Bill died just a couple of months short of his sixtieth birthday. He and Adela had been sharing a peaceful life.
Occasionally they still took in students who sat rapt as Bill told them about his apprenticeship with the great potter Bernard Leach, teaching them all he knew, and Adela cooked enormous breakfasts and suppers for them, as she always had, and took them to interesting spots around Trevay where they would set up their easels and paint, with her looking over their shoulders and offering generous advice.
Adela was worried about Bill’s health. It was hard to put a finger on it but he was lacking the vitality he’d once had.
‘Darling,’ she said gently, knowing his suspicion of the medical profession, ‘I think we should both go to the doctor for an MOT. Blood pressure, cholesterol, that sort of thing.’
‘Why?’ he asked gruffly. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
She hadn’t been prepared for that and said rather lamely, ‘I think it’s sensible, that’s all.’
They didn’t go.
Adela told herself that it was natural for a man of his age to enjoy long naps in the afternoon – she often did so herself – and, although he was losing weight, he still enjoyed her cooking.
Ella and Henry would visit when they could and the last time they had come Bill seemed rejuvenated.
However, Adela confided in Ella. ‘How does Poppa look to you?’
‘Really good,’ Ella said breezily. ‘He’s lost a bit of weight and I think it suits him.’
When the children had returned to London, Bill was full of Henry’s success in his new job. ‘Where did he get such a good business brain? Not from us that’s for sure.’
Adela thinking about their father’s identity said. ‘We’ll never know now will we.’
Bill sipped his tea. ‘Ella is definitely a chip off the old block, though. Did she show you her illustrations for the book she’s writing?’
‘Yes. Her line drawings in particular are very good.’
Bill smiled. ‘I think we did okay with Henry and Ella.’
‘Better than with Sennen?’ They rarely talked about their daughter, and to hear her name spoken out loud created a crackling tension in the air.
Bill looked at Adela steadily. ‘Yes.’
‘Maybe we did too much for her?’
‘Possibly.’
‘She was so bright. Doing well enough at school. And funny and kind. She’ll be thirty-seven now.’
‘Well, wherever she is I hope she’s happy.’ He tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. ‘How the hell could she not come back and see the children?’
‘She did,’ said Adela simply.
‘What? When?’
‘When you were feeling so wretched and upset.’
Anger flared. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I’m sorry. I should have. But she just turned up and you were so ill and Henry and Ella were just getting settled. I couldn’t face having her back and creating all that turmoil again. I told her to go away.’
‘How – how was she?’
‘Grown up. She was only twenty but she seemed, I don’t know, a seasoned adult. She had been working in Spain and France and had come here with some actors, to Edinburgh, I think, and decided to come and see us and Henry and Ella.’
‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’
‘I was so angry. She was standing there, right as rain, while I had picked up her mess and I was so worried about you. You had burnt all her photos, eradicated her from our lives, and I honestly thought that seeing her would make you ill again. So I told her to go away. My decision. I made the choice for you, not for her. I couldn’t bear to see you so unhappy and ill again.’
‘Did you let her see the children?’
Adela shook her head in regret. ‘No. I asked if she was going to stay. And she couldn’t promise, so I didn’t let her see them.’
Bill softened. ‘It must have killed you.’
‘Yes. I said some very unkind things to her.’
‘We all say and do unkind things in anger. Can you imagine how I felt as soon as I burnt her photographs?’
‘I know how I felt.’
‘She hurt us, we hurt her. Not very clever.’
‘She hates me because I told her to go away.’
‘She’ll hate herself more.’ He smiled. ‘Do you remember when she tipped my birthday cake onto the floor because she was so cross that it was my birthday and not hers?’
‘It had taken me all morning to make. I wonder if she married and has a new family.’
‘Possibly. But she would be so proud of Henry and Ella. We must pity her for not knowing them.’
‘I’m so relieved to have told you.’
‘That she came back?’
Adela nodded.
‘Come on, old girl. No one’s life is a piece of cake. We have both done things we regret but we have each other and we have Henry and Ella.’
‘I love you, William Tallon.’
‘I know – and I love you very much, Mrs Tallon.’
Bill died just a few weeks later. Leukaemia. It had been too late to offer treatment. Adela thanked God that they had no more secrets between them.