The Returning Tide

by Liz Fenwick

  She nodded at the postmark. ‘October 1950.’

  ‘It’s her farewell.’ Peta’s voice had come from nowhere. Lara looked up to find the girl standing in the open doorway, as if she had somehow known what was happening. And right then, Lara understood what she was saying. Amelia’s death had not been an accident.

  ‘You may not want to read it aloud, Gran,’ said Peta.

  ‘Should we leave you?’ Eddie rubbed her shoulder.

  Elle shook her head. ‘Please stay, all of you. I’m not strong enough to do this alone.’ With that, she tore the envelope open, unfolded the letter inside, and started to read. Tears were soon streaming down her face. By the time she reached the end of the letter, she looked somehow even paler. Carefully, she held the letter towards Lara, gesturing for her to take it. ‘Read it aloud, please.’

  Lara swallowed, took the paper from Elle’s hand, and did her best.

  15 October 1950

  Dearest Half,

  He won’t look at me. He tries to be a loving father when he’s home on leave but it’s too hard for him. He can’t love me. He looks at me and sees you. He never touches me unless it’s necessary. Each day I die a little more. Elizabeth is quite independent. She reminds me of Grandmother. I give her love but she doesn’t want it.

  Yesterday I received a letter from Mother telling me Eddie was alive. I thought I could carry on but now I can’t. Elizabeth doesn’t want me. I am so alone here in this place by the sea, Eventide.

  Knowing Eddie is alive and broken by the war and by me is too much to bear. I thought I knew what loneliness was before – when I was without Eddie and without you. I know you will not read my letters. I know that giving up Bobby to save me will have broken you. You loved me and I will hold onto that. You thought giving me Bobby would make the wrongs right. But they couldn’t be fixed. There was no right.

  Goodbye, dearest half, better half,

  A xxxx

  By the time she had finished reading the words aloud, Lara’s voice had cracked and broken several times, and Eddie’s head had fallen to his chest.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Lara said. ‘So much love, and so much sadness.’

  ‘Yes.’ Jack took the letter from her.

  Lara picked up Elle’s hand. ‘He loved you to the end. His final word was “Adele”.’

  Elle closed her eyes and pulled Lara’s hand to her heart. ‘Thank you.’

  Lara stood staring out at Falmouth Bay. The sun had long since set and the easterly breeze was cool. She played with the pearls around her neck. Elle had given her the second string, the mate to the one Betty had given her. They fitted together at the clasp, and Elle had told her that her grandmother had given each twin a strand on Amelia’s wedding day. Tears had run down Elle’s face as she saw them together again around Lara’s neck.

  There was a cough behind her. Lara started in surprise, and turned to find Jack standing there.

  ‘Now that you’ve found out about your great-grandmother, I hope you aren’t about to leave just yet.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Is this because you realised that you don’t know how to cook properly yet?

  ‘I can cook.’

  ‘Well … a bit. But you need to learn to trust the ingredients and your taste buds.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ he said, considering the idea. ‘Cook without a recipe?’

  ‘Yes, or at least only use it as a guideline.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m ready yet. I might need more lessons.’

  ‘That’s the last thing I would have expected you to say.’ She studied him closely.

  ‘Thank you for being so understanding with Gran.’ He smiled and touched her hand. ‘All these years I thought she was simply tough and sensible. She never indicated that there was such heartbreak in her past.’

  Lara took a deep breath. ‘Grandie’s behaviour makes sense now. He loved her and her alone. That must have been very hard for Amelia to cope with.’

  ‘What are you going to tell your family?’

  ‘That’s a good question.’ She sat on the wall. ‘I don’t want to cause more pain, but maybe if my grandmother knew what happened, she could forgive.’

  ‘Forgiving is very hard.’ His voice caught as he spoke. He sat beside her. ‘I haven’t been able to forgive my father for loving my mother so much that he left us.’ He stared out at the water.

  She touched his arm.

  ‘Love is so powerful it scares me.’ He said as he turned to her.

  ‘Me too.’ She drew a deep breath. The intensity of his glance unnerved her. ‘Maybe … it’s like cooking. It takes time, patience and the right ingredients to make it work.’

  Spring Tide

  Never give up, for that is just the place and time that the tide will turn.

  HARRIET BEECHER STOWE, OLD TOWN FOLKS, CHAPTER 39

  Forty-Five

  Boat House Restaurant, Boscawen, Constantine, Cornwall

  11 March 2016

  The river was so high Lara was worried it would climb over the quay and flood the restaurant. Both the architect Mark Triggs and Demi had promised her that they had taken into consideration the spring tides and storm surges when they designed the place, but as Lara peered at the rushing clear water outside, she wasn’t so sure. It looked like the grey mullet swimming below in the river would be on the floor and not on the plates if it rose any higher.

  The first guests were due in a half-hour. The tables were set – primroses adorned each one and the candles were lit. Tonight was the soft opening of the Boat House and Lara’s stomach flipped at the thought. Not only were local friends coming but so were Leo, Deborah, Mom, Gerard, Betty and Kevin, having all made the journey from the States.

  Taking a deep breath, she walked back into the kitchen. Everything was ready and her team were prepared. It was a set menu that night, beginning with mussels in Boscawen cider, cream and wild garlic; then a surf and turf of grey mullet – not from the river but the bay – and fillet of beef; this would be followed by a rhubarb sorbet, and finally a selection of local cheeses.

  ‘I can hear them.’ Cassie was helping tonight and she popped open a bottle of Pol Roger champagne, Grandie’s favourite. Lara leaned out of the window to see the lanterns twinkling on the woodland path and spied the white, fluffy form of Snowy, who had adapted well to his new home with Lara in the Boscawen stables. She could almost imagine that fairies might appear, but instead the first person to emerge into sight was Jack. Her heart beat faster and she touched the pearls at her neck. His arms were full of daffodils.

  ‘Come on, Chef,’ Cassie said. ‘You need to greet your guests. No hiding in the kitchen tonight.’ She picked up a tray of champagne flutes. Lara straightened her apron and nodded to the team before heading to the door.

  Jack grinned as he reached her, then bent his head and kissed her deeply. ‘Congrats.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Dreams do come true.’

  Lara closed her eyes for a moment. They do, she thought, but not how I first dreamt them. ‘Yes.’ She handed him a glass and took the flowers. ‘Thank you.’ One of the waitresses quickly put the flowers in water while Lara greeted her family and everyone else she had come to know in the past few months.

  Demi tapped a glass. ‘Welcome to the Boat House. Thank you for coming.’ She smiled and raised her glass. ‘This restaurant is the result of hard work and imagination. I know tonight we will be treated to a meal that will thrill our taste buds, so let’s hear from our chef.’

  Lara smiled. ‘Thanks, Demi, and welcome all. Tonight we are featuring local food, hopefully with a slight twist that will surprise and delight you.’ She looked into the faces sitting at the tables, knowing all of them. Each one had played some role in making this happen, but it was hard not to feel the absences as well. ‘Demi has thanked you all and I do hope you enjoy the meal. I had such pleasure in planning it.’ She smiled and lifted a champagne glass. ‘Before I slip into the kitchen I’d like to propose a toast to all our friends and family who couldn’t be
with us tonight, for one reason or another.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ they all said in unison. Lara looked over to Eddie and Betty. Elle would have loved to have been with them but she had died just before the New Year. Taking a sip of the champagne, Lara fled into the kitchen and started work.

  The next hour passed in a blur of activity, and Lara barely stopped moving until the last dessert had left the kitchen. Finally, she was able to return to the main restaurant, and Jack smiled at her as she walked in, standing and pulling out the seat beside him. Everyone clapped as she sank to the chair. She had certainly worked longer shifts in the past, but never before had working meant so much to her.

  ‘The meal was a triumph.’ Jack poured her a glass of wine, handed her a piece of Cornish Yarg cheese then placed an arm around her weary shoulders. She closed her eyes, listening to the buzz of conversation and feeling Jack’s presence. ‘I wish Gran had lived to see today.’

  ‘Me too.’ Opening her eyes, she looked towards the shelf by the kitchen door where Amelia’s Tante Marie cookbook had pride of place. Elle had confirmed it had been her sister’s and a French refugee Mme Pomfrey’s before that.

  He raised a glass. ‘As you said, to those not with us.’

  She lifted her glass to his and looked him in the eyes. ‘And to the future.’

  ‘The future.’ Their glasses touched lightly and then his lips met hers.

  Acknowledgements

  The Returning Tide for me has been a huge step into the dark, the dark of history. It is a subject I have always loved but to actually be writing about it still gives me sleepless nights. In February 2015 my editor Kate Mills asked me for a bigger story and as we brainstormed ideas I thought of my mother-in-law June Fenwick, who served as a Wren telegraphist in WWII, and particularly one incident in her war – Exercise Tiger (see Author’s Note below). From this one event The Returning Tide grew. Without Kate’s unerring belief that I could do it this novel wouldn’t have been written. Thank you, Kate.

  The upside of writing about WWII is that there are a few wonderful people around who were willing to share their memories with me. Jean Rawson and Val Watson, two Wrens who served at HMS Attack, were a delight and an endless source of information. Val entrusted me with her diary for 1944 and this gave me a first-hand glimpse into life during the war. I am so grateful. I wouldn’t have found these two women without the help of Twitter. Christine Baker runs the Twitter account for the WRNS Association Weymouth, and not only did she help me find Wrens who served at HMS Attack but she also read through early drafts of the book, checking my naval details – any mistakes are mine, not hers. Without her assistance I’m not sure the book would have gone beyond the research stage.

  Thanks also go to Gloria Richardson who served as a Wren in Plymouth. She told me of her experiences of exploring Cornwall by catching lifts with the Americans. On the GI front I had the pleasure of interviewing John Salzer, and from him the delights and downfalls of camping in a muddy field in England came alive, as did the reality of the war from a soldier’s point of view.

  Cornwall played a vital role in the war. I am grateful to Jane Hubbard, who put me in touch with Sylvia Dunstan and Sylvia King, who both provided me with research materials and their recollections of the war on the north side of the Helford. Tiffany Truscott of BBC Cornwall also gave me a hand when I went on her show with a plea for people with wartime recollections.

  When you are nothing more than a decent cook, writing about a chef provides a few challenges. In order to showcase Cornwall’s fabulous food I ventured to Philleigh Way cookery school, where chef George Pascoe and fish expert Annie Siebert taught me to fillet and cook fish; in particular, Annie proved to me that grey mullet didn’t have to taste like blotting paper.

  As always my family came to my aid – my sister-in-law Debbie Barton on the intricacies of making wedding cakes and her daughter Philippa Kay on how to have the most beautiful Cornish wedding.

  Many thanks go to what I think of as my writing support team – Julia Hayward, Sarah Callejo, John Jackson, Dom Fenwick and Anita Burgh. My wonderful agent Carole Blake died in October 2016. Her wisdom, laughter, and encouragement have guided this novice through the tricky world of publishing with friendship, love and gin. I will miss her sage advice, her wicked laughter and her friendship. Thanks to her belief in my writing – even when I didn’t – there are five Liz Fenwick books and one novella out in the world. She is sorely missed. A heartfelt shout of gratitude to Bethan Jones and everyone at Team Orion. Special thanks go to the fabulous Brigid Coady … sounding board and friend.

  No writing would happen without the support of my family. They put up with me being lost in another world, meeting deadlines at inconvenient times and being embarrassing beyond words. Their love and especially that of my husband Chris makes the writing possible.

  I lost my wonderful father at the end of September 2016. It’s too raw to write about it but I have to say that there is more than a little of Bobby Webster that came from my father.

  Finally I wish that my in-laws June and Gordon Fenwick were still with us. The details they shared of their war years have inspired so much of this book.

  P.S. Some of you will know we lost our beloved cat Snowy while I was writing this book. Somehow he found his way onto the pages …

  Author’s Note

  It’s hard to know where to begin with the event known as Exercise Tiger, Operation Tiger or the Slapton Sands disaster. Type it into Google and the differing reports begin. How did this event come to be a key part of the novel? My mother-in-law June Fenwick played a role.

  Back in 1994 Chris and I were sitting around the dining table in my parents-in-law’s house in Cornwall. I can remember so much of the evening clearly except how we came to the point of discussing my mother-in-law’s role in the war. I suspect there may have been something in the news. She explained that she had been a telegraphist but insisted that my father-in-law’s war was much more interesting, he having served in the Far East.

  As usual with family conversations around the table there was much laughter, but suddenly she spoke about the night the E-boats came among the US troops practising for D-Day. Her voice dropped as she explained how she had been working with the Americans that night. The men on the boats had stopped transmitting in code and used plain language in the panic. She said she heard them die. My heart stopped then, and still does when I think about that. Later I pressed her to write down her experiences during the war; she always said she would but sadly that never happened.

  Even to this day there are conflicting reports about what exactly happened on 28 April 1944. Those that knew weren’t allowed to speak of it and now they are gone. What is clear is that there was a tragic loss of life and it was covered up for many reasons. The biggest one of all being the coming D-Day invasion. I hope someday some historian will be able to shed more light on the tragedy.

  I know that the event never left my mother-in-law. For years she could never speak of it because of the Official Secrets Act, and then when she could she didn’t. To me that said so much, and was typical of a generation that lived through hardships that seem inconceivable today.

  Please know that I had many holes to fill in when writing about this event, but thankfully I’m a novelist and not a historian. The account is fiction not fact. In sewing together a few pieces of information I hope I have conveyed some of the horror of the event, as it might have been experienced by my mother-in-law and those who served. I stand in awe of their bravery, strength and honour.

  Also by Liz Fenwick

  The Cornish House

  A Cornish Affair

  A Cornish Stranger

  Under a Cornish Sky

  A Cornish Christmas Carol (novella)

  Copyright

  An Orion ebook

  First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Orion Books

  Ebook first published in 2017 by Orion Books

  Copyright © Liz Fenwick 2017

  The moral right
of Liz Fenwick to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978 1 4091 6212 4

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