The Smuggler's Daughter

by Kerry Barrett

  As we left the inn, it felt like a goodbye. I wasn’t sure we’d ever come back again. My insides felt hollow and I thought it wasn’t just hunger making me feel that way. Mam shut the door, and I tried not to look at the empty space on the hearth where Tully had slept before Da went. He’d just faded away after Da had gone. He died of a broken heart, Mam said. Sometimes I wished I could do the same.

  Mam hooked her arm through mine and, half carrying each other, we stumbled along the road to Kirrinporth. The village was busy, and I tried to keep close to the buildings, hiding in the shadows so no one saw me. Mam did the same, which wasn’t like her. Before things changed, she would always stride down the middle of a group of people, calling greetings to friends and making jokes. Now she turned her face away from the crowds.

  Mr Trewin’s office was off the main street, in a building with leaded windows and three steps to the door. Mam almost pulled herself up the stairs, holding on to the iron bannister. I followed.

  Inside, Mr Trewin’s assistant – a small, mousy man – offered us both a chair. His eyebrows were so far up his forehead that they almost disappeared into his thin hair and I wished I could draw him.

  We heard muffled voices as he went to fetch Mr Trewin and I closed my eyes, tired from the long walk.

  ‘Janey Moon,’ Mr Trewin said, his booming voice startling me. I opened my eyes again. He was wearing his coat and hat. ‘I can’t stop long, I’m afraid. What can I do for you? Is there news of Amos?’

  Mam shook her head. ‘Amos is long gone,’ she said. She took a breath and then launched into her plea for help. She’d been muttering it under her breath as we’d walked, going over and over it. Now the words spilled out of her, falling over each other as she stared at Mr Trewin with her hands clasped together.

  ‘I’ve done all I can to make our money stretch but there’s nothing left, and we are starving. I have nowhere else to go now, Mr Trewin, nowhere to turn. What choices are there for a woman on her own with her daughter? We both work hard, we can clean and we can cook and sew, and we are not afraid to get our hands dirty.’

  She stopped. ‘Can you help us?’

  Mr Trewin rubbed his nose. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘But the workhouse …’

  ‘Is for the elderly and infirm.’ He looked us up and down, his lip curling.

  ‘I thought we could …’

  Mr Trewin shook his head. ‘Twenty years ago, perhaps. But not now. Poor relief is really only for those who can’t help themselves. And you, Janey Moon, are able-bodied. You yourself have told me how capable you are. You could get a position as a scullery maid, no doubt, though you are rather old for such a job.’

  Mam glanced at me, and then she lowered her voice. ‘What of Emily?’ she said. ‘She is not right in her head. She can’t take a job like that. Can you find space for her in your workhouse?’

  ‘She is simple, but not incapable,’ Mr Trewin said. I kept my gaze fixed firmly on my boots, which were falling apart. Just like my dress and my cape. ‘If I helped her, I would be breaking the rules.’

  I knew Mam didn’t mean to be nasty. She was well aware I was different, and really she was right, I thought. I wasn’t sure I would cope with a job in a big house. Like Mr Kirrin’s home on the hill outside the village. I wasn’t even sure Mam would cope. How could she go from running her own inn, entertaining the drinkers and telling stories, to sharing an attic bedroom with girls young enough to be her daughter and taking orders from a belligerent cook?

  ‘I could sell the inn,’ Mam said desperately. ‘Can you find someone to buy it?’

  ‘My dear Janey, it’s not yours to sell.’

  Mam stared at him and he gave her a small smile. ‘It belongs to Amos.’

  ‘Amos isn’t here.’

  ‘The law is the law.’

  To my horror, Mam fell to her knees. ‘We have nothing, Mr Trewin. No money for food.’

  ‘But enough drink, I am certain,’ Mr Trewin said. He tipped his hat to her and, leaving her on the floor, went out of the office and shut the door behind him. Mam struggled to her feet. Her cheeks were damp with tears.

  ‘Come,’ she said to me.

  I followed her as she marched to the bakery and stayed outside as she bartered with the shopkeeper, handing over a bottle she’d brought in her bag in exchange for a loaf of bread. It didn’t seem a fair swap to me, but what choice was there? She did the same for some cheese and then wearily, she turned to me. ‘Let’s go home,’ she said. I looked at her, questions in my eyes, and she nodded. ‘Back to the inn.’

  If it had been a long journey to Kirrinporth, it felt longer on the way back. Though as soon as we were out of the village, Mam sat on a rock and took the bread and cheese from her bag. She tore off some bread and handed it to me and I ate it greedily, and the cheese she gave me. I even took some of the ale she offered to wash it down.

  With our energy boosted by the food, we walked back to the inn. Mam was talking the whole way. ‘We could offer rooms, perhaps,’ she said. ‘Lodgings.’

  I nodded, but I knew that would come to nothing. No one would stay in The Ship Inn, because if I’d heard the rumours of ghosts and bad luck, they would have too.

  ‘Or I could take in mending,’ Mam said. But who would bring their mending all the way out here, when there were seamstresses in Kirrinporth?

  As we reached the inn, Mam’s chatter ceased. She paused by the door, looking out across the sea. Her face wore an odd expression. ‘He’ll be here soon,’ she said. ‘This is what he was waiting for.’

  I wanted to ask who she meant, but of course, I couldn’t. Mam unlocked the door and put her hand to my cheek suddenly. I flinched at the unexpected touch, but then relaxed as she stroked my skin gently. ‘I won’t see you starve, Emily Moon,’ she said.

  Chapter 5

  Phoebe

  2019

  It was a glorious day when Liv and I set off on the long drive to Cornwall. The sun was beating down, we had some of our favourite music for the car, and I felt my spirits lift – just a bit. Liv had been right. Getting away was the best thing to do. A summer down in Cornwall would reset me ready for coming back to work in the autumn.

  ‘So tell me about the pub,’ I said, as we left London behind and headed out on to the motorway. ‘I’m imagining bleached wooden floorboards, and signs on the door saying “no beach wear”. Am I right?’

  Liv shrugged. ‘No idea,’ she said. ‘Honestly, it’s been so last-minute I’ve basically got the address and nothing else. Apparently the family who were there before had to leave in a hurry.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, indicating to overtake a lorry. She flashed me a dazzling smile. ‘I do know the name though.’

  ‘Of the family?’

  She tutted. ‘Of the pub.’ She let out a little giggle, like she knew an amazing secret. ‘It’s brilliant. It’s a sign that you coming with me was the right decision.’

  I was intrigued. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You’re not going to believe it.’

  ‘Tell me,’ I groaned in frustration.

  ‘It’s called The Moon Girl.’

  I stared at the side of her head in astonishment. ‘It never bloody is?’

  ‘No lie,’ she said, triumphant. ‘Isn’t it perfect?’

  ‘Completely perfect.’

  I put my hand up to the necklace I always wore, with a little silver crescent moon dangling from the chain. Liv had bought me it for my twenty-first birthday. I’d bought her a bracelet with a dove on it for her twenty-first – just ten days after mine – and we wore them all the time, even more than a decade on. It all went back to our last year in primary school, when we’d been set the task of finding out what our names meant. We’d discovered that Olivia meant peace, and Phoebe meant moon. Since then I’d called Liv, Peace Girl, and she’d called me Moon Girl – hence our jewellery. And why we were so delighted to be heading to a pub named after me. Well, not after me exactly, but
it felt like I already had a connection.

  ‘Do you know where the name comes from?’ I asked, curious to know why it had such an unusual moniker. ‘It’s a bit different from the normal Red Lions or Queen’s Heads.’

  ‘No idea,’ Liv said. ‘But we can find out, I reckon.’

  I nodded. ‘I’ll google when we get there. What sort of pub do you want it to be?’

  Liv thought for a second, looking at the road ahead. ‘I’m hoping for a beachfront gastro pub,’ she said. ‘Lots of fancy fish and chips on the menu, jugs of Pimm’s and big balloon glasses of gin. All the posh holidaymakers flooding in, making the profits boom and giving me a big fat bonus. It’s going to be great.’

  I settled back in my seat, gazing up at the bright blue sky through the sunroof of the car. ‘It really is,’ I said. ‘Thanks, Liv. This is just what I needed.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault you know, what happened,’ she said.

  ‘I do know.’ I nodded. ‘But that doesn’t stop me feeling guilty.’

  ‘Three months in sunny Cornwall will put that right, Moon Girl,’ Liv said. She gave me a sudden grin. ‘Trust me.’

  It was a long drive to the south west. We stopped a couple of times to swap over the driving, and to get coffees and stretch our legs, and we listened to a lot of Steps and S Club 7 – the music of our schooldays. And we tried not to be disappointed when, as we got nearer to Cornwall, the sky clouded over and the first splatters of rain hit the windscreen.

  ‘There’s a little seaside town but the pub’s actually just outside it,’ Liv said, peering at her phone screen where she had the map, its glow illuminating her face in the gloomy evening dim light. ‘The town should be off there, to the right …’ She flung her arm out across my face as I drove and I shrieked at her to move.

  ‘Liv,’ I said. ‘You’re the worst sat nav ever.’

  A sign gleamed in the headlights showing a turn-off marked Kirrinporth and Liv said a triumphant “ha”. ‘That’s the town! I’m actually the best sat nav.’

  I chuckled. ‘So the pub should be coming up then?’

  ‘I hope so,’ Liv said, because otherwise we’re going to end up in the sea.

  She was right: the ocean spread out in front of us, flat and grey. But thankfully the road bent round and …

  ‘Slow down,’ Liv cried. ‘There should be a turning any second … here.’

  Just in time, I saw the entrance and pulled the car into it. It was a steeply sloping track that led to a large car park. I pulled into one of the many, many empty spaces and stopped the engine, and Liv and I clambered out, taking our jackets from the back seat because the rain was still falling lightly. We blinked as our eyes adjusted to the twilight.

  The pub wasn’t obvious at first, because we were right on the edge of a cliff and the only light came from a streetlamp in the far corner of the car park behind us.

  ‘There,’ Liv said, nudging me and pointing. The pub was lower down than we were. We could only see the roof and the first-floor windows, which were level with the tarmacked area where we stood. Beyond the pub the ground fell away sharply so it looked as though The Moon Girl was balanced on the edge of the world. A flight of concrete steps led down from the car park to the pub’s door. Liv scanned the area for another way down, then rolled her eyes. ‘Disability access nightmare,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe they don’t have a ramp.’

  I thought that there would probably be a ramp by the end of next week, now Liv was in charge. She was a doer, my friend. She tugged my sleeve. ‘Let’s get the bags out of the car and go in.’

  The rain was getting heavier, so we did everything twice as fast as we would normally, dragging our bags from the boot and dashing across the car park, down the steps, and into the pub. The heavy door slammed behind us, and as though we were in one of the horror films my oldest brother liked, the few people who were inside all stopped talking and looked up at us.

  There was a group of three men sitting at a table by the window on the far side of the pub, looking out over the darkening sea, and a young woman behind the bar.

  ‘Fuck,’ Liv breathed, looking uncharacteristically rattled. ‘We’re not in Lewisham now, Toto.’

  ‘Hello,’ said the young woman. She was drying an old-fashioned pint glass with dimples. I’d not seen one of those for years. She did at least sound fairly cheerful. ‘Can I help you?’

  I waited for Liv to speak, but she was still gazing round in, I thought, despair. So I took charge – or at least I tried to.

  ‘Hello. This is Olivia Palmer. She’s the new stand-in manager.’

  The barmaid grinned so broadly, it looked like her face might split. ‘Brilliant,’ she said. ‘That’s brilliant.’

  Boosted by the warm welcome from one person – the pub’s three customers were all still looking at us curiously – Liv recovered herself. ‘Liv,’ she said, hurrying forwards and shaking the barmaid’s hand vigorously. ‘And this is Phoebe. She’s helping me out for the summer.’

  ‘Kayla,’ said the barmaid. ‘I don’t work here.’

  Liv blinked. ‘You don’t?’

  ‘Nope,’ Kayla said. She put down the glass and turned round, taking a raincoat from the peg behind her. ‘I was just helping out. But now you’re here, I’ll go.’

  ‘Already?’ Liv sounded alarmed and Kayla shrugged.

  ‘You’re here,’ she said again.

  One of the men who’d been sitting by the window appeared at my elbow.

  ‘I’ll give you a lift, Kayla,’ he said. He had a strong Cornish accent and was quite handsome in a rugged, weather-beaten way. Like how George Clooney would look if he spent his days outdoors.

  Kayla grinned at him. ‘Thanks, Ewan,’ she said.

  He nodded to me and Liv and we both nodded back. Kayla came out from behind the bar and threw a bunch of keys in Liv’s direction. Liv didn’t move; she just watched as they landed on the floor in front of her.

  ‘You’ll want to lock up when we’re gone,’ Kayla said. She looked serious, but the man – Ewan – laughed.

  ‘Welcome to The Moon Girl,’ he said.

  He pushed open the door and a gust of wind blew in, making Liv and me shiver. Kayla and the other two men followed him out into the night and the door banged shut again.

  ‘What on earth was that?’ I said. Liv looked at me, her eyes wide, and then she burst out laughing. I did the same.

  ‘I don’t work here,’ I said, in a very bad approximation of Kayla’s west country drawl. ‘I just chuck the keys about.’

  ‘Welcome to The Moon Girl,’ Liv said, deepening her voice so much that she sounded like a Cornish Batman. She bent down and scooped up the keys.

  ‘Are you going to lock the door?’ I asked, feeling weirdly nervous. This was a strange place, with the rain beating against the windows and no customers even though it was only seven o’clock in the evening. If the weather was better, it would still be light. That picture I’d had in my mind of the beachside bar with brightly coloured umbrellas on the terrace and bleached wooden floors was fading fast.

  Liv didn’t answer; she just walked to the door, checked it was properly closed, and then locked it.

  ‘No one else will come this evening,’ she said. ‘The rain’s obviously making everyone stay away.’

  ‘Shall we have a look round?’ I tried to sound enthusiastic but it wasn’t easy.

  Liv gave me a bright, very fake, smile. ‘Let’s go.’

  We both picked up our bags.

  ‘Not much to see here,’ Liv said. She was right. The pub was small. I imagined that in winter, with a fire in the empty fireplace and fairy lights round the bar, it could be cosy, but now it just seemed a bit bleak. It had dark wooden floorboards with flaking varnish, and equally dark tables with red velour stools and chairs. It smelled faintly of old smoke – even though no one had smoked inside a pub for more than a decade – and stale beer. The building was fairly wide and as you came through the door, the bar was in front of you and slight
ly to the left. A door at the back to that side had a gold sticker, half peeling off, reading “ladies” and another underneath showing it as a fire exit. To the right of the bar, there were more tables and chairs, a large television, a dartboard, and a door with no sign. Instead, someone had scrawled “men” on the wood in black marker pen.

  The one saving grace of the whole place was the view from the dirty windows at the back. It was stunning. We could see for miles across the bay, from where the pub perched on top of the cliff. Way out to sea we could see bobbing lights – presumably from fishing boats or buoys – and off to the left was a lighthouse. It wasn’t lit yet, though with the gloom drawing in, I thought it wouldn’t be long.

  ‘Ohhh, Liv,’ I said. ‘This is beautiful.’

  ‘It feels like we’re on a ship.’ She knelt on one of the stools next to the window and gazed out. ‘There’s virtually nothing between us and the water.’

  I joined her on the stool and she shoved me off. ‘Get your own,’ she said.

  ‘Selfish.’ I tutted as I pulled another chair closer and knelt on that instead. ‘Is there a beach?’

  Liv tried to see but she banged her head on the glass. ‘Ouch. Can’t tell.’

  ‘We can look tomorrow when it’s lighter,’ I said. ‘I bet there’s a little path down the cliff. I might go for a swim every morning. It’s an amazing location.’

  Bored with the view, Liv slid off the stool and picked up the three empty pint glasses the men had left on the table – once a barmaid, always a barmaid, I thought. She put them on the bar and wandered round to the fire exit door. ‘Come on, let’s look upstairs,’ she said.

  I followed her, reluctant to drag myself away from watching the swell of the sea but not wanting to be left alone. Through the door was a corridor, leading to the ladies’ loo, a fire exit straight ahead, and a flight of stairs with balding carpet.

  Liv set off, taking two stairs at a time.

  ‘So, all I know is there was some sort of family emergency or something,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘And the people who had been managing this place had to leave in a hurry.’