Sennen hadn’t looked back as Deborah drove her out of Pendruggan village and down to Trevay. Neither woman spoke until Deborah drew up outside White Water’s gate.
‘I’ll call you tomorrow?’ she asked.
‘Maybe the day after,’ said Sennen. ‘I need time to process what’s just happened.’
‘Understood. Get some rest.’
Sennen got out of the car.
‘And Mrs Tallon-Kaur,’ said Deborah, ‘these things are never easy at the start, but don’t lose hope.’
Sennen let herself in through the newly familiar front door and climbed the stairs. The house appeared to be empty. She was glad; she could do without Amy coming out of the shadows bringing tea and questions.
On the landing she hesitated. A memory of bringing Henry home from the hospital suddenly assaulted her, his tiny hands and sweet lips, the fear that she wouldn’t cope without Ali, the overbearing kindness of her parents choking her to the point where she didn’t know who she was any more.
The hours she spent fantasising about finding Ali and becoming a family …
Across the landing was the door of her old bedroom. She held her breath, listening for any sound in the house indicating that she wasn’t the only person in it. She had done this before, on the night she had left.
Black spots were forming in front of her and she felt weak and desolate. Her brain was foggy. A primitive reflex forced her to breathe again and she steadied herself on the smooth banister.
She looked at her hand on the wood. So like her mother’s. Freckle-skinned and slender, long fingers. ‘An artist’s hand,’ Poppa had always told her.
She closed her eyes and crumpled to the carpet.
‘I am so sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I meant to come back. I didn’t know you had died. I should have been here. For you and Henry and Ella. I’ve been so selfish and unkind. I would do anything to turn the clock back. Forgive me … Forgive me. Please.’
A ping of an incoming text sounded from her bag. Kafir. It must be Kafir. He hadn’t contacted her since she had left India, although she had sent him several texts telling him she had arrived and asking after the children.
She scrabbled for the phone and checked the screen. It was from Deborah, checking that she was okay. She let the phone drop back.
Lying on the simple Swedish bed in her parent’s old room, she closed her eyes.
Too tired to cry.
She felt leaden, almost relaxed.
The tumult of the meeting had drained her.
What had she expected?
After all these years.
She had left Santander on a train heading to Madrid.
For a few months she picked up casual bar work. She kept herself free of friendships and men, her only goal to eat, sleep and work. She ruthlessly scythed thoughts of home from her memory.
That first Christmas her postcard home was a picture of a female flamenco dancer. Her skirt was made of real fabric and lace and was sewn onto the card. She imagined Henry and Ella’s little fingers stroking it. She had written something like ‘Happy Christmas, don’t worry.’ She thought now how she’d feel if she received something similar from her children.
She had yearned to go home, but the shame of what she had done and fear of how she would be met, the trouble she’d be in, the punishment she’d face, kept her away.
She grew up fast.
From Madrid she travelled to Barcelona, learning the language, and how to survive. Bar work, shop work – anything that would pay for a little rent and food – she took.
But she never forgot the birthdays of Henry and Ella and would send cards, minus any hint as to her whereabouts, to the children and her parents on their special days.
Ali, she refused to think about.
One weekend a workmate suggested a trip to Sitges, a seaside town not far from Barcelona and renowned for its party atmosphere. She turned it down. ‘Not my kind of thing,’ she had said. But the girl wouldn’t take no for an answer. ‘You need some fun. A dance. A snog. A boyfriend.’
Sennen finally gave in. What else would she be doing on her day off? Her washing?
When they got there, the girl dumped her almost immediately for a handsome lifeguard and she was left to fend for herself.
It was almost lunchtime and she didn’t want to sit on the beach feeling exposed and alone, so she found a café, with shaded awnings and scarlet geraniums and ordered a coke and a menu from the handsome waiter who began to chat her up.
‘We have good tapas. Let me choose the best for you and maybe a glass of wine?’
She handed the menu back to him. ‘Okay, but not the expensive stuff.’
He smiled. ‘What are you doing on your own?’
‘Having lunch.’
‘Of course, I know that, but no friends meeting you?’
‘Nope.’
‘I can be your friend.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Okay, I’ll get your lunch.’ He walked lightly through the tables and customers but was soon back with her food. He put it down with reverence and started chatting her up again.
‘You’re English?’
She nodded and began to eat to put him off.
‘Your Spanish is very good.’
‘Thank you.’
‘My name is Emmanuel.’
She stopped eating. ‘Please … I like to be on my own. Thank you.’
He put his hands up in surrender. ‘Okay, okay, but I don’t like to see sad girls eating in my bar. It is bad for business.’
He turned his attention to a group of four young men who had arrived noisily at a table behind Sennen’s.
‘You call me if you want anything,’ he said to her as he went to welcome them warmly. Emmanuel clearly knew them well.
Sennen watched the four new arrivals as she ate. They spoke French and were very camp, flirting with Emmanuel outrageously.
Emmanuel played up to it, throwing his eyes to the heavens and saying, ‘Ooh la la,’ every time they said something a bit saucy.
Sennen caught his eye and ordered another glass of wine.
‘My friends are very funny, no? You are not so sad now.’ Emmanuel smiled as he poured the wine. ‘Would you like to meet them?’
She shook her head.
‘Please. They won’t bite. Not you, anyway.’ He smiled and held out his hand to her. Reluctantly she took it and he pulled her from her chair and introduced her to the boys.
‘May I introduce Miss English?’ He pulled out a chair for her. ‘She won’t tell me her real name and she is sad and has no friends.’
The boys sighed and pulled tragic faces, putting their right hands against their hearts as one. She tried not to laugh. ‘My name is Sennen.’
The four men stood up and introduced themselves, one by one ‘Serge.’ ‘Antoine.’ ‘Noa.’ ‘Clement.’
‘The four musketeers?’
‘Of course,’ said the one called Serge. He was very tall and thin, with a large nose. ‘Only we are much more fun.’ He winked.
‘They are here working in the Pigalle club,’ explained Emmanuel.
‘As what?’ asked Sennen.
Serge pointed to the smallest of the troupe. ‘Noa. Please.’
Noa instantly washed a hand over his twinkling face and revealed a frightened one behind it. He leapt onto his chair and began to search four invisible walls for a way out.
Sennen watched, enchanted.
He bent over from straight hips and began to feel for a trapdoor. As he bent over he pretended to fart and popped up straight again to mime an apology. He bent over again; the same thing happened and he wafted a hand under his nose. He did it a third time and fainted.
‘You’re mime artists!’ said Sennen, clapping.
‘Oui, mademoiselle,’ said Serge. ‘You win the star prize – which is to have another glass of wine and join us.’
The warm afternoon sun slowly dropped and the stars and lights of the café’s canopy soon twinkled over the balmy evening.
Sennen had had enough wine to feel safe with these kind and funny strangers. When Serge put his arm around her she put her head on his shoulder without fear – the first time since Ali.
‘You are very sad, Mademoiselle Sennen. Who has done this to you?’
‘Too long a story.’
‘I am all ears.’
She told him her miserable tale, leaving nothing out.
‘C’est tristesse,’ he said. ‘You need to find another boy to erase the memory.’
‘That’s the last thing I want.’ She picked up her wine glass and drank. ‘I’m happy just as I am.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Almost twenty.’
‘Oh well, you are very old.’ He patted her hand and smiled.
‘Tell me about you,’ she asked.
‘Of course. Well, I met Noa in Paris and we fell in love. He made me laugh and here we are. We were a little duo, writing and performing on the streets. One day we see Clement and Antoine busking outside Notre Dame. They are very good robots,’ he said with great pride. ‘So we convinced them to join us.’
‘Was that hard?’
‘Not really. They were hungry, we fed them pizza – et voila!’ He laughed at the memory. ‘You will see our show. We are very good. We have been in Spain all summer in the night clubs, doing our show, and now we are ready to go back to France.’
‘Paris?’ she asked.
‘Paris, of course.’ He gave a Gallic shrug. ‘Want to come with us?’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not? You have told me you have no boyfriend, no family. We will look after you. Come and work for us.’
‘I’m not an actor or anything.’
‘Can you use a washing machine?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s it. Tous nos félicitations! You are the new Head of Wardrobe for Pour Le Silence.’
‘Pour Le Silence?’
‘Oui. That is what we are called.’ He raised his eyebrows and asked in mock surprise, ‘Do you know them?’
She played along. ‘I’ve heard of them.’
‘Parfait. They will love you. Okay, we go to Paris on Thursday.’
She spent almost seven years with the troupe. They travelled across Europe entertaining crowds of sometimes more than a thousand, sometimes only twenty.
Sennen graduated from laundering and mending their costumes to designing costumes for them. The more elaborate and outrageous, the more the group loved them.
One afternoon, as she was stitching feathers to a codpiece, Serge came looking for her. ‘I have exciting news.’
‘Tell me then.’ She broke a bit of thread off with her teeth.
‘We are going to England,’ he announced.
Her heart lurched. ‘Oh?’ She avoided his eye.
‘Yes. How long is it since you have been home?’
‘What do you mean?’ She stayed fixed on her stitching. Her hands were trembling.
He clicked his tongue. ‘Home. To England.’
‘It’s no longer my home.’
‘But we will need you to show us around.’
‘Whereabouts in England?’
‘Edinburgh, for the carnival.’
She was relieved. Just about as far from Cornwall as you could get. ‘It’s the festival, not carnival, and it’s Scotland, not England.’
‘Scotland? Will it be cold?’
‘Not in August.’
‘Good.’ He pretended to shiver and warm his hands on her face. ‘I don’t like snow.’
‘You’ll need to wear some tartan,’ she said already drawing sequined kilts and sporrans in her mind’s eye.
‘Like Jean-Paul Gaultier?’ he said with excitement.
‘Yessiree.’
He got up and did a little jig. ‘The boys will be soooo happy.’
The boys were a huge success in Edinburgh and appeared on as many British talk shows and entertainment programmes as they could until they were found smoking hash in a BBC dressing room, so the work dried up and they returned to Paris.
Bickering broke out amongst them and eventually Noa walked out on Serge and ran towards an Italian waiter. Serge, heartbroken, left for his parents’ home in Provence.
Pour Le Silence were no more.
Sennen was heartbroken, but she needed to find another job.
Through the grapevine she heard that a respected German ballet company were looking for a costume design assistant for an all-male production of The Jungle Book.
She got the job and within two weeks was in Berlin.
The production toured the world for five long years and she went with it. Europe. Scandinavia. South America. West Coast America. Australia. New Zealand. The Far East and finally, India.