Summer in a Cornish Cove

by Kate Ryder

  Another awkward silence.

  Barbara smiles nervously and stares at the contents of Cara’s trolley. ‘Looks like you’re having a celebration!’

  ‘Of sorts...’ Cara says quietly.

  Barbara glances at Cara with a questioning look. Suddenly she flushes crimson. Mumbling an apology, with studied determination she hurriedly pushes her trolley away. Cara grits her teeth. She can just imagine the woman’s conversation later with her husband when she tells him that she bumped into Cara Penhaligon, today of all days...

  Turning her attention to the meat counter again, Cara makes her selection before steering the rapidly filling trolley towards the drinks’ aisle. Half an hour later she heads home. The tide is almost out and she decides to give Barnaby a run on the beach. As her car pulls up in front of the bungalow, the Labrador watches her every move, his nose pressed against the heavily smeared porch window. Struggling with shopping bags, Cara opens the stable door and Barnaby rushes out to greet her, almost tripping her up as she makes her way to the kitchen.

  ‘Good plan, Basil,’ she says to the cat, positioned sensibly out of the way on the window sill amongst the pot plants.

  Cara decants the contents of the bags into various cupboards and stacks the fresh food in the fridge. Finally, opening a drawer, she takes out a hairband and scoops her hair into a high ponytail.

  ‘OK, Barns, let’s go!’

  As soon as the porch door is open the dog is out, rushing in circles and chasing his tail. Cara walks to the steps leading to the beach and the Labrador bolts past her. At the bottom he looks up and waits. As she steps onto the sand, he’s away, running towards a flock of seagulls and scattering them into the wind. Cara laughs. There’s an electric energy in the air and the sea roars in the distance. She feels her spirits lift. Walking to firmer sand, she turns towards Rick’s Beach Hut and breaks into a jog, her ponytail bouncing from side to side. It’s exhilarating being out here all alone on the empty beach with just her dog and the seagulls for company.

  For the rest of the day she bakes and cooks. Although thankful to be busy preparing for the evening’s gathering, she does so with a heavy heart. Her parents phone, which eases her mood a little, but she knows it’s down to her to rise above the melancholy. Cara places an assortment of candles on the driftwood mantelpiece above the wood-burning stove and decorates the room with strings of lights. At around four o’clock a car pulls up. Instantly Barnaby rushes out to the porch, his tail wagging expectantly as the door flies open.

  ‘Hi, Mum! We’re just going to feed Bobkin.’ Placing her school bag on the floor, Bethany pats the Labrador’s soft, downy head.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Penhaligon,’ say the twins in unison.

  ‘Hi, you two,’ Cara says. Despite having known them since toddlers, it’s still difficult to tell Janine’s daughters apart. Barnaby bounces up at the girls. ‘Just push him out of the way if he’s bothering you.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ responds Milly, or is it Molly? ‘We know he’s only playing.’

  ‘Mum, I’m starving!’ Sky says, dumping his school bag next to his sister’s.

  Cara laughs. ‘You’re always starving, Sky, but I’m sure I can find you something to eat before the others arrive.’ She hands her daughter a colander of carrot peel. ‘Beth, these are for Bobkin.’

  ‘Hi, Cara. Delivered your little sunbeams home safe and sound,’ announces her neighbour, a large woman with a big voice and a heart of pure twenty-four-carat gold. ‘See you’ve been busy.’ Janine moves aside as Bethany and the twins rush past.

  ‘I thought Christmas lights would cheer the place.’

  Marching across the room, Janine gives Cara a huge hug. Taken by surprise, Cara struggles to breathe.

  ‘Darling, you and your little family cheer the place. It doesn’t need further embellishment.’ She releases Cara. ‘But, be prepared. Sky has something to show you.’

  Cara’s heart lurches. What does she mean?

  ‘It’s a painting… for tonight.’

  Sky and his paintings! Her son has inherited her talent.

  ‘Thanks for the heads up.’

  A flurry at the door makes them both turn and Barnaby rushes in, closely followed by Bethany holding her rabbit. Walking on either side, the twins enthusiastically stroke the lop-eared bunny.

  ‘Come on, you two, time for tea. Let’s leave poor Bobkin in peace.’ Janine organises her children. Turning to Cara, she gives her a squeeze. ‘Hope it all goes well.’

  ‘Thanks, Janine, you’re a good friend.’

  ‘Anything, Cara. You know that. Now, come on, Mills and Molls, Mother says move!’ Janine ushers her girls towards the porch.

  A while later, Cara’s guests start to arrive. It’s a gathering of her closest friends. Tristan and his sister, Morwenna, arrive first, roaring up the track on Tristan’s motorbike. As soon as Sky hears the throaty roar he is at the porch door.

  ‘Hi, Sky!’ Tristan says, removing his helmet.

  ‘Hi, Uncle Trist!’ He’s not officially their uncle but the children have known him since birth.

  ‘Hey, Sky, do you like the motorbike?’ Morwenna asks, as she dismounts. The boy nods. ‘In the summer Tristan will take you for a ride down the track if you like.’

  ‘Cool!’

  ‘Thanks, Morwenna!’ groans Cara, appearing in the hallway behind Sky. She pulls a face at her friend and then laughs. She knows Tristan cherishes her son and wouldn’t let anything happen to him.

  ‘Hello, gorgeous lady,’ Tristan says, greeting Cara with a warm hug. ‘A little something for the evening.’ Fishing inside his leather jacket, he produces two bottles of red wine.

  ‘These are for you too,’ Morwenna says, holding out a bag. ‘Tomato and olive loaves. Still warm, fresh from the oven, not from the bike’s exhaust!’

  ‘Thanks, guys.’ Walking through to the kitchen, Cara deposits their offerings on the worktop.

  ‘And who’s this young beauty?’ asks Tristan.

  Cara turns. An animated Bethany has entered the living room. Her daughter smiles widely at Tristan. She’s always loved him, even as a baby. Whenever Cara had difficulty consoling her and was at her wits’ end, as soon as Tristan held Bethany she would settle and gaze up at him with big, brown eyes.

  In one bound Tristan sweeps the young girl into his arms, lifting her high into the air.

  ‘Uncle Trist, you’re mad!’ Bethany says, giggling.

  ‘Mad for you, my darling girl.’

  Bethany giggles louder. Whirling her around, Tristan plants a smacker of a kiss on her cheek before placing her safely back on the ground. Smiling with embarrassment, Bethany glances shyly at her mother. Excited by all the commotion, Barnaby starts to bark. At the sound of a car pulling up, Cara looks out of the window to see her remaining guests have arrived. Martha and her husband, Stephen, and Sarah and her boyfriend, Rob, decant in a heap from Martha’s old, beaten-up VW Beetle. Giggling, they dust themselves off before entering the bungalow. Instantly Barnaby is at the door again, getting caught up in everybody’s legs.

  ‘Welcome to the madhouse!’ Cara calls from the kitchen where she’s finding Tristan a corkscrew. ‘Let’s get some drinks on the go!’

  The evening goes well. Although it’s raining and windy outside, the bungalow feels cosy and safe. The living room is bathed in a subtle glow from the candles and the Christmas lights adorning the walls. Despite her initial hesitation, Cara knows that marking the event again this year was the right thing to do. She looks around with satisfaction. It’s been a good evening spent in relaxed company with plenty of laughter, despite the occasion. Bethany and Sky, astounded that it is past ten and they have yet to be sent to bed, loll on the sofa with Morwenna and Martha, while Stephen plays the guitar that has lain dormant against the wall for so long. With a sudden shock Cara realises it’s that Coldplay song. Quickly, she rises. Crossing the room, she studies the photos her children have Blu-Tacked to the wall – a lifetime of events depicted in forty or so photograph
s – and propped on the ledge running above the wood panelling is Sky’s painting. It really is very good. In an instant both her children are at her side.

  ‘Do you like it, Mum?’ asks her son.

  ‘I love it, Sky,’ she answers softly.

  His painting is of a tanned, blond man riding the clouds on a surfboard the same colour as her life-sized one displayed on the wall above them. Tears prick her eyes.

  Don’t lose it… not now!

  Suddenly Tristan stands. Pushing back his chair, he clears his throat. ‘Um, I just want to say a few words.’

  As one, she and the children turn in his direction. Immediately a hush descends, the mood shifting down a gear. Cara tenses.

  ‘It’s been two long years to the day since we lost Christo and never a day goes by that I don’t think of my dear mate.’ Bethany’s fingers curl around her mother’s hand. ‘You left us way too soon.’ Tristan’s voice is oddly distorted and he swallows hard. ‘I hope you’re riding the biggest, never-ending, perfect wave. No wipe-outs, man, just dynamic barrels and getting tubed.’

  A murmur of agreement fills the room.

  Tristan clears his throat again. ‘Christo, you’re not to worry about anything down here, mate. Just look at this gorgeous, golden family of yours.’ He smiles at the little family standing stoically beneath the surfboard depicting Christo as a young, sun-kissed surfer without a care in the world.

  Feeling Bethany grow rigid beside her, Cara gives her daughter’s hand a reassuring squeeze. Sky has backed into her and she places a comforting hand on his shoulder. Even Barnaby has joined them, sitting quietly at Sky’s feet. As her guests wipe away silent tears, Cara steels herself against an overwhelming urge to join in.

  ‘Nothing – and I mean nothing – will ever harm them.’ Tristan’s voice rises with emotion. ‘We are all looking out for your Gwyneth, Beth and Sky… for you, Christo. The best mate a man could ever have.’

  Chapter Five

  Following an uneventful flight, Oliver steps out of the helicopter feeling refreshed. The weather, cold but clear, affords excellent visibility and it has been an enjoyable and interesting journey taking no more than three hours. The views have been spectacular, especially over the Lake District and Galloway Forest National Park. As the helicopter turned in over the Firth of Clyde on the final approach to Holy Isle, flying low over the island in preparation to land, the wild ponies, sheep and goats scattered.

  For the first time in quite a while Oliver feels a small ray of hope pierce his dark mood. With head bent low against the downdraft, he walks quickly towards the awaiting party of monks, dressed in their saffron robes. They greet him warmly. He glances back at the metallic-blue AS355 Twin Squirrel sparkling in the crystal January sunshine and nods to Captain Mike Burrows. The pilot salutes him in return and, the next minute, the helicopter rises effortlessly from the ground before heading to the Scottish mainland and its refuelling destination.

  ‘If you would like to follow me, I will show you to your room,’ a gently spoken monk says as he takes Oliver’s bag.

  Walking with the monk in comfortable silence, Oliver breathes in the pure Scottish air and feels something buried deep within, shift. It’s uplifting to know he will not be expected to ‘deliver’ during the next fourteen days. He can simply embrace the teachings and explore his spiritual understanding.

  The island is as beautiful as he remembers and tranquillity and harmony permeate the air. Several people, seemingly oblivious to the cold, perform Tai Chai on the lawn in front of the blue and yellow Karmapa flag. Oliver recalls that the blue represents the sky (heaven), symbolising spiritual insight and vision, and the yellow the earth: the actual world of everyday experience. He also remembers that the symmetry of the wave pattern symbolises the Buddha’s teachings, which flourish between the two and represents their inseparability. During his previous visit to the island this explanation resonated deeply with Oliver, who so often finds his own spirituality put to the test in the commercial world of show business.

  As they approach the old farmhouse, a group of people turn in recognition and Oliver braces himself for the usual response. However, they politely acknowledge his presence without any further intrusion upon his privacy.

  If only all humans had this respect for each other.

  The monk stops and turns to face him. ‘Your accommodation is here in the Harmony wing, which also houses the library.’ Indicating another part of the building, the man continues, ‘This is the Compassion wing where the kitchen and dining room can be found and this is the Wisdom wing, which houses mostly guest rooms.’

  ‘Yes, I stayed in the Wisdom wing during my previous visit,’ Oliver says.

  The monk nods and enters the Harmony wing. Oliver follows. Ascending a staircase, they walk along a corridor and, halfway along, halt in front of a plain wooden door.

  ‘This is your room, Oliver,’ says the monk. ‘You are welcome to enjoy the whole island, including the Mandala Garden. If there is anything you require during your stay please let me know. Lunch is served until two.’ Standing back, he allows Oliver to enter the room.

  Oliver glances round. Although basic, with the addition of a desk against one wall it is more luxurious than the room he’d been allocated the previous year. Immediately he walks to the window overlooking Lamlash Bay and drinks in the view. Turning to say thank you, he finds the monk has discreetly and silently withdrawn, leaving his luggage on the floor by the door. Oliver quickly unpacks, placing the few clothes he has brought with him in the one chest of drawers. He glances at his watch and, picking up his mobile, walks to the window again.

  ‘Hi, Dee. I’ve arrived.’

  ‘Good journey?’

  ‘Yes, a very smooth flight in Mike’s capable hands. Just to let you know that I’ll be switching off the mobile and won’t phone home during the next two weeks. If there’s an emergency you can always contact me via the office here.’

  ‘Don’t worry about us, Ollie. Concentrate on unwinding and getting the most from your visit.’

  Oliver looks out at the peaceful bay. ‘Deanna...’ He pauses, unsure of what he’s trying to express to his independent, capable and practical wife.

  ‘Don’t think, darling,’ she says. ‘Just indulge yourself.’

  Irritated, Oliver frowns. However, before he’s had a chance to rationalise his feelings Deanna interrupts his thoughts.

  ‘Must go, Ollie. There’s someone at the door. Love you.’

  ‘And you,’ he responds automatically, but she’s already gone.

  Something uncomfortable lurks on the edge of Oliver’s consciousness, teasing and refusing to take shape. Try as he might, he cannot bring it into focus. It feels important. Perhaps during his time at the retreat it will become clear. He switches off the mobile and places it in the drawer of the bedside cabinet, where it will remain for the duration of his two-week stay. There will be no communication with the outside world. Walking to the basin in the corner of the room, Oliver washes his hands and then heads down to the Compassion wing.

  The dining room has a rustic charm with a collection of simple, communal, wooden tables around which half a dozen people sit. In the lounge area a fire has been lit in an open fireplace, and two women relax in comfortable chairs. From behind the food counter, another woman smiles at him. She makes no comment as he walks towards her; everyone is equal here. Describing the vegetarian meals on offer, she invites him to help himself. Oliver picks up a tray. Selecting a meal and a glass of apple juice, he turns to survey the room and heads towards a table where a young man with a ponytail sits scribbling in a notebook.

  ‘Do you mind if I join you?’ Oliver asks.

  The man looks up. ‘Feel free.’

  ‘I’m Oliver, by the way.’

  And so it begins. Throughout his stay on the island, everyone warms to the great-looking, famous actor who possesses not an ounce of arrogance. He touches them all in one way or another, and all leave the island with lasting memories of the
spiritual man behind the public face.

  For Oliver, it is a time of quiet reflection, understanding and acceptance of his place in the world and the days soon fall into a routine of Tibetan Buddhist chanting ritual, periods of silent meditation and walks around the island. At first, the other guests find it awkward when he helps out with basic tasks, such as making breakfast and simple cleaning duties, but his generous, unaffected nature soon puts them at their ease and, before long, they have forgotten his public image. He is simply a fellow human being on a quest for spiritual enlightenment.

  On day three, Oliver makes his way to the Peace Hall: a spacious room with natural light streaming in from two sides of a high pyramidal ceiling. About twenty people are present, either sitting on mats or chatting in small groups. As he enters, the noise abates. Over the years Oliver has grown accustomed to the public’s reaction to him but he still doesn’t find it easy. Slowly, the talking starts up again. Sitting at the front of the room is a slim, middle-aged woman with startling green eyes, sharp cheekbones and short-cropped white hair. She smiles warmly and invites him to approach. Oliver is immediately struck by the gentle air of wisdom exuding from her.

  ‘Welcome, Oliver. I am Francoise La Chance, your course leader,’ she says in a soft French accent. ‘We are delighted you have decided to join us again. Please help yourself to a mat and find a place in the room that feels comfortable to you.’ She indicates several mats stacked up in the corner of the room. ‘The majority of the people you see here have been on this course since the beginning of January though there are a few newcomers. I will ask you to introduce yourself and, perhaps, you would like to say something about your particular spiritual journey.’

  Oliver nods and heads towards the mats. Picking one off the top of the pile, he surveys the room. To one side, near the back, two women sit in the lotus position with eyes closed. He walks towards them. As he places his mat on the floor, the younger of the two opens her eyes and immediately does a double-take.