The Choice

by Valerie Mendes

  Eleanor wonders how he is… At his mother’s bedside, surrounded by doctors and nurses? Perhaps she should be there, instead of in a puddle in the middle of nowhere?

  Once again, she spurs herself on. She closes the window, turns the ignition key. In two weeks she’ll tell Jonny the story of her travels, and be rewarded by admiration sparkling in his eyes.

  ***

  Eleanor reaches Exeter in the late afternoon, her back aching, her head throbbing. The rain has turned to vicious silvery hailstones that bounce on the car’s roof, crackling in angry showers across its windscreen, lying in treacherous white sheets along the road.

  She spots a traditional guest-house, pulls into its drive. She snatches her case from the boot and dashes inside, hailstones lashing her face like pellets of ice. She takes the last available single room and falls into an armchair. Then she soaks in a hot bath and eats supper in her room by the fire. By nine o’clock she’s asleep.

  Next morning she breakfasts early, pays her bill, and is out of the guest-house by eight o’clock. The Morris feels chilly and damp. As she climbs into it, she realises she’d forgotten to tell The Porthminster that Jonny won’t be with her. It’s too late now for phone calls. She’ll press on, make her apologies when she arrives.

  Eleanor checks her list again: Okehampton, Launceston – the border town of Cornwall – and across Bodmin Moor to Bodmin itself. The rain has stopped, but the road heaves with puddles. Grey early-morning fog swirls on the horizon.

  But in spite of the weather, she makes good progress. Yesterday’s driving was so tough that it has given her confidence. And now she feels mounting excitement: every mile brings her closer to her destination.

  Over Bodmin Moor, golden heads of roadside gorse spark through the mist, lighting the landscape. As she drives through Cornwall, she winds down the window. A gentle warmth penetrates the car. She throws her hat onto the seat, peels off her gloves, rakes fingers through her hair. She starts to sing: “The Wings of a Dove”, “Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill”, “Daisy, Daisy”.

  She remembers how she used to sing in the bath. Walter’s death had put a stop to that…

  Eleanor has only seen the sea once before: as seven-year-olds, she and Kathleen had travelled to Brighton with Kathleen’s aunt. Eleanor remembers piling pebbles into a wooden bucket with a yellow spade; being terrified by a violent Punch and Judy show; riding a donkey along the beach, Kathleen in a pink bathing-suit scampering by her side.

  Then she has a fleeting glimpse of a grey sea and catches her breath with excitement. She decides not to stop for coffee or luncheon but to drive straight on: through Redruth, Camborne and Hayle, and at last into Carbis Bay, with St Ives clearly signposted ahead.

  The Porthminster Hotel emerges from the mist. Eleanor parks the Morris and sits still for a moment, gripping the wheel. Then she pulls on her hat, and checks her face in the mirror. She climbs out of the car, grabs her suitcase from the boot. Her legs trembling with stiffness and fatigue, hunger and excitement clawing at her stomach, she crosses the wet road and pushes at the door of The Porthminster Hotel.

  Being Anonymous

  St Ives, Cornwall, 1936

  Eleanor’s hand shakes as she dials Jonny’s numbers. There’s no answer, either from the shop or the flat. She puts down the receiver, picks it up again. More shaking and dialling.

  “Mummy? It’s me.”

  “Hello, Eleanor.” Anne’s voice sings with relief. “Where are you?”

  “At the hotel in St Ives. I got here half an hour ago. I’ve just unpacked.”

  “Thank God you’re safe! How was the journey?”

  “Yesterday was difficult because of the rain, but the Morris held up beautifully. Listen, I need to tell you.” Eleanor clears her throat. “I’m on my own.”

  “What? Are you joking? So where on earth is Jonny?”

  “He couldn’t come. His mother had an accident. He had to take her to hospital.”

  “You mean you’ve driven all that way by yourself?”

  Eleanor tries to sound calm. “I had no choice.”

  “Of course you had a choice! I’d never have allowed—”

  “That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

  “You’re impossible, Eleanor! Whatever will you do next?”

  “Go to see The Hideaway.”

  The phone line crackles as if it’s laughing. Eleanor ploughs on. “Could you do something for me? I’ve tried to ring Jonny to find out how his mother is but there’s no answer. I’m worried about them. Could you—”

  “Yes, of course.” Anne sounds impatient and furious. “I’ll call round and ask after her. I’ll tell Jonny you’ve arrived.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I blame him for letting you go—”

  “Please don’t. He didn’t know until it was too late. It was entirely my decision. He’s been a really good friend.” Frightened of what Anne might say, Eleanor adds sternly. “I forbid you to fall out with him. He was terribly disappointed he couldn’t come. Please, Mummy—”

  “All right, I won’t make a fuss.” Anne makes an effort to be civil. “So, what’s the hotel like?”

  “Large, a bit old-fashioned but rather nice. It’s right above the beach. I’m in a ground-floor room with a sea-view, except everything is shrouded in mist. It’s like looking through a grey blanket.”

  “Have you had luncheon?”

  “No… I’m starving—”

  “Go and eat, for heaven’s sake, Eleanor. Do look after yourself… Ring me tomorrow.”

  It’s not until Eleanor leaves The Porthminster and starts to walk briskly down the hill into St Ives that she realises she’s shaking with nerves. Her pride in managing the journey seems to seep away. Now she has to face the consequences.

  She has spent so long imagining The Hideaway that the imminent prospect of seeing it is terrifying. How much of her father might she find there? Will it be like encountering a familiar ghost – or discovering a new human being? And will the ever mysterious Moira be one of her discoveries?

  The narrow street, shining with rain, tumbles steeply into town. Rooftops glisten through the mist. Below the hill to her right, Eleanor can just see a stretch of pebbly beach. Seagulls shriek and swoop over her head, vanishing into the fog. She smells the dank sea-air, tastes its salt, hears the grumbling roar of the ocean. But both sea and horizon are enveloped in cloud.

  Shoppers haul slowly up the hill, laden with bags. Nobody looks at her twice. She realises she’s totally anonymous. It gives her a wild feeling of freedom.

  Eleanor stops for luncheon at the first café she finds, choosing a piping hot cheese-and-fish pie – “It’s fresh cod, Miss, delicious, caught only this morning” – and drinking a cup of dark tea.

  Then she’s outside again, looking for the High Street and James Lanham.

  But at the estate agent’s door – AUCTIONEERS AND VALUERS announces the sign – Eleanor’s courage drains away. She stands like a rock, staring blankly in the window. Perhaps first she should find The Hideaway? Get her bearings in town? Anything, rather than spell out who she is to the people the other side of that window.

  Anything but discover the truth she has driven all those miles to find…

  Meeting James Lanham

  St Ives, Cornwall, 1936

  Eleanor has almost decided to walk into town when the shop door opens. A short, stocky man with a leathery face and thick white hair stands in the doorway.

  “Are you by any chance Miss Drummond?”

  “Yes.” Blood rushes to Eleanor’s cheeks. She’s trapped: caught in a tightly-webbed net like a pilchard flailing in the sea.

  A hand grasps hers. “Welcome to St Ives! I’m James Lanham. My word! I’d have recognised you anywhere. You’re the spitting image of your father.”

  “How
do you do?” Eleanor seems to have no breath in her lungs.

  “I was very cut up to hear of Walter’s death… You must miss him terribly. Kind-hearted, well-meaning fellow. Wonderful painter, too. He made the most ordinary things look exquisite. We were the best of friends.”

  Eleanor swallows. “I’m glad.”

  “Everything’s ready for you at The Hideaway.” A pair of sharp blue eyes looks into hers. “How was your journey?”

  “Very long… The driving was hard work.” Eleanor’s voice trembles. James’s description of her father has brought her to the edge of tears.

  “You travelled on your own?”

  Eleanor nods.

  “There, there, Miss Drummond, steady yourself.” James touches her shoulder. “You’re here now, safe and sound. We’ll have you sorted in no time. Won’t you step inside?”

  A small, cluttered office greets Eleanor, its walls lined with photographs of Cornish properties. Its floor is crammed with desks, two on either side of the room, their surfaces heaped with files.

  James disappears into a back office. He returns carrying a tray with two cups of coffee and a plate of biscuits. “Cornish gingerbread,” he says proudly. “My wife makes a mound of it every week. It’s probably the only reason our clients come to see us.” His eyes twinkle.

  The delicacy melts on Eleanor’s tongue: light, buttery, with a subtle kick of ginger. “I can see why.” The coffee is strong and refreshing but her cup rattles as she replaces it on its saucer. “I wanted to thank you for looking after The Hideaway for my father.”

  “It’s been a pleasure. I enjoyed doing business with him. He always rewarded me handsomely, never questioned any of my bills.”

  “The thing is.” Eleanor sits on her hands to stop them shaking. “My mother and I… We knew nothing about The Hideaway until my father died. It came as a shock.”

  James chokes on his biscuit. Red-faced and embarrassed, he brushes at the crumbs. “I don’t know how Walter managed to keep the place a secret.” He clears his throat. “Although given what happened there, he may well not have wanted to talk about it.”

  “But what did happen? Why did he keep his life here so secret?”

  James drains his coffee, climbs to his feet. “It’s a long story, and not my place to tell. Shall we take a stroll? I’ll give you the keys to The Hideaway, show you the ropes… I can tell you something about your father along the way.”

  “We first met in August 1911. One of the hottest summers I can remember.”

  They are out on the High Street, moving downhill towards the swirl of misty sea. James walks with a slight limp. Eleanor slows to keep in step with him.

  “Walter arrived from Oxford. He wanted a place to rent, initially for a holiday. He was new to the area, said he wanted to find his feet before he bought somewhere permanent. If he decided to stay. We had a photo of 3 St Andrews Street in our window. He loved the place, rented it for a year. Then we extended the arrangement into a long lease from the Fourth Earl Cowley. Many years later – 1930 I think it was – Walter bought the property freehold.”

  Eleanor struggles to ask, “Was Daddy on his own?”

  James doffs his hat to four ladies clustering outside the church. They smile at him, chirruping like sparrows. “Of course not,” he says, breezily matter-of-fact. “He arrived with his family.”

  The grey sky lours onto Eleanor’s shoulders. “His family?” The words sound like lead weights, thundering through the heavy air from a great height.

  “Why, yes. Walter was always an enthusiastic family man.”

  Eleanor stops in her tracks, facing James in the middle of the street. Behind her lies a tree-lined garden, filled with apple blossom. To her left stands the church with its elaborate tower: soft brown, pale grey. Ahead, she can glimpse the harbour. Its small boats bob on the tide like bright postage stamps on a jade-green envelope. It’s as if she’s standing in a complicated jigsaw puzzle made of sharply coloured pieces – the most important of which are missing.

  “But Mr Lanham, my mother and I are his family. Did Daddy have another wife, other children? If so, where are they now?”

  James looks at her, the corner of his right eye twitching. Tiny rivulets of sweat trickle down his face. He pulls off his hat, runs his fingers round its rim until it spins.

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Miss Drummond… Walter asked me never to talk about it. I deal in property, not in the family problems of those who buy and sell it.”

  A flush of anger spreads through Eleanor’s body, as if she has been dangled over a blazing fire and left there to roast. “My father’s dead.” Her voice seems to come from someone else’s mouth. “I’ve driven more than two hundred and sixty miles to meet you… You were one of Daddy’s oldest friends. Yet you still refuse to tell me what you know?”

  “Correct. I’m not allowed to spill the beans, Miss Drummond. Anyway,” James shrugs, “it’s all in the past. Let sleeping dogs snooze on, that’s my motto.”

  Eleanor stares at the man. She wants to pick him up and shake him until he rattles. Stand him on his head until the information he could reveal comes spewing out of him. Instead, showing remarkable restraint she swallows back her fury.

  “Very well. I respect your decision… Just one more question, please, if you can bear to answer.”

  “Of course.” James responds to Eleanor’s icy sarcasm with an apologetic smile. “I don’t mean to be mealy-mouthed.”

  “When did you last see my father?”

  James mops his face with a crumpled handkerchief. “He used to come down here every year, to check on The Hideaway. Give me instructions for repairs.” He jams his hat back on. “I last saw him in December, just before Christmas.”

  So that’s where her father had been! Not in London, but Cornwall! Eleanor bites her lip. She should have guessed.

  “He had some paintings to sell, here at The Portman Gallery on Fore Street. I bought one for my wife. We thought very highly of his work, you know. Very highly indeed.”

  “I’m glad.” Eleanor remembers Daniel Rogers and that humiliating hour in St John’s Wood. “It’s been difficult, having to clear Daddy’s studio. Wondering whether his work really is any good.”

  “My dear girl!” The beads of sweat vanish. “If that’s what you’re worrying about, I have a wonderful surprise for you.” James glances at his watch. “I’m sorry to rush, but I have to meet another client. Shall we walk on?”

  “Of course.” Eleanor squares her shoulders. “Take me to The Hideaway. I can hardly wait another minute.”

  She immediately recognises St Andrews Street from the photograph.

  The line of higgledy cottages glints back at her through the mist. An inquisitive face peers through a window, clutching a ribbon of net curtain. Two children, a boy and a girl, dark-haired and bright-cheeked, race over the cobblestones, bowling a hoop. Seagulls stand like sentries on the rooftops, flicking their heads. Eleanor feels as if she has come home to a sepia landscape she has known all her life. But now, for the first time, she’s a part of it.

  James pulls some keys from his pocket, unlocks a shabby front door and throws it open. “Welcome to The Hideaway, Miss Drummond. Please come in.”

  Eleanor takes the biggest breath of her life. She peels off her gloves. She clenches her fists so tightly her fingernails bite into her palms.

  And she steps over the threshold.

  The Hideaway

  St Ives, Cornwall, 1936

  A spacious living room stretches ahead of her. She can see straight through to the far end, to the wide French windows that overlook the churning green-flecked sea. At her feet, a narrow flight of stone steps leads to the basement.

  The room itself is lightly furnished: two easy chairs, a deep sofa, an oak table, its surface worn and scrubbed; a fireplace, unlit but l
aid with coal; and in front of it a striped red-and-turquoise rug. In the corner nestles a small antique mahogany bureau.

  But Eleanor’s attention is caught and held by the clusters of paintings on the walls, each meticulously framed and hung, as if they’re on professional display.

  She doesn’t recognise any of them.

  For a frantic moment she fears none of them are her father’s paintings: that he has filled the cottage with other people’s work. But as she moves closer, she can see his familiar black signature. The paintings are dazzling, intimate portraits. Faces, old and young, full of marvellous detail, look out at her, their eyes shining with life. In among them hang vibrant still-life watercolours: anemones floating in a vase; lemons clustering in a bowl; a single decorated dish standing on a table in a rainbow of light.

  Eleanor knows instantly the watercolours are not her father’s work.

  Her heart thumping, she searches for their signature. But they have none.

  Behind her, James clears his throat. Eleanor jumps away from her gazing, turns to look at him.

  “May I show you the kitchen, Miss Drummond?”

  “Of course.” She puts her handbag on the table, gripping the side of it. “I’ve never seen Daddy’s portraits before… I didn’t know he ever—”

  “I thought they’d be a surprise. Wonderful, aren’t they? Strong, youthful work… I was disappointed he never returned to them. Come down to the kitchen. I’ll show you the range and how it works.”

  Eleanor follows James down the steps to the basement. It has a spotless terracotta tiled floor. Light filters into it from an enchanting porthole window.

  “I lit the slab – that’s what we call the range – early this morning, so you’ll have plenty of hot water. The coal is stored in this cupboard here,” he opens a wooden door, “and that’s the lavatory,” he taps another door. “If you want a bath, it’s kept here, under the sink. You can easily pull it out and fill it. Upstairs, there are two small bedrooms and the studio where Walter used to work. I’ll leave you to explore those at your leisure… Now, if you’ll excuse me—”