by Lily Graham
The sun made a surprise visit, and lemon-coloured sunlight flickered against my eyelids. I discovered that I preferred to be at the tiller, and that I was surprisingly good at it, especially compared to Fen, who liked to steer us into branches and trees along the riverbank.
After that first voyage, I went to bed dreaming of the gentle swirl of the river, following the waterway until it reached the open ocean.
I’d taken Fen’s advice and found more sensible clothing. In the rag bag in the kitchen was an old, plain blue dress that used to be one of the uniforms for one of the downstairs maids. The dress was for an older girl, and was thus several sizes too big, but this meant I could simply wear it as a protective smock over my clothing. It had a white cuff and collar that I had unpicked to make sure it didn’t look too much like a uniform. But if it did, at least from afar, no one would think much of Fen being seen with someone in service. I kept it rolled up and hidden in a satchel in a groove in the trunk of Old Tom, the wild pear tree, and would slip it on just before I met up with him.
It was only later that I would realise how much worse this small addition would make things. But right then it was a good compromise, one that left Celine no room to complain about the state of my clothing. What the eye cannot see, I reasoned, Celine could have no cause to make grief over.
For the first time in my life, I was having adventures that didn’t come within the pages of books.
‘I wish, in a way, that summer wasn’t coming,’ said Fen one day, as we sat in the boat.
Arthur had taken up residence on my lap, while Fen drew a lazy paddle towards shore.
‘Why?’ I asked in surprise. ‘Think of how much more fun we’ll have when the weather warms.’
‘You, maybe. But me da will need my help more than ever with the new season. He’s already said that it might be time for me to quit school.’
‘Quit school?’ I said in shock. ‘But you’re still a child.’
He looked offended. ‘I’m twelve – ’tis time.’
Fen was three years older than me, but still I was horrified that he would think that. ‘No, it’s not! They can’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘No one finishes school at twelve!’
‘Your lot, maybe. Mine, well, I’d be one of the few that went that far, since the laws changed.’
I blinked. It was one of the first times we’d ever really spoken about our differences. Still, I knew Fen. I’d heard the way he spoke about the books I’d lent him. We’d spent hours re-enacting The Lady of the Lake. I saw his passion for learning new things. How could that be over at the age of twelve?
‘Can’t you tell him that you want to go all the way – finish school properly? Wouldn’t he understand?’
‘And who would pay for that? He needs me, needs my help – especially now that he’s getting wor—’
‘Getting what?’
‘Nothing, he just needs me now.’
‘Why?’
‘He just does.’
But I didn’t like the idea of change, not now that I had found Fen. I couldn’t go back to the way it was before. With me hiding out in the library, not knowing what it was like to have a friend of my own, someone who made every day richer, more fun, simply by being part of it.
‘Will I still see you?’ I asked, knowing I was being selfish. The choice – or rather, lack of choice – he’d been presented with was far more serious than my own childish needs. His father needed him, but I couldn’t face the idea of giving up my friend.
‘Don’t be a goose. Course you will.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
Present day
‘Are you cheating on Gerald?’
Adam was standing in the kitchen, heroically ignoring the soup-related crime scene that surrounded him, and looking at the geranium on the windowsill, which had had to make room for a pretty new one with yellow petals in a blue pot.
I laughed. ‘That’s Harriet,’ I said.
‘Oh well in that case, good for Gerald.’
I grinned. ‘Anyway, try this, and tell me if it’s any good,’ I said, dipping a spoon into the thick butternut and orange soup that was bubbling away merrily on the stove and handing it to him to test.
He blew on it, and then tasted it. His eyes closed in apparent bliss. ‘Amazing.’
‘You’re kidding!’
He popped an eye open. ‘Why are you surprised? It’s so good.’
I frowned, needing a possibly unbiased second opinion. I took the spoon out of his hand, dipped it into the soup and tried it myself. Despite half scalding my mouth and needing to fan it with my hand, the sensation on my tongue, beyond pain, was… pleasant. More than pleasant, actually. ‘It’s good!’
I felt as if I’d just been handed an award, one of those big blue ones that said ‘First Prize’.
At his confused look, I explained. ‘Adam, my dear friend, I am many things. I can navigate the Underground as if the map were printed on the inside of my eyeballs. I find it surprisingly okay to stand up in front of a crowd and make a speech without first getting sick on someone else’s shoes. I can say the twenty-two times table backwards—’
‘What? Really?’
I waved my hand. ‘Of course. I could do all the times tables backwards by the age of seven.’
He was staring at me as if I were an alien.
‘That’s besides the point. My point is that I can do those things. Yet, I have never, and I mean that literally, as in never ever, been able to cook something that didn’t taste like a boiled sock.’
Adam looked at the recipe on the counter. Next to it, I had crossed things out and added things in so many times that it now resembled more of a scientific formula than a recipe. I had also phoned my brother exactly twenty times to describe the problems I was having and have him run interference as if he was talking me through disarming a bomb. At one point I’d even hung up, saying, ‘I can’t handle this! I’m going to bloody Tesco!’
But he had phoned back and said, ‘Okay, breathe, Smudge.’
‘Not cinnamon?’ I would ask.
‘God no, awful! Try some more orange zest. Phone me back.’
‘Right, better. Still, something vaguely sock-like. Maybe it was the turmeric – bad idea?’
‘Are you crazy?’ exclaimed Stuart. ‘Do you want to poison everyone?’
‘Really, it’s poisonous?’ I asked in horror.
‘No – just a terrible combination for that soup.’
‘Ah.’
The tiny houseboat kitchen looked as if something had exploded inside it – something like all my other attempts at Sue’s ‘Tried and Tested No-Fail Butternut Soup’.
That is, honest to God, what Sue had called her soup when I asked her for an idiot-proof recipe so that I too could take part in the annual spring drive for the Tremenara community allotment. It had seemed such a lovely idea at the time. Relaxing, almost. I had pictured myself sitting in the tent that they would be putting up, looking at all the spring flowers and vegetables, chatting to my neighbours, avoiding the Bishop’s homemade beer. My mildy deranged neighbour had recently offered to come past the cottage and perform an exorcism on my house after news reached him that I had bought Seafall Cottage.
All I can say is that Sue failed to take into account the level of idiocy I can apply to cooking.
‘You know, you could have bought soup from Waitrose and sold that,’ said Adam.
‘You know who does that?’ I asked.
‘Who?’ he asked, taking another spoonful, to my surprise and delight. I could have kissed him right then.
‘Smart people.’
He laughed. ‘I thought you were gonna say quitters.’
‘Yeah, well…’ I put on a very bad American accent. ‘It’s true, my momma didn’t raise no quitters here.’
At the allotment, to my complete surprise, my soup went down a treat. When Sue came past to thank me, I just shrugged. ‘Oh, it was nothing, happy to help.’
Whe
n she said that it didn’t taste much like the recipe, I gave her a puzzled look. ‘Oh well, different kitchens, you know.’
‘Well, I think it’s wonderful.’
‘Thanks,’ I said.
Behind her, I could see Adam trying not to laugh.
When she left, he shook his head. ‘Women!’
‘What about us delightful creatures?’ I asked.
He laughed. ‘You’re all mad. I mean, that right there – instead of telling her how difficult it was, you’re just so gracious and she has no idea at all how hard you worked.’
I patted him on the back. ‘Adam, Adam,’ I said, shaking my head, ‘let me explain something to you. All those sisters and you still don’t get it.’
‘Get what?’
‘Women, Adam, do not communicate by mere words.’
‘They don’t?’
‘No. You see, I didn’t need to tell Sue that I had trouble with her recipe – she knew.’
‘She did?’ He looked thoroughly confused.
‘There was the look, didn’t you see it?’
‘What look?’
I shook my head. ‘And she said it tasted different.’
‘Yes – so?’
‘She knew.’
‘She knew you made her soup seven times and had to call in for reinforcements?’ he said, grinning.
‘No! God no. What, do you think women are psychic? She just knew that I was the idiot that proved her idiot-proof “no-fail recipe” wrong.’
He threw back his head, roared with laughter and gave me a hug. ‘You’re fun, you know that?’
I blinked. Was I? I hadn’t been called that in a long time.
When Adam left to go sample the Bishop’s beer, Angie sidled over, wearing a mustard-coloured smock and round, rose-tinted sunglasses.
‘Hello, John Lennon,’ I said.
‘Haha,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Anyway, I saw that…’ She pointed towards Adam. ‘That hug.’
‘Where’s Yoko when you need her?’ I said, narrowing my eyes.
‘What about Yoko?’ asked Adam, coming back with a plastic cup of beer for me.
‘Nothing,’ I said.
‘Gary’s beer is something else,’ he said as I took a sip.
‘Gary?’ I asked.
‘Gary Bishop.’
My mouth fell open in surprise. I looked over to the stall where the Bishop was standing with his Russian beaver hat, his bare arms covered in a wealth of tattoos, many of which were crosses. ‘That’s why they call him the Bishop?’
Adam looked at Angie. ‘You know, you wouldn’t think that this was someone who could say the twenty-two times table backwards.’
Angie looked at Adam and shrugged. ‘Who can’t?’
His eyes popped open. ‘Really?’
She took a sip of beer. ‘No, man,’ she laughed. Then she looked at me. ‘Prove it, what’s twenty-two times twelve?’
‘It’s 264,’ I said automatically.
‘Okay, what’s twenty-two times fifty-two?’
‘That’s not really part of the times table, but it’s 1,144.’
Angie looked at Adam. ‘Is that right?’
He looked at me, and then said, ‘I’ll google it.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
Calais, 1915
Dearest Fen,
Thank you for the beautiful diary. I love it. I don’t know how you got it – or the beautiful ribbons. Aquamarine, of course.
I’ve decided that I’ll write our story – from the start – using our little code from when we were children. You know I can do it by heart now?
Don’t wish the dreams away. That’s how I find you.
Yours always,
T
Chapter Twenty-Six
Present day
I was aboard The Floating Bookstore, lounging on a beanbag and defrosting by the wood burner, turning the pages of a surprisingly riveting novel by Louis L’Amour, which I’d found due to Angie’s madcap filing system. I was lost in the Wild West with a lone cowboy on a mission, someone I pictured with rather blue eyes and a lazy smile, when Angie refilled my cup of coffee and interrupted my reverie.
‘So,’ she said, giving me a meaningful look.
‘Shall I read aloud?’ I asked.
‘No – just wanted to ask how you were doing?’
I set the book down. ‘Ah, the divorce?’
She nodded.
‘Well, he finally agreed to it – we’ve had a few back and forth emails from the lawyers but it looks like it’ll be finalised within the next month.’
‘How do you feel?’ she asked.
‘I’m okay. I thought I’d be worse, but I think the truth is that we’ve been circling it for years. Now, well, I can finally move on.’
‘I’m glad,’ she said.
‘Me too.’
‘The first one is always the hardest,’ she said, taking a sip of coffee.
‘The first what?’
‘Divorce.’
My eyes went wide. ‘Have you been divorced?’
‘Of course.’ She shrugged. ‘Who hasn’t?’
‘Really?’
‘No,’ she laughed.
My mouth fell open. ‘You have to stop doing that!’
She grinned. ‘Why? It’s so fun. Anyway, I was almost married once.’
‘You were?’
‘Yes, to the previous owner of your houseboat actually.’
‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘Life, I think. To be honest, I’m just not the marrying kind.’
‘I’m surprised,’ I said. ‘I mean you’re always trying to pair me up with Adam…’
‘That’s different,’ said Angie, laughing.
‘How’s that?’
‘Cos it’s fun.’
I threw one of her beaded cushions at her.
‘Okay, okay, enough. Go back to your Western, please, this is a respectable place,’ she said before offering me another suspicious-looking brownie.
The next morning, I got an early start on the cottage. The kitchen was starting to resemble a kitchen, finally. The blue and white tiles I’d chosen totally transformed the walls, making my dream of having a farmhouse kitchen something of a reality. I’d been trawling the local shops for more blue and white Cornish pottery and I couldn’t wait to put my finds on display once the pale grey wooden counters were in place, along with my pride and joy, a sparkling new duck-egg blue Aga. After the success of my soup, I was sure I could (eventually, after much error) become someone who cooked.
More importantly, the cottage was now, finally, rot-free. Even the window had been repaired, so now it was possible to stand in the living room and not freeze half to death.
I was sweeping the floors, my iPod on high while I swept along to the sound of the Beatles, when I caught sight of the old man standing in the doorway. I jumped with fright when I saw him.
He was still wearing that same jacket, the one with the patches on the elbows, and his eyes were startlingly blue. He stared at me for some time, then tipped his hat at me, an old-fashioned fedora. He put something on the counter, turned on his heel and left.
I watched him go, then, after half a beat I raced after him, deciding that it was high time we had a discussion about what he was doing here. And why he was never here when the builders were, or Adam. But, as usual, as soon as I got into the garden he was gone.
He was certainly sprightly for his age – and bold as brass too.
I went back inside and saw, on the old counter, a letter. Only, of course, it wasn’t addressed to me.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Cornwall, 1907
Tilly
The first time I got into trouble was after we’d decided to visit the pirate cove.
‘You can get there from the house – did you know that?’ said Fen.
‘You told me once, but I haven’t been. How do you get down?’
‘There’s little steps cut away in the rocks, right by the cliffs. Want to see?’
‘Yes!’
We trekked past Idyllwild, the barren fields dry after harvest, noting how the leaves on the ground near the stream had turned shades of burnt amber and bronze as we made our way towards the cottage.
For a heart-stopping moment I thought he would lead me inside, but Fen led me away, past the cliff walls. I stopped when we saw someone in the distance.
‘It’s just me da,’ said Fen. ‘It’s okay, let’s go this way instead.’
I was disappointed that Mr Waters had chosen this moment to come home, but I followed after Fen as we retraced our way past the secret entrance to the very edge of the wall, where the ground fell away in a terrace.
‘From the house there’s a slightly easier way down, but we can do it this way as well. The paths sort of meet up – you’ll see.’
Below, the waves crashed and churned. I could smell the briny scent of the ocean; the wind was cold and crisp as we walked. The pathway was slight, a squeeze even for our small frames.
We wound down and around, to where the rocks gave way to a winding, chalky road amongst the silvery seagrass and an abundance of purple wildflowers. The closer we neared the cove, the quieter it got. Here, the water was limpid, gentle.
We stepped onto the small sandy beach and sat down.
‘Have you ever been here before?’
‘Yes, but not this way. Tim, my cousin, took Rose and me to explore a few years ago, from the farm road. Father doesn’t like us to come here.’
I didn’t mention that I was forbidden to come to the south part of the estate at all.
Fen looked at me now. ‘Why not – why doesn’t he like coming here?’
‘Doesn’t like the water – doesn’t trust it.’
He nodded. ‘There’s something in that, I suppose. It’s beautiful, but it’s wild, and if you forget that, well, it could be dangerous.’