by Liz Eeles
‘Probably.’ Malcolm is staring at the painting with a soppy expression on his face. ‘Toby reckons he’s on to one, the sly dog. He won’t say where but he says he’ll have his hands on it before too long. Why?’
‘No reason. I don’t really know anything about art,’ I say sweetly, while my brain whirrs at ninety miles per hour. What if Alice’s painting is a Ludo Van Teel? She could be sitting on a goldmine without realising it. And if that’s the case, why hasn’t Toby mentioned it?
Talk of the devil.
‘Are you having a party without me?’ Toby appears carrying a Starbucks coffee in one hand and his mobile in the other.
‘Hardly. We’ll hold off on the celebrations until after the auctions, old chap,’ guffaws Malcolm. His comb-over has been dislodged by the breeze from the ceiling fan and he pushes his hair back into place. ‘I found this little lady waiting for you and just nipped in for a chat.’
Little lady! Eeew.
‘Is that right?’ Toby puts his coffee down on top of the folders and scoots round to switch off his computer screen.
‘We were discussing Ludo Van Teel,’ says Malcolm as the screen goes black. ‘And I was telling – what’s your name?’
‘Annie.’
‘I was telling Annie here that you think you might have one squirrelled away somewhere.’
‘Ha. Possibly. Probably not,’ blusters Toby. He puts two fingers down the back of his shirt collar and eases it away from his neck. ‘Lovely to see you, Malcolm, but I’d better be getting on.’
‘Of course.’ Malcolm passes Toby his coffee, gathers up his folders and bumbles to the door. ‘Annie, if there’s anything else you’d like to know about Ludo Van Teel don’t hesitate to ask. My door is always open to you.’
Ugh, creepy.
Toby watches him go, wipes the top of his desk with a tissue and drops it into his bin. Even the bin is beautiful, with swirling loops of silver wire interlocking in an intricate pattern. The one in my office is a blue plastic tub with the price tag still on it.
‘Why did you want to see me?’ Toby sinks into his chair and sizes me up over the top of his cardboard cup.
‘It doesn’t matter. Um, that painting on your computer screen, it looks quite similar to the one in Alice’s sitting room.’
Toby’s face is a picture. He looks utterly appalled.
‘Alice’s painting? You have to be joking. That’s merely a pale imitation of a bona fide Ludo Van Teel. Don’t take this the wrong way, Annie, but you’re a complete amateur and know nothing about an artist’s distinctive brush strokes and personality that comes through on the canvas, whereas I’m an expert with a degree in fine art.’
That’s me told but I can’t let it go.
‘Where have you seen the Ludo Van Teel you might be getting your hands on, the one that Malcolm mentioned?’
Toby pulls his lips into such a thin line they almost disappear. ‘Malcolm, frankly, is talking out of his backside. There was a possible sighting of a Van Teel in Gloucestershire but it proved not to be the real deal.’ He switches his screen back on and starts clicking with the mouse. ‘If there’s nothing urgent you need to talk about…’
‘Nothing that can’t wait.’
I back out of Toby’s lovely office and scurry back to my cupboard to do some Googling. There’s something funny going on here.
* * *
‘Funny? Downright dodgy if you ask me,’ snorts Maura.
Ignoring her warnings of tummy bugs, I turned up on her doorstep half an hour ago, straight from work. I need to speak to someone who’ll say it like it is, and that’s one of Maura’s defining characteristics. So far she’s been sympathetic about my grandmother’s bombshell letter and the newspaper cutting, especially when I opened up about how Mum behaved when I was growing up. Maura’s been bandying words about like ‘bipolar’ as if she’s a mental health expert or something.
But she’s being far less sympathetic about Toby.
‘Toby definitely wants to get his hands on Alice’s painting,’ she asserts, putting her hands on her hips and looking cross. ‘And he was in line to inherit it before you appeared on the scene. He definitely wanted to get you out of Salt Bay before Alice altered her will and left it to you.’ Motherhood has only enhanced Maura’s ability to cut straight to the chase.
‘That’s what I thought,’ I mutter, bouncing Harry on my knee. ‘There’s been something off about Toby from the start. At first I thought he might be jealous of my relationship with Alice and I wouldn’t have blamed him for that because I did appear out of the blue. But if this painting really is a Van Teel—’
‘It would explain why he lined up a new job to get you out of Cornwall and away from the bosom of your long lost but recently found again great-aunt Alice. What a conniving slimebag! I’m not sure whether to be appalled or impressed.’ She grabs a bib and mops dribble from Harry’s bright red chin. He’s teething big-time, poor lad. ‘All that stuff he told you about your boyfriend is probably a pack of lies too,’ she adds, catching a string of dribble that's about to gloop onto Harry’s knee.
‘He’s not my boyfriend.’
‘Shame. You should have pounced on Juicy Josh while you had the chance.’ Harry starts wailing and Maura scoops him into her arms.
‘What are you going to do about the painting? It could be worth an absolute fortune.’
‘I don’t want to inherit it. I’ve got no claims on the painting after being absent from Alice’s life for twenty-nine years.’
‘I know that, you dork.’ Maura starts rocking Harry vigorously back and forth. ‘But are you going to tell Alice about what’s hanging on her wall?’
‘I think I have to. The picture is a family heirloom so she might want to leave it to Toby in her will whatever. But if her illness progresses and Emily can’t cope, Alice might want to sell the painting to pay for loads of professional care. It could make all the difference between her having to go into a home or being able to stay forever at Tregavara House.’
Maura nods before lifting Harry’s bottom up to her nose and sniffing.
‘For pity’s sake, this child is a pooing machine, and Paul has given up nappy changing because he says it makes him gag. Bloody wimp!’ She grabs a new nappy from her changing bag. ‘I don’t suppose Harry’s lovely Auntie Annie would like to…?’ She waves the nappy in my face.
‘Nah, Maura, you’re all right. I wouldn’t know what to do.’ I know, I’m a wimp and a bad friend but I have some sympathy with Paul’s weak stomach.
While Maura and Harry are out of the room, I consider my options. If Toby isn’t lying and Alice’s painting really is a cheap knock-off, I could ignore the whole thing. Though I’ve become a bit of a Van Teel expert recently (thanks, Google) and her painting does show striking similarities to his other work – the colours, the background, the almost photographic quality of the picture.
I’ve also discovered that Van Teel spent a summer in Penzance so perhaps a local man, with money made from tin mining, commissioned him to capture forever the beauty of his young Trebarwith wife. It’s not completely out of the question.
Another option is letting Alice know of my suspicions via a letter or phone call but that seems rather brutal for an elderly woman not in the best of health. ‘Hey Alice, Toby might be trying to fleece you out of a painting that’s worth a mint. Hope all’s well with you. Bye.’ I can’t do that.
Or I could take a trip to Salt Bay and speak to Alice face-to-face. It’s a long way to go but it would give me a chance to apologise to her for doubting her version of events with Mum. And maybe we could have the proper talk about Mum and Sheila and the rest of my family that I’ve been trying so hard to avoid – though butterflies are dancing in my stomach at the thought of it. I could catch up with Kayla as well and, if I time it right, go to the choir’s inaugural concert to lend support. I guess I’d have to see Josh, too. The butterflies start doing a paso doble, but I’ve made up my mind by the time Maura comes back. She plonks Har
ry onto my lap and he bats at my face with his tiny hands, smelling of milk and talcum powder.
‘What are you going to do then about your slimeball cousin and the mysterious painting? Ooh, it sounds like an Agatha Christie plot.’
‘I’m going back to Salt Bay to have a word with Alice about it.’
‘Yay!’ yells Maura, making Harry jump. ‘You know it makes sense.’
I nod, though nothing in my life seems to make sense any more.
Chapter 30
So here I am, back in Cornwall after vowing I’d never return. Is it only four weeks since I was last at Penzance station? So much has happened since then. I tick off events in my mind: started a job, tick; found proof that my mother’s a liar, tick; had my heart pummelled by a tall, dark and vulnerable man, tick; went mental and chucked a hot beverage at a wall, tick. With a rueful smile, I pull out the handle on my suitcase and start trundling across the car park.
It’s quite nice to be back. The air is fresher here than in London and there are pretty, white crests topping the silver sea. Across the bay, St Michael’s Mount is rising out of the waves like a fairytale island and looks amazing. It’s like a set from Game of Thrones, with glowering clouds dipping down to brush the mount’s castle walls. I half expect a fiery dragon to swoop into view but only seagulls are riding the air currents above me, like surfers catching a wave.
The train fare was daylight robbery – I could be sitting on a beach in Benidorm for about the same price. And there’s no way I’m forking out for a taxi. So I hop on the bus and sit near the back, next to people with bulging carrier bags at their feet and children on their laps. A toddler in front of me starts wailing and his mum placates him with a bag of jelly sweets as the bus swings out of the tiny bus station and into the traffic.
It’s Saturday afternoon and shoppers are bustling through the centre of town. For a while I play a game of ‘spot the tourist’ but it’s way too easy because tourists dress for the beach, whatever the weather. Even in a force eight gale with hailstones raining down, I’d bet money on them wearing tiny shorts, skimpy tops and a determined expression. I feel like a local in my jeans and jumper.
The bus is hot and steamy and the steady thrum of the engine is almost hypnotic as we drive on into the countryside. Wipers scrape intermittently across the windscreen because it’s spitting with rain and everything outside my window looks soaking wet. Kayla did say it had been chucking it down since I left. I rub a viewing circle in the misted-up glass and peer outside. Wow, the countryside looks like it’s on acid. The fields are a vivid emerald-green, far brighter than the Olympic Park grass or the scrubby ground between my flat and the Westfield centre.
Only in Cornwall for twenty minutes and I’m already waxing lyrical over flippin’ grass. Closing my eyes, I plan out the next few days in my head before I can get back to London and normality. Though even London doesn’t feel normal these days.
I’ve booked Monday off work so that’ll give me plenty of time. I’ll catch up with Alice today, maybe meet up with Kayla, go to the choir concert on Sunday evening, and head for home the day after. I’ll avoid Josh as much as possible – not because I don’t want to see him but because I do. And that’s far more dangerous when we live in such different worlds.
Alice isn’t expecting me – I didn’t ring in case I bottled it and stayed in London – but hopefully she’ll be pleased to see me. I’m surprised by how much I’m looking forward to seeing her now most secrets are out in the open.
The bus trundles down the hill towards Salt Bay and drops me off at the edge of the village, where the valley narrows as it nears the sea. I can tell that something’s wrong as soon as I start wheeling my case along the road. Loads of cars are parked higgledy-piggledy on the grass verges and there’s a strange vibration in the air; a deep thrumming which I can feel rather than hear. It’s too constant to be the ebb and flow of the sea, but I’ve no idea what else it could be.
The mystery’s solved when I round a bend near the village green and come to an abrupt halt. The gentle river that meanders down the valley and through Salt Bay is a roaring, swollen torrent of brown water. Plants and branches are being swept along and are catching in young trees on the bank that are bending under the onslaught.
The water has breached the opposite bank and men in canary-yellow wellies are moving furniture out of Mrs Johnson’s cottage which is under threat of being swamped. She’s lovely, Mrs Johnson, and I hope she’s OK. One of the men is Charlie from the choir, who waves at me with a chair under his arm. The furniture is being moved to higher ground and probably to the pub where there’s room to store it. Good old Roger. He might be contrary but I bet he’s good in a community crisis.
For a while I stand and watch because I’ve never seen anything like it. The torrent is gathering power as it rushes headlong towards the harbour and is roaring like a wild animal. The wall of water seems malevolent, an evil force intent on destroying everything in its path. Shivering, I hurry on towards Tregavara House, keen to check on Alice.
Further downstream, the waters are swollen but contained between the muddy banks and Tregavara House is untouched. That’s a relief. I had visions of it bobbing out to sea with Alice’s sad face pressed against an upstairs window. But the house has been safe for centuries so chances are it never floods. Even when Salt Bay’s gentle stream gets a right cob on and turns into a raging monster.
Being face-to-face with nature in the raw is starting to freak me out and I hammer on the front door, keen to get inside. Alice and I can sit by the window with a cup of tea and watch water cascading into the harbour. Or if she’d rather play it safe, we can head for the pub until things have calmed down. Either way, it will be good to see her again. Only it’s not Alice who opens the door.
‘Well, well, fancy seeing you here.’ Toby has swapped his expensive work clothes for expensive casuals and looks less than delighted to find me on the doorstep of the Trebarwith family home.
My first reaction on finding Toby on the doorstep is guilt. It’s not as if I’m planning on dropping him in it about the painting. I was hardly going to mention him at all. But I feel caught out.
Toby raises his eyebrows while I gather myself together and manage to blurt out, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I could ask you the same,’ snipes Toby, frowning at the rushing water.
‘I’m here to see Alice and have a chat about my mum.’
‘To tell her some cock and bull story about her painting, no doubt.’ Toby steps outside and pulls the door shut behind him. ‘Come with me. Alice is sleeping so let’s talk somewhere where we won’t wake her.’ Like he’s expecting a shouting match or fisticuffs.
He pulls me away from the water and strides towards the back of the garden which slopes up towards the cliffs. His body language screams ‘annoyed’, and I have to run to keep up.
‘Why are you here, Toby?’ I ask, jogging along beside him and raising my voice to be heard above the din from the water.
‘I decided to pay Alice a visit and drove down last night.’
‘When I saw you yesterday, you didn’t mention it.’
Toby stops where the garden ends and the rock face begins and turns to face me. It’s gloomy back here, with the cliffs towering above us. ‘I thought you’d had enough of the Trebarwith family and Salt Bay so I kept my visit quiet.’
‘So your visit is nothing to do with me asking you about the painting and then taking time off?’
Toby folds his arms across his purple cashmere jumper and shakes his head.
‘I didn’t know you were taking time off, and the painting is not a Van Teel, Annie, as I keep telling you. It’s a good painting done by an accomplished artist and that’s all. Don’t you think I’d have mentioned it to Alice otherwise?’
If people maintain eye contact they’re not lying, apparently, but I’m way too distracted by the raging water to watch Toby’s face. I’m sure the roaring is getting worse.
‘Do you think we sho
uld be doing something about the stream? It’s flooding further up the village.’
‘Don’t panic. It does flood sometimes when there’s been a lot of rainfall up on the moors. This was a stupid place to build a village. But it never floods badly this far down because there’s drainage straight into the sea. I moved my car in case the road gets splashed but the house will be fine.’
‘I don’t know, Toby. Maybe we should move Alice out, to be on the safe side.’
‘There’s no point in waking her and she needs to catch up on her sleep after a bad night. Whatever you may think of my motives, Annie, I care about Alice and have cared about her for the past thirty-odd years.’ The implication being that I’ve only been in her life for the last few weeks. He’s got a point.
Oops, that can’t be good. Water has started swirling over the bank, across the road and under Alice’s garden gate. The brown tide is already eddying round the plants in her garden and, as I watch wide-eyed, the water level rises like a scene from a horror film and starts lapping at her front door. I grab Toby’s arm, too shocked to speak, and gesticulate at what’s happening.
‘Bloody hell.’ Toby’s gone pale. ‘It’s never done that before. We’d better ring for help.’ He takes out his phone and keys in his code to unlock it.
‘Have you got a signal?’
Toby stares at his screen, then waves the phone in the air. ‘No. Have you?’
‘I’ve never got a signal round here.’
It strikes me that perhaps Toby’s right and this wasn’t the best place to build a village, though I don’t suppose the founders of Salt Bay had mobile phone masts in mind when they put down roots.
‘So what do we do?’ gulps Toby.
Muddy water is creeping up the rough stone of Tregavara House and swirling strongly round the corners of the building. Who knows how high the flood waters will go and how much battering such an ancient house can take? I link my arm through Toby’s.
‘We have to get Alice out now.’
Together we rush towards the house, yelling for help from the men further up the valley. I’m not sure they can hear us but there’s no time to lose. Jeez, the water is freezing and up to my knees by the time I reach the front door and push it open. Water has seeped in under the door and is rising, splashing higher and higher up the walls. The radiator is half submerged and Alice’s shoes float past me while ripples soak into the carpet on the stairs. Toby has splashed in behind me.