by Liz Eeles
Why the hell did I bring up Josh’s name? I veer swiftly onto a safer subject.
‘While we’re eating, tell me more about your family. They must miss you.’
‘I doubt it. Both of my sisters have sprogged so they’re busy, and Mum and Dad have their hands full with grandchildren so they’re happy for me to go off and do my own thing. Just so long as I check in now and again.’ She bites into an apple and wipes juice from her chin. ‘They all live in the Sydney suburbs. You’ll have to come home with me one day and visit.’ She leans back on her elbows as a wall of water thuds far beneath us and the rocks groan. ‘How long will you be staying in Salt Bay?’
‘For a few weeks while Alice is sorting out permanent help in the house.’
Kayla nods so I presume Alice’s failing health is the talk of the pub.
‘I’ll be back in London by spring and need to keep busy ’til then.’
‘What do you think of Salt Bay?’
Kayla’s fitted in well with the locals so I choose my words carefully. ‘It’s a pretty place but incredibly quiet and everyone seems subdued. There’s no music which is weird and sad.’
Kayla thinks for a moment before handing me a doorstep-sandwich crammed with chunks of cheddar. ‘You’re right, there isn’t any music though I hadn’t really noticed. Roger won’t have music in the pub because he’s so grumpy. Was that you singing earlier when I called round for you? You’ve got a lovely voice.’
‘Thanks,’ I mumble, going red. ‘I think music makes everything better.’
‘Everything?’ Kayla wrinkles her nose and brushes dog hair from the picnic rug. ‘What about if your cat dies? Or you’re clinically obese? Or a bloke you like calls you Carrie?’
I swallow a large piece of cheese before I’ve chewed it properly and wince. ‘Not everything, obviously. But music was comforting when I was growing up and it still helps now when life gets difficult. Don’t you think so?’
‘I listen to Crowded House and Kylie when I’m feeling homesick. Does that count?’
‘Absolutely. Music can ease homesickness, heartache, grief; the whole caboodle. I joined the choir at every school I went to which helped me to fit in. And when I was doing secretarial work in a primary school, I took over running the choir while the music teacher was off long-term sick. No one else wanted to do it but I loved it. It was great to see the children enjoying singing and even the naughty ones calmed down a little. It's a bit like therapy, you know? I always wanted to be a music therapist but didn’t get the exam grades I needed. Moving from school to school in my teens didn’t help and I needed to bring in a wage anyway as soon as—’
I stop mid-sentence, feeling embarrassed because Kayla is staring at me with a strange expression on her face. Are there crumbs round my mouth? I rub my palm across my lips to check.
‘Therapy, you reckon,’ says Kayla, putting down her half-eaten apple. ‘Like what you’d provide for people who’ve had a trauma.’
‘I guess so.’
‘Like the people in Salt Bay whose relatives were killed in that kick-arse storm.’
‘I… suppose…’
‘Oh wow!’ Kayla claps her hands excitedly. ‘You should start up the Salt Bay choir again. That would cheer them all up and it would keep you busy.’
‘I’m only here for a few more weeks, probably not even that long.’
And I have no urge to spend any more time with the locals than is absolutely necessary.
‘It doesn’t matter. Once the choir is up and running, we can sort out someone else to take it over. There’s always loads of people who like doing that kind of stuff. This is going to be great! We can hold auditions and put up posters about it in the pub and in Jennifer’s shop and in the villages nearby.’
‘I’m not sure we’d need to hold auditions,’ I protest faintly.
‘Of course we’d need auditions. Like in The X Factor, because you don’t want the choir to be crap. And what else are you going to do for weeks on end in Salt Bay? You’ll go mad with boredom otherwise. I can help you with the organising.’
‘I’ve never run a proper adult choir before and I’m sure it’s harder than it looks.’
‘Pah!’ Kayla dismisses my fears with a wave of her hand. ‘You know about music and choirs and it’ll cheer everyone up and it’ll be fun.’
‘I’m not sure about fun. Lots of people in the original choir drowned, so wouldn’t starting the choir up again be terribly insensitive?’
‘Only if you go about it in a terribly insensitive way,’ insists Kayla. ‘We’re trying to help people get over their grief and we’ll make that clear. How much did music help you when your mum died?’
‘Loads. I had a grief playlist that made me cry buckets – which was a good thing,’ I add when Kayla looks unsure. ‘Sad songs opened the floodgates and let out the emotions that were strangling me.’ I gulp because remembering how raw my emotions were after Mum’s death is making my throat tight.
Kayla rubs my arm and gives a sympathetic pout.
‘It must have been horrid losing your mum. And yet music made it better and it can do the same for people in Salt Bay. I’m sure of it. Please, Annie, let’s give it a go and see how we get on. Or…’ She pulls her scarf tighter and blows on her cold hands.
‘Or what?’
‘Or I’ll tell everyone that your middle name is Sunshine.’
‘That’s blackmail,’ I splutter, not sure whether to throw my sandwich at her or laugh.
‘I know.’ She grins and reaches for her apple. ‘I’ll do all the work. All you’ve got to do is convince everyone it’s a good idea and turn up for the auditions. Bagsy being Simon Cowell!’
Chapter 15
Kayla is as good as her word and posters start going up around the village over the next couple of days. She’s used acid-yellow paper and a red marker pen so the posters are hard to miss. They scream out at me from Jennifer’s shop, the pub, the notice board on the green and the telephone kiosk. And Kayla tells me people have taken them away from the pub to put in Trecaldwith and other villages nearby.
The posters invite anyone who likes singing to come along to auditions for the revived Salt Bay Choral Society at 7.30 pm this Friday in The Whistling Wave. Underneath in capital letters, it says: ‘New choir set up in memory of those who died and as therapy for those who remember them’.
Eek, that manages to raise expectations while being insensitive at the same time, but Kayla is convinced it’s fine when I corner her about it in the pub.
‘You worry too much,’ she insists, leaning against the bar looking bored. It’s mid-week and only a few customers are in, huddled together in corners. ‘The storm was a long time ago and people will understand what we’re trying to do. We’re trying to help.’
‘I know but have you ever lost anyone close to you?’
As I suspected, Kayla shakes her head. ‘Not really. My grandparents died but that was ages ago and I don’t remember it. But I can imagine how awful it must feel.’
‘I’m not sure you can, not unless you’ve been through it.’ I would explain more – about the disbelief, anger and guilt that mush together into lingering, skewering sorrow – but a half-empty pub on a Wednesday night doesn’t feel like the time or the place.
Kayla sticks out her bottom lip and drums her fingers on the bar.
‘So are you pulling out? I’m not insensitive about what happened and lots of people have told me it’s a great idea and what the village really needs.’
Maybe they’re right, because they know the village far better than I do. Glancing round the deadly quiet pub, I make up my mind.
‘OK, we’ll give it a go but perhaps we should call the choir something different because the original name is linked with such a tragedy.’
‘Annabella Sunshine Trebarwith.’ Kayla puts a steadying hand on my shoulder. ‘Tradition is like a big British thing, isn’t it? Don’t you have Black Rod in Parliament who still dresses up in tights to bang on a door or somethi
ng? Black Rod!’ she sniggers. ‘Tradition decrees that our choir should be called the Salt Bay Choral Society, or the New Salt Bay Choral Society if that makes you feel any better, and then it’ll be a proper tribute to what went before.’
‘I guess so.’
‘I know so,’ states Kayla, and she sounds so confident I want to believe her. But it’s hard to shake the feeling I’ll be letting my family down if I upset the village where Trebarwiths have lived for generations.
As a test, I discuss our plans with Alice when I get back to Tregavara House. She says she’s already spotted one of the posters and I’m reassured when she doesn’t swoon or go nuclear on me. But she does suggest that I talk to local people most hit by the tragedy and get their blessing first.
‘Two of the families moved away after the storm, wanting a fresh start away from the sea, and Mrs Hawkins died a long time ago. But there are still people in and around Salt Bay who were directly affected. There’s Cyril in the village.’ Alice carefully writes down his address for me on a yellow Post-it. ‘He lost two grandsons, poor man, and has become a bit of a recluse since his wife passed away last year. The other person to talk to is Ted Pawley’s widow Marion who lives in Trecaldwith. I need to speak to her anyway so I’ll mention your plan and tell you if she has a problem with it. Actually, she’s the—’
‘But do you give us your blessing, Alice?’ I interrupt, keen to know how she feels. ‘We won’t start up the choir again if you’d rather we didn’t. The last thing I want to do is upset you.’
Alice thinks for a moment, pen poised over the Post-it. ‘Samuel always loved the choir and I think he would be pleased that his granddaughter wants to bring it back to life. You have my blessing.’
‘Thank you, Alice.’ I get a sudden urge to hug her but make do with patting her arm instead. My great-aunt doesn’t come across as cuddly, and a half-hearted hug could be all kinds of awkward.
‘Does this mean that you’ll be staying in Salt Bay for a little longer?’ she enquires, sliding the pen behind an ugly Victorian vase on the mantelpiece.
‘Not really. Kayla reckons we can find someone to take over the choir when I go back to London, which will be soon. I’m only in Salt Bay while you’re organising more help in the house.’
I emphasise that last bit because all Alice has done so far is put up a ‘help required’ advert in Jennifer’s shop which – surprise, surprise – has elicited no response whatsoever.
Meanwhile, Amber is posting Facebook photos of her and Gracie in my flat with the hashtags #bestbuds and #togetherforever which doesn’t bode well for turfing her out when I get back. I’m not one of Amber’s Facebook friends but if she didn’t want me to stalk her she should have been more careful with her privacy settings.
* * *
‘Did I overhear you saying that you’re going to visit Cyril Barnley?’ sniffs Jennifer, standing directly behind us in the tiny stationery section of her shop.
She's been following us round since we arrived so knows very well that we’re on our way to see him. We only nipped in to pick up a Twix for Kayla who reckons blood sugar plummets to dangerous levels without regular infusions of chocolate.
‘We thought we should check that Mr Barnley is OK with us reviving the choir,’ I say, swinging round to face Jennifer and almost braining myself on the jauntily striped windbreaks she’s carrying.
‘Ooh, you don’t want to do that!’ Jennifer sucks her bottom lip between her teeth and puts the windbreaks down with a clatter.
‘Which is exactly what I said!’ exclaims Kayla, who’s been dragged along under sufferance. Ripping the paper off her chocolate bar, she downs half a finger in one go and fishes about in her pocket for the money to pay for it.
‘Why don’t you think we should visit him?’
‘There’s no point. He won’t let you in,’ says Jennifer, taking the coins proffered by Kayla and dropping them into the till. ‘Cyril’s become a partial recluse since his wife died last year. He rarely goes out, he doesn’t like strangers, and I doubt he’ll like your idea of getting the choral society going again.’ She settles down on her stool for a gossip. ‘You know, of course, that his two grandsons were in the choir and were lost in the Great Storm, and then his daughter’s marriage broke up under the strain and she moved away. She’s gone Up North. It’s tragic.’
‘Which is why we ought to speak to him about the choir before we—’
‘Blunder on,’ interjects Jennifer, patting her new hairdo, which is ash-blonde and aggressively backcombed.
‘I was going to say “carry on”, but never mind. Do lots of people think reviving the choral society is a bad idea, then?’
‘A few folk do. They say you’re a newcomer who’s poking her nose in where it’s not wanted.’
Kayla squeaks behind me, desperate to comment but hindered by a mouthful of gooey caramel. ‘Whereas others say it’s good to keep the old traditions going and to bring some life back to the place.’
‘What do you think?’
Jennifer folds her arms and ponders for a moment. ‘I think you’ll be lucky if you can get anyone round here to sing in tune, if the humming that goes on in my shop is anything to go by. Even if you are a talented and experienced choral conductor from London.’
I glare at Kayla, who’s been doing what she describes as ‘bigging me up’ around the village, though I’d call it lying. She shoves the rest of the Twix into her mouth and pretends to look at the pen selection.
‘However, you’ve got a link to the old choral society which pleases a lot of people,’ adds Jennifer, ‘so you might as well give it a try. And if you fall flat on your face, you do.’
Which is not the most ringing of endorsements, but hey ho. At least I’ve got an idea for getting us in with Mr Barnley.
‘Jennifer, I’d like to get Mr Barnley – Cyril – onside so I’m not going against the wishes of someone directly affected by the tragedy. You know him well and you’re good with people.’ I ignore Kayla who gulps and starts coughing loudly. ‘How would you suggest that we approach him?’
Delighted to be asked for advice, Jennifer ferrets under the counter and brings out a copy of Cornwall Life.
‘You could always give him his magazine that I haven’t delivered yet, and also make a point of mentioning that you’re Samuel Trebarwith’s granddaughter. He gets confused sometimes but he’ll remember Samuel.’
‘That’s really helpful. Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. It’s good that you’re taking local people’s feelings into consideration. There’s many that wouldn’t.’ She gives Kayla a filthy look and passes me the glossy magazine which has a beautiful picture on the cover of dark cliffs silhouetted against a ruby-red sky. I peep inside and see that the photo was taken in North Cornwall. Fair dues, the whole county is spectacularly wild and beautiful. If Cornwall was one of the Home Counties, I might even consider living in it.
Kayla stomps ahead of me when we come out of the shop.
‘Crikey,’ she says. ‘Who rattled her cage, and did you see her wind-tunnel hairstyle? There’s no way I’m letting myself go like that when I get old. I’m gonna be like Helen Mirren. But she had a good point about not bothering Mr Barnley – I’ve heard he’s odd.’
I’m too busy peering at people’s cottages to take much notice of Kayla’s bad mood. Alice’s Post-it says Cyril Barnley lives at Briar Cottage but it’s not easy to find. Eventually I spot it, tucked away behind the grocery store in a tiny terraced row I’ve not noticed before. There’s a bright blue planter outside the front door but the plant inside is withered and brown, and marketing brochures are hanging half in and half out of the letter box. I push them through and knock on the door.
‘Maybe he’s not in,’ says Kayla when no one comes, trying to see through the frosted glass panel.
‘He’s a partial recluse; of course he’s in.’
A dark shadow moves across the back of the hallway, and I call through the letter box, ‘Mr Barnley, please
can I have a quick word with you? My name’s Annie and I’ve got your magazine from Jennifer. Samuel Trebarwith was my grandfather.’
After a few moments, the door opens a crack and I catch a glimpse of grey hair and a burgundy cardigan.
‘Who did you say you were?’
‘This is Kayla who works at the pub, and I’m Annie Trebarwith, Joanna Trebarwith’s daughter.’
‘Is that right.’ Mr Barnley opens the door wider, pokes his head outside and surveys me, warily. ‘You look a bit like the Trebarwiths but I’ve never seen you in Salt Bay before.’
‘I’ve never been in Salt Bay before. I only met my great-aunt Alice for the first time a short while ago.’
Interest sparks in Mr Barnley’s rheumy, faded eyes. ‘And what do you want with me?’
‘We’d like to talk to you about the Salt Bay Choral Society, if you wouldn’t mind. We’re thinking of re-starting the choir but wanted to ask you about it first.’
‘You want my permission?’
‘Something like that.’
Mr Barnley thinks for a moment and then pulls the door wide open. ‘You’d best come in, then. Mind the cat.’
A scrawny ginger moggy with white ears hurtles out of the house and darts down the street, towards the sea.
‘Should I try to catch it?’
‘She’ll be back soon enough when she wants food. Follow me, and don’t touch anything.’
Kayla and I follow Mr Barnley along a tiny hallway and into an equally small living room that’s dwarfed by an old television set in the corner. There’s a pot of garish fake chrysanthemums on top of the TV and every other available surface is covered in mismatched photo frames. Some of the photos are black and white, others are in colour, but they all feature people who I presume are his family.
Mr Barnley sees me looking at them and picks up a photo of a pretty woman with two young boys sitting on her lap.
‘That’s my daughter Susan, and her sons Benjamin and Peter who were in the choral society. They had lovely voices, both of them, and were always singing so they joined the choir like me. But then the storm came and that was that.’ He puts the photo frame back in its place. ‘I hope you’re not expecting tea because I don’t have any milk.’