Claire’s quiet glance was comforting. ‘He seems a very clever man, your Daniel.’
‘Yes.’ Which brought to mind another theory Daniel and I shared. ‘Claire?’
‘Yes, darling?’
‘When you went away that time, and stayed away so long,’ I asked, ‘what happened? I mean, did you travel back in time at all?’
She shook her head. ‘No. When I wasn’t at Trelowarth, nothing happened.’
‘And when you were here,’ I pressed further, ‘did you ever travel back in time when you were in Polgelly, or St Non’s?’
‘No. Only here.’
I felt a twist of hope. ‘So then it is tied to Trelowarth.’
Claire agreed that it did seem to be. ‘Perhaps it has something to do with Felicity’s ley lines.’
I frowned. ‘But why us, though? Why are only the two of us affected? Why not Susan, or Felicity, or—’
‘Darling, it’s a mystery, and it likely will remain one. I don’t know what brought your Uncle George and I together, and I doubt I ever will. He called to me, somehow,’ she said. ‘That’s all I truly know. He called to me, or else I called to him.’ The sun was setting now, the shadows growing longer on the sundial as she looked at it serenely. ‘We were both a little lost, I think, and so we found each other. How does anyone find anyone?’
I didn’t have the answer. I was thinking about Daniel, lonely after losing Ann, and of myself without Katrina, looking desperately for somewhere to belong. Which one of us, I wondered, had first called out to the other across time?
I watched the sundial too, and drew a breath that caught a little in the place above my heart. ‘But it’s so hard,’ I said. ‘I mean, what if I never do go back again? What if the whole thing just stops, or …’ My next breath caught more painfully.
I thought of Fergal, telling me he wouldn’t ever want to know his future. ‘Nor should anyone,’ he’d told me, ‘know what lies in store for someone else, for that would be a burden, would it not?’ If he were here, I thought, I could have told him it was just as great a burden, sometimes, not to know.
I said as much to Claire. ‘It’s just so hard,’ I said, ‘not knowing what will happen.’
She looked at me, and in the fading light her eyes were filled with understanding and with sympathy. And knowledge.
And she asked me, ‘Shall I tell you?’
CHAPTER FORTY
Mr Rowe slid the last of the papers across his desk to me and sat back as discreetly as he could within the confines of his office to wait while I read through them.
‘Perfect,’ I said finally. ‘Thank you.’
‘Not at all.’ He watched me initial the pages and sign them. ‘And here,’ he said, pointing to one line I’d missed. ‘You are sure about this? It’s a very large Trust.’
‘Quite sure, Mr Rowe. It was never my money,’ I tried to explain. ‘It belonged to my sister, and this is what she would have wanted.’
‘But this new arrangement leaves nothing,’ he said, ‘for your personal use.’
‘I have other accounts.’ Which of course was a lie, but I said it convincingly, and with a smile, and he seemed reassured.
‘Ah.’ He gave a nod.
I signed the final page. ‘There’s nothing else I need to do?’
‘No, nothing. From now on we’ll see to everything. Mr Hallett and his sister and their heirs can rest assured that the Trelowarth Trust will be well managed; they won’t have to do a thing but let us know what monies they require, and when.’
‘And you’ll explain this all to them? They’re just off to London today, but they’ll be back on Tuesday.’
‘Then I shall contact them on Wednesday.’
‘I have a letter here, for both of them.’ I drew it from my handbag. Passed it over. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, when you do see them, could you give them this as well?’
‘Of course.’ He stood when I stood. Shook my hand when I thanked him. ‘It’s been a great pleasure,’ he said.
‘And for me.’
I left the bank and stepped back out into the midday sunshine and the narrow crowded street. The mood of the tourists down here in Polgelly had subtly shifted, as though they had only just realised that summer was nearing its end and so, too, were their holidays. Gone were the leisurely couples and families, replaced by a purposeful horde who were actively looking for fun and impatient to find it, thronging the pavements and pushing through shops in their search for it.
People perched all down the harbour wall as always, with their newspaper-wrapped fish and chips and their rattling striped paper bags from the fudge shop, but even those people seemed restless now, keeping one eye on the time while they ate, no doubt very aware there were still many things left to do in the limited hours of the day that remained.
I knew just how they felt.
I was running a bit late myself when I wended my way through the crowd by the harbour and ducked through the door of the Wellington.
I’d never seen the inside of the pub, and the brightness disarmed me a moment. From the outside the Wellington looked every year of its age, whitewashed walls leaning slightly on ancient foundations, a little bit rough and disreputable, much as it might have looked back in the day when it went by the name of the Spaniard’s Rest, when Jack had come to drink rum here and Daniel had made sure his pistol was tucked in his belt before venturing in. Knowing some of that history, I’d somehow expected the inside of the pub to look a little dark and dangerous, a den fit for smugglers and thieves.
Seeing the white stuccoed walls and the honey-warm wood of the tables and booths and the light dancing in through the multi-paned windows surprised me, so much so that Oliver, already comfortably settled in one of the booths with a view of the harbour, glanced up with a grin as I joined him.
‘Not quite what you’d pictured?’ he guessed.
‘Not a bit.’
‘I know, it disappointed me, too, when my Uncle Alf brought me in here for my first legal pint,’ he admitted. ‘After the way all us kids had been warned off the Wellie so long, I’d expected there’d be knife marks on the tables and a band of cut-throats in the public bar, but no such luck.’ Draining the dregs of the pint he’d been drinking, he levered himself from his seat and asked, ‘What can I get you?’
Normally I would have had something non-alcoholic at lunch, but this wasn’t a normal day. ‘Half of whatever you’re having, please.’
Oliver didn’t question my choice, crossing over to the bar to place our order with the barman while I bent to read the menu, but when he came back and took his seat again he held my half-pint ransom. ‘All right,’ he asked me, curious. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘First you ring me up and ask me out to lunch,’ he said, ‘which in itself is rather odd, you must admit. And now you’re drinking in the middle of the day. Not,’ he qualified, with roguish charm, ‘that I’m complaining about either, mind, but it does seem a little out of character.’
I pointed at my half-pint. ‘Can I have that?’
‘When you tell me why you need it.’ Leaning slightly back he looked me over, taking stock. ‘You’re either working up the nerve to proposition me,’ he guessed, ‘or else you’re getting set to break my heart.’
‘Oliver …’
‘In case you’re undecided, I say go with option number one, it’s so much more enjoyable for everyone involved.’
I told the table, ‘I won’t need to rent a cottage from you, after all.’
A pause. ‘You’re staying at Trelowarth, then?’
I shook my head.
‘I see.’ He took a drink himself. ‘So, option number two, then.’
I said, ‘Oliver.’
‘What changed your mind?’
I shrugged and deflected the question because there was no way to answer it honestly. ‘I thought I’d do a bit of travelling.’
‘Alone, I take it?’
Glancing up, I saw he wasn’t expect
ing an answer. The smile in his eyes, though resigned, held a trace of regret.
He said, ‘Well, I did try.’
‘You did.’
Leaning confidentially towards me he pretended to look pained. ‘Was it the biking shorts? Were they too much?’
It felt good to laugh. I told him, ‘No, I rather liked the biking shorts. It was just that … well, I couldn’t …’
‘Say no more.’ He slid my glass across the table to me. ‘I mean, you’re not the first woman to feel a passion in my presence that’s so strong she runs away from it.’
‘Is that a fact?’
‘It happens all the time.’
He raised his menu, feigning nonchalance, while I regarded him with fondness. How like Oliver, I thought, to try to make this whole thing easy for me, when with any other man it might have been so awkward.
On impulse I told him, ‘You really are wonderful.’
He answered without looking up. ‘An unfortunate side effect.’
I had to smile. ‘Side effect? Of what?’
‘Brain damage, actually. Somebody nailed me right here with a rock, once.’ He showed me the place on the side of his head and his eyes, meeting mine briefly over the top of the menu, lost their teasing light. Just for a moment. ‘I’ve never got over it.’
And then he dropped his gaze back to the menu and said, ‘Now, let’s see what you’re buying me.’
‘How did he take it?’ asked Susan.
I carefully helped her manoeuvre the last of the show roses into the van. ‘He was fine. He did get a bit drunk, though.’
‘He’s rather adorable when he gets drunk.’ With a smile she admitted, ‘I’m not sure that I could resist him, in that state.’ Securing the roses, she took a look round. ‘Is that all of them?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘I do wish that you’d change your mind and come.’
‘I can’t.’
‘But you’ve never been to Southport, and the flower show’s quite fun. Besides, I’ll need someone to play with. Fee won’t have much time for me, will she?’ She emphasised that with a meaningful glance past my shoulder to where Mark stood close to Felicity, talking, beside the front door. But in spite of her complaining, Susan didn’t look at all put out. In fact, she looked well satisfied by how things were developing. ‘Do come,’ she said.
I explained that I would if I could. ‘But I can’t change my travel arrangements.’
‘Too bad. Maybe next year, then.’
‘Maybe.’
She dusted her hands on her jeans. ‘Look, you’ve been such a help. I can’t thank you enough.’
She was talking, I knew, about more than our loading the van, but I’d played such a small role in launching the tea room that I couldn’t take any credit. I said, ‘It was nothing.’
‘Of course it was something. I mean, our new website, and all that publicity, bringing the tour groups on board. Not to mention the trouble you went to, to find me those smugglers to spice up the brochures. And now Mark,’ she said, with a nod at the van, ‘doing this. It’s your influence, Eva. We couldn’t have done it without you.’
I wanted to say, ‘Yes, you could,’ but her eyes were so earnest I kept my thoughts private and hugged her instead. ‘You take care of yourself.’
‘And you. Don’t you forget us,’ she told me. ‘Come back any time.’
My hug briefly tightened, and then I released her and said, ‘Have a good time in Southport.’
Felicity, when it was her turn to wish me well, gave me a gift.
‘I remember you liked him,’ she said, as she passed me the little bronze sculpture. My pisky, the one I had held and admired in her shop on that day when she’d told me the story of Porthallow Green and the piskies who’d taken the young boy adventuring, whisking him dancing from place to place as the mood took them. The pisky looked up from the palm of my hand with his wide knowing smile.
Felicity said, ‘It’s insurance, to see that you’ll find your way back to us. Just tell him, “I’m for Trelowarth”.’
‘I’ll do that.’ I closed my fingers round the little figure. ‘Thank you.’
Mark stood and waited beside the front door as though knowing I’d want our goodbye to come last.
When it did, it was all at once harder and easier than I had thought it would be.
‘Summer’s end,’ he said. ‘Just like old times.’
‘So it is.’
But it wasn’t like old times, not really, and both of us knew it. Those lazy, long-ago summers when the four of us children had run at our will through the gardens and roamed the Wild Wood and played laughingly all through the streets of Polgelly, those summers were gone and would not come again.
Still, the gardens remained, and the roses returned, and there’d be other summers to come and new memories to make.
Mark said, ‘You used to stuff your pockets full of fudge before you left.’
I smiled. ‘I might still do that. What time does the fudge shop close?’
‘Don’t know. Just mind, if you go down the hill you have to come back up,’ he told me, ‘and I won’t be here to carry you.’
‘You’ve carried me enough this summer. All of you.’
‘Yeah well, you needed it, I reckon.’ His keen eyes were understanding. ‘Better now?’
I nodded. Wanting to be honest with him, I said, ‘Mark, I don’t know when I’ll make it back again, or even if … that is, it might be quite a while.’ I let my gaze drop to the ground between us, feeling at a loss, and Mark stepped forwards, wrapping me within his solid arms.
‘It took you twenty years the last time,’ he reminded me. ‘However long it takes this time, it won’t make any difference.’
‘It’s not you,’ I tried to tell him. ‘I love all of you, I do. I love Trelowarth. But …’ I couldn’t find the words.
He found them for me. ‘It’s not home.’
Grateful, I rested my cheek against his for a moment and shook my head.
He took a step away and stood there looking down at me, the same old Mark, the same slow smile, the comfort of his hands still so familiar on my shoulders. ‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘I didn’t really think it would be. After all, Katrina’s ashes wouldn’t settle at Trelowarth, either.’
I’d forgotten that. I felt my smile wobble but it must have had my heart in it because he flicked a finger lightly down my cheek the way he’d done when I was small and he was feeling brotherly. ‘I’m sorry that I won’t be here to drive you to the station.’
‘Claire can see me off.’
He gave a nod, and leant to kiss my forehead. ‘You take care.’
‘You, too.’
It was past time for them to leave. I stayed there standing in the drive while they went off. I waved, then tucked both hands deep in my jacket’s pockets as the van blurred very briefly in my vision.
From the region of my feet I heard a mournful little whine, and looking down I saw the small dog Samson sitting with his gaze fixed up the road where Mark had gone. He whined again, and trembled slightly, and I bent to give his head a pat of reassurance.
‘It’s OK,’ I told the dog, ‘you’ll see him soon.’
I felt the small bronze pisky weighing heavy in my hand, and in a softer voice I said again, more certainly, ‘You’ll see him soon.’
The pisky’s smile held mischief mingled with its knowing wisdom as I looked at it a moment, and I marvelled again at Felicity’s craftsmanship, giving this small bit of metal such life. I remembered her saying, ‘In Cornwall, one truly feels magic could actually happen.’ And thinking again of the legend of Porthallow Green, I held tight to my pisky and gave it a try.
Eyes closed, I said, ‘I’m for Daniel Butler.’
But the wind that brushed my upturned face was all the answer I received.
Beside me, Samson whined again, and I opened my eyes. The other dogs had taken off already with the happiness of schoolchildren released from supervision, and I c
ould see them bounding in a joyous pack along the path towards the Lower Garden.
Beyond that lay the green rise of the fields above the darker smudge of woods that tumbled down to where the black cliffs met the sea, with the wind raising ridges of white on the water as far out from land as my vision would stretch.
Above those waves the white birds wheeled and spiralled in the air and I was suddenly reminded of what Mark had said about Katrina’s ashes, and I thought back to the day when we’d released them on this hill, when they had gathered in the wind and danced away.
In search of somewhere else, so Mark had thought. Except I knew now in my heart that wasn’t right. Not somewhere.
Someone.
And I thought I knew, at last, where she had gone.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
He didn’t call back till the following morning.
I worked the times backwards: if it was nine here, that would mean in LA it was one in the morning.
‘Eva?’
I heard the sounds of a party around him – the clink of a glass and an outburst of laughter and over it all the pervasive loud beating of dance music.
‘Bill, hi.’ I sat at the edge of my bed. ‘Thanks for getting back.’
‘I would have called you earlier, but I was on the set, and then it got too late, I figured you’d be sleeping,’ he explained. A pause. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine. I’m fine. And you?’
The party sounds receded slightly as though he had stepped away a pace or two in search of a more private corner. ‘I’m managing. You know.’ Another pause. ‘You’re still in Europe?’
‘For the moment, yes. In Cornwall, at Trelowarth. Did Katrina ever talk about Trelowarth?’
‘Yes.’ He knew where I was headed. ‘That’s the place, then?’
I nodded, forgetting that he couldn’t see me. ‘I scattered her up in her favourite spot, up on the hill at the Beacon.’
‘Good choice.’
‘No, it wasn’t.’ I gripped the phone tighter and lowered my head, and in a stumbling rush I told him what had happened, how the ashes had refused to settle, swirling on the wind and chasing out across the sea. ‘You wanted her to be where she belonged,’ I said, ‘but Bill, it wasn’t here.’
The Rose Garden Page 36
