‘Felix, you’re beginning to sound as pious as my mother!’
‘Oh, I love that sort of thing – so long as I’m not expected to take it seriously.’
‘And I love being in a village again. Everyone we’ve passed so far has stopped to say hello, whereas in London they’d look through you.’
‘We’re still foreigners, though, to them. Even George is still regarded as an incomer and he’s lived here thirty years.’
‘It’s a bit like that in my village, but it doesn’t mean we’re not friendly. And I do relish the peace and quiet here – no planes or sirens or traffic.’
‘Don’t speak too soon,’ he laughed, as a noisy tractor came chugging up the street. ‘Wait a sec – I need to check this road … Yes, it’s Well Street, which leads into Tywardreath Hill, so we go all the way down to the bottom and that should take us to Par Sands.’
‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said, as they strolled along in the sunshine, ‘about my mother’s cottage. Or my cottage, I should say, now that probate’s come through. If I do move here, what on earth should I do with it?’
‘Let it?’ Felix suggested.
‘But that’s such a hassle, and difficult to do long distance, if I’m living in Cornwall, five hundred miles away. Anyway, I’m not sure I’d ever get tenants, unless I spent a fortune first doing the whole thing up. Frankly, I’d rather sell it and put the proceeds into the chapel. In fact, I like the thought of having some real stake in it.’ Guilt stabbed and stung again. Hadn’t she planned to make the cottage a country retreat for her grandchild?
‘Then, if you wouldn’t mind,’ she continued, as if attempting to excuse herself, ‘I could invite Amy and the baby to stay for occasional holidays.’ Couldn’t the chapel be the new country retreat? It was far superior to the cottage, in terms of its amenities and size, and would also symbolize a complete new start; a break with all the sadness of the past. The south should be gentler and kinder than the north.
‘Of course I wouldn’t mind, darling. In fact—’ He broke off as a car came speeding round the narrow bend of Tywardreath Hill, and quickly yanked her out of its path. ‘I should have warned you, this is a dangerous road, what with no pavement and blind corners and crazy drivers like him!
‘Don’t forget,’ he continued, as they proceeded, with more caution, down the steep incline, ‘the chapel already has planning permission for a garage at the back, so if we need an extra bedroom and bathroom, those could be built on top.’
She gave a noncommittal grunt, cursing herself for having broached the subject prematurely. If she were planning to have Amy to stay, he would assume the matter was settled and that she had dismissed her former doubts. If only there weren’t other people involved – not just the living, but the dead. She could almost feel her mother’s disapproval at the very prospect of selling the cottage when it had been their home and sanctuary since 1946. And another continuing source of guilt was the loss of the Treasure Box. The police had failed to catch the perpetrators, let alone retrieve the stolen goods.
‘Look ahead,’ Felix urged, once they had crossed Polmear Road and turned onto a footpath, ‘for your first glimpse of the sea.’
She gazed out at the expanse of deep-blue water; the foam-flecked waves glittering in the sun. ‘Oh, it’s beautiful,’ she said.
‘Well, you may be disappointed. There’s a clay-works on the beach, although it’s not visible from here, and also a rather hideous caravan park, but that’s conveniently hidden by the dunes. Anyway, you’ll see for yourself in a sec, because this path brings us straight onto the sands.’
Once they were facing the whole wide sweep of the bay, she felt no trace of disappointment. A lone horse and its rider were cantering along the shore; people walking dogs and flying kites, and a posse of gulls swooped and soared in the generously blue sky.
‘I like the clay-works,’ she said, as they swung along the sand in the direction of the tall white chimneys. ‘They add a bit of character.’
‘Well, we’ll have a better view of them if we walk to the end of the beach. Then we can return to Tywardreath a different way and finish up at the pub. Hey, talking of pubs, Daniel said there’s a new gastro-pub in Fowey, with pretty decent food. And, as tomorrow’s our last night, I’d like to take you out to dinner there and maybe drive on afterwards to Readymoney Cove. Emily’s doing a series of watercolours, with different views of the cove, and I’d rather like to see it for myself, especially in moonlight.’
‘Felix, a moonlit sea is far too romantic for you, for goodness’ sake!’
‘Well, I’m sure I could make it suitably stark, if I decided to paint it myself.’
He stopped a moment, to look out at the sea, screwing up his eyes against the glare. ‘See that ship, far out on the horizon?’
She looked where he was pointing, but it was hard to make out anything beyond a blurry shape, veiled by the shimmering heat-haze. Her future, she realized, was equally vague and indiscernible; nothing settled, nothing certain, only nebulous hopes, fluid possibilities, unresolved temptations.
Yet, when she switched her gaze to the sand, everything immediately shifted into focus: clear, distinct, substantial and gloriously bright. And she was suddenly aware how futile it was to waste these last two precious days on creeping guilts and uneasy speculations. She must enjoy the shining moment, as she had done at George’s supper party, and leave her decision till the latest possible point, tomorrow night.
Chapter 28
‘THAT GREAT SHINING path across the sea looks incredibly romantic. Even you can’t deny that, darling!’ Maria gazed out at the scene: the waves shimmering and rippling beneath an almost-full moon; their frills of foam embroidered with a silver sheen; light and darkness swirled together in the part-luminous, part-sombre sky. This cove was like their own private beach, deserted at the midnight hour; the dark hulks of sentinel cliffs rearing up on either side, as if to ensure that no intruder invaded its seclusion.
Felix turned her round to face him and looked deep into her eyes. ‘Yes, it’s wonderful,’ he whispered, ‘and tonight I’m a true romantic. I haven’t brought you here to get ideas for my work, but to ask you, officially and solemnly, if you’ll agree to share my life.’
Instantly, she tensed; her decision still not made. Was it even possible to make so difficult a choice, when whichever way she decided would involve heartache and regret? The soft sssshh-ings of the waves seemed to fill the silence with an uneasy, threatening roar, and it wasn’t hard to imagine this sultry summer night suddenly being riven by a storm.
Slipping from his embrace, she tried to focus on the beach, if only to still her mind by noting tiny details, like the artist she was meant to be: the tangled skeins of seaweed festooning the murky sand; the two sets of foot-prints stretching back behind them; his larger and more emphatic than her indeterminate ones. Then, moving her gaze outward again, she looked beyond the pool of glittering moonlight to the ocean’s furthest edge. It seemed jagged and serrated, as if it had ripped itself from the black seam of the sky, in a last bid to remain unattached and separate.
‘Maria,’ Felix prompted, approaching tentatively, yet linking his arms tight around her waist, ‘I’m not asking you to marry me – that’s far too conventional for a woman as unique as you. I’m asking you to live with me, down here, and commit to me, as I promise to commit to you.’
She could feel his chest pressing against her back; his warm, solid hands clasping her cold fingers. How extraordinary that, despite the warm night air, she should be shivering all over, as if battling through a force-ten wind.
He bent his head to her shoulder and spoke softly into her ear. ‘I understand how difficult this is for you, so I’ve tried not to pressure you. But before we leave tomorrow, I’d like to put in an offer on the chapel, so you do really need to tell me, is it yes or no?’
All at once, she knew one thing at least: her answer had to be instinctive, to issue from her heart. She had agonized too long already;
tried and failed to make a rational, measured choice. She also knew that whatever words might spring to her lips would somehow be the right ones – that she trusted totally – yet still she wasn’t sure what form those words would take.
The pause seemed endless; no sound except her slight, nervous cough, as she tried to clear her throat, and the ever-insistent swish-swish of the waves. The sea didn’t care which choice she made; the barren moon was utterly indifferent; the clouds more intent on their own languorous, nocturnal movement.
At last, she swivelled round to face him, about to speak in the same soft tone as his, but the words erupted in a triumphant yell – a yell so loud the whole Cornish coast must hear. ‘Yes!’ she shouted. ‘My answer’s yes – “an enormous yes”, just like you wanted me to say. I’ll live with you and share the chapel. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!’
Suddenly, she was racing towards the sea, he pelting in pursuit, the pair of them whooping and hollering like Gillian’s madcap kids. And, even at the water’s edge, they stopped only to kick off their shoes and tear off their clothes in a fever of excitement, before wading into the jolting cold. She caught her breath as the water, with its fierce caress, began creeping up her legs, fondling her thighs; lapping against her belly; lingering across her breasts; a skilled and sensuous suitor, exploring every curve and hollow of her body.
She, the greedy woman, who had opted for pleasure and excess over the leaden chains of duty, was now revelling in two simultaneous lovers: the icy grope and tingle of the sea and Felix’s scorching bush-fire of an embrace.
Chapter 29
‘AH, YOU MUST be Maria.’ A tall, grey-haired man reached out his hand in greeting. ‘I’m Richard Osborne, the minister.’
‘It’s good to meet you in person,’ she said, noting with approval his well-groomed appearance and freshly starched white surplice. She had no wish for Silas’s funeral service to be conducted by a slob. ‘But it still seems disrespectful to call you “Richard” rather than….’ Her voice tailed off. Catholic priests were ‘Father’, of course, and the vicar back home was unceremonious ‘Ron’, but ‘Mr Osborne’ was surely more appropriate for this grave, patrician figure.
‘Richard suits me fine, as I told you on the phone.’ He gave a cautious smile. ‘But how are you feeling, Maria? I do realize what a shock this must have been.’
She could hardly admit that she felt shamefully upbeat – her elation over Cornwall still whooping and fizzing in her mind. But her sanguine mood wasn’t purely selfish, because she had come to see that Silas’s death could be for the best, since he was finally at peace; no longer prey to money worries, or fears about his cancer. And although Amy was still devastated about this final blow to her hopes, it could have actually been worse had she and Silas succeeded in establishing a relationship. Wouldn’t his death have been more distressing then, than if they’d never met at all? And at least her daughter had been spared the disappointment of meeting a father she had always over-idealized. The discomfiting reality would have offended her high standards – of that there was no doubt.
Aware that Richard was still awaiting a reply, she murmured a few anodyne words, but was spared the need of further conversation by the arrival of the hearse, which nosed slowly along the drive and drew up outside the chapel. The first glimpse of the coffin was daunting. However buoyant she might feel, it wasn’t easy to see Amy’s father shut up in a box. Yet, as Clement Codd had assured her, all the outward trappings looked every bit as impressive as for any high-class funeral; the four bearers and the funeral director all impeccably turned out. Nor had the council failed to provide their promised floral tribute – a small spray of white carnations had been placed beside her own extravagant red roses.
After a brief word with the men, Richard turned back to face her. ‘Would you like to come into the chapel with me, just ahead of the coffin, or walk alongside the bearers?’
She opted for the latter, wishing to stay as close as possible to Silas until the actual committal, when – she hoped – a sad chapter in her life would finally be concluded.
As the bearers shouldered their heavy load and began their solemn procession, she realized that the large, high-ceilinged chapel made the lack of any congregation all the more apparent. Yet even that could be regarded as a blessing; at least there was no one present who might rouse Silas’s ire. Even in death, he was unlikely to be filled with the milk of human kindness.
Schoenberg’s ‘Erwartung’ was playing on the sound system – an unusual choice for a funeral, and one that brought her up in gooseflesh as the soprano’s haunted voice echoed round the chapel. In truth, it had required a lot of effort to devise a ceremony for a man whose taste in music was untraditional, to say the least. A list of Britain’s favourite funeral tunes had proved of little help. No way could Silas be buried to the strains of ‘Over The Rainbow’, or ‘All Things Bright And Beautiful’, and even the top classical choices – ‘Nimrod’, ‘Ave Maria’, Pachbel’s clichéd ‘Canon’ – he would have dismissed with utter contempt. Indeed, the crematorium’s sound system had been hard-pressed to find the pieces she had finally selected: not just the Schoenberg but Berg and Shostakovich.
As the bearers approached the altar, she slipped into the front pew while they continued slowly ahead and set the coffin down on the catafalque. It still took courage to look at it and she was torn between relief that her once beloved Silas had, at last, moved beyond suffering and pain, and a deep sadness for his wasted life. In fact, the time and care she had lavished on the details of this service had been her way of making amends. The choice of poetry had been as taxing as the music. Unfortunately, she couldn’t remember any of Silas’s own works well enough to recite, and the poets he liked – Swinburne, Burroughs, Ginsberg – were totally unsuitable.
In desperation, she had spent half yesterday closeted in the public library, searching through anthologies, wanting something hopeful for Silas as compensation for all he had endured. But she had to avoid facile optimism, which she knew he would simply deride. Finally, she had decided on a poem called ‘Begin’, by the Irish poet, Brendan Kennelly; warming to it immediately, yet still worried it was too sanguine. But time was ticking on, so she’d had to make a decision – even an imperfect one – to give herself a chance to rehearse her reading.
Richard was already standing at the lectern and, once the bearers had withdrawn, began intoning the words of the service in his deep, melodious voice. ‘We brought nothing into this world and we take nothing out.’
Well, that was true of Silas, although she felt distinctly uneasy at the many subsequent allusions to God, the resurrection and, yes, the heavenly life to come. But she had been forced to strike a balance between his fiercely atheistic views and Richard’s role as minister; here to conduct what was, after all, primarily a religious service. She joined in the responses only warily, half-expecting Silas to rise up and rebuke her.
‘Lord, you have been our refuge, from one generation to another.…’
The words swept her back to Hanna and Theresia. God had been their refuge – and probably that of all Radványis. She herself had been the first one in the family ever to harbour serious doubts about the mercy, or even existence, of such a deity. Nonetheless, she still half believed; still craved to share their certainty of a life hereafter, where she would meet her father, at last, and all her other lost relations – which was the reason for her choice of poem, with its stress on a new start. Although Silas had no shred of belief in any sort of afterlife, she longed for him to live on in some fashion – however inexplicable – rather than be reduced to dust. And, after all, Felix had once told her that the world was so mysteriously complex, no mere human could ever comprehend it, which meant, in fact, that one couldn’t rule out anything, despite it seeming unlikely or arcane.
Richard was just concluding the Epistle – her cue to take his place at the lectern. Clearing her throat, she tried to copy Silas’s deep, declamatory tones when he’d read his own poems to her.
‘Every beginning is a promise….’ That phrase she liked in particular; its hopefulness well balanced by the sadness further on: ‘Begin to the loneliness that cannot end.’ Poor Silas had known loneliness for the last twenty years of his life.
Her voice gained in strength and confidence as she reached the concluding lines, which reiterated hope again.
‘Though we live in a world that dreams of ending
that always seems about to give in,
something that will not acknowledge conclusion
insists that we forever begin.’
And, as she returned to her seat, her former devout Catholic self sent up an unspoken prayer that Silas’s end might become a new beginning in another, better – if admittedly unfathomable – life.
‘I’m so grateful, Richard. You made it a beautiful service.’
An Enormous Yes Page 31