by Liz Eeles
‘They had to put the silver stuff in storage after one tourist was nabbed trying to walk out with a huge silver crucifix stuffed up his jumper. What an idiot! You can’t trust emmets.’
‘What exactly are emmets?’
‘That’s what the locals call tourists. I think it means “ants” or something. You can’t move round here in mid-summer for emmets in shorts shouting at their kids and stuffing their faces with ice cream, but there’s none about at this time of year.’
Perhaps Mum used to call tourists “emmets”. Maybe she once stood in the spot where I’m standing now. A wave of longing to see her just one more time sweeps over me and my eyes begin to water. I was wrong to think there were no echoes of her here in this isolated village that’s shackled to the past.
To be honest, I can’t imagine my new-age mum in a church but I light a candle near the altar just in case and put a pound in the donations box. This one’s for you, Mum. The flickering flame dances and reflects in a brass plaque above it.
The plaque is polished to a gleaming shine and reads:
In loving memory of the members of Salt Bay Choral Society who drowned in the great storm of April 15th 2002. Still singing in Heaven.
Beneath are listed the names of seven men, including ‘Samuel Trebarwith, aged 70’.
A shiver goes down my back as I wonder if Samuel Trebarwith was a relative. I’ve no idea how common the surname is round here, and I don’t remember the storm, which might not have reached London. But it must have been devastating for this small community to lose so many men on one day.
‘Sad, isn’t it,’ whispers Kayla, who’s crept up behind me. ‘I don’t think the village has ever fully recovered. No one talks about it, like it’s unlucky to even bring it up. I mentioned it in the pub once and everyone went quiet as though I’d brought up my kinky sexual practices.’
‘What is the Salt Bay Choral Society?’
Kayla peers more closely at the plaque. ‘I dunno. What it says on the tin, I guess. It’s not still going so I guess the storm finished that off, too. I don’t s’pose there’s too much call for singing when you’ve had a tragedy like that.’
The mood has lowered and Kayla suddenly grabs hold of my arm. ‘Come on, I’m supposed to be showing you the wonders of Cornwall, not burying you in its tragedies. Let's go up onto the cliffs so you can get a good view. They’re a bit steep, mind.’
Kayla wasn’t kidding. I’ve borrowed a pair of Alice’s flat shoes but, by the time I reach the top of the cliffs overlooking Salt Bay, I’m out of breath and incredibly hot. I peel off my scarf and stand full on into the wind to cool my glowing cheeks.
I’m used to stale, hot air gusting out of Tube tunnels but the cold air gusting around me here smells clean and fresh. The late-January sky is still heavy with clouds but there’s a sudden gap between them and a shaft of golden sunlight falls onto the churning sea. It lights a glimmering path across the waves which are beating hell out of the rocks below us.
‘Look over there,’ shouts Kayla, above the wind and the screeching seagulls. ‘Can you see it?’
Gingerly, I move closer to the edge of the cliff and peer over the top. Far below there’s a perfect curve of washed, golden sand littered with huge dark boulders. Each boulder is circled by a rock pool edged with crinkled, brown seaweed.
‘That’s the real Salt Bay,’ shouts Kayla, turning her back to the wind. ‘Most tourists think Salt Bay is the village and harbour and don’t even know about the beach. We keep it a secret so emmets don’t spoil it with ice-cream wrappers and empty suncream bottles. A couple of tourist guidebooks have given the game away but you have to go down a tricky cliff path to get there so that puts lots of people off.’
She catches her hair which is being whipped into her face and tucks it into the neck of her fleece.
‘The beach is defo worth a visit, but make sure you check the tide timetables or you’ll get cut off. A couple of tourists got stuck there a few months ago and they had to launch the lifeboat to rescue them. Some of the lifeboat crew came into the pub afterwards. Very nice!’ Kayla grins. ‘But then I’ve always had a thing for men in oilskins.’ She pulls me back from the edge of the cliff. ‘Come and look at this, too.’
She leads me over a small mound to a more sheltered area encircled by a low wooden fence. Inside the fence are tidy rows of dark-grey marble gravestones.
‘This is the overspill cemetery above the beach. It’s a lovely idea, though the stones will all fall into the sea one day when the cliff erodes far enough. Maybe that’s what they want, because the sea is God around here.’
I leave Kayla sitting on the grass and wander for a while among the stones. They’re newer than those in the churchyard so it’s easier to make out the names and I soon spy the one I’m looking for. The stone is a simple marble oblong with black lettering: Samuel Trebarwith – February 24th 1932 to April 15th 2002 – husband of Sheila and father of Joanna. Loved and missed.
I touch the top of the gravestone, which is cold and slippery, and trace my mother’s name with my fingertips. So Samuel Trebarwith was my grandfather. It doesn’t seem right that her name is here, next to the man who threw her out when she most needed help. How could Samuel Trebarwith abandon his child? How could he abandon me?
The wind has picked up even more and catches an empty chocolate wrapper which dances between the gravestones.
‘Hey, don’t be too long,’ yells Kayla, standing up and brushing grass from her damp backside. ‘I’m working in the pub soon so I’d better get back, though you can stay up here longer if you like.’
‘No, that’s fine, I’ll come with you,’ I shout back, keen not to be alone in this wild, spooky place where the past and present collide and the wind seems to whisper with the secrets of the dead.
Chapter 7
Tregavara House smells like the bakery counter at Tesco when I let myself in using the key Alice lent me. Mmmm. There’s a definite whiff of freshly baked bread and something delicious mingling with it – possibly bacon, streaky bacon, fried until it curls into a crispy sliver. My mouth is watering though I can’t possibly be hungry, not after the calorie-rammed hot chocolate I shoved into my face an hour ago. Not when I can go the whole day in London on a medium salad and a can of Red Bull. My stomach rumbles traitorously and I realise that appetite-boosting sea air could be seriously damaging to my waistline. It’s a good job I won’t be here for long.
The gorgeous smells lead me to the kitchen where Alice is standing with her back to me, huddled over and gripping the table so hard her knuckles are white bumps beneath her thin skin.
‘Are you OK, Alice?’ I ask gently, standing in the doorway.
She straightens quickly and turns around.
‘Don’t fuss, I’m fine, just having a little rest and I didn’t hear you come in. Are you hungry?’ She pulls her shoulders back, picks up a wooden spoon and starts stirring a steaming pan on the hob. ‘I’ve made some bacon and pea soup and there’s bread in the oven; just part-baked baguettes from the shop, not home-made.’
‘That sounds wonderful. I’ll find some bowls.’
I root around in the crockery cupboard, touched that Alice has cooked for me. No one has made me soup from scratch since – well, since ever. Stuart always ate out, even though he has a top-of-the-range kitchen, and Mum used to open a tin of Heinz tomato soup, which was as far as her culinary skills went. Most of the time I ended up cooking for her, even as a child, especially when she was feeling low and food didn’t register on her radar.
Alice ladles thick, green soup into the china bowls I’ve found and puts steaming bread onto a wooden board in the middle of the table.
‘Sit and eat before it gets cold, and you can tell me what you think of Salt Bay,’ she orders, turning off the hob and sitting at the head of the table.
‘The village is great,’ I lie, burning my fingertips when I break a baguette in half. ‘I met someone called Kayla, an Australian girl who showed me round. She was really nic
e.’
‘Kayla, the girl who works in the pub? That was kind of her.’ Alice blows on her soup and sips a mouthful, grimacing because it’s still too hot. Her hand wobbles, tilting the spoon, and some of the green liquid splashes onto the tablecloth. ‘I hope you like the soup. It’s an old family recipe.’
‘It’s delicious.’ And this time there’s no need to lie because the soup is bursting with flavour and beats shop-bought hands down. I slurp down a whole bowlful while we chat about Maureen’s tea shop and the girl behind the counter who’s called Nettie, and budding psychopath Celine, and Jennifer who’s run the newsagent’s forever. Everything’s going well until I bring up my visit to the church.
‘There’s a plaque on the wall to the men from the Salt Bay Choral Society who died in the storm,’ I say, pouring more soup from the saucepan into my bowl. ‘That must have been terribly sad for the village.’
Alice pauses with her spoon between the bowl and her mouth.
‘This soup could do with a little more salt. I never add any when cooking with bacon but this is rather under-seasoned, don’t you think?’ She puts down her spoon, grabs the salt cellar and sprinkles it so liberally that white specks scatter across the table. Then she looks up, her chocolate-brown eyes staring straight through me. ‘Yes, it was sad. Did you notice the name of my brother Samuel, your grandfather?’
‘Yes, although I didn’t realise he was my grandfather until I saw his gravestone up on the cliffs.’
‘Kayla really did show you round,’ murmurs Alice, using a crust of bread to wipe soup from the rim of her bowl. ‘My sister-in-law Sheila, your grandmother, went downhill after Samuel’s tragic death. She couldn’t get used to being on her own so suddenly after over forty years of marriage.’
‘Then she should have made sure she had more family around her.’ That came out rather bluntly and Alice looks taken aback. ‘What I mean is, my mum could have been a comfort to her.’
‘She could have been if she’d been here.’ The space between us suddenly feels fizzy with tension.
‘Did they have any other children?’
‘No, Joanna was their only child.’ Alice places her bread back on the breadboard and pushes away her bowl. ‘I think I’ve had enough for now. My appetite isn’t what it was and I’m feeling tired.’ She stands up slowly and steadies herself against the table. ‘I’m going upstairs to have a nap but do help yourself to more soup.’
Alice walks slowly upstairs while I sit at the table feeling guilty for bringing up the tragedy and being so abrupt about Mum. I’m totally within my rights to be angry about how Mum was treated, but all I managed to do was upset an old lady. Nice one, Annie.
After pouring leftover soup into a china jug, I do the washing up and dry my hands on a tea towel before going in search of a phone. Kayla is right that scars still run deep in this close-knit community and, although Alice has offered to tell me more about my family, perhaps that’s all best left buried. It’s time to go home.
The sitting room is chilly, with no fire in the grate and dark shadows lurking in corners untouched by daylight. There’s an old-fashioned Bakelite phone with a silver dial on the sideboard, and I switch on the fringed lamp next to it. Mustard-yellow light pools across the rug while I find National Rail’s number in the phone book and make a call.
It’s picked up by a cheerful man with a broad Brummie accent who tells me there’s a train from Penzance at ten o’clock on Friday morning that gets into Paddington almost five and a half hours later – a long journey back to my uncomplicated life. Relief washes over me as I replace the receiver, though I also feel sneaky for sorting out train times without telling Alice. But she hasn’t mentioned her business proposal again and I’m more convinced than ever that leaving Salt Bay is the right decision. Alice will find someone else to help her, and witnessing how she’s still affected by the village tragedy has cemented my view that having family only leads to hurt and pain.
I’m leaving the room when a large painting on the wall catches my eye. Framed with ornate gilt, the painting is of a woman dressed in a long dark skirt and white high-necked blouse, with a delicate cameo brooch at her throat. She’s standing outside, with a blue-grey sea behind her, and the artist has captured the exact moment something has amused her and she’s started to laugh. Sunshine is glinting on her brown hair which is piled up into a bun and her dark eyes are full of warmth.
It’s a magnificent painting in rich oils and the woman makes me catch my breath. She seems so alive, frozen by a spell that might break at any moment, and she looks familiar. I’ve never seen her before, I’m sure of that, but there’s something about the shape of her mouth and the way she’s tilting her head back as she laughs that strikes a chord. She looks a little like my mum. Actually – I peer more closely at the delicate brush strokes – she looks a lot like me. Ooh, that’s spooky; it’s like coming face-to-face with your own ghost. In an old house. With a moaning wind outside whipping off a cold sea. A shiver goes down my spine and I can’t get out of the room fast enough.
My heartbeat is thumping in my ears so I sit on the bottom stair for a while and give myself a good talking to. I’m almost thirty years old, for goodness’ sake, and spooked by a painting! Gradually, the thump-thump fades while I focus on dust motes caught in a shaft of light from the landing window.
The house is deathly quiet apart from the steady ticking of a grandfather clock and, as my bum goes numb on the step, I realise I have no plans for this afternoon. In London there would be deadlines to meet and food to buy and rush-hour crowds to battle through but here there’s absolutely nothing to do – apart from outdoorsy things which I’d never choose to do, obviously. So instead I do something I never would at home; I follow Alice’s example and take to my bed.
There’s something deliciously indulgent about sleeping in the afternoon when you’re not full of cold or crippled with period pain. I open my bedroom window a little before slipping under the sheets and the dull, rhythmic boom of the waves lulls me to sleep while a breeze blows across my face.
When I wake up, the room is dark and freezing cold and I’m amazed to see that it’s almost six o’clock. Sea air appears to knock you out as well as make you fat.
I run a brush through my hair and go downstairs. Alice is up and in the sitting room. She’s lit the fire and is sitting close to it, mending what looks like a 1940s tea dress made of emerald-green silk.
‘I’m so sorry, Alice. I fell asleep.’
Alice glances up from the fabric on her lap. ‘I peeped in but you looked so peaceful I didn’t want to wake you. You young girls must get worn out rushing round London. I used to burn the candle at both ends once but it catches up with you in the end.’ She sighs as she pushes her needle through the soft fabric and pulls on the green thread.
‘Can I get you something to eat, Alice? I can cook for you since you cooked for me at lunchtime, and I’m not bad in the kitchen. I used to cook for Mum all the time.’
‘Thank you but I’ve already had a sandwich and finished off the soup. There’s food in the fridge if you’d like to cook yourself something. There are chicken breasts and some green beans or pork chops in the freezer.’
‘That’s kind but I thought I might go to the pub this evening and have a meal there.’ It’s hard to tell how well off Alice is and – bearing in mind the effect of the sea air – I don’t want to eat her out of house and home. I’m also trying to be extra nice after what happened at lunch-time.
‘Would you like to come too? My treat?’ I ask, perching on the arm of the Chesterfield-style sofa.
Alice shakes her head. ‘No I don’t think so. I’ll finish my mending and watch TV and get off to bed before long. But you go out and enjoy yourself.’ She sees me glance at the painting which freaked me out earlier, and smiles. The painting is in shadow, with its rich colours muted and the laughing woman less defined. ‘It’s quite a picture, isn’t it. That woman is an ancestor of ours. My father used to refer to her as “The Lady�
�. Ouch!’ She puts her hand to her mouth and sucks her finger.
‘Are you all right?’
‘No harm done,’ says Alice, taking a tissue from her pocket and soaking up a bubble of blood from her fingertip. ‘My hands aren't as steady these days so I keep slipping with the needle, but there’s no staining on the silk, thank goodness.’ She’s about to say something else, but thinks better of it and bends her head over the soft material that’s draping to the floor. Her white hair glows in the firelight while she concentrates on keeping her fingers away from the sharp needle-tip. After a while she looks up. ‘You get off to the pub, Annabella, and we can talk about things tomorrow.’
‘Things’ meaning me giving up my perfectly good life to move to a dead-end village. That is so not going to happen but putting off telling Alice until tomorrow sounds good to me. Procrastination is severely underrated, especially when it comes to disappointing an old lady with crackpot ideas about mending a fractured family.
Chapter 8
Do waves whistle? The sign outside The Whistling Wave shows an unfeasibly turquoise crest of water forever poised to break onto acid-yellow sand. I’m all for alliteration but surely it should make some kind of sense. A wave might crash or even roar but it’s hardly likely to start playing a tune, is it.
‘Are you coming in, love?’ A stout man in a beige anorak looks back at me over his shoulder while he holds open the pub door. Light spills out from the whitewashed building, along with a hum of conversation and the clink of glasses.
‘Gazing at the sign won’t get you a drink,’ he laughs. ‘There’s no way Roger will walk outside to take an order.’
‘That’s true enough,’ mutters the woman with him who lets me go into the pub ahead of her.
Inside there’s a heavy smell of polish and beer, and shiny horse brasses on walls that must be at least half a metre thick. The window ledges are so deep, some have been fitted with colourful cushions and are being used as seats. They look comfy enough but the small, single-glazed windows are ancient and must be dead draughty. I make a mental note to sit near the flames blazing in the blackened stone fireplace, though maybe not too close. A woman at a table next to the fireplace, who’s perspiring heavily, gets up and moves to a window seat.