Sweat trickles down my spine. Even through my sunglasses, the light bouncing off the sea of white canvas tents blinds me. I’ve been here and done this so many times before, but nothing has prepared me for seeing such a tented city again.
I have to shade my eyes. Dust rises and swirls around my feet as we walk towards the school in the camp. We pause at ‘reception’ – a gazebo with an old table – and the aid worker who’s showed me into the camp stops to speak into her phone. She brought me here after I’d met Esme’s family and I’m still reeling from that, from their generosity and welcome to me, from the way they haven’t judged me, from their kindness.
Beyond the gazebo, through the open flap, I catch a glimpse of the inside of the tent. It looks like a school and sounds like a school. There are paintings and charts on the walls, the backs of heads, a teacher crouched down on the floor, talking to a group of kids. The children are painting, dipping brushes in and out of jars clouded with pigment. Some are hunched over their paintings, tongues out in concentration. Others are making broad brush strokes on the paper, laughing and chatting.
It’s a school, just a different kind of school, one with canvas walls and plastic patio tables for desks and students who never wanted or planned to be here.
The young woman clicks off her mobile. ‘The kids have art therapy once a week,’ she says. ‘It’s one way of helping them to release the stress and trauma but you must know about that from your work.’ She pauses. ‘Would you like to join the class now?’
‘Can I?’
She smiles briefly. ‘Of course. I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.’ Barely older than Demi, she sounds weary and looks even wearier, but by the time we walk into the classroom, she has a broad smile on her face. The kids turn round and some grin at us; others go immediately back to their art. One head, a little girl’s, is intent on her painting, carefully adding some fine detail. She doesn’t see me but I know her.
I stop. My throat dries. My heart seems to seize up. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more fear in my life: more terror of the unknown. Every instinct tells me to run away and I don’t know why I should be afraid of this young girl – or perhaps I do know.
It’s too late. The teacher has spotted us and walks over. She puts her hand on Esme’s shoulder.
‘Esme. There’s someone here that you might know. It’s Cal.’
Esme puts down her brush and somehow I make my leaden feet move towards the desk. It’s her. Light brown, almost blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, dark brown eyes and a pink sweatshirt with a picture of a bear on it.
‘You remember Cal?’ the teacher says.
Esme nods, slowly, up and down.
‘Hello, Esme,’ I say.
She looks at me without any malice, any shock: just as if we had gone back eighteen months to the day before I lost her and her mother. As if nothing had ever happened.
‘Hello, Cal,’ she says in English.
The teacher smiles. ‘Esme’s been painting. She’s worked very hard on her picture today, haven’t you?’ She asks the question in English and in Arabic.
I look at the three figures on the paper. A girl, a woman and a man, hand in hand, with broken buildings all around and the sun shining in the sky.
‘Who is it?’ My voice cracks with the heat and the dust.
‘You. You and me and mummy.’
‘Your painting has really come on. I love the detail in the dresses and I can almost feel the heat of the sun,’ her teacher says. ‘Can’t you, Cal?’
I can’t speak. My throat is numb, my chest feels as if it’s cracking open. I shouldn’t have come in here, in front of the children. I should have waited, been better prepared, even though I’ve been waiting too long already. And no matter how hard I try, how much I swore to myself that I would not do this, I can’t stop the tears running down my cheeks like a river, falling into the dust.
The teacher stands silently by my side, the kids grow quiet and a small warm hand slips into mine. ‘Why are you crying?’ Esme asks me in Arabic and then again in English. ‘Don’t cry. Not any more. You found me.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Friday evening – Kilhallon
Demi
My evening walk with Mitch takes me from Kilhallon Cove to the farmhouse – I needed some quiet time to myself after my run-in with Jade. She must have trained at the same school of scariness as Mawgan. On my way back, there are still streaks of coral pink across the sky. It’s strange to think the sun is still there somewhere, lighting up someone else’s day. Mine will start again all too soon and it’ll finally be Lily’s wedding day.
I wonder how she feels. How Ben feels. How I’d feel if I was making a ‘forever’ commitment to Cal. Mitch keeps close to me this evening, nose to the ground, scenting the traces left by new people and dogs. My wellies sink softly into the dewy evening grass as I walk across the glamping field, now dominated by the tepee, its creamy canvas sides tinged a soft rose hue by the sunset.
Lamps glow from the cottages and lanterns flicker outside the yurts. A campfire has been lit in the communal area and a group of guests are laughing and chatting. Glasses clink and someone strums softly on a guitar. There’s a lump in my throat at the sight and sound of it all. How far we’ve come since last Easter, Mitch and me and Cal, and all our friends and family. I reach the car parking area by the farmhouse where the mobile signal is more reliable and hope my phone will beep with a message from Cal, but there’s nothing.
The farmhouse seems very big and quiet without Cal. Mitch settles in the sitting room and I go into the study to check the answer phone for messages. There are a couple about forward bookings, which I make a note to reply to, and one from a newspaper, which I delete. I sit in Cal’s battered leather swivel chair and decide to grab my chance for an early night because I need to be up super early tomorrow and full of energy to last well into the early hours. I’m about to get up from the desk when I spot a letter on Cal’s desk. He’s never been great at admin but I’m not sure he would have intended me to see this. He must have left it when he rushed off to catch his plane: it’s dated on that day. It’s a letter from his solicitor but it’s the document attached to it that makes me grow cold.
LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT
This Last Will and Testament is made by me, Calvin Ross Penwith
I HEREBY REVOKE all former Wills and codicils made by me and declare this to be my Last Will (‘My Will’)
My hands are shaking. I know I shouldn’t read it but I can’t help myself. I suppose I shouldn’t be that surprised that Cal’s made a will, but why would he do it now? He hasn’t gone anywhere dangerous, unless he’s planning to in the near future …
There’s a section about executors – Robyn and his solicitor and then a short list of ‘legacies’ which amount to cash gifts for Robyn and Polly. After that there’s a hefty donation to the charity Cal worked for plus a generous sum for the St Trenyan Community Fund. It’s too late to stop reading now, even though I feel guilty about prying into such a personal document.
I come to a section called ‘Property’ and one relating to ‘Other Assets’.
‘No. No, he can’t do that.’
Even as I blurt out the words, I drop the will like hot coals.
No. I must have made a mistake. I force myself to pick the letter up again and read the rest of it. Then I scan it again – and again – but it is true. Cal has left Kilhallon House, all the cottages, the resort – and Demelza’s – to me in the event of his death.
‘No. No, I don’t want them. I don’t want any of it.’
I’m muttering aloud in an empty room and I glance around guiltily. There’s no one to hear. My stomach somersaults.
‘I just want Cal.’
I hate the thought that Cal might not be around one day or that he even thinks he might not be around. Why would he make a will now unless he planned on going back to his aid work? It’s not as if he’s in any danger here at Kilhallon, or in Greece, so the only reason to
update his will was if he was heading to somewhere dangerous.
Helping Esme and her family was bound to have a big impact on him. He never wanted to leave them in the first place; if he hadn’t been captured, he’d still be in Syria now, taking risks. Why would he stay with one person when his real love and passion is with many people?
I throw the will away. It lands on the threadbare rug that Cal refuses to get rid of, despite Polly saying it’s moth-eaten. That rug is part of Kilhallon now. So am I, I’m part of Kilhallon now … But without Cal, the place would mean nothing to me. I could never carry on without him on my own.
My heart almost jumps out when the phone extension on the desk rings out.
‘Hello, Kilhallon Park?’
‘Demi? Thank God I’ve got hold of you.’
‘Cal!’ I burst out laughing in relief at hearing his voice after my silly, gloomy thoughts.
‘Why are you laughing?’
I turn my back on the will. ‘Nothing. I was only thinking about you and the phone rang out.’
There’s a pause his end which could be a delay. ‘Are you in the study?’
‘Yes. I was checking the answer phone messages before I went to bed. Have you met Esme?’
There’s a long pause while I hold my breath. ‘Yes, I have.’
‘And? How was she? How are you?’
‘She’s OK. She’s more than OK. I – I’ll tell you more when I get back.’ I can barely hear him with the faintness of the signal and the tooting of horns and engine noise but I can sense his relief and happiness.
‘Where are you? Outside the airport?’
‘I wish. I haven’t even got there yet. I’m in a taxi en route but the traffic in Athens is hell and I don’t know if I’ll make my flight. I’ll try everything, I swear, but there’s a chance I might miss the wedding if I can’t get on a plane tonight.’
After the day I’ve had and finding the solicitor’s letter, tears are so close but I don’t want Cal to know. ‘Oh … I hope you can make it.’
‘I know. I’ll do everything I can. Hold on …’ Horns blast and I hear shouts down the line then Cal asking the taxi driver if there’s any other route to the airport. He comes back to me. ‘We’re going to try a detour but it’ll be tight even if we can find a way through the jams. I’m sorry, Demi. Are you all right? Is everything going to plan?’
‘Yes, I’m OK and everything’s going to plan.’ Sort of. ‘Kit, Polly and the staff have been fantastic.’
‘I knew you could manage without me,’ he says loudly.
‘I didn’t mean that. Cal, I hope you can make it. I want you to be here, I need you … Cal? Can you hear me? Cal? Are you there? Cal!’
The call has dropped out again. In the gathering gloom, I wait by the phone in case he tries to ring me back, unable to move, until the dusk turns to darkness and I can hardly see the words in front of me at all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Early Saturday morning – Kilhallon
I always love this time of day at Demelza’s, when the cafe is open, waiting for its first customers. When everything is clean and bright and perfect, and we’re all still full of morning enthusiasm and energy.
The tables, inside and out, are all laid out for teas and champagne cocktails. Glasses sparkle in the sunlight streaming through the windows. Fresh Cornish flowers, arranged in vintage glasses, act as centrepieces to each table and fill the air with scent. Greg Stennack’s Saturday Breakfast Show is playing as we do our final prep for the day, telling us excitedly that ‘Cornwall’s wedding of the year’ is taking place at Kilhallon Park and that his invitation must have been lost in the post.
I got up super early to walk Mitch before dropping him off at the animal shelter, where Nina’s mum will take care of him for the day. He didn’t seem to mind and I’ll be much happier knowing he’s playing with his canine friends than getting into trouble here. On my way down to the cafe, I made a detour around the wedding site. The caterers were already onsite and the florists and decor stylists were making final checks on the tepee and wedding glade.
Everything would be perfect if I’d only heard from Cal but there’s been nothing since his call dropped out. I lay awake waiting for a call, I checked WhatsApp and my emails in the night but there was nothing and I’ve no idea if he caught his flight or not. I’m sure he was focused on getting on board, rather than calling me. His meeting with Esme sounded hopeful and positive but not something he would – or could – talk about on the phone in a taxi.
I try to focus on the day ahead. The ceremony is scheduled for three p.m., which seems ages away but also frighteningly close. Tamsin will be here later this morning to do my nails and make-up, though God knows when I’ll find the time. I thought I ought to make myself look decent. I’ve even splashed out on a slinky new blue dress from a boutique in Truro. Everything has come together against all the odds. Kilhallon looks amazing and we’re good to go.
The cafe phone rings and Shamia pops her head around the staff door. ‘It’s for you, Demi.’
‘Who is it? Cal?’
‘No. It’s that Jade woman. She sounds hysterical.’
‘Jade? She’s probably broken a fingernail or something. I’m coming.’
Ready to hear a rant from Jade about the flowers not being the right shade of blush or being told that the fridge needs restocking with Krug, I pick up the receiver then immediately hold it away from me. A long high-pitched wail assaults my eardrums.
‘What’s the matter? Is everything OK?’
‘No, it is not OK,’ Jade shrieks. ‘I knew I should never have left the silly little cow! I begged her to have this wedding in London or at least somewhere half-civilised. I knew something would go wrong at the arse end of nowhere!’
Resisting the urge to say some very rude words to Jade, I speak slowly as if Jade is a toddler. ‘Lily seemed fine when we left her last night. Is she all right?’
‘All right? Don’t be stupid! She’s probably fallen off a cliff or jumped into the sea.’
I grip the phone, feeling sick and also pissed off at being called ‘stupid’ by a woman for whom the word ‘stupid’ was clearly invented. ‘Oh God, what’s happened?’
‘What’s happened? She’s gone missing, that’s what’s happened, and it’s all your bloody fault.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Nina shakes her head in disbelief when I pass on the news of Lily’s vanishing act to the staff.
‘It can’t possibly be your fault. How does that Jade woman work that out?’
‘I don’t know but she sounded hysterical and if Lily really has disappeared, it’s serious. Apparently she wasn’t in bed when one of her bridesmaids went up first thing this morning with a Buck’s Fizz. Her bed had been slept in and Louie was gone too, so if you ask me, she’s probably only taken him for a long walk.’
Nina rolls her eyes. ‘Why’s Jade freaking out, then?’
‘She and the bridesmaids have all tried to call Lily but had no answer.’
‘The signal’s so bad on the cliffs, that doesn’t mean anything.’
‘Lily was due for a hair, manicure and make-up session. The ceremony doesn’t start until three but by the time they’ve all finished getting ready and had a load of photos taken with the wedding party time will fly by. The hair stylist is already waiting at the cottage.’
‘Have they actually tried looking for her?’ Nina asks.
‘Jade’s on her way over to Kilhallon but Harry’s looking for her now. Jade blames him for letting her “slip the net”, as she puts it.’
Nina wrinkles her nose in disgust. ‘Anyone would think Lily was on a community service order, not getting married.’
‘Exactly … I guess she’s gone for a walk and it’s taken longer than she thought. Or Louie’s gone AWOL. I hope not, remember what happened to Mitch in the autumn?’ I picture little Louie vanishing down an old tin-mining shaft and shudder. Then I picture Lily doing the same … I tell myself to get a grip: this is a f
ine bright morning, not a thick fog on a dark night.
‘I think I’d better join the search party and try to find her before Jade arrives. Ben doesn’t know. Apparently Jade and Addison don’t want to freak him out. That’s all we need. A wedding but no bride. I’ll go down to the cove and see if I can spot her.’
I don’t even have time to take off my apron before a small figure appears at the cafe door, peering through the glass. It’s Lily with Louie on a long lead so I rush to the door and pull it open.
‘Lily!’
‘Hello.’ Her face is bare of make-up and she’s in an oversized waxed jacket that must be a man’s it looks so big. The jacket is damp yet there’s been no rain. Louie hangs back, pauses and lifts up one paw. He’s not sure whether he wants to cross the threshold of this strange place.
‘It’s OK, Louie. You’ll be safe here. We both will.’ She scoops him up, kisses him and comes inside.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask.
She frowns. ‘I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘No reason.’
Still cuddling Louie, she looks around her. ‘Wow, the cafe looks so beautiful. The sail over the terrace is cute too. I checked it out before I came inside.’
‘Glad you like it.’ I smile at her, still wondering how to play the situation. ‘Have you been for a morning walk?’
‘Yes. A long one. I walked and walked and walked over the fields on top of the moors and then through the bracken down to the sea. It was very tall and very wet so I had to carry Louie inside my coat. Then we went past the tin mines up to the lighthouse and beyond that. I’m sure I could see Land’s End and some low islands on the horizon – or maybe I imagined those.’
‘You didn’t imagine them. They’re the Scilly Isles. You can see them on a clear day like this, but not until you get beyond the lighthouse and that’s well over two miles away. You’ve probably done at least five miles.’
‘Wow, I didn’t really notice until I was on my way back, though my feet hurt a little now.’ She holds up a foot, showing a pair of dark navy wellies. ‘I found these in the porch of my cottage and they’re a little bit big for me.’
Confetti at the Cornish Café Page 21