her. I’d found it breathtaking. In bed with his mummy. And all those portraits, looking back at him, on the walls. I’d left in a state of shock, and even Mum, who tried to think the best of every Bellingdon foible, and would reassure me they were perfectly normal, had listened with eyes like dinner plates. But hadn’t said a word.

  I shut the door firmly. Then I raced up to the nursery floor in the attic, the old servants’ quarters, but all was quiet and empty up there, too, so I went back downstairs. Feeling mightily relieved and, actually, faintly ridiculous, I went outside. I walked round to the stable yard where the Land Rover was usually parked, at the far end, ready to tow the horse box. Still there. OK, so one of the other cars, then? These would be parked at the back. Belinda’s, Hugo’s and Roger’s were indeed on the hard standing. I shrugged. OK, so he’d walked. Or maybe taken the new quad bike, bought for the grandchildren, that would be sensible.

  I went back to the yard and opened the stable door where it was kept: there it was. As I shut the door pensively, two of Iris’s beautiful horses, who’d sensibly been keeping away from the flies, came from the back of their stables where it was cool and dark to poke their elegant noses over the doors and prick their ears curiously. I stroked their velvety noses thoughtfully and let them blow into my hand. One old hunter licked the salt. The thing was, if he’d walked, I’d have passed him, surely? I frowned. And all those pans of food. So heavy. Suddenly I had a thought. A rather mad one, because why on earth would anyone of any sense take one of those much flashier forms of transport? Nevertheless, I set off down the back drive to the agricultural barn some few hundred yards away, with its three or four loose boxes beneath the hay loft.