Coming Home

by Fern Britton

  Queenie sat down and knocked her hat into the remains of her banana fritter syrup. ‘Now look what you made me do,’ she said to Penny. ‘That’s me best ’at. I’m going to wear that at the wedding.’

  Penny removed the hat from the pudding, and put Queenie’s Tia Maria to one side. ‘Coffees, anyone?’

  When the coffees and After Eights arrived, Rosemary tapped her cup with a teaspoon. ‘Ladies, what a wonderful evening this has been and I am honoured to have been invited. Thank you, Ella.’

  Ella smiled. ‘Thank you for looking after Mum.’

  ‘As you know, Sennen and I met as teenagers. She looked just like you, Ella, and I see in you the funny, kind, adventurous girl who loved you and Henry very much. To come back and face the music now is brave, particularly having to leave her family in India to do so. So my toast tonight is to: the Mother of the Bride, Sennen.’

  Sennen was overcome and however hard she tried, the tears flowed.

  She mouthed to Rosemary, ‘Thank you.’ Then Ella came next to her and hugged her. ‘Thank you, Mum. For coming back. Everything will be all right now.’

  Penny and Helen raised their glasses again, all except Queenie who was talking to a tall pot plant. ‘Who’s in India, then? Nobody bloody tells me anything.’

  Coffees finished, chocolate mints eaten, the evening began to wind up. Rosemary was looking at her watch. ‘Jools is just coming off shift. Anyone want to come back to mine for a nightcap?’

  Ella shook her head. ‘I’m up early tomorrow. Kit and I are making quiches for the reception.’

  Sennen, who had quietly paid the bill, tucked her arm through Ella’s. ‘Thank you for including me tonight. You had every right not to.’

  Ella looked into her mother’s face and said in all sincerity, ‘Mum, I love you.’

  Everyone was up now and finding coats and bags, all except Queenie who was licking the banana syrup off her hat and still talking to the plant. ‘Lovely food tonight. Did you have the pudding? Try some.’ She offered her hat to the plant. ‘Go on. Have a lick. Delicious, innit.’

  Penny leant down and said, ‘Queenie. You’re hammered. I think it’s time for bed.’

  ‘Let me just say goodbye to this gentleman first.’

  ‘Queenie, it’s a plastic pot plant.’

  ‘Oh Gawd. Is it?’ Queenie peered at the plant and laughed wheezily. ‘Bloody hell, it is an all. Lovely fella though.’

  Penny called to Helen, ‘Help me with Queenie, would you? She’s off her head.’

  ‘I’m perfectly sober, if you don’t mind.’

  Helen and Penny pulled her to her feet. ‘You need to get home.’

  ‘I tell you what I need.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Helen, plonking Queenie’s hat back on her head.

  ‘I need a pint to sort me out or else I’ll have an ’eadache in the morning.’

  ‘I think you would have a worse one if you had a pint,’ said Penny, hauling Queenie out onto the pavement.

  A collection of wolf whistles sounded behind them. Penny refused to look back but was nonetheless absurdly gratified, until running footsteps came towards her and someone pinched her bottom. She spun around, ready to confront her attacker.

  It was her husband, Simon, who was swaying slightly and had a dozy grin on his face. ‘It’s me,’ he said.

  Behind him were Kit, Adam, Henry and a couple of local lads, all sniggering.

  Helen saw her partner Piran amongst them. ‘Hello.’ He smiled, fidgeting with the gold hoop in his ear. ‘Spotted your arse a mile off.’

  Queenie took advantage of the distraction and broke free. ‘’Ello fellas. Who wants a pint?’

  She tottered towards them and before she knew what had happened she was hoisted up in a fireman’s lift across Piran’s shoulder.

  She cackled loudly. ‘Oh, Piran, I ’aven’t been slung over a bloke’s shoulder for a long time.’

  Penny and Helen rolled their eyes and watched as Queenie was carried off with her skirt over her head and her bloomers on show.

  ‘She’s going to feel so ill in the morning,’ giggled Penny.

  ‘Oh, leave her to it. The boys will look after her. Actually, I feel almost jealous,’ smiled Helen. ‘Almost.’

  35

  Bill died just a couple of months short of his sixtieth birthday. He and Adela had been sharing a peaceful life.

  Occasionally they still took in students who sat rapt as Bill told them about his apprenticeship with the great potter Bernard Leach, teaching them all he knew, and Adela cooked enormous breakfasts and suppers for them, as she always had, and took them to interesting spots around Trevay where they would set up their easels and paint, with her looking over their shoulders and offering generous advice.

  Adela was worried about Bill’s health. It was hard to put a finger on it but he was lacking the vitality he’d once had.

  ‘Darling,’ she said gently, knowing his suspicion of the medical profession, ‘I think we should both go to the doctor for an MOT. Blood pressure, cholesterol, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked gruffly. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  She hadn’t been prepared for that and said rather lamely, ‘I think it’s sensible, that’s all.’

  They didn’t go.

  Adela told herself that it was natural for a man of his age to enjoy long naps in the afternoon – she often did so herself – and, although he was losing weight, he still enjoyed her cooking.

  Ella and Henry would visit when they could and the last time they had come Bill seemed rejuvenated.

  However, Adela confided in Ella. ‘How does Poppa look to you?’

  ‘Really good,’ Ella said breezily. ‘He’s lost a bit of weight and I think it suits him.’

  When the children had returned to London, Bill was full of Henry’s success in his new job. ‘Where did he get such a good business brain? Not from us that’s for sure.’

  Adela thinking about their father’s identity said. ‘We’ll never know now will we.’

  Bill sipped his tea. ‘Ella is definitely a chip off the old block, though. Did she show you her illustrations for the book she’s writing?’

  ‘Yes. Her line drawings in particular are very good.’

  Bill smiled. ‘I think we did okay with Henry and Ella.’

  ‘Better than with Sennen?’ They rarely talked about their daughter, and to hear her name spoken out loud created a crackling tension in the air.

  Bill looked at Adela steadily. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Maybe we did too much for her?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘She was so bright. Doing well enough at school. And funny and kind. She’ll be thirty-seven now.’

  ‘Well, wherever she is I hope she’s happy.’ He tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. ‘How the hell could she not come back and see the children?’

  ‘She did,’ said Adela simply.

  ‘What? When?’

  ‘When you were feeling so wretched and upset.’

  Anger flared. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I should have. But she just turned up and you were so ill and Henry and Ella were just getting settled. I couldn’t face having her back and creating all that turmoil again. I told her to go away.’

  ‘How – how was she?’

  ‘Grown up. She was only twenty but she seemed, I don’t know, a seasoned adult. She had been working in Spain and France and had come here with some actors, to Edinburgh, I think, and decided to come and see us and Henry and Ella.’

  ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I was so angry. She was standing there, right as rain, while I had picked up her mess and I was so worried about you. You had burnt all her photos, eradicated her from our lives, and I honestly thought that seeing her would make you ill again. So I told her to go away. My decision. I made the choice for you, not for her. I couldn’t bear to see you so unhappy and ill again.’

  ‘Did you let her see the chil
dren?’

  Adela shook her head in regret. ‘No. I asked if she was going to stay. And she couldn’t promise, so I didn’t let her see them.’

  Bill softened. ‘It must have killed you.’

  ‘Yes. I said some very unkind things to her.’

  ‘We all say and do unkind things in anger. Can you imagine how I felt as soon as I burnt her photographs?’

  ‘I know how I felt.’

  ‘She hurt us, we hurt her. Not very clever.’

  ‘She hates me because I told her to go away.’

  ‘She’ll hate herself more.’ He smiled. ‘Do you remember when she tipped my birthday cake onto the floor because she was so cross that it was my birthday and not hers?’

  ‘It had taken me all morning to make. I wonder if she married and has a new family.’

  ‘Possibly. But she would be so proud of Henry and Ella. We must pity her for not knowing them.’

  ‘I’m so relieved to have told you.’

  ‘That she came back?’

  Adela nodded.

  ‘Come on, old girl. No one’s life is a piece of cake. We have both done things we regret but we have each other and we have Henry and Ella.’

  ‘I love you, William Tallon.’

  ‘I know – and I love you very much, Mrs Tallon.’

  Bill died just a few weeks later. Leukaemia. It had been too late to offer treatment. Adela thanked God that they had no more secrets between them.

  36

  It was Friday afternoon. The wedding was less than twenty-four hours away, and Ella was getting fractious.

  ‘Kit, I asked you not to put anything on top of the trifles.’

  ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘Then what are the salmon pinwheels doing?’

  ‘Oh that. Well, the trifles are clingfilmed and there was no other room in the fridge, so I put the salmon things on top.’

  Ella noisily banged about in the fridge, moving salads and quiches and cheese before admitting to herself, but not to him, that Kit had been right. There was nowhere else to put the bloody salmon.

  ‘How about a cup of tea?’ asked Kit helpfully.

  ‘The dishwasher needs emptying first.’

  ‘Right. Well, I’ll pop the kettle on, empty the dishwasher, and then we’ll have a cuppa. Yes?’

  Ella reversed out of the fridge and closed the door carefully. ‘What time is Adam due.’

  ‘About seven, if the traffic isn’t too bad.’

  Ella was irritated. ‘He’ll expect me to cook for him, I suppose.’

  ‘No. I’ll take him to the pub, with Henry,’ Kit said patiently. ‘How about a biscuit with your tea? A nice digestive?’

  ‘I don’t want to look fat in my wedding dress,’ she snapped.

  He took her in his arms and kissed her passionately.

  ‘What was that for?’ she asked, slightly more mellowed.

  ‘To shut you up. Now sit down because you and I are going to have a cup of tea and a biscuit.’

  A couple of hours later Ella finally sat down and went through her check list. Food? Tick. Cutlery, crockery and glasses? Tick. Flowers? Tick. Sheets changed, loos cleaned, toenails painted? Tick.

  Kit was upstairs gathering his suit and toiletries ready to take over to the vicarage where he was going to spend the night. He came downstairs and put the suit bag and a smaller bag on the hall floor.

  ‘Ready?’ asked Ella coming out of the kitchen.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Rings?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sorry I got a bit Bridezilla earlier.’

  ‘Forgiven.’

  The doorbell rang, making them both jump.

  ‘Hi,’ said Henry on the doorstep. ‘Here I am and I have got something for you. My present to you both.’

  Ella was excited. ‘What, what?’

  ‘I need to get it from the car. Hang on.’

  They watched as he opened the boot and pulled out a large picture frame. All they could see was the back of the canvas, but Ella gasped and whispered to Kit, ‘I think I know what this is.’

  Henry carried it down the short path and into the house. ‘No peeking. Close your eyes and let me take this through to the lounge to set it up properly.’

  Ella and Kit stayed where they were until Henry called, ‘Okay. Come on in.’

  Ella couldn’t believe her eyes. ‘It’s me,’ she shrilled, delighted. ‘The one Poppa painted of me. Kit, look it’s me when I was about five, paddling at Shellsand.’

  The painting was large and beautiful. Against the golden pinks of a sandy beach, and the wild blue of the sea beyond, a small girl in an old-fashioned scarlet swimsuit was paddling. Her back was to the viewer, but the long red ringlets rippling down her shoulders were definitely Ella’s.

  Kit stood for a while, admiring it. ‘It’s amazing. But I thought it was your granny who painted.’

  ‘Poppa was a very good painter, but he knew that Granny was better so he usually left it up to her. I haven’t seen this for a long time. Where was it, Henry?’

  ‘I had it on the wall at Mandalay Road. When Granny died I found it in Poppa’s studio. It was behind all sorts of things, hidden really well. I snaffled it hoping that when some idiot married you, not you obviously, Kit, you are the opposite of idiot, I could give it to you on your wedding eve.’

  Ella’s eyes shone, ‘Oh, Henry, you are the best brother.’

  ‘I am your only brother.’ He stopped and frowned. ‘Actually, I’m not, am I?’

  Kit was keen to steer off the subject of the half-brother and sister in India and said, ‘Ella, do you remember him painting this?’

  ‘No. I don’t. But then I was only little.’

  ‘Well, it’s lovely.’ Kit gave Henry a man hug. ‘Thanks, mate.’

  They heard a car draw up. ‘That’ll be Adam,’ said Kit walking into the hall to let his cousin and best man in and was surprised to find Sennen on the doorstep.

  ‘Hello, Kit.’ She kissed him, her warm Indian fragrance enveloping him. ‘Everything ready for tomorrow?’

  ‘Yep. Henry’s here. Come into the lounge.’

  Walking into the room Sennen immediately saw the painting. She shivered as if someone had walked over her grave. ‘I haven’t seen that for years,’ she almost whispered.

  Ella bounced on her toes. ‘Henry gave it to me and Kit. Wedding present. Isn’t it lovely? The only picture that Poppa painted of me.’

  Sennen was quiet. ‘Of you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Sennen walked towards the picture and read her father’s neat signature. ‘Is there a date on it?’

  ‘I haven’t looked,’ said Henry.

  ‘I had a red costume like that,’ said Sennen.

  Realisation hit Ella. ‘It’s you?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Henry began to work it out. ‘When Granny died, we didn’t find any pictures of you. No photographs or school reports or anything. Which I thought was odd because they took photos of Ella and me all the time. I have rows of photo albums in London, as well as our school books and art and stuff.’

  ‘I would like to see those, one day,’ Sennen said.

  ‘Yes, okay. But there are no pictures of you. Ella and I never knew what you looked like.

  ‘But he kept this?’ asked Sennen, getting closer to the picture.

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  Henry picked the picture and turned it over. He scanned the canvas carefully then found something. ‘Let’s get a light on this.’

  Ella angled a table lamp on to it and they crowded round. On the bottom right-hand corner, in faded pencil, Poppa’s hand had written. S. Shellsand summer ’81.’ He looked sharply at Sennen. ‘How old were you in 1981?’

  ‘About five. The same age as that little girl in the picture.’.

  ‘You must have it,’ Ella said immediately, pushing it to Sennen.

  Sennen smiled but waved it away. ‘No, my love. If you give it to me I will give it straight back to you. It’s
yours.’ She looked at Henry. ‘I’m so glad you had it. It makes me feel that Poppa did still want to keep a bit of me.’

  Henry was appalled to find his throat tightening against tears. He grabbed his glass and drank.

  ‘By the way,’ said Sennen, ‘I’ve not properly thanked you for the headstones, Henry.’

  Her words were sincere.

  ‘But mostly, thank you for adding my name. When I saw it, it made me feel a bit less invisible.’

  Henry coughed, embarrassed. ‘Yes, well … Got to get the facts right. Good. Drink anyone?’

  Much later, when Sennen had gone back to Trevay and Kit and Adam had retreated to the vicarage, Henry poured Ella one last gin and tonic. ‘To you, my lovely little sister.’

  ‘Aw, thanks. And thank you again for the painting. Did you have any idea?’

  ‘No. If I believed in the occult I’d say Granny and Poppa had a hand in all that tonight.’

  ‘Maybe. It was nice of Mum to let me have it.’

  ‘It was never hers to have. I kept it for you.’

  ‘I know. But still … And you did the right thing when you added her to the gravestones.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you know …’

  ‘Be honest with me, aren’t you glad Mum’s back?’

  Henry was surprised by the question. ‘Blimey. Why do you ask that? I don’t know.’

  ‘I think that you are glad. You wouldn’t be so emotional if you didn’t care.’

  ‘Emotional? What are you talking about?’

  ‘You were pleased when she thanked you for the inscription, and you sounded funny when she thanked you for keeping the painting of her.’

  ‘I didn’t know it was her though, did I?’

  ‘No, but when you did, I saw your face. You were glad it was her and that we’d had that picture up on the wall when we were little, that Poppa had kept one thing of her to watch over us.’

  Henry stood up. ‘Come on. It’s my duty to make sure you arrive in a fit state at your wedding tomorrow. You need your beauty sleep.’

  She took his hand and he hauled her to her feet. ‘Henry, beneath your bad-tempered façade, you really have a good heart, don’t you?’

  He turned off the lights so that she couldn’t see his face.