The Cornish Escape: The perfect summer romance full of sunshine and secrets

by Lily Graham

  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Father. It’ll be over by Christmas, anyway,’ said Rose.

  He scoffed. ‘If you believe that, my dear, you’ll believe anything.’

  Father’s words proved a correct presentiment. Christmas came and went, and the war continued.

  I delayed my return to school, and in the meantime sought out our general practitioner, Dr Collins, on the pretext of a series of headaches. While he examined me and prescribed plenty of rest and fluids, I asked him about whether or not they could afford to take all types of soldiers to the war.

  ‘Every fit and able boy will be welcomed,’ he said. ‘It’s remarkable – Edmund was the first from Idyllwild, that should do everyone proud. In the village, the Harvey brothers signed up at the same time.’

  ‘What I mean is, will they accept just anyone? Where do they stop?’

  ‘Why? Are you wishing to volunteer?’ he teased.

  I pursed my lips. ‘No, what I mean is I have a… cousin,’ I lied. ‘And there is a problem with one of his feet, you see, and I think he wonders—’

  ‘Oh yes, I see. Well, I’m afraid that if the condition is serious, he may very well not be able to go, as there is plenty of marching to be done.’

  ‘So if it was a visible malady it would be unlikely?’

  ‘Oh yes. I mean, they aren’t as cruel as all that. No, they wouldn’t take him, definitely not.’

  ‘And the boys around here – they would be signed off by you?’

  ‘Oh yes, and I can assure you I will do a thorough examination. We want to make sure that those we send off have the best chance of being able to come home.’

  I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘That makes me feel much better.’

  I went back to school with a somewhat lighter heart, confident in the knowledge that Fen would be safe. And we’d made up, of a kind, and had said goodbye at the cove.

  ‘I wish you didn’t have to go,’ he told me.

  ‘Me too. But it won’t be long now, just another year.’

  He nodded. ‘I might be gone as well, if I join the fight.’

  I kissed him so I didn’t have to speak, so I didn’t have to contradict him. I knew that Dr Collins would never sign him off, and I was desperately relieved.

  On a midnight search, I discovered the pile of letters that Fen had sent me, hidden in the office, confiscated no doubt by the staff, who had been instructed to do so by my parents and I read them till the candle burnt out.

  Now that I was volunteering in the school office, I had no fear that my letters would be confiscated again, and for the first time since I started school, I was receiving regular mail. A few weeks later, a letter from Fen confirmed that the good doctor had been true to his word.

  ‘I should have realised he’d be like this – far too soft, that’s what everyone says about him. When he treated my father he prescribed bed rest and a vacation, as if they could saunter off somewhere. He doesn’t live in the real world…’

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Though I should have known it wasn’t to be. Fen had set his heart on the idea, and a few weeks later he wrote to tell me that he’d gone as far as Plymouth and had finally found a doctor willing to sign him up.

  I was horrified when he wrote to tell me that he’d be leaving in a week’s time. I made up an excuse to Miss Laurens, about being needed at home, and took the next-morning train back to see him before he left.

  Rose took one look at me and scoffed. ‘You’re too late, he’s already gone.’

  No one was more furious than Mrs Waters. She stormed into the house with a letter in her hand. Mathew, the new acting footman, who’d taken over Edmund’s post now that he had been called up, could barely restrain her. She had on an old bonnet and her boots were covered in dirt, which she tracked all over the floor.

  Mother, Rose and I came down when we heard her scream.

  ‘Fetch him to me now! Fetch that bastard! I want to look ’im in the eye!’ she roared.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ demanded my mother. ‘How dare you come in here and address the staff in this manner?’

  She looked at Mother, her eyes flashing scorn. ‘How dare I?’ Her eyes found mine, and fairly snapped. ‘Course you’re here – you’re probably the first ’e told! Did you encourage him, eh? Tell him to be a man? When you were writing him in your little secret letters?’

  At my look of shock, she continued, ‘Oh, aye, you didn’t think I knew about that, eh? Your little coded messages – been going on fer years. They’ve even got their own language, can you believe it. He promised me, after the last time, that it would stop. But it never has. They just like to fool you. And now he’s gone, thanks to you.’

  I took a deep breath, and said, ‘Mrs Waters, I understand how upset you are about Fen. I am too, please believe me. Fen wanted this – I tried to talk him out of it. And my father had nothing to do with it—’

  She took a flying step forward. ‘OH YES, HE DID!’ she roared, brandishing the letter in her red hand. ‘My boy may have been the idiot that went to that quack to get it signed off, but they only accepted him because of this!’ she said, waving a piece of paper around.

  Father came rushing in – obviously someone had summoned him to the scene – but when he saw her, his face went pale. ‘Mrs Waters…’

  ‘You’ve done it now,’ she said. ‘You really have. I stopped myself all those years before because it wasn’t what Michael wanted. He loved you, you know? Said you were the best friend he’d ever had. He said now is the first time he’s ever felt betrayed.’

  Father’s eyes filled with tears.

  We all looked from Mrs Waters to him in shock. ‘It was the boy,’ said Father. ‘He insisted. It’s what he wanted – he wanted to go, he begged.’

  ‘Aye. So you helped.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She dashed away an angry tear. ‘Well, I’ll help too. I have documents of my own – in your own hand.’

  Father looked pale. ‘Please, understand it was for him—’

  ‘Was it? Or was it something else – perhaps to do with this daughter of yours?’

  Father turned, blinking confusedly at me. It was like he hadn’t registered that I was there till now.

  ‘While you get rid of him at war,’ continued Mrs Waters, ‘she gets to come home.’

  ‘No, it’s not like that.’

  ‘So, what? After this war, they’ll simply get married? You’ll allow that?’

  ‘My daughter marry your cripple son? Over my dead body!’ hissed Mother.

  ‘Helena!’ Father roared.

  But Mrs Waters just stood there, a cold smile on her face. She was filled with righteousness, a calm in her rage, like the eye of the storm. She folded the piece of paper, in which Father had agreed to send her son to war, neatly in two, and said, ‘That’s what I thought.’

  Meanwhile, Father looked at Mother as if she’d just signed his death warrant.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Present day

  Graham Waters’ statement that his grandfather didn’t have a brother – that he had no idea that Fen existed – shocked me.

  Adam and I each took turns, babbling as we tried to convince him otherwise.

  Finally, I pulled out the diary and told him what we’d found, what we’d uncovered about his family.

  He was flabbergasted. ‘This whole time no one ever said anything. My great-grandmother just pretended like Alfred was her only son. She died when I was about ten,’ he explained. ‘But why, though? Why would she have done that?’

  I shook my head. ‘I have no idea.’ I couldn’t imagine what would drive a mother to deny that she’d had a son. From Tilly’s diary it was clear that Mrs Waters loved Fen. It had to be something else. Perhaps she felt betrayed when he wanted to be with Tilly? But still, was it enough for her to cut him out of their history?

  He got up and shuffled over to the television set. Next to it was a large shelf on which some old photographs were displayed. �
��I mean, I remember them showing me my great-grandfather. She used to tell us all about what happened to him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, as he took an album off the shelf and brought it over to us.

  He sat down with a sigh, rearranging his joggers. ‘Well, it was legendary stuff, you know. About the woman who married this strong ox of a man who went off to war, and when he came back, he was completely changed. It was just so sad. But I suppose so many of them were like that, really.’

  He opened the album and started flicking through the old photographs.

  After a couple of minutes he said, ‘Ah here, here’s my great-grandfather. And that must be Alfie,’ he said, pointing to a young boy, standing next to a tall, very thin man with solemn eyes.

  ‘Gosh, I haven’t looked at these for ages,’ he said, pulling the picture out of the sleeve. We leant over to have a look. The boy was about eight years old, had very large eyes and was smiling. He looked, ever so slightly, like Adam.

  ‘You can see the family resemblance,’ I said.

  ‘You can,’ agreed Graham, turning the picture over to look at the date. There was a small intake of breath. ‘Well, I’ll be…’

  He handed it to Adam, who passed it on to me, whistling. On the back, it said, ‘Michael and son, 1903’.

  I looked at it. ‘What?’

  ‘Look at the year. It couldn’t have been my grandfather, could it? Alfie was born the year the war broke out, in 1914. It must be him – Fen.’

  My mouth fell open. ‘You’re right.’ I couldn’t believe I was looking at a picture of him.

  My hands traced over the picture, thinking of the young boy, Tilly’s fox charmer, with his wild, unruly curls and blue eyes.

  I reached for Adam’s hand and squeezed it.

  ‘Is he what you pictured?’ he asked.

  I looked up at Adam, wondering if Fen’s eyes had been the same shade of blue. ‘I think so. It’s weird. He’s a stranger to me, of course, but I feel like I know him. I almost feel like I recognise him.’

  Adam tucked a loose curl behind my ear. ‘I don’t think it’s that strange – not really. I mean we’ve heard so much about him. I feel the same way.’

  ‘This whole time,’ said Graham, ‘I had no idea.’

  I looked at him. ‘We can tell you about him, if you’d like.’

  He looked at me, his eyes a little moist. ‘You know, I’d like that very much. When I first heard that you bought the cottage, I thought you must be mad. I’m sorry – I did.’

  I shrugged. ‘You wouldn’t be the first.’

  ‘But now, well, I’m beginning to think that maybe everyone else was.’

  ‘Well, it’s like a lot of things in life – that cottage has known real heartache, but some incredible things too.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, at one point it used to belong to a fox charmer,’ I said.

  ‘A what?’ said Graham

  And so I explained about Fen’s talent, learned from his father, of training foxes.

  ‘He liked you,’ said Adam, during the drive back to the marina.

  ‘Do you think so?’ I asked.

  ‘Definitely.’

  When we got to my little houseboat, he lit the wood burner and took a seat in the egg chair, while I poured us each a glass of wine.

  ‘He wanted you to have this,’ he said, holding out the picture of Fen.

  My mouth fell open in surprise. ‘I couldn’t! That’s your family history, not mine. It belongs to you.’

  ‘You found them, I think it belongs to you just as much.’

  I took the photo, biting my lip. ‘I’ll make a copy and give him back the original.’

  ‘If you want,’ he said, giving me his lazy smile.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘That smile is dangerous.’

  ‘What?’ he replied, the picture of innocence. ‘Come here.’ And he pulled me onto his lap.

  ‘You know, this is where the trouble started with us the last time.’

  He wrapped his arms around me. ‘I’m not sure I’d call it trouble, exactly…’

  ‘You know I have a perfectly good sofa?’

  He shrugged. ‘I like this chair.’

  I snuggled against him. ‘Me too.’

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Cornwall, 1914

  Tilly

  The letter that came from Fen was full of apology, but I wasn’t ready to forgive.

  ‘I had to sign up, Tilly. We’re at war, and I need to do this. I’m sorry that I went behind your back. I hope you can understand that I couldn’t stand by and not do everything I could to join the fight. I hope you can forgive me. Or at least understand. After everything my father did, all his sacrifices, how would it be if I didn’t at least try to be half the man he was?’

  But I didn’t understand, and I didn’t forgive him for risking his life.

  I had gone back to school with the household in chaos, my family reeling from their encounter with Mrs Waters. Father didn’t explain, and none of us could understand why it affected him so. But after that day, it was like the heart went out of him, I suppose.

  I’d been at the school for a few weeks when I realised that I couldn’t do it either. I was barely able to concentrate. Every day we heard about the casualties, how many people were lost. It got so that you dreaded getting the mail. You could see it on the faces of the students and the teachers combined. We were all living under the weight of the war, waiting for its shadow to fall on us.

  I couldn’t sit around and bide my time – especially knowing that Fen was out there.

  I hated him for risking his life. Dr Collins’ words echoed in my head. Someone like him may not have the best chance of getting back. I wished that he didn’t feel he had something to prove.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Present day

  ‘So I found out something interesting about your cottage,’ came Angie’s voice down the line.

  ‘Well, hello to you too,’ I said.

  She laughed. ‘Hello.’

  ‘What did you find out?’

  ‘Well, it’s more like who I found, really.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I was chatting to one of my customers, Fran – she used to run the bakery down by the harbour, made the best cakes this side of West Cornwall. I can’t tell you how many times me and Stevie used to go down there just for her apple pies, she served them with clotted—’

  ‘Angie!’

  ‘Yes, sorry, well, she came into the shop today and spotted your books and we started chatting and reminiscing, and you won’t believe it but she’s actually related to Adam – well, the Waters. Her granny used to work for the Aspreys.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘No, she was the cook, apparently.’

  I gasped. ‘Mrs Price?’

  She gave a surprised laugh. ‘How on earth did you know her name?’

  ‘It was, um, written down in some of the stuff that I got in the house.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah.’ It wasn’t exactly a lie.

  ‘Well, anyway, she knows you’re interested in what happened to the Aspreys and she said she’d be happy to talk to you if you want. Seems her grandmother told her a lot about it. Fran’s a bit of a history nut. She had her grandmother write down her life story apparently. It’s a good idea – so many things go missing when people die. I wish I’d asked my own… Anyway, you free to see her tomorrow?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  The next afternoon, I went with Angie to Fran’s house, which was along the estuary, not far from the marina.

  ‘Pretty part of the world,’ I said as we walked.

  ‘Yeah, wait till you see her cottage. It’s lovely – real traditional fisherman’s cottage.’

  It was pretty, with whitewashed walls, a slate roof and roses along the little stone wall. I smiled at the name etched in the wooden plaque: Sandcastles.

  Fran opened the door on the first knock. She was in h
er early seventies with a neat brown-grey bob and kind eyes.

  ‘Oh, you look just like you do in your picture,’ she said, tapping the back of a hardback on which my publisher had slapped an old black and white photograph of me. ‘Come in, I made some pie.’

  Angie’s face lit up.

  Fran showed us into a small living room with whitewashed stone walls and a blue and white striped sofa. Fresh pink peonies sat on top of the coffee table, next to a plate of biscuits.

  ‘I love your cottage,’ I said.

  ‘Thank you, dear. It’s around two hundred years old. My husband, Frank, and I restored it some years ago. But you’ll know all about that, with your new place. Angie said it’s quite a project.’

  We sat down, and I nodded. ‘Project is definitely the word. When I bought it there wasn’t even electricity.’

  ‘Us too. It takes time, but you’ll get there.’

  I looked at the clean white walls, the cosy room, the fireplace, ‘I hope so.’

  Fran poured us some tea, then offered round the biscuits. Angie piled her saucer with three.

  ‘What?’ she said with a grin, noting my expression. ‘You’ll see when you try them. My life has been incomplete since Fran left the bakery.’

  Fran guffawed. ‘My daughter still runs it, and with the same recipes I used for forty years.’

  Angie shook her head. ‘Nope, not the same. Don’t get me wrong, Beth is good, but she’s not you,’ she said, stuffing a lemon cream into her mouth.

  I laughed. ‘Anyway, Angie tells me that your grandmother used to work for the Aspreys?’

  Fran nodded. ‘Oh yes, she started when she was only seventeen.’

  ‘She was the cook, right?’

  I’d read about Bertha Price in the diary, of course – and her ominous start in the culinary arts. It was nice to know that the family talent had been perfected over the generations.