The Girl Who Came Home to Cornwall

by Emma Burstall

  A low groan escaped from her lips, but there was no one to hear and it was soon whipped away by the wind. ‘Alfonso, Baby, Alfa,’ she whispered, for this was what she used to call him, and sometimes just, ‘My love’.

  She couldn’t begin to imagine life without him.

  The man with the dog clambered over some rocks and she watched them disappear from view, the hound’s fluffy yellow tail being the last thing to vanish. Alone on the beach now, she padded down to the water’s edge, still carrying her espadrilles, picked up her skirt and dipped her toes tentatively in the foamy surf.

  The water felt like ice. Nothing, she thought, would induce her to go all the way in, though she’d seen bikinis and swimsuits for sale in the window of the local dress shop.

  For a few moments, she watched with fascination as ripples lapped around her feet, making shapes in the sand below that vanished as soon as the tide retreated, before re-forming into something else entirely. Then all of a sudden a bigger wave whooshed up her calves and caught the end of her skirt.

  She squealed and hopped back smartly. No matter. Her feet and skirt would soon dry off, but what to do next? It felt strange and rather unsettling not to have any firm plans. Her working life had been so structured that sometimes she’d longed for more flexibility, yet here she was twiddling her thumbs at just after ten in the morning.

  Of one thing she was certain: she needed to be among people today. Thinking that a cup of coffee would both warm her up and give her an excuse to be out longer, she decided to go in search of a café. She was out of cash but hoped to be able to use her debit card to pay.

  After climbing the steps back to the seafront, she sat on one of the wooden benches overlooking the ocean and dusted the sticky sand off her feet before replacing her shoes.

  When she stood up and spun around, she saw two young men outside Oliver’s, the fishing tackle shop, one in white overalls smoking a cigarette, the other in a blue uniform holding on to the saddle of his bike, with bulging sacks of post on either side.

  They were deep in conversation, their backs half turned, then the man in white overalls noticed the stranger and nudged his friend, who cast a furtive glance in her direction.

  ‘Look at that!’ she heard the first man whisper in a local accent.

  ‘In your dreams, mate!’ his friend replied, with a laugh. ‘She’s way out of your league!’

  Chabela was half amused, half appalled by their cheek, because they were almost young enough to be her sons. Fishing some sunglasses out of the pocket of her skirt, she plonked them firmly on the end of her nose and headed swiftly around the corner, pretending not to hear.

  Chapter Two

  She wasn’t afraid of getting lost in the village because it was so small and besides, there were quite a few folk about and she could always ask the way.

  As she strolled up cobbled Fore Street, she thought she could remember noticing a little coffee shop on her brief visit the previous day, but it seemed to have disappeared. Perhaps she’d imagined it.

  About halfway up the road was a pub, with a distinctive, painted sign above the entrance saying, ‘The Hole in the Wall’. Beside the name was an amusing picture of a villainous-faced smuggler, complete with flowing black hair, beard and a tricorn hat.

  The door was open and when she peeped into the dark interior, she spotted a tallish man with a ponytail behind the bar, stacking glasses on the shelves behind.

  The place looked very cosy, with wooden floors, a low, oak-beamed ceiling and a big stone fireplace against one wall. In the centre of the room and dotted around the edges were round tables with iron legs and mismatched metal chairs with striped cushions to sit on.

  She was almost tempted to pop inside and ask if they did coffee, but something told her that she’d be out of luck and besides, the man seemed very preoccupied.

  Just past the pub was a long, squat building called The Stables, which had been painted white and looked very old, with eight small, black timber-framed windows on the top floor and four on the bottom.

  Chabela paused again to examine the heavy oak door, which was surprisingly low, and found herself wondering if people in those days were midgets, or were just used to stooping.

  The village must be steeped in history, she mused, thinking that she’d like to know all about the individual buildings and who had once lived here. There must be books about the place – maybe a museum somewhere. Luckily, she knew exactly whom to ask.

  Turning left after The Stables she entered Humble Hill, which had a Methodist church at the top, near where she’d parked her hire car. On the corner of the hill, just before the incline, was a cottage with an odd name above the door that she couldn’t pronounce – Dynnargh – and she found herself stopping again to take a look.

  The house was quite modern and not as pretty as its neighbours – mostly old fishermen’s cottages painted yellow, pink and blue. She was struck, however, by how much love had gone into it. There were sparkling white lace curtains in the windows and the neat little front garden was bursting with colourful flowers and surrounded by a freshly painted white picket fence.

  In the middle of the garden was a miniature stone wishing well and beside it, a metal statuette of a comical boy on a bike in blue dungarees, carrying a flowerpot filled with blooms. Chabela would have liked to pick some and take them home with her.

  ‘Mornin’!’

  She glanced up and saw a round woman of sixty-odd, with short fair hair, opening the front door and walking purposefully down the path towards her.

  ‘I was just admiring your beautiful garden,’ Chabela said, hoping that it didn’t seem odd.

  The woman didn’t appear to be suspicious, and on reaching her gate, gave Chabela a broad, friendly smile, revealing big, strong front teeth. She was obviously out in the fresh air a good deal because her cheeks were ruddy and her lower arms, beneath the rolled up sleeves of her pink blouse, were quite tanned.

  ‘Folk often stop and look,’ she said comfortably. ‘The garden’s my husband’s pride and joy. I’m Jean, by the way,’ she went on, proffering a hand, which Chabela took, noticing how warm and soft it felt. ‘Are you on holiday? I don’t think I’ve seen you round here before.’

  They were soon chatting like old friends. Jean explained that ‘Dynnargh’ meant ‘Welcome’ in Cornish, and that she worked as a childminder during the week. Her husband, Tom, was retired now and helped out with the babies and toddlers, when he wasn’t pruning his roses or raking his borders, that was.

  The couple, who had grown-up children of their own, had lived in Tremarnock all their married lives and wouldn’t dream of moving anywhere else.

  ‘It’s more than just a place,’ Jean said, suddenly serious. ‘We’ve been through things together, you see – big things.’ She gave Chabela a meaningful look, which she didn’t understand. ‘We don’t always see eye-to-eye but when the chips are down, we stick together. It’s just the way we are.’

  Chabela was surprised. Tremarnock seemed so sleepy to her, the kind of out-of-the-way spot where nothing much ever happened. She wanted to ask what ‘big things’ Jean was referring to, but didn’t get the chance.

  ‘It’s been pretty peaceful lately, though, thank the Lord,’ the older woman continued. ‘I’m not too keen on drama, to be honest with you. Give me the quiet life any day!’

  Without warning, she turned and hollered over her shoulder, ‘Tom!’ – which made Chabela jump. Soon Jean’s husband appeared at the front door. He was so quick, he must have been watching them from inside the house.

  ‘This lady here was admiring your handiwork!’ Jean cried, as her husband, a short, sturdy, weather-beaten chap with grey-white hair, came towards them.

  Jean leaned over the gate and whispered in Chabela’s ear: ‘You’ll make his day. Spends hours here, he does.’ She winked. ‘Keeps him out of mischief.’

  The couple must have had time on their hands because Tom opened the gate and insisted that Chabela come in, so that he could
give her a guided tour of his flowers: purple puffballs of tall-stemmed allium, white aquilegia with delicate green tips and bright red oriental poppies. He was very knowledgeable and seemed to love every single one of the plants. He clearly liked an audience, too.

  Chabela mentioned that she was staying at Polgarry Manor, up on the cliff, and Tom said that he knew the owner, Bramble, and her partner, Matt.

  ‘Gorgeous garden they’ve got, magnificent. Must be a lot of work, mind. The place was a wreck when they moved in. Amazing what they’ve done. It’s transformed.’

  He had a strong Cornish accent and Chabela, though pretty much fluent in English, had to listen closely. She explained that she’d only arrived from Mexico the day before yesterday.

  ‘I’ve been so busy unpacking and catching up on sleep, I haven’t had the chance to explore the grounds properly yet. I can see the ocean from my bedroom window. It’s a stunning view!’

  Jean then asked what had brought her here, and Chabela hesitated.

  ‘I needed a holiday and I’ve always fancied visiting Cornwall,’ she said carefully, before adding, ‘I think some of my ancestors may have come from here.’

  ‘Oh?’ Jean’s ears pricked up and Chabela wished that she could take the words back. She was afraid of having to answer questions, especially from folks that she’d only just met, that might lead her to mention Alfonso by mistake.

  ‘I may have my facts wrong, I’m not sure,’ she went on, quick as a flash.

  Opening the gate swiftly, she stepped back on to the narrow street, which had no pavement. ‘I’d better go and find my car. I hope I can remember where I parked it.’

  If Jean and Tom were surprised by the sudden hurry, they didn’t show it. Tom snapped a pale pink rose from a bush and gave a gallant bow as he handed it to Chabela before she departed.

  ‘I’ll put it in a vase when I get back to Polgarry Manor,’ she said, touched. ‘It’ll make my room smell nice.’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll bump into each other again,’ Jean commented, as they shook hands once more and said their goodbyes. ‘This village is so small, you can’t hide away for long!’

  *

  As she climbed into her pale blue Polo and switched on the engine, Chabela found herself reflecting on the couple. They seemed like lovely people, and there was something appealing about the community spirit that Jean spoke of.

  Back home, Chabela had good relationships with students and staff at the university, and a small circle of women friends whom she saw from time to time and whose company she greatly valued. The city was so big, however, and the pace of life so hectic, that it was quite easy not to connect much with those around you, not really, and besides, for the past seven years, she had devoted herself mainly to Alfonso.

  That name again. What was he doing? Was he thinking of her? Missing her? Feeling sad? She couldn’t know what was going on in his head, and it was none of her business anyway. He was no doubt getting on with his life and so must she – but how?

  She thought of Jean’s open, curious, smiley face and Tom’s evident pleasure in his surroundings. Chabela had been outward-looking once, but somehow Alfonso had given her tunnel vision. Perhaps she could learn, or rather relearn, something from these people about living in the moment, the here and now; about how to just be.

  She had forgotten all about coffee and as she left the village behind and took the narrow, winding road that led up towards the cliff, she tried to focus solely on her environment: the tall, lush green hedgerows, the ever-steepening climb, the occasional glimpses through farmyard gates of grassy fields dotted with sheep and glossy brown cows.

  Lowering her window slightly, she caught a whiff of manure, which reminded her that she was well and truly in the countryside, miles from any city and as far, she thought, from her old life as she could possibly be. If a complete change of scenery couldn’t cure her broken heart, then nothing would.

  There was a sharp zigzag in the road, then a pair of tall, smart, black iron gates came into view, that opened automatically as Chabela drew up so that she could drive straight in. Once inside the grounds, the car lurched on the bumpy drive flanked on either side by overgrown fields, until she finally came to a halt in front of her temporary new home.

  Polgarry Manor was imposing by any standards: large and grey, with mock battlements and stone steps leading up to a heavy, panelled wooden door. The central section looked older than the lower wings on either side, and in front of the house was a terraced garden, with squares of neatly cut box hedges, that sloped down to a squat stone wall.

  The sun was warmer now and it seemed the perfect opportunity to explore the grounds behind the manor that she hadn’t yet seen properly.

  Pushing up the sleeves of her blue cardigan, she skirted around the edge of the building before ascending some steps onto a stone terrace, surrounded by a white balustrade.

  On the far side, there was another set of steps leading to a gravel path, some flowerbeds, and then a large patch of land divided into two sections by metal railings. This area looked more unruly than the front part of the manor and when Chabela stood on tiptoe, she could just make out what appeared to be the remains of a brick gazebo. Covered in ivy and missing its roof, it was peeping over the foliage at the far end of the left-hand section.

  She was about to go in search of it when a shriek made her turn and she saw her tall, blonde hostess, Bramble, hurtling out of some French doors, brandishing what appeared to be a wriggling brown mouse by its long, skinny tail.

  Hot on her heels was a short, elderly woman with iron-grey hair and steel-rimmed glasses, wearing a stiff white blouse, brown tweed skirt and a stern expression: the housekeeper, Maria, who had brought Chabela her breakfast earlier in the day.

  ‘Out of my way!’ Bramble screamed unnecessarily, for Chabela was already hopping to one side, anxious to get as far from the mouse as possible.

  ‘Give that to me, Miss Bramble,’ the older woman commanded, in a strong Eastern European accent. ‘I will dispose of it.’

  She sounded so fierce that Chabela would have done exactly as she was told, but Bramble had other ideas.

  Chabela stared in amazement as her hostess ran to the balustrade, hurled the creature through the air, its little legs splaying like spaceship feet, and watched it land with a plop into one of the flowerbeds.

  ‘What did you do that for?’ Maria was flat-backed and furious, her hands firmly on her hips. Despite her small stature, she managed to make Chabela quake, but Bramble didn’t flinch.

  ‘You’d have chopped off its head,’ she said. ‘Poor little thing. It won’t do any harm out here.’

  She turned to Chabela, who was still cowering.

  ‘Sorry for the fright,’ Bramble said, with a sheepish smile. ‘Maria and I have an ongoing disagreement about rodents. She likes to execute them – preferably with her bare hands – whereas I take a more lenient approach.’

  Chabela laughed; she couldn’t help it. ‘I think I’m with Maria. I can’t stand mice and rats, but I couldn’t kill them myself. I’d have to set a trap.’

  ‘Miss Bramble is lily-livered,’ Maria muttered, knitting her dark eyebrows. ‘If she is not careful, we will be overrun.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not that bad.’ Bramble must have noticed Chabela shudder because she added: ‘Jesus! What must you think of us? I hope we haven’t put you off staying here!’

  In truth, it had crossed Chabela’s mind that perhaps this mightn’t be the right place for her after all. She was a bit scared of mice – and Maria, too, come to that. But she was too polite to say so.

  Before she knew it, Bramble was taking her by the arm and leading her into the sumptuous drawing room, which Chabela had seen only briefly on the day she arrived.

  A large, rectangular room with a very high ceiling, it had a grand piano at one end, with two intricate tapestries on the side walls. One depicted female figures bathing by a river, surrounded by rocks and trees, and the other, a white heron in a wooded landscape w
ith buildings on the horizon and a large house, not unlike Polgarry, on the hill.

  At the opposite end, near the French doors where they were standing, a chaise longue, a couple of tall armchairs and a faded crimson velvet sofa were arranged around an impressive marble fireplace, above which hung a gilt mirror.

  All the remaining wall space seemed to be filled with gold-framed oil paintings of crusty-looking gentlemen on horseback and crinoline-clad ladies.

  ‘Most of them are ancestors of my grandfather,’ Bramble said, noticing Chabela gazing at them. ‘I suppose that makes them my ancestors, too. It doesn’t feel like it, though, because I didn’t know him.’

  Chabela raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh?’

  ‘It’s a long story. Have you got time for coffee?’

  It was the best idea that Chabela had heard all day. While Maria fetched the drinks, the two younger women sat side by side on the velvet sofa, looking out of the open French doors onto the terrace and gardens beyond.

  Sunlight streamed in, warming their feet and knees, and Chabela listened intently while Bramble explained about her very grand grandfather, Lord Penrose, and his doomed love for her much younger grandmother, Alice. A baby had been conceived – Bramble’s mother, Mary – but Alice had refused to marry Lord Penrose, and her bitter, angry and controlling parents had forbidden him access to the illegitimate child.

  Mary, who had a troubled childhood, had died tragically when Bramble was very young, and Bramble had been raised, knowing next to nothing of her ancestry, by her father Bill and his new wife, Cassie, whom she adored.

  ‘So, as you can imagine, it was quite a surprise when I got a letter from the solicitor saying that Lord Penrose had died, leaving his whole estate to me. I honestly thought it was a joke at first. I came to see the manor and it was a total wreck. Dad, Cassie and my boyfriend, Matt, tried to talk me into selling up. I nearly did, but the place sort of got hold of me and I found I couldn’t.