by Susan Sallis
And now she was gone to that crazy mother of hers, who would parade her around France and marry her off to someone with pots of money and charm, and who would obviously be the man Gussie had waited for all her life. She would be thirty-one in August. How did someone like Gussie Briscoe get to thirty-one without getting … trapped? Yes, that was the word. Trapped. She needed to be free. To plan her marvellous land sculptures; to stand facing the sea and using all five senses to soak up every bit of what was around her. Nobody could understand that. Nobody could understand that except another Briscoe. Except a Briscoe who had lived with other Briscoes in a very small house where, in the middle of family turmoil, there had always been that huge sense of eternity just outside the tiny windows.
Ned levered himself upright. A sleek white boat had emerged from the murk that hid Hayle Towans. He recognized it even in these conditions. Its powerful engine was turned down to a chug as it made its way between the buoys and moored at Westcott Pier, opposite Smeaton’s. That meant it would take Rory Trewyn at least ten minutes to walk to the harbour and right the way around it, past the Sloop to Zion Cottage.
This was the sort of news Ned did not want. He was tempted to grab his coat and clear out. Rory had already called three times in two weeks and talked endlessly about ‘the good old days’ when, apparently, men were definitely men and women were – most definitely – women. Ned found it distasteful somehow. He knew about the sixties, of course, but they had happened forty years ago. Almost half a century, for Pete’s sake. And what went on then was close to Gussie’s ‘news’. Fabricated.
He looked wildly around the kitchen. His supper things from last night were still much in evidence. And he had wanted to go through his travel plans this morning. But, but, but … Gussie had seemed to have some kind of sympathy towards her poor decrepit old uncle. He was no blood relative, yet, yet …
Ned gave a huge sigh and went to replenish the wood stove. Dammit, he could offer Rory breakfast and an hour’s chat, surely? Poor old devil knew all about living alone. Perhaps Ned could pick up a few tips. He grinned – naturally, this time – and switched on the electric kettle, then gathered his supper things into a washing-up bowl. It could be that Rory Trewyn’s company would help him to forget the huge empty space that belonged to Gussie.
Rory grappled inside his oilskin jacket, wrestled out a flat bottle and tipped it over his mug of tea.
‘Shouda done it years ago, of course. Thought she’d come back – she always fancied herself as lady of the bloody manor. Now it’s gone. And all the trappings with it. Gave her clothes to Gus. Well, you know that, of course. Did she take ’em down to Bristol?’
Ned buttered toast and pushed the plate over to Rory. He felt as Gussie must feel about this wreck of a man: resigned.
‘Not sure. There was a lot of luggage in the car.’
‘You shoulda gone with her. Seen her to the airport. Looked after her.’
Ned just stared at him and Rory waved his hands blusteringly and said, ‘Well … you coulda driven the bloody car back here, anyway. How you going to get to where you’re going?’
‘Sleeper, Penzance to London. Shuttle to Heathrow. Plane to New York. Next day internal flight to LA …’ He droned it out and would have gone on except that Rory made a dismissive sound that caused him almost to choke on his brandy-laced tea.
‘All right, all right. I get the message. You know what you’re doing a bloody sight better than I do!’ He swigged again and grinned. ‘Both ended up with a bit of money and the world in front of us, haven’t we?’
For a moment Ned almost exploded; he was on the point of ordering the awful old man to leave and not to come back this time. And then something happened. A terrible sense of emptiness seemed to fill the kitchen. It was dark and it was cold. It came from the ceiling, the walls, the floor; it dimmed the brightness of the range; it was a physical thing; clammy. It smelled of despair and hopelessness. It had happened before but not quite like this.
He took a deep breath and felt a chill in his lungs. Then he tried to imagine them all here. Mark and Kate, Jannie and Gussie. Around the table. Here. It had worked before and he had ended up with his head pillowed in his arms, sobbing helplessly.
This time it did not work. He could still see Rory, still hear his words. His chest was freezing and he could not take another breath. Nobody died of grief. Unless they did.
Rory’s voice was much too loud, it pushed back some of the cold; the darkness that was dimming the fire stayed where it was at the edges of the kitchen.
‘Stop it, my boy! Mark was on his own here when Etta died and he thought he was going crazy. Then Zannah came and saved him. An’ you got Zannah’s daughter. You’ll be all right, d’you hear me? You’ll be all right!’
Ned discovered he was sitting down and a brandy bottle was against his chin. He took it and swigged once. The darkness receded further. He could breathe.
He bowed his head. Rory was pushing wood into the range now, then spreading marmalade thickly on to toast. Ned ate it obediently.
‘At least you’ve got a father and you’re going to see him. That little January girl – how do you think she must feel?’
Ned swallowed; the toast was delicious. He gulped his tea and spoke in a low voice. ‘She’s in love. Everything she does now is towards … dammit, I’ve forgotten his name.’
Rory gave a laugh like a cannon shot. ‘Now that’s what I call normal! Mind you, she’ll soon pound it into your head so that you’ll never forget it again. But in the meantime his name doesn’t matter. Being in love is totally time-consuming. But there are other things that can be just as absorbing. Finding out about your father is one. I don’t know a thing about your father. Looked him up here and there and discovered he’s a bit of a genius, so you should be in for quite an experience. But I do know something about Gussie’s mother so I know for sure that Gussie is having a very full time of it.’
Ned ate more toast and listened as Rory rambled on about facing reality and making the most of what they had. ‘If the money can make life better then don’t act as if it’s poison, my boy. They left it to you to help you, not to make everything even more bloody awful!’
Ned finished eating and pushed away his plate. He looked at the rugged features of the old man opposite him.
‘How did you know … what was happening just then?’
‘That’s how it was at Trewyn. All the rooms and the passages and the – the – stuff. I was adopted, y’see. None of it was mine, not really. Ro was mine. And then she wasn’t. And I went away and worked. Why? Keep the old place going for the sake of my father who wasn’t my father at all? Came back and it closed in on me. The walls fell in and suffocated me. Couldn’t breathe. Went to see Zannah – like a shot in the arm. Wonderful woman. And she said sell the bloody place.’ He upended his bottle and set it down on the table with a bang. ‘I know all about the grief that takes your breath and squashes your body into a pulp.’
Ned leaned back in his chair and let his arms hang. So this was grief. They had thought they were grieving and talked naïvely about the three of them together. They had made plans: put down anchors, plotted courses … It seemed suddenly absurd. There was no escaping the damp dark tide of grief. And Gussie was coming back to it. He would be gone and Jannie’s term-end still to come.
As if he was plugged into Ned’s thoughts Rory suddenly said, ‘Came to tell you I am off to see Zannah in a couple of weeks. But I can put it off. I’ll move in here for a few weeks. Be here when Gus gets back.’
Ned stared at him then barked a laugh. ‘Sorry, Nunc. That would be Gussie’s worst possible nightmare. She’ll be staying with Aunt Ro for a while anyway, then calling at Jannie’s.’
‘Nunc? I’m not your uncle, my lad! Gus understands me – you don’t.’
For some reason Ned was furious. ‘You’re no blood relation to Gussie, either, so don’t pretend there’s family feeling!’ It sounded childish but it found its target. Rory actually bristled.
‘Look here, you oaf! Everyone – anyone local – will tell you that my mother was Rose Carne from Zennor. Only the Briscoes know about my father. He was Madge Briscoe’s brother, Neville Bridges. I reckon that makes me Gus Briscoe’s great-uncle twice over, don’t you?’
Ned stared, speechless, his mind twisting with the effort at working this out.
Rory nodded. ‘Yes. That makes Ro and me cousins. We couldn’t live without each other. And we couldn’t live with each other either! What a bloody mess!’
Ned said numbly, ‘Does Gussie know this?’
‘I would have thought Daddy might have told her, don’t you?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Probably, more like.’
But if Mark had told her she would have told Ned. She would have made a joke about cupboards and skeletons.
Again Rory tuned into his thoughts. ‘She doesn’t tell you everything, you know. That bloody awful chap who came to get a look at the Scaife paintings before the house sale, he told me he was engaged to Gus for a short time back in the summer of ninety-seven. Did you know that?’
‘Yes, yes – I knew! Now go, for God’s sake go and leave me in peace! You are certainly not my uncle and I don’t have to put up with this … this … poisonous gossip! Get out – now!’
Rory looked down at the wide face staring up at him. Then he upended his bottle for the last time, walked to the bin in the corner, deposited it gently inside, and then let himself out into the courtyard. His dignity was damaged when he skidded slightly on the wet cobbles and swore lustily. Ned heard it and relaxed. Stupid old man, that’s all he was. But perhaps he had saved Ned from the total madness of grief and given him back … what? Something from the past? And why had Ned’s reaction been so dismissive to the reminder that once, a long time ago, Gus Briscoe had been engaged to a man he had never met until a few weeks ago, in the Scaife studio?
Ned tilted his chair towards the range and felt the warmth creep up his back. He had genuinely forgotten that time when Gussie had been engaged. It was over before he saw her, so he had never taken it seriously. But that summer when they had all gone on a cruise to Scandinavia to celebrate Gussie’s twenty-sixth birthday, he had thought she was thinner, less … less lively. Somehow. He was very involved with his new job and he did not associate anything with a broken engagement. After all, what that meant was that Gussie had escaped the trap for a while longer.
But could Rory be right? Could that pushy ‘dealer-chap’, who had been fishing for information about the Scaife paintings so recently – could he have been the man Gussie had considered spending her life caring for, loving, sharing with him all the intimacies of marriage? Ned remembered his name. Andrew Bellamy. He couldn’t remember the name of Jannie’s chap. But he could remember Andrew Bellamy. A creep of the worst kind.
Ned sighed and stared up at the black beams above him. Too much information. He did not want to know about Neville Bridges, who had died a hero of the Spanish Civil War and left a legacy back in Cornwall called Rory Trewyn. He did not want to think about Rory and Rosemary, who were first cousins and bound together in so many ways. And he certainly did not want to think of Gus giving up her precious freedom to an out-and-out rotter like Andrew Bellamy.
He said aloud in a firm voice, ‘Check tomorrow’s itinerary. And get your case down the attic stairs. For God’s sake, do something!’
He stood up and made for the door.
He went into automatic for the journey. Before he left there was a telephone call from Sheila wishing him good luck and mentioning that she had left her umbrella in the hotel booked by Eric Selway – did he remember the name of it? He said he would find out and what did the umbrella look like. She had bought it at Macy’s and it had their name on every panel. He said to leave it with him. He got a yellow cab at Kennedy and asked for Mack’s Central Park address but via Macy’s, where he bought an umbrella and asked for it to be mailed to Sheila’s address. He tried to imagine this sort of thing in Penzance and smiled.
He was dropped at the front of the building this time and was amused by the porter, who chatted amiably about the flight and then told him that the ‘McKinnon family’ were doing fine. Apparently Michael had his usual winter troubles. ‘His thumbs don’t work. Arthritis. Makes holding a steering wheel kinda tricky.’ But Mrs McKinnon was doing fine. ‘And if she’s OK, then they’re all OK!’
They arrived at the penthouse and as the elevator doors sighed open there was Mack, hands held out in welcome. And behind him came Michael to take over the luggage and reassure the porter that his thumbs were ‘doing fine’. Ned was ushered into the apartment where another welcome awaited from Marion and Emily.
He thought of Zion Cottage, empty, deserted.
Marion said, ‘I think you might be like me about travelling, Ned. Come and sit down and have an old-fashioned sherry before lunch. I guess you left home over twenty-four hours ago and you’re completely disorientated.’ She bowled her wheelchair around one of the open-ended walls to where the big table was laid at one end only and Emily was already pouring drinks, but left them to hug Ned enthusiastically.
Marion went on seamlessly, ‘I always rest after lunch and perhaps you would like to do the same? We’re so pleased you’ve come to us this time. We want you to feel completely free. If you plan to visit friends just go ahead – anything.’
He smiled at her. ‘I don’t want to see the site again.’ She smiled back, obviously reassured somehow. He sipped his sherry feeling ridiculously formal, then added, ‘How did you react to the recording? We found it more reassuring than, well, anything.’
She smiled back at him widely and looked up at her husband. ‘Oh, Ned, we’re so glad! We did wonder if it might not be – I’m not sure – satisfactory to you. Yes, that’s the word. It was just lovely and ordinary … you know, the next thing they planned to do. Together.’ She was stammering untypically. ‘We wondered whether you might expect some – some special words.’
Mack joined in. Emily said something too. Ned nodded at them all. The apartment was full of sheer goodwill. He hoped it was a good omen. In the plane there had been a moment when he almost blanked out the whole idea of seeing his father. He could do it again, here and now. He could make this visit to the McKinnons – to Macy’s, even – the entire object of his trip. His father had not responded to his letter asking if they could meet.
He said abruptly, ‘Did you see Victor Gould? Is he still alive?’
Mack glanced at his wife then said, ‘No, we didn’t see him. I saw him alone. I would have liked Marion to meet him. She would have won him over, I’m sure. Anyway, obviously he is still alive. We would have let you know if anything had happened to him.’ He looked rueful. ‘Or, in fact, if we’d had any news at all. He’d already offered us his land- and seascapes. He added the skyscapes to that. But he’s got family portraits there – paintings of his home town. We’d love them but he’s never going to let them go.’
Ned was surprised by his mixed reactions. If his father had been ill, his silence would have been understandable. As it was, Ned still did not know what to do about the visit.
He said, ‘I haven’t heard a dickybird. I really don’t know whether to get on that plane tomorrow or not.’
Then he had to explain about rhyming slang and there was much laughter, then Mack tried to reassure him.
‘Apparently he never writes letters. People turn up sometimes and he just rushes out into the desert and hides until they’ve gone. He’s got a very efficient manservant – protects him. He lives the life of a hermit.’
Ned tried to grin. They had a good share of nutcases back home but not many hermits. He faced Marion and returned to the subject of the precious recording.
‘Actually, getting back to Mum and Dad, we didn’t know what to expect from the tape, but we were … yes, as you say … satisfied. Totally satisfied. We keep playing it. It’s like having them in the room with us. Gussie says we won’t need to for ever because we’ll just
know they’re always there!’ He thought of that empty kitchen; the sheer emptiness being a separate physical entity. ‘It hasn’t happened yet,’ he finished lamely.
Marion said quietly, ‘It will.’ She took a deep breath, sipped at her sherry glass and looked up again. ‘How is Gussie? We had an airmail. She’d had a cold and her mother nursed her splendidly for twenty-four hours, then got bored!’ Marion laughed. ‘Gussie was not a bit surprised. And as her mother then disappeared into her studio, Gussie could get better in her own time and find out about the farmhouse. She loves it. She has somehow made her own space there.’ She added quickly, ‘That’s how it sounded to me.’
Ned nodded. ‘We’ve spoken on the phone and I picked that up too. She was dreading going in the end, but something must have happened because quite suddenly she couldn’t wait to get away!’ As he spoke he thought back and knew he hadn’t imagined the change in her attitude. He frowned slightly, thinking harder, wondering whether Rory had exploded his little bomb. But Gussie would have been intrigued, not scared off. And she would most certainly have shared it with him. Yet she had almost panicked. And she had not shared that with him.
Mack interrupted his thoughts. ‘You’re all trying to make sense of the past, aren’t you? You don’t have to worry, you know. Your personal pasts – all three of you – are to do with Mark and Kate. And they made sense of everything.’
Ned looked at him, surprised at his sentience. ‘You hardly knew us as a family, yet you’re so right!’
Mack looked surprised too. ‘That’s what the message says, Ned. We sort of knew already. Mitch told us about your lives and most of us envied you. You seemed to have the whole thing worked out. But it was that message that confirmed it for most of the people over here who knew Mark and Kate and who had certainly heard about the three of you.’
With a shock Ned saw that the older man’s eyes were filling with tears.
Marion said reassuringly, ‘Don’t worry. Mack is very emotional, as you know. We all need to cry. Grief can’t be stoppered up for too long. Of course we support you and Gussie in wanting to reconnect with your biological parents. But if it doesn’t happen – for whatever reason – then your real family history is already wonderfully in place.’ She gave him a small smile. ‘No strings attached.’