by Liz Eeles
* * *
In the end, we take out a mortgage on the house to pay off the inheritance tax in one go rather than pay in instalments plus interest. That seems best, especially since I can’t shake off Mum’s dread about owing money to the government. My poor mum became convinced Her Majesty’s government was out to get her when her mental illness took hold. And though I know it was Mum’s paranoia talking, the anxiety she drummed into my head is hard to shake off. Echoes of her illness sometimes ripple down the years.
But there’s no respite from my anxiety about Toby’s next move. So far he’s been silent, other than a brief text to say he’s arranged a courier to transport The Lady to London, and it’s unnerving. My cousin’s loaded with access to all sorts of fancy solicitors in the capital, and could still challenge the will. And though everyone seems confident I’d win, I’m not sure I could cope with a legal battle right now.
Dragging grief over Alice, money worries and uncertainty about Toby’s next move start taking their toll and I turn into an early-morning waker. Usually I’m one of those annoying people whose head hits the pillow and – bam! – that’s it for the next eight hours. But I find myself regularly stirring at 3 a.m. and staring at the ceiling for hours until pale light creeps under the curtains and across the floorboards.
Oh boy, am I sorry for insomniacs because everything seems so much worse when Salt Bay is unconscious – and so much more annoying. It’s not Josh’s fault that he sleeps soundly and his gentle snoring is usually soothing when I’m lying beside him, my arm flung across his chest. But in the early hours, every snuffle only serves to hammer home that I’m wide awake in a frighteningly uncertain world. My imagination goes into overdrive and, before I know it, I’m living in the roofless ruins of Tregavara House with nothing but seagulls for company – until the sun rises and burns away my fears like sea mist.
Josh gets fed up with me kicking him to shut up in the early hours and announces one Saturday that he’s taking me out for a de-stressing treat. Which kind of counts as a mini-break, doesn’t it? My gorgeous boyfriend is taking me on a one-day mini-break and I’m determined, à la Bridget Jones, to have a damn good time. Away from Salt Bay, the sadness and the anxiety.
So here we are on a Saturday in mid-July standing on Marazion Beach as the sun climbs higher in a blue sky scattered with trails of wispy cloud. It’s only ten o’clock but warm already so I’m wearing a blue cotton sundress and Josh is in shorts. We’ve already spotted one of his pupils on the beach, who pointed at his legs, grinned and gave him a thumbs up.
Ahead of us St Michael’s Mount rises steeply, just a few hundred metres off land. Lapped by deep blue water, its steep slopes are covered in trees and I can make out houses near the harbour walls. Plus, to make the mount even more perfect, there’s a castle on the top. Yep, a real-life, flipping castle. It’s Game of Thrones comes to Cornwall.
Josh hooks my arm through his and leads me onto the cobbled causeway that links the island and the land when the tide’s out. Pools of water left by the retreating tide shimmer beside the causeway and I shiver at the thought of the path disappearing beneath the waves in just a few hours’ time.
‘Have you really never been here before?’ asks Josh, squeezing my arm tight against his waist.
‘I’ve seen the mount from a distance but whenever I thought about visiting, the weather was pants.’
‘Then it’s good you waited to see it with me while the sun’s shining. It really is a magical place.’
He adjusts the straps of his backpack that’s full of our picnic and says ‘good morning’ to an elderly couple strolling by. They’re hand-in-hand and I wonder if that’ll be Josh and me one day. Still in Cornwall, still together, still in love.
Five minutes later we’ve reached the island, and it’s fabulous. Brown stone and whitewashed houses face the tiny harbour where boats are beached on wet sand – and the mount rises ahead of us. Wow, it’s busy! Tourists are everywhere, clicking with their smartphone cameras and licking Cornish ice cream. It’s hard to believe that I used to be one of them – and a reluctant tourist at that, keen to leave the back of beyond and return to London. And now I love Cornwall and I’m a property owner here. How quickly life can change in little more than a year.
‘Let’s go up to the castle first,’ says Josh, grabbing my arm and pulling me past the gift shop.
‘OK. There’s no rush,’ I laugh and then feel guilty. I didn’t laugh for ages after I lost Mum but then I didn’t have Josh. Or Cornwall. I was rootless and unloved and lost.
‘Are you all right?’ Josh senses my drop in mood and pulls me close. ‘Come and see the view from the castle. It’s awesome.’
Josh pays the National Trust fee and we start climbing the path, along with every tourist within twenty miles. We’re swept along by a sweaty tide of people with sunburned shoulders but it’s worth the climb when we reach the top because Josh is right. It is awesome. Perched above us, the grey-white castle seems to grow out of the rock, like a living, breathing part of the island. There are turrets and tall chimneys and tiny windows looking toward the land and out to sea. Give me Jon Snow and a circling dragon and we could be in Westeros.
‘Look at this!’ Josh pulls me towards the edge of the land, which drops across huge slabs of grey granite and bright splashes of brilliant pink flowers into an indigo sea.
The waves are sparkling in the sunshine as they lap against rock and I picture the people who’ve lived on this island over the centuries. People with joys and griefs and loves who stood in this spot and admired the same view. People just like us. They were living here while my ancestors were just a few miles away at Tregavara House.
‘What do you think then?’ Josh comes up behind me and snakes his arms around my waist.
‘It’s beautiful. I was thinking of all the people who lived here and raised families and died here.’
The ‘D’ word triggers a pang of sorrow, but I force a smile because I want to smile every time I remember my feisty great-aunt whose love and generosity have given me the roots I’ve always needed. And looking across the sea towards the land, I realise that I’ll never go back to London now. Whatever happens with Josh or Tregavara House, Cornwall is my home.
‘And this is definitely the best place to bring up a family,’ I say, almost thinking out loud. Eek! Josh is ‘a keeper’, according to my London friend Maura, but we’ve never properly discussed having children. And there’s nothing like impending parenthood to frighten off a boyfriend.
Josh tenses behind me and my heart sinks when he drops his arms and steps back. Way to go, Annie! I swing round to face him, oblivious to the tourists bustling about taking endless photos they’ll never look at.
‘I don’t mean have a family right now,’ I gabble. ‘I’m not even a hundred per cent sure I want kids and I’d be a terrible mother. Maybe I’ll have some one day but that doesn’t mean it has to be with you.’
Jeez, I certainly don’t mean that and I’m just making everything worse. I wince at Josh, who stares at me for a moment and then grins. He knows what I’m like.
‘Come with me.’ Grabbing my hand, Josh pulls me away from the chattering tourists towards a stone wall.
‘Shall we do it?’ he asks, his face so close to mine I can see streaks of gold in his chocolate-brown eyes.
‘Do what? Have kids? I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet. I was just thinking aloud really and—’
‘No, not have kids. Not yet, at least. What I mean is, shall we start our own dynasty one day at Tregavara House?’
Crikey, I need to give this conversation all my attention. But suddenly all I can think of are Linda Evans’ ginormous shoulder pads in Dynasty. And her fabulously flicky hair style. I blink rapidly, trying to divert my brain from the deflection thing it’s been doing for years whenever a conversation gets heavy. You don’t need to do it, brain – I can get heavy with this man, screams my inner voice.
‘Are you sure you’re OK, Annie? You’ve gone a b
it vacant. Look, what I want to say – though I can’t believe I’m saying it in this soppy way – is that you’ve opened the floodgates to my heart.’
‘Is that a good thing?’ I ask, tentatively. I’ve had a thing about floods ever since Tregavara House was inundated last year when the river burst its banks.
‘I didn’t think so at first. It was a bit overwhelming, to be honest, when I thought you were a bossy, annoying control freak and now you’ve inherited an old house which is a huge responsibility and—’
‘Um,’ I interrupt, ‘you were saying something about your heart.’
Josh takes a deep breath. ‘I was. Before you came to Salt Bay, and even afterwards, I wasn’t always very happy because I kept everything locked up inside me.’
‘You did, and it made you a right miserable old grump at times.’
‘What, me?’ He shrugs and gives a rueful grin. ‘Yeah, I suppose I was, especially when Mum was ill last year. Sorry. But you’ve changed everything, Annie. You’ve changed how I look at life and you’ve changed my heart. Not physically, obviously but… oh God, I’m making a right dog’s dinner of this.’
When Josh drops onto one knee, tiny particles of dirt scuff up into a cloud and waft around us. ‘What I’m asking you, Annabella Sunshine Trebarwith – extremely badly, I’m afraid – is will you marry me?’ He shrugs again and gives the half-smile that makes my legs go wobbly. ‘What do you reckon?’
I’m sure people being proposed to are supposed to act cool. Maybe give a tinkly laugh and a little speech about how they’d be honoured and then kiss their new fiancé passionately as time stands still. A moment to look back on and treasure.
I don’t do any of that. I’m so taken aback, I lean too far over the edge of the stone wall and my bag falls off my shoulder and onto the rocks below. ‘Bugger it,’ I yell, as my keys, bank cards and mobile phone scatter across the rock shelf.
Josh pulls himself to his feet and peers over the edge. ‘Oops. Does “bugger it” mean yes?’
‘Of course it does, you plonker. There’s nothing I’d rather do than become your wife.’
Thoughts of my possessions perched precariously above the ocean fly out of my head when Josh pulls me into his arms and kisses me. A year ago, he’d rather have set his own arse on fire than kiss me in front of hordes of tourists at a popular beauty spot. He was that repressed. But love has flooded his heart. And mine. And now we’re getting married!
‘Get a room,’ murmurs a young girl passing by but we giggle with our lips still pressed together and carry on kissing, his hands in my hair.
‘Are you only marrying me now I’ve become a property owner?’ I tease Josh when we come up for air.
‘Obviously.’ With the castle behind him, black hair caught in the wind and white shirt billowing, he looks more like a Cornish pirate than ever. ‘Actually, I was going to propose a while ago but then Alice was ill and it didn’t seem the right time. I’m not sure now’s the right time either, with Alice passing away and the kerfuffle about the house, but I couldn’t wait any longer. I don’t think Alice would mind.’
‘I’m sure she wouldn’t because she’d be happy for both of us. It’s such a shame she won’t ever know.’
‘But she did know,’ says Josh, gently brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. ‘I told her while she was recuperating from her infection. I sat on her bed and kind of asked her permission, seeing as Barry wasn’t around and he could never have kept it quiet anyway.’
Which is very true because Barry adheres to the Kayla code of keeping secrets. And I’m so glad that Alice knew about the proposal.
‘Tell me exactly word for word what she said.’
‘She got very excited and said she had the ideal present for you, though she didn’t say what. Presumably she meant the house. Then she promised to wear a big hat to the wedding.’ Josh’s smile fades and he cups my face in his hands. ‘She’ll be with us in spirit, Annie. Look, let’s get married soon. There’s no point in waiting and it doesn’t have to be a big do unless that’s what you want.’
‘No, I don’t need a posh dress and flowers and presents and neither of us have big families. But can we get married in Salt Bay Church for tradition’s sake and have the reception at Tregavara House? Well, not so much a reception as a get-together for the people we care about. Then it’ll be like Alice is with us.’
Josh grins. ‘Of course we can. That sounds perfect and we can make plans. But first, what are we going to do about your bag?’
He pulls himself up onto the wall and dangles his long legs over the other side.
‘No, please don’t!’
But it’s too late because Josh is already scrambling down the steep slope. Typical! I’m proposed to by the man of my dreams and now he’s about to fall off a cliff and be dashed on the rocks beneath. I can picture the newspaper billboard outside Jennifer’s shop: ‘Salt Bay woman set to remain spinster forever after fiancé of five minutes falls to his death.’
But as with most of my anticipated disasters, nothing actually happens. Josh scoops up my bag and its contents and clambers back over the wall. A passing guide spots him and he gets a ticking off but that’s as bad as it gets. It looks like the wedding’s still on then.
Seeing as we’re at the castle, we wander round it hand-in-hand, finding out about the St Aubyn family who’ve lived there for ages and the siege of fourteen-something-or-other but I don’t take anything in. It’s really hard to concentrate on stuff from the past when your future has suddenly become so much more exciting.
Josh is equally distracted and we soon ditch the castle and head for its mediaeval church. Inside, away from the buzz of tourists and screeching seagulls, it’s cool and peaceful.
‘Maybe this is where we should get married,’ jokes Josh, striding towards the altar which sits below three beautiful stained-glass windows. ‘You could body-swerve all the tourists when you walk up the aisle.’
‘We’d never get Alice all the way up here,’ I reply without thinking and a sudden whoosh of sorrow engulfs me. My mum should be at my wedding, flirting with the ushers and refusing to sing hymns because she’s a pagan. And Alice should be next to her in the front pew with her best silk tea dress on and the hugest hat you’ve ever seen.
Josh says nothing but hurries over and puts his arms around me, which is far more comforting than words could ever be. He totally gets it because his dad and step-dad will be missing on our big day too.
A thought suddenly strikes me and I mumble into his shoulder: ‘I don’t want to be Mrs Pasco.’
‘But you just said yes.’ Josh pulls away and holds me at arm’s length. ‘You haven’t changed your mind, have you? I know you can be indecisive sometimes but—’
‘Of course I haven’t but I want to stay a Trebarwith because that’s who I am. Maybe I could compromise and call myself Mrs Pasco-Trebarwith though I’m not sure I can carry off a double-barrel. Or just Mrs Trebarwith, or Ms Trebarwith – though that sounds like I can’t make up my mind. Or you could change your name to Trebarwith and—’
Josh grins and gently places his finger across my lips. ‘You can call yourself Donald Duck if you like, just so long as you marry me. Why don’t we go and get you a temporary ring in the gift shop to make it official? I didn’t get you anything ahead of time so you can choose a proper ring when money’s not so tight, plus you are a bit’ – he chooses his next word carefully – ‘particular about what you like. I’d only have got the wrong thing.’
‘Hey, I’m not fussy,’ I say, punching him playfully on the arm.
‘Ow, I didn’t say you were.’
‘But that’s what you meant. And I don’t need a ring anyway.’
‘I know you don’t need a ring but I’d like you to have one. Come on. I think we’ve done the castle.’
The shop near the harbour is crammed with tasteful leather handbags, silk scarves, tea towels and biscuits. There’s a small selection of jewellery and I choose a simple silver band twisted into
a Cornish Celtic knot that costs less than forty pounds. And then Josh and I sit on the harbour wall, waiting for the boat that ferries tourists back to the mainland at high tide.
While we’ve been busy getting engaged and changing the course of our lives forever, the sea crept in as it’s been doing for millennia and there’s an expanse of deep blue water between us and Marazion Beach.
Josh takes the ring out of its bag and slips it onto my fourth finger. ‘I’ll buy you a proper one soon,’ he promises.
I nod and smile as I twist the ring around my finger and it catches the sun but I know I’ll never have another engagement ring. This one is just perfect.
Ten
‘Woohoo, it’s Annie Sunshine Trebarwith, mistress of Tregavara House.’
Kayla gives a mock bow while I’m weaving through the crowd and heading for the bar. Cornwall’s summer season is in full swing, the sun is out, and the Whistling Wave is heaving with tourists, or emmets – the Cornish word for ‘ants’ – as they’re known around here.
Kayla’s wearing a strappy pink vest top and all the windows in the pub are flung open but it’s hot and humid in here and Kayla’s face is flushed.
‘Too. Many. People,’ she pants, pulling a pint with one hand and handing over change with the other. ‘Roger needs to get more bar staff in here only he won’t ’cos he’s so tight.’
‘Oy, I heard that,’ shouts Roger, who’s pulling a pint for Gerald. ‘I’m not made of money, you know.’
‘See, tight!’ says Kayla, slopping the beer down in front of a man whose ice cream is dripping over the flagstones. She turns her back on a customer who’s waving a ten pound note in her direction. ‘Did you have a nice time at the Mount then? You look less stressed so going out for the day must have done you some good. What’s that?’ She stares at my ring after spotting it at last. I’ve been waving my fingers in her face since I reached the bar, like Marcel Marceau doing an intricate mime.