by Liz Fenwick
It was another big spring tide and the creek was a vast mudflat. Curlews walked the far shore and their cries ripped through her as she counted the lobster pots sitting on the riverbed. One curlew called and then another replied. Overhead the cloud level was descending. She could see the rain falling on Merthen Wood. It would be here before long, but under the overhang of the pine trees she felt cocooned. The wind blew from the east against the tide’s journey out to sea and the river was deserted. She hadn’t even heard the fishing boats heading out this morning, although she knew they must have. Nights had been spent striving for sleep, only to be denied until the early hours. Waking late she would plough through her days doing what was required and avoiding the world.
She had to pull herself up and move on. This half life wasn’t worth living. First, she would join with the other victims of Victor Justin and fight for justice. If they could be strong, so could she. Then she would go away, go and find her European roots. A curlew called again and this time no other bird answered.
Flights were booked. She would fly out in a few days’ time. She had finished everything in her inbox and given evidence via a video link, finding the support of the other victims healing although painful too. Now all that was left was to clear out Jaunty’s room. She had put this off, but she wouldn’t want to face the task when she returned. Both Hannah and Tamsin had offered to help, but this was the second last step and she needed to do it herself. Her grandmother’s ashes still sat in the urn in the centre of the dining table, not yet interred in the graveyard; the words of Max’s libretto floated in her head every time she thought about doing it.
I am thine,
Thou art mine,
Beyond control;
In the wave,
Be the grave
Of heart and soul
With bin bags in hand, Gabe turned from the urn to the bedroom. She opened the door and sunlight poured in the far windows on to the desk. Gabe began with the cupboards. There wasn’t much. In the chest of drawers she found little except the notebook that had been tucked away. Opening, Gabe was stunned to find it was filled with sketches of Gabe. Her whole life was captured in pencil and watercolour. Gabe swallowed hard, looking at her small chubby fist on one page, her dressed as an angel for Christmas on another. It was something to cherish. She stroked the cover then turned to the end to see what was the last sketch her grandmother had made. Her breath caught. It was of her and Fin. Their heads close together. The expression captured spoke of hunger, need …love. How had her grandmother seen so much? With unsteady hands Gabe placed it down on the desk and sighed. That was Jaunty’s final wish for Gabe and it was a lovely memory, but it was time to move forward.
Jaunty had almost lived the life of a nun with a habit of smocks, trousers and plimsolls. Gabe doubted even a charity shop would find much use for any of these. She placed the bag on the unmade bed and the mattress dipped, and Gabe ran her hand over it. Turning, she swiftly pulled one set of the ‘uniform’ out of the bag. She had to have something to keep and she couldn’t hold on to the mattress. She laughed as she considered moving in here and creating a matching dent on the other side. But she didn’t want to be found here alone, dead in the bed. It would more than likely happen, but she wouldn’t dwell on it.
On top of the bureau were just three things, the picture of her father, a picture of Gabe and the perfume. Gabe turned to the desk. Jaunty’s confession was sitting on top. How different would things have been if Jaunty had just been Jaunty? Maybe Fin would still be here.
No, he might not have come in the first place. His uncle’s boat and painting wouldn’t have led him here. Despite the pain she was glad he had come into their lives. He had given Jaunty a zest to her final days. And well, she could say the same, but they weren’t her final days.
Gabe rowed through the soft rain down the creek. The north wind was biting and she couldn’t face a swim, but the water called to her. The silence of the creek at high tide always affected her. When the tide was out the river birds filled it, chatting to each other, but when the creek was full the only sound was the wind in the trees and her oars disturbing the water. She was alone. No walkers ventured on the paths today in such desolate November weather. The trees seemed to hunch lower to the water’s edge, seeking protection from the bitter north wind.
She rowed onward. Tomorrow she began her trip with a drive past Polruan House, the first stop on the journey to find out who she really was. All her life she had been Gabriella Blythe, daughter of Philip and granddaughter to famous artist Jaunty Blythe. Now she knew she was still Gabriella, daughter and granddaughter, but not Blythe at all. This wasn’t a case of reinventing herself but of connecting with parts of herself she had never known.
Turning the boat around, she slowly rowed back. Before she left there was another thing she needed to do. Her dismissive take care to Fin days ago was supposed to be final, but she owed him an apology. She didn’t know what had been said between Jaunty and Fin, and her grandmother’s belief in him haunted Gabe. She had to let go and move on; only by saying sorry would she be able to do that.
She reached the quay and secured the rowing boat, checking the ropes. Mike was going to come by while she was away and take it out of the water for the winter. Standing on the quay watching the mizzle lift a bit, she saw the last of the afternoon sun bounce off the river. This was where she had met him, and that warm September evening seemed such a long time ago. Gabe sighed, knowing she couldn’t put off this call any longer.
Leaving the quay, she walked back to the cabin. She was soaked. The moisture had worked its way through her sweater to her skin and a chill settled on her. She raced down the last few steps to the cabin, but by the time she was inside her teeth were chattering. She shed the sweater and warmed herself by the fire. It had been stupid to go rowing in this weather, but she’d needed to think. Now she must make the phone call, then she would be free to move on.
She punched in the number before she changed her mind. She jumped when it went straight to his voicemail.
‘This is Alexander Falk. I am sorry, I am unable to take your call. Please leave a message.’
Gabe bit her lip but then said, ‘Hi, Fin. I mean, Alexander. It’s Gabe.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m calling to apologise. I . . .’ She stopped because the shivering had started again. ‘I am so sorry for the way I behaved towards you, it wasn’t very grown up,’ she said, her teeth chattering. ‘Thank you for all the help with the aftermath of the news about Jaunty.’ Gabe paused. There was more she wanted to say but didn’t know where to begin.
‘Thank you.’
Gabe dropped the phone and spun round. Fin stood in the doorway, water drops resting on his curls. She couldn’t breathe. He was here.
With two strides he was beside her. He pushed the hair out of her face. ‘You’re soaked and you’re freezing.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘Have you been swimming in this weather?’
She shook her head. All she could think was that he was here.
‘You need a shower.’
She nodded. He took her hand and led her into the bathroom, turned on the shower and helped her undress before he placed her under the stream of water. Warmth spread through her but stopped when he backed out of the room. It said so much. Gabe swiftly washed her hair and finished. When she was dressed, she came out to find Fin adding another log to the fire.
‘Hi.’ Gabe watched him from a distance. Why had he come?
He looked up at her. ‘Hello.’
The sofa stood between them but Gabe knew the divide between them contained bigger obstacles. She couldn’t move.
He glanced at her ticket and passport on the coffee table. ‘Milan.’
She nodded.
‘La Scala?’ He stood.
She laughed. ‘I haven’t booked tickets yet.’
‘Do your relatives know you are coming?’
�
��Yes. But I don’t know how much was understood.’ Gabe took two steps into the room and put her hands on the back of the sofa. ‘My Italian isn’t bad, but I haven’t used it in a while.’
‘So you may have told them that you are a psychotic killer.’
‘Something like that.’ She bit her lip. ‘Fin, I’m so sorry.’
‘So you said.’ He put his hands into his pockets.
‘It was all too much and only the two of us knew the truth.’
He nodded.
Gabe closed her eyes for a moment. Why? Why had he done it? ‘Fin, I need to know why you did it?’ She swallowed. ‘I need to understand.’ She looked up at him. ‘I’ve been wondering, did Jaunty ask you to?’
‘Yes.’
Gabe looked at her clasped hands, waiting.
‘I didn’t want to.’ Fin shook his head. ‘She made me promise. I thought you should be consulted but she said no.’ He took a step closer. ‘I wanted to tell you but that was another promise she extracted from me. I wish I could take the pain away that I’ve caused.’
Gabe tried to digest this. Even though it was what she had begun to suspect, it still hurt. She frowned. ‘Why did you lie about your name?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘You are not Fin Alexander.’ She frowned.
He laughed. ‘Well, I am Alexander Finbar Carrow Falk.’
She stared at him. ‘That’s not Fin Alexander.’
‘My mother wanted to call me Finbar after her father.’
‘And?’
He took a step closer to her. ‘But my father said no. He liked Fin but not Finbar. So they took the family name of Alexander and gave me Finbar as my second.’
‘That still doesn’t tell me what I want to know.’ She played with the ring on Jaunty’s necklace that hung round her neck now.
‘No. All my family and friends call me Fin and have done all my life. I only use Alexander professionally.’ He paused. ‘When I received Alex’s things, and in particular the painting, something clicked and I thought I knew the location of the painting.’ He looked out of the window. ‘When I had researched the programme on the war painters a few years ago I had tried interview Jaunty. I had put the request through the gallery. They had forwarded her reply to me. It was postmarked Helston.’ He ran his fingers across the back of the sofa. Gabe followed their path, remembering the feel of them on her body. ‘I own several of Jaunty’s paintings and I knew she painted in this area; I had a hunch and I had time on my hands.’
‘So you came here to out her?’ Gabe stepped back.
‘No! I came to solve a puzzle.’ He ran his hand through his hair, making a mess of his curls. ‘As soon as I met Jaunty I knew she was the reclusive painter before she said her name. I wanted her to be at ease with me. And I thought she’d recognise me so I used two of my names to put her off.’ He laughed. ‘I didn’t know that she would have no idea who I was because she didn’t even have a television.’
‘But she opened up to you.’
‘Yes, but not to Alexander Falk, art historian. She saw Alex in me and she knew Jezebel, of course she did.’
Gabe swallowed.
He took a step towards her. ‘I just wanted to solve the question in my mind: how did Alex come by a painting that seemed so close to Jaunty’s work but was signed by someone else.’
‘Intellectual pride.’
He gave a dry laugh. ‘Partially, but more something to take me away from feeling sorry for myself.’
Gabe put her hand out but then took it back to her side. Touching him would be a mistake. ‘Having kept the secret so long I don’t know why she wanted the world to know now.’ Gabe shifted from foot to foot, looking down. ‘I still don’t understand that.’
‘I did, which is why she asked me to do it, to give the story to a reputable newspaper. And so I gave it to a friend, with strict instructions that it wasn’t to go out until I told him to use it. Unfortunately it didn’t happen the way it was supposed to.’ He sighed. ‘Someone in the newsroom needed a story fast when another fell through and my friend was on leave because his first child was being born. He wasn’t consulted and the story was rewritten to make better headlines.’
‘OK, that explains the terrible timing. There was so much drama.’
‘I’m sorry about that. It was not the way I planned it.’
Gabe took a deep breath, then looked at Fin. Her whole body tightened. ‘Thank you for not talking about Dietrich.’
‘There are some things they don’t need to know, but you did.’
Gabe frowned. ‘Thank you.’
He stepped round the coffee table and moved closer to Gabe. She held her breath. ‘Fin,’ she whispered.
‘Yes?’ He stopped inches away from her.
‘Why are you here?’
‘I needed to see you.’ His eyes were so intent.
‘Oh.’ Gabe couldn’t look away and his mouth hovered just above hers. ‘Anything else?’
‘I missed you.’ His lips touched hers on the corner of her mouth. ‘I haven’t been able to think of anything but you.’ He kissed her lightly, still holding himself apart from her. ‘I needed to know if you might feel the same.’
Gabe took his hand in hers and pulled him to her, closing the gap between them. ‘Yes, I do.’
Epilogue
There wasn’t a cloud to be seen in the July sky. Jezebel rocked on the gentle swell with Fin at the tiller. Gabe stood and kissed Fin, her engagement ring glittering in the sunlight as she held the small jar. Most of Jaunty’s ashes were buried in the grave with Gabe’s parents, but she hadn’t been able to let go of the feeling that her grandmother belonged at sea with Alex.
‘This looks like a good spot.’ As Fin pressed the CD player she could see Alex’s ring on his finger and she knew Jaunty would approve. The opening notes of the aria she would be performing at tomorrow’s premiere of The Lovers travelled across the boat. Gabe began singing and as she came to the words
I am thine,
Thou art mine,
Beyond control;
In the wave,
Be the grave
Of heart and soul
Fin’s hand joined hers and they spread the last of Jaunty’s ashes across the water.
Acknowledgements
As with every book there are many people who help make it happen. Without the expertise of Adam Temple-Smith I would have no idea about the life of an opera singer, let alone the life of a student in training. He has patiently answered my endless questions on arias and breathing. Caroline Macworth-Praed and Jacky Kellet have provided me with technical advice when I would have chosen the wrong music or used the wrong vocabulary.
Clare Mackintosh and Dr Kate Gearing saved me with their professional knowledge. I am indebted to the wonderful Myra Fraser for sharing her memories of coming to Helford as a young mother in the early years after the war. I’d also like to thank my German editor Almuth Andreae for her helpful insights, and my sister-in-law, Deborah Barton, for advice on colours.
Without Brigid Coady I would go insane. She listens, reads and cajoles me through the writing process. As in the past the lovely Julia Hayward fights her way through my dyslexic typos and provides vital feedback. A huge shout of thanks goes to Sarah Callejo whose laser-sharp insights and encouraging words buoyed me up when I needed it most. The Romantic Novelist Association continues to provide me with support and friendship.
Thank you to Jasper Falk for his generous bid in the silent charity auction for Icknield School, a school for children with severe learning disabilities, to have a character named after a person of his choice.
A special note of thanks to Andrew Fenwick for his proofreading and for putting his A* in A level History to good use.
I want to thank my agent Carole Blake, who is wise, patient and makes the best gin and tonic around. The whol
e team at Orion are wonderful, but my editor Kate Mills always pulls the best out of me even when I don’t think it will happen.
My daily chats with my father keep the world in perspective and my mother keeps me grounded with her prayers. My poor family puts up with me dragging them off to concerts, trailing them through churches and graveyards, and subjecting them to strange playlists. I am forever asking them random questions when my thoughts clearly haven’t been with them, but with my characters. I am the frequent cause of great embarrassment when I mention my books or quiz some stranger about their lives. I would be lost without their love and support, especially that of my husband, Chris.
Author’s Note
Bosworgy, the cabin in A Cornish Stranger, is based on a cabin that exists and is owned by the National Trust. It is called Powders and was built by the marine artist Percy Cecil Thurnburn, called ‘Powder’ by his friends. He built the cabin in 1930 after he had bought the land from the Tremayne Estate in 1920. It is his boat, the Iron Duke, that can be seen rusting in the cove near the cabin.
I had tremendous fun discovering new music as well as revisiting old favourites for this book. I have compiled a Spotify list which you can find on my website, www.lizfenwick.com.