by Lily Graham
I shut it quickly and fled.
Chapter 5
Moonshine and Gossamer Things
‘Shovel?’
‘Thanks.’
‘Fork?’
‘So kind.’
I spent the rest of the morning helping Stuart in his polytunnel, avoiding the studio. Here, at least, in the warm glassy bubble, I could almost forget the mysterious ribbon and the paint, and what any of it might mean.
‘Not that I’m not grateful for your help, but may I ask why you’re here when The Case of the Missing Brolly is yet to be solved?’ enquired Stuart, after a much-needed tea break. He handed me a kale, radish, and fennel sandwich with watercress pesto that I accepted dubiously, and a cup of strawberry tea, that met with more approval.
I paused mid-bite and scrunched my face, trying to think of a way to not sound like I was going, well, crazy. ‘It’s... I just needed a little change of pace, feeling tired, not the best for work.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘So you opted for manual labour instead?’ His dark eyes looked amused. He was wearing his emerald green jersey again, his dark hair shining to high gloss, every bit the gentleman farmer.
‘You know, it’s rather unfair, how do you look so good in that? I mean, it’s got about seven holes, yet on you, it’s beautiful.’
He grinned. ‘You only love me for my looks. I’ll have you know that I’m more than a pretty face. See these...’ He lifted up a rather incredible runner bean, longer than a ruler. ‘These are a thing of beauty and magic. No one else has runner beans in winter,’ he stage-whispered, while looking to Pots and Muppet for support, who were both lounging on one of the raised beds, warm in the polytunnel. ‘But does she care?’
‘Of course, it must be so hard being a trophy husband.’
He sighed heavily. ‘You have no idea... but I persevere.’
I shook my head, laughing, and took a sip of my strawberry tea, sighing with pleasure. If I closed my eyes I could imagine it was a lovely summer’s day...
‘So, what’s the real reason you’re hiding away?’ he asked, inspecting a head of a cabbage with a worried frown.
I spluttered a little tea in shock, opening my eyes. He may be a smallholder now, but it wasn’t wise to forget that Stuart had been one of the most sought-after marketing executives in the city. His eye for detail was razor sharp.
‘No reason... just tired, like I said.’
He gave a long slow nod. ‘Uh-huh... this from the girl who spent all day illustrating at her day job at a publishers and who then came home to work on Mr Tibbles until well after midnight, only to get up and do it all again? Since when has being tired ever stopped you?’
I sighed. It’s always harder to fool the people who know you best. I wanted to tell him about everything that had happened, to have him offer support or help provide some sane explanation, but I didn’t know where to begin. So I just shrugged and said, ‘It’s more like I needed a break. Not from my work, but from the space... just for a bit.’
This was true at least.
Stuart topped up my teacup and shrugged. ‘It’s good to break a habit every once in a while. Besides...’ he said, pointing at the dog and the cat, ‘you’re not the only one who wanted a change of scene.’
I nodded, grinned at the two unlikely allies, drained my cup and helped him trellis the rest of his miraculous runner beans.
I couldn’t avoid my studio forever, but I could join Stuart for a sneaky glimpse into the day in the life of a smallholder, which was just the escape I needed. So I helped him pack boxes of his assorted jams, jellies, and condiments into the delivery van that I had helped paint; Stuart had gone for a bright cherry red, with his Sea Cottage label in white.
Subtle, it was not.
Together with Muppet in tow, we set off to deliver the orders that had come through over the last few days from his online shop. Today he had over twenty – a new record. It seemed news of his unusual culinary skills was spreading, at least in Cloudsea and the neighbouring town where I’d grown up, Tremenara. Fortunately most of the villagers were the sort who liked to support local businesses, and were, I suspect, a little curious about the tall, odd Londoner and his weird concoctions.
It helped that Stuart was part of the Cloudsea Facebook Group – yes, there really was such a thing and, no, I did not belong to it for purposes of sanity preservation. (Mostly, as far as I could tell, it was a forum to endlessly discuss the lack of parking on the high street, mad drivers around the sea front, and why no one had as yet committed Mrs Aheary, the batty old post-mistress, to an asylum. Or Gertrude Burrows, for that matter. Or Tomas, but maybe that was just me.)
Also, every so often someone threw in a mention about the foiled plans for the mass supermarket that had finally been denied planning permission and all hell broke loose, as it was still a very sore point. Some wanted it (morons who should just go live somewhere else, really). Stuart slotted in with record time when he showed his outrage at one of the pro-supermarketers at the idea of blighting the countryside with a ginormous new Payless Hypermarket. As a result, most of the village, or the bit that liked the village to remain a village, were now pro-Stuart. This, of course, didn’t mean he was now One of Them, this was Cornwall after all – I mean, Leuon Davington had lived in Cloudsea for thirty-seven years and they still called him ‘The Welsh Bloke’.
Still, it meant that Cloudsea showed their support. Or you know, maybe they really did like beetroot jam and pak choi jelly...
As we travelled into the village, the mild winter sunshine warm on my face, my eyes fell upon the throng of whitewashed cottages that meandered up from the coastal path towards the hill, where swirling clouds vied with the tumbling sea, the view that centuries ago was said to have inspired the village’s name, though there is some contention over the matter.
The old vicar, Jeffrey Morris, claimed that his great-grandfather had given it the name when they’d opened the vicarage in the 1800s and brought the word of God and other essentials to the town.
Like the first outbreak of German measles, according to the Willises, who have lived in Cloudsea for longer than memory.
Bess Willis, who ran the local launderette and comes from a long line of Cornish fishermen, told me one night over a glass of ale at The Cloud Arms that the village was called Cloudsea long before the vicar’s relations rolled their diseased carriages into the town. ‘Hogwash, what would ’e know about it? From upcountry, the whole lot of ’em. I heard was an artist who came up with the name... Some poncy impressionist painter, I believe.’
Ah well, it could have been worse, I’d said.
Gertrude Burrows, who had the honour of being the oldest Cornishwoman in the village at the ripe old age of ninety-seven, blamed the English for the name. She lamented once when I popped into Cloud Nine, the village shop where she worked part-time, that no one in Cornwall could speak Cornish any more.
‘Even this place...’ she said with a shudder, as if it was Sodom and Gomorrah, ‘Cloudsea,’ she spat. ‘It was called Kelym Treth originally, that was its real name... Then the English came and it got lost in translation...’ she added darkly. ‘Means Sea Holly, not sure how they got Cloudsea from that... the daft blighters, ’tis shameful having an English name, shameful...’ she repeated, while shoving my things into a five-pence carrier bag I hadn’t asked for.
Of course, I never dared tell her that I was rather partial to the name Cloudsea... You really didn’t want to get on the wrong end of Gertrude Burrows. Though, as her warring neighbour, Tomas, was likely to point out, ‘Is zere a right one, I ask you, Eve? Is zere?’
Our first delivery was for April Blume, who ran the local pub, The Cloud Arms. We met her flowery print bottom inside, while she was giving the place a vacuum. She paused the whirring monster, which looked like a yellow version of R2-D3, straightened up and gave us a sweaty palmed shake.
‘Wonderful, wonderful,’ she murmured, wiping a brow, and tucking in a few stray wisps of bright magenta hair behind
her ears, before Stuart handed over five bottles of his beetroot jam.
She gave an amused-looking grin at my befuddled stare. ‘The punters like it, had to order two bottles for them,’ she explained, jerking her head upstairs to one of the two en-suite rooms that she ran as a holiday let, sounding quite pleased at the prospect of offering a taste of the exotic to her clientele. ‘From London,’ she stage-whispered, though there was no need because next thing she said, ‘Been waiting half the morning just to give the place a bit of a spit and polish, they’ve finally gone for an explore now... They’ll be back in around half a minute, I don’t doubt. The missus was wearing something she’ll be regretting soon enough when she feels that icy wind coming. Not a decent fleece or a proper parka amongst them, just thin fashion jackets... They didn’t even have wellies, had to point them towards Ol’ Grumpy’s hardware store, bless ’em,’ she added with a grin that we couldn’t help match. In the village the local hardware store, run by the rather dour-faced John Usett, who found speaking about as painful as passing a kidney stone, sold everything that you’d have to go to the bigger market towns to get, such as clothing and speciality pet food. Thank you, Muppet... Hence, some people wanting the big supermarket... and the resulting cold, civil war.
‘They thought it would be milder here,’ she told us with a throaty chuckle, referring to the London visitors. ‘Poor devils,’ she added.
While Cornwall was known to have one of the mildest climates in England, when it got cold, it got really cold, and it could stay that way for some time, especially in the countryside. Out here, having feet that were well shod had little to do with fashion – you were either slipping on mud, slipping on slush, or slipping on wet grass.
We passed the visitors en route to our next delivery, looking rather cold, yet determined in their new green wellies, holding each other close for warmth.
‘Hard to believe that was us a few months ago, right?’ whispered Stuart, as we headed towards Frank’s Butchery.
I scoffed, ‘Speak for yourself... I knew how to dress for this weather... I am a Cornishwoman,’ I reminded him.
He stopped point blank. ‘Really? That’s why you bought out half of Usett Hardware’s winter line when we moved?
I scoffed. ‘Winter line? I’d hardly call Ol’ Grumpy’s stock a “winter line”.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘You bought four bloody parkas, even that daft one with the bulldogs all over it that makes you look like the village weirdo, fifteen fleece-lined jumpers with matching tracksuit bottoms, and seven sets of wellingtons, all in various shades of passion killer.’
I rolled my eyes. It was hardly that much... more like two pairs of wellies, a parka, and five tracksuit bottoms. Bloody men! I shot him a look of disbelief. ‘Me? The village weirdo? Pots and kettles, darling... you’re the one who sells cabbage jam for a living.’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t help it if you’ve got the refined palate of a three-year-old,’ he quipped, opening up the butcher’s shop door just as I attempted to throttle him. At the sound of a tinkly bell, a heavy-set man named Frank, with a crime-scene-looking apron tied around his barrel chest, popped out from the back and beckoned us to come through. I quickly removed my hands from around my husband’s neck and gave him a smile.
‘All right there, love?’ he asked, while I laughed. ‘Good man!’ he added with a grin, eyeing the eight bottles of pak choi jelly that Stuart popped on a nearby steel slab. ‘Thought I’d use it in the next batch of sausage I’m making now... quite the Christmas treat!’
I sighed as Stuart gave me a look that said, ‘You see?’ Next thing he rather enthusiastically rolled up his sleeves and asked if he could help, eager to learn. I couldn’t help my nose wrinkling at the sight of the sausage skin. Ugh! I felt a sudden queasy feeling in my belly. Nope, I couldn’t handle the smell of raw meat in normal circumstances – but pregnant? Forget about it.
‘I’ll... er, carry on and take these to Bess, shall I?’ I said, a little pointedly to Stuart, who didn’t spot my pointed look at the remaining stock in the box – six bottles of turnip chutney – nor did he receive my extremely loud but silent plea of ‘LET’S GET THE HELL OUT!’
‘Sure, sure,’ said Stuart dismissively, with a wave of his hand.
I swallowed a growl. Bloody men! And set off with the box down the path to the launderette, taking deep breaths of the fresh clean air, trying my best to get the sight and smell of sausage casings out of my mind.
‘Ivy, you’re looking a bit peaky, my lovely. All okay?’ asked Bess, who had long grey hair, thick glasses like the ends of jam jars, and a ready smile.
The smell of detergent, it seemed, was okay. A surprise, as the other day the aroma of my hand soap almost made me lose my dinner. Why did they call it morning sickness, when you could feel sick all the live-long day?
‘Fine, fine,’ I said, handing over her order.
‘Shall I make us a cuppa?’ asked Bess, above the hum of the washing machines.
‘That’ll be great,’ I said, following her into her little office, where things were slightly quieter.
Her office was painted a greyish blue and looked out towards the high street, filled with shelves that gave a nod to her family’s long seafaring heritage. From toy fishing boats to vintage photographs of men sporting old-fashioned sailing garb and pulling in the catch of the day to old log books, a key chain that looked like a codfish, and rope knots in all sizes and shapes. On her desk, though, sat a very scrummy-looking lemon drizzle, which despite my earlier nausea resulted in a sudden, urgent craving. Bess said to my delight, ‘Just got it in from Salt café. Love that place. That old fox, Terry, sure knows how to bake... You’ll have a piece, won’t you?’
I grinned. Old fox indeed! But Terry’s cakes were indeed legendary, thinking fondly of the triple chocolate fudge I’d had the other day.
While we waited for the kettle to boil, Bess shared the latest village news. Apparently, Gertrude Burrows had given up on trying to have Tomas’s house removed from the village boundary and had moved on to trying to get Tomas deported instead.
‘Don’t understand it meself – they got on for years, then they had a big fight in the nineties, which was when he put up all those godawful notices in his front garden, all to stop her poking her nose in his business.’
At this I burst out laughing – I hadn’t known that!
‘Maybe she’s got the hots for him?’ I suggested with a giggle. ‘Spurned lover?’
Bess sniggered, then added, ‘Perhaps ’e didn’t want to be her toy boy?’, making us both howl.
Just as she cut us a slice of lemon drizzle, which made my mouth water in anticipation, Stuart suddenly appeared.
‘Hi Bess, sorry to barge in...’ He looked at me pointedly, and said, ‘Love, got to head back home, the web designer just phoned to say he’s on his way to test the Sea Cottage site – apparently there’s a few things it’d be better to go through in person, so I must go. It’s raining now, so I think I should take you back as well.’
I picked up my slice, but Stuart shook his head. ‘We’re already running late...’
I looked from the window where the rain was indeed coming down in buckets, and then back at my slice of lemon drizzle sadly, and with a sigh stood up to say goodbye to Bess.
Bloody men!
* * *
It was during the still hum of the night, with only the mournful sound of the waves crashing softly outside, echoing through the bedroom, that I understood.
I’d been tossing and turning, and in my dreams it felt like I was on the edge of remembering something.
Three a.m.
I crept out of bed and up to the studio, leaving Stuart asleep, Muppet in his arms. Now, under cover of night, I realised this was meant solely for me.
Three a.m., the witching hour, when ghosts roam free. At any other time of the day you could convince yourself otherwise, but when the night made that shushing sound and the world held its breath and the hairs on the back of you
r neck stood on end... anything, anything at all, seemed possible.
It was then in the early hours of the morning that I began to remember something that I’d long thought forgotten, or perhaps I blanked it from my memory, because remembering it would only serve to cause me pain.
It was long ago, before she fell ill.
One of those comments that had just made Mum, well, Mum. We’d gone to visit Haworth, the home of the Brontës, just the two of us. It was an obsession we shared, a mutual love of the dark, gothic sisters growing up on the Yorkshire moors. I was only thirteen at the time, but still the trip was one of those special moments that live on in your memory. The house, with its accompanying graveyard and lingering memory of a family who had known such deep suffering, was incredibly affecting. We couldn’t help but wonder if, like Emily’s Heathcliff and Cathy, the sisters still roamed the moors to whisper their secrets after dark.
I remember saying that I hoped that they did, so that they could see the effects they had had, long after they were gone. And Mum had said if it were her, she’d find a way to come back to let me know that she was fine, that death wasn’t the end.
She meant it, I knew she did, and at the time I believed her with childish conviction, comforted that she would.
Years later, when she fell ill with Stage IV ovarian cancer, I thought of that day and of her words – of her promise – and thought perhaps she had told me what she wished would be true.
Yet now, I had to consider what I’d spent years trying to deny. The rational side of my brain said no, it wasn’t possible. It was a manifestation of years of childish hope and grief. Yet despite knowing it was absurd, hope had found me, nonetheless.
As I stood in the still air of the studio, the moonlight entering the window and falling upon the desk, I knew somehow there was something waiting for me.
I crossed the room slowly, reverentially... barely able to breathe, only to pause, my throat swelling with emotion. On the desk, made by air and gossamer wisps of moonlight, lay a single perfect baby bootie, glowing in the dusky starlight. My hands shook as I picked it up and cradled it in my palm, the size of a whisper, the weight of a kiss.