Pendruggan, 2018
Ella was a cat on hot bricks. She needed to spend the day cleaning Marguerite Cottage so she shooed the dogs out into the garden and sent Adam and Kit out to collect Henry from Bodmin Parkway station.
‘Don’t come back too early. Go for a pint or something. Supper will be ready at eight.’
Kit pulled her to him. ‘Darling, the house looks great. You look great. Your mother will love all of it – and if she doesn’t, she’s not worth a jot.’
Ella swatted him away. ‘Go.’
When they had gone, Ella started on the bathroom. She had no idea whether her mother would want to stay the night, but she would probably need the loo in any event, and she’d better have the spare bed made up in case. In the end they had decided that Marguerite Cottage would be the best place for the meeting.
When upstairs was as she wanted it, she went downstairs. The lounge was dusted and vacuumed, the small cloakroom scrubbed, and the kitchen floor, sink and cupboards wiped and polished.
The last job was to empty the bin. She gave it a quick spritz of air freshener before putting a new liner inside it.
Done.
‘Right, Ella,’ she said pulling off her apron, ‘you can have a coffee.’ She opened the cupboard above the kettle and pulled out a jar of instant. It was empty. She swore under her breath and took a quick inventory of anything else she might need to buy. Loo paper, tissues (there were bound to be tears) butter, milk, tea bags and bread (in case her mum stayed for breakfast).
She had made a quiche and a chilli con carne that were awaiting in the fridge, and she had plenty of beer and wine.
‘Right, if I’ve forgotten anything, it’s tough,’ she said to Terry and Celia who had been allowed back into the house and were lolling in their beds, and set off for the village shop.
Queenie was behind the counter as always, reading the words on a packet of nicotine gum with an unlit cigarette in her mouth. She looked up as Ella came through the door, ringing the little bell above it.
‘Ella, duck.’ She coughed. ‘Do you think this is any good? It says chewing it will help me cope with the withdrawal of not having me cigarettes.’
‘Do you want to stop smoking?’
‘No. I love me fags.’ Queenie waved her cigarette as proof.
‘So why are you looking at the gum?’
‘I dunno. Maybe I should think about me health in the long term.’
‘How old are you, Queenie?’
‘Oh, you cheeky mare.’ Queenie pushed her smeary, pebble-thick glasses up her nose. ‘I’m as old as me tongue and a little bit older than my teeth.’
Ella smiled. ‘How long have you been smoking?’
‘About a hundred years.’ Queenie’s wheezy laugh brought on a coughing fit.
‘Well,’ said Ella, ‘it’s up to you, but after a hundred years it’s not going to make any difference now.’
Queenie took her hanky from her sleeve and wiped her eyes. ‘That’s what I thought. Now, how can I help you, duck?’
Ella passed her scribbled list to Queenie who squinted at it and began collecting the bits together. ‘’ave a look at them magazines while I do this. That celeb, the one with the big bum, ’as got a lovely new ’airdo. It would suit you with all them lovely red curls you got.’
‘I haven’t got time at the moment. My mum is coming to see Henry and me tomorrow.’
Queenie, searching the grocery shelf, snapped her head round, on the alert for gossip. ‘Oh yes?’ she said. ‘Your mum that left you and Henry when you was nippers? The local papers had her picture on the front pages for weeks.’
‘Yes,’ Ella replied, feeling uncomfortable.
‘Oh my gawd, you’ll be feeling a bit mixed, I expect?’
‘Yes.’ Ella scratched her cheek and tried to swallow down the sudden lump in her throat. ‘Mixed is the right word.’
The bell on the shop door rang again. It was Simon, the vicar.
‘Hello, Ella, Queenie,’ he said jovially. ‘Lovely day today.’
‘Hmm,’ said Queenie putting her head to her shoulder and nudging it towards Ella in a secret signal to Simon. ‘Ella’s got quite a lot on her mind, though.’
‘Oh really?’ asked Simon, not being able to fathom Queenie’s coded signals. ‘Why’s that?’
‘My long-lost mum is coming to see Henry and me tomorrow for the first time in more than twenty years.’
Simon looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
Ella shook her head slowly and tried to smile, but the waiting tears beat her to it. Simon took a clean cotton handkerchief from his pocket and, as he passed it to her, pulled up one of the old armchairs that Queenie had scattered around for just this sort of emergency. ‘Sit down,’ he said.
Ella sat and apologised. ‘I’m so sorry. I’m fine. I’m just being silly.’
‘I’ll make you a cuppa. You stay there,’ ordered Queenie.
Simon dragged another chair over and sat down next to Ella. ‘I remember how Penny was when her mother – well, her stepmother – died. It was something she couldn’t possibly prepare for.’
‘I’m so nervous.’
‘Of course you are.’
‘Will she like me?’
‘She jolly well should do. You are a daughter to be proud of.’
‘But Henry is so angry with her and I’m worried he’s going say something awful that will make her go away again.’
‘Where are you meeting her?’
‘At Marguerite Cottage.’
Simon thought for a moment. ‘Why not use the vicarage? Penny and I can be there, not to interfere, but to be on hand if things get a bit … emotional?’
Ella wiped her eyes. ‘Oh, Simon, you are so kind.’ Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘But I couldn’t do that to you.’
‘But wouldn’t you like to? It would mean a neutral space.’
She nodded. ‘Yes. It would be lovely.’
He patted her hand. ‘Consider it done. What time is she arriving?’
‘We don’t know yet. Her solicitor is ringing in the morning.’
‘Well, the vicarage will be ready for you at any time. It is yours for the day and Penny and I will be right there for you.’
Sennen’s flight from India had arrived at Heathrow at the same time as Ella left Queenie’s shop, feeling a lot better than she had and excited to tell Henry that the meeting would be at the vicarage.
Sennen unbuckled her belt and looked out into grey drizzle. Nervousness gripped her. Why was she doing this? She should be back home in India with Kafir, her husband. But he’d been so angry with her when she had had to tell him about Henry and Ella.
‘How could you deny the existence of your own children? To me? You are someone I don’t know any more. What else do you have in your box of lies?’
He had told her to leave their home. To go back to Cornwall. To apologise and make peace with her children. Only then would he consider the future of their marriage.
He had frightened her with his appraisal of her. He was a good man. A moral man. What sort of woman was she? For years she had managed to bury the past. She had never forgotten a birthday or Christmas, always sending a card, but she had given neither her parents or Ella and Henry an address with which to find her. And now her parents were dead and her children had agreed to see her. But they must hate her.
In the terminal she handed her passport to the Border Control guard. ‘Welcome home at long last, Mrs Tallon-Kaur,’ he said, smiling.
Guiltily, she held her hand out for the passport. ‘Thank you. Yes. It’s been a long time.’ And scurried through to baggage reclaim and customs before exiting the building and taking her first breaths of British air for so many years. After a moment or two she steadied herself and found the car hire office.
The M4 was wide and clean and well-organised, nothing like the madness of India’s roads. The rental car smelt new and was easy to drive. She had never driven on the left before, but after a few miles her confidence grew. At Bristol she stopped for a coffee and the loo, then pressed on to Cornwall and arrived in Trevay in the late afternoon and drove to her solicitors, Penhaligon and Palmer. Deborah Palmer, young and new to the family firm, welcomed her into the office with a handshake. ‘We meet at last,’ she said, smiling.
‘Yes. At last.’
Sennen estimated Deborah to be in her late twenties, petite in her smart suit and with an air of complete professionalism.
Sennen looked around her. The offices were old and crooked, smelling of dry rot. Built at the top of Trevay, the building was surrounded by new-build homes and a large supermarket with a petrol station. Sennen remembered when it had all been open fields where ponies had been kept. She would often walk up to feed them hay and Polos during the school holidays.
Deborah was opening a file on her desk. ‘How long is it since you’ve been back?’
‘A very long time,’ Sennen said wistfully. ‘A lifetime. It’s changed a bit.’
Deborah looked up and smiled. ‘I’m sure it has, but I think the old town is recognisable. I’ve booked you into the Starfish hotel, near the harbour. Do you know it?’
Sennen’s mind went straight to the horrible morning that she had walked into that hotel with Henry in her arms, ready to be with Ali for the rest of her life. The look of dismissal on the receptionist’s face, the humiliation. She squeezed her eyes tight, the shame burning her.
‘Yes. I know it.’
‘The best on this coast.’ Deborah flicked through the file. ‘I’ve just had a phone call from your daughter, Ella.’
‘Yes?’ Sennen was anxious. Had Ella decided not to see her after all?
‘They have chosen the vicarage in Pendruggan as your meeting place.’
‘Why?’
‘I think that she and Henry – and I rather agree with them – believe that neutral ground, No-man’s land, if you like, would be sensible.’
‘Are they very religious?’
Deborah smiled. ‘The vicar, Simon Canter, and his wife Penny are friends of theirs. In fact, Ella was nanny to their daughter, Jenna. I think she does still do the occasional day for them.’
‘That’s nice.’ Sennen’s mind was racing. There was so much she didn’t know. ‘And Henry?’
‘He works in London, something to do with property. A commercial surveyor as I recall.’
‘Golly. That sounds grand. He must work very hard.’
‘He has come down on the train today. Ella suggests that tomorrow’s meeting is at eleven o’clock. How does that suit? You may be tired after your journey and want to start later?’
‘No, that will be very good. Thank you.’
‘Right, I shall pick you up from the Starfish at about ten thirty.’ Deborah closed the folder and stood up. ‘Here’s some reading for you.’ She handed the folder over. ‘Just to get you up to speed. Nothing too difficult. Just some background and legal stuff that I shall be asking you to sign.’
Sennen took it. ‘Thank you.’ She collected her coat from the back of her chair and then said, ‘I’d rather not stay at the Starfish if that’s okay?’
‘Of course. Would you like me to book somewhere else?’
‘I’ll find a B and B. I’d like to find my feet a bit. I’ll phone you to let you know where I am.’
She followed her nose to the main road into Trevay. It was all so familiar and yet so dreamlike. Had she really lived here? Left here?
She turned onto the hill that would take her down to the pretty little fishing town and almost gasped as the beauty of the harbour and the houses that lay spread out beneath her. Her memories had faded the sheer beauty of the place. How could she have forgotten?
Her hands shook as she changed gear, slowing down to take it all in. Instinct took over and she guided the car to White Water, her parents’ home. Which was just the same although much smarter. It had a conservatory, now, and pretty shutters at the windows. She inched past slowly. The front door was a different colour but there was the downstairs loo window she’d climbed out of and the gate she’d walked through as she made her escape. There was a sign on the wall. White Water Bed and Breakfast. Vacancies.
It took a split second for her to make her mind up. She was coming home.
The landlady came to the door, wiping her mouth of crumbs. ‘Do excuse me. I’m just making a batch of scones for tea tomorrow and I can never resist one while they’re warm! Can I help you?’
‘Hello,’ said Sennen shakily, ‘I see you have a vacancy.’
‘For tonight?’
‘Yes.’
The landlady, a slender woman in her forties, wearing a simple dress and with her hair piled on the top of her head with tendrils escaping attractively, opened the door wide. ‘Come in.’
Sennen stepped over the threshold and looked around. In her parents’ day the house had been full of Bill’s pots, large and small, some gathering dust, others filled with dried grasses or teasels.
The walls had been filled with Adela’s large canvases of nudes or swimmers or both, which burst with exuberant colour and movement.
In their place now were subtle grey painted walls and stark window sills. It was lovely. But it wasn’t her home.
‘I’m Amy and my husband, John, is usually here, but he’s out on the boat. Come into the lounge and I’ll get you settled. Would you like a drink? Glass of wine?’
‘That would be lovely,’ said Sennen, following her into the room where her parents had sat in their old armchairs discussing art, or politics or listening to the radio. Adela had painted the walls sunset orange and on the old table there had always been bowls of fat chrysanthemum, daffodils or sweet peas depending on the season.
The room was now a shrine to grey in all its hues. The floor tiles were graphite, the walls a light slate, the ceiling a shade of mist and the linen curtains … well, Sennen could only describe them as Drizzle.
Amy invited her to sit on the taupe sofa.
‘Isn’t this room lovely?’ Amy sighed. ‘So peaceful. An artist and his wife used to live here and it was sold to a couple who started it up as a B and B a few years ago, and then John and I took it over at the beginning of the season. We’ve made some changes in the décor. It was very dated.’
‘It was a potter who owned this,’ said Sennen. It seemed important to correct the woman. ‘His wife was the artist.’
‘Did you know them?’ smiled Amy, interested. ‘I’d love to know more about the place.’
Before Sennen could think of a suitable answer, a ping came from the kitchen.
‘That’s the next batch of scones. I’ll get you your wine and then take you up to your room. Sea view with en suite? Or garden view, which is quieter but no en suite.’
Sennen smiled, thinking how chichi Adela would have thought the phrase en suite.
‘Sea view, please,’ she replied.
Sitting in her grandparents’ house for the first time in all these years, she closed her eyes and allowed memories to flood her mind.
In this room, she had told her mum and Poppa that she was pregnant.
In this room, the Christmas tree had always stood in front of the big window and she and Adela had covered it in a handmade myriad of shells and driftwood. And on the top, they had always put a mermaid with wings rather than an angel.
Where were those bits now? Had Henry and Ella kept them in the old cardboard box? Or were they rotting under some municipal rubbish tip.
So long ago, and so far away.
‘Mrs Tallon.’ Amy jolted her back to the present. ‘You’re tired after your trip, aren’t you? John often has a doze in that chair. Most comfortable in the house, he thinks. Here,’ she passed Sennen a glass of wine, ‘take this and I’ll show you to your room.’
As they climbed the stairs Sennen felt an odd sensation. Not regret. Not fear. She turned it over in her mind before she got it.
It felt like the first steps to coming home.