by Freya North
‘Nice, space!’ encouraged William, catching Chloë’s eye for a little too long before swiftly returning his attention to the room.
‘Isn’t it just!’ agreed Chloë, turning away to examine a wall and hide her blush.
William pointed to a corner. Chloë followed his direction and alighted on a long white envelope that, on closer inspection, had yellowed all around the edges and curled at the corners most forlornly.
‘I’ll be outside,’ said William tactfully.
‘Don’t!’ pleaded Chloë reaching out for his arm, but taking her hand back self-consciously before it made contact. ‘Please?’
He stood by her. Her hair smelt of lemons and he inched his face just a little closer to the back of her head. She drew the contents from the envelope. They were the deeds to Number Three Penbeagle Street. Chloë’s name had been typed by a land agent’s secretary and Jocelyn’s signature, though bold and familiar, had undoubtedly faded. Neither the paper, nor the envelope, smelled of Mitsuko.
‘It’s yours!’ William congratulated, flicking the paper between thumb and forefinger.
‘It is, isn’t it!’ Chloë marvelled, kissing the deeds quickly and clutching them to her breast.
They spent the morning examining the building. The back door and arched window looked out over a walled, small sunken garden that was currently obscured by rubble and chickweed, beer cans and a dead gull. Inside, apart from the useful plank and a dusty but unused polystyrene cup, the room was totally bare. And large. William paced it out and declared it to be a good thirty-five feet by almost the same. He pointed out the original coving and crouched on his knees to inspect the skirting-boards which he declared a find. As Chloë sat on her heels beside him to inspect it, she rested her hand on his shoulder. Naturally, lightly; both to steady herself and because she just wanted to.
‘I’ve never thought much about skirting-boards before,’ she confided, hoping he would not judge her because of it.
They grinned at each other and touched foreheads gently, just for a moment.
‘You smell lemony.’
The bareness of Number Three Penbeagle Street gave Chloë a headache. The building was empty and yet stuffed full of possibility. The building, after all, was hers. Hitherto, the most valuable item she had owned was the mountain bike she had bought the previous month; the most precious, Jocelyn’s brooch. Now Jocelyn had bequeathed her an empty building to do with as she liked, and for which she had so many glimpsed ideas that they ricocheted around her mind in an indecipherable and unfathomable tangle. Chloë’s head was thrumming. William said that he knew a cure. Chloë remarked to herself, as casually as she could, that he very well might be the cure.
They drove up the coast to Portreath where they ate baked potatoes oozing with dark yellow butter. Then they atoned for the cholesterol with a bracing walk along the cliff, on a stretch of coastal path as spectacular and unique as anywhere else on the north coast. The cliffs, soaring up from the sea and plummeting down deep into it, were buffed brown and beige, streaked through with pink and grey, striated with ivory. William gave a theatrical discourse about granite intruding into the surface rock, about metalliferous veins. He explained that the resultant natural beauty that Chloë so admired had solicited the mining industry which had so scarred the landscape with man’s greedy mark.
‘Mines,’ he propounded, ‘are but the hallmarks of cupidity for which the devastation of the cliffs was justified.’
His carefully measured grandiloquence caused much hilarity.
‘But I like the impact of the derelict mines on the landscape,’ Chloë protested through her laughter while William decided her eyes were more conker than mahogany, ‘the characteristic chimney stacks, the ghostly shafts – in their ruinous state they’re actually picturesque.’
William snorted softly and smiled generously.
‘Well,’ Chloë continued aboard her soapbox, ‘I’d say that they’re an established and integral feature of the landscape, and quintessentially Cornish.’
‘Yes, Chloë,’ conceded William, cocking his head and looking up at her, ‘I agree with you. I was just playing the devil’s avocado!’
Feeling no need to check her actions, Chloë pinched him smartly on the back of his neck, which was warm. She could well have lingered, but she chased him to the cliff edge instead. It was like being with Fraser. No it wasn’t. It was different. New. Even better.
They flopped down on to the downy grass; out of breath, cheeks rosy, ear lobes cold, noses noisy. The stunning rocks of Ralph’s Cupboard hushed them into reverential silence. But it was temporary. Soon they were spinning elaborate yarns about who Ralph was. And just what it was he kept in his cupboard.
FORTY-FOUR
Chloë had never had tuna-fish casserole with salt-and-vinegar crisps topping. William had never made it before. It was a resounding success; she liked it just as much as he swooned for her bean-and-leftovers soup. One day, they chatted so hard that Chloë was still holding her handlebars and William still had an open tin of sweetcorn in his hands an hour later; the steps to the kitchen separating them and yet not keeping them apart at all. An afternoon soon after, hardly a sentence passed between the two of them; William threw an assortment of teapot spouts while Chloë nestled against the studio steps with Barbara, reading Lorna Doone rather noisily.
Shifts permitting, Chloë and William continued their excursions together. If Chloë’s work was uncompliant, William would invariably visit the Good Life and try hard not to distract her. His presence, however, she found an utter distraction.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
William was not Cornwall’s only promise, though his continuing gentle courtship was an added pleasure Chloë could never have prophesied. There was Jane too, and their steady friendship now exceeded the boundaries of the café and was developing at a nice pace over shared lunch-hours and shopping trips to Penzance. A close girlfriend her own age was a new concept, and one which she embraced readily.
Jane gave Chloë her seal of approval; for what it’s worth, she said. Chloë found she valued it quite highly. And she told her so. Jane remarked wasn’t that what mates were for, and would Chloë mind doing her shift the next day. Chloë said she’d do it with pleasure and that was what friends were for.
So life in Cornwall, it transpired, was turning out to be not too bad at all. Chloë realized, with some triumph, that not only was she coping all on her own, she was actually enjoying it too. That her enjoyment was of her own making, not laid on and ready organized for her, was a concept new and pleasing. It was not a fact that she dwelt upon, but it did enable her to get on with daily life, and sleep nourished and happy. She was on her own and yet she wasn’t alone. Perhaps for the first time in her life, she had befriended people with whom she had no previous connection. None of the ‘Chloë, you must meet so and so’, or ‘This is Chloë Cadwallader, Jocelyn’s god-daughter’; now it was merely ‘Hullo, I’m Chloë. Yup, I work in St Ives.’
People liked Chloë Cadwallader for the affable girl that she was. And she liked them, for they were uncomplicated and generous. They did not know her late godmother, and it mattered neither to them nor, now, to Chloë. Cornwall, it seemed, had invited her to stay a while longer. And, for the moment and perhaps beyond, she had accepted.
Locals now greeted her daily and by her name. Mrs Stokes reduced her rent in return for a spot of decorating, a task Chloë undertook gladly. She felt useful, comfortable and trusted, and she was happy to put her own little mark on the place. Cornwall’s gifts, however, lay only partly with the folk who resided there; they were also deep sown into the very lie of the land itself. Chloë’s affinity with the landscape was unforeseen; how could she have known that living within the sight and scent of the sea would instil daily a sense of well-being she was now not prepared to go without?
Jocelyn can’t have known it either. And yet I feel she would have been pleased and proud of me. Cornwall, it appears, may very well be to me a
s Scotland was to her.
Accordingly, she finally arranged an oddment of things on the mantelpiece: a little dolphin made from shells that was so kitsch it was cute, a smooth pebble William was about to skim out to sea at Portreath, a greening reproduction of a Picasso portrait which made the Andrews wince. And a collection of William’s pots, some unglazed, that, much to Chloë’s bewilderment, he had rejected as seconds. It felt neither presumptuous nor premature. It was time.
There were thus many good reasons to stay on in Cornwall, but perhaps none so great as Number Three Penbeagle Street. Chloë had shown it now to Jane who had hugged her, called her a ‘lucky beggar’ and then begged her to turn it into an aerobics studio. Chloë had told Mrs Stokes about it, who vaguely remembered the place before it was boarded up but, infuriatingly, had no recollection of its previous use. Chloë also invited Mac, having asked William if he wouldn’t mind fetching him. Not at all. Enthusiasm was universal and they all admired the skirting and the coving which Chloë was keen to point out. She brought people to Number Three that they might rub their chins alongside her for ideas of what she could do with the place. And, though they furrowed their brows diligently, no one alighted on anything plausible. Not that Chloë minded; the ultimate decision, she realized, would only ever come from her. For Chloë, for the time being, though it was bare and a little musty, it was enough that Number Three Penbeagle Street was all her very own. She went there often to just sit and gaze and think, for she felt safe and strong there.
Chloë felt rather good that she was now happy to take each day for its own. She hadn’t written to Jasper and Peregrine for weeks. Fraser owed her a letter but she was only vaguely aware of it.
Though Chloë was unsure how to read her emotions concerning William, she realized too that she craved neither approval nor advice. Jane’s supportive winks and nudges sufficed.
This carefree headiness, however, was infused soon enough with a more sober resonance when Chloë and William almost held hands as they explored around Godrevy.
Their fingers brushed inadvertently as they set off for their walk; spontaneously they knotted them together. But only for an instant before snatching them back to themselves, with an awkward smile apiece. They lay flat on their stomachs and marvelled down at Hell’s Mouth and Dead Man’s Cove. Their shoulders pressed against each other.
For warmth.
For safety.
She could have kissed him. He could have held her. Instead, William told Chloë that Red River got its name in the eighteenth century after the Gwealavellan slaughter but, on seeing her face crease in horror, he confessed that Gwealavellan was a small hamlet of untroubled history, and the river was named Red after the coloured mining spoil coming down from Camborne.
His hair is the colour of a wicker basket, she thought triumphantly as she jabbed him in the ribs and held her head high, pursing her lips and wrinkling her nose at him. Only the sparkle in her eye told that she was not cross at all.
‘Oh, Chlo!’ William suddenly heard his voice, detached, declaring. Chloë turned to him, then looked away as she realized it was not a prelude but an autonomous sentence and she was a little bashful of its possible meaning. Quietly, they propped themselves up on their elbows and, with faces cupped in their hands, allowed the sea to share their private thoughts. Chloë was still having hers when William turned to her. Gently, he proffered his little finger while holding on tight to her eyes.
They’re back to mahogany again.
Slowly, he eased his finger up into one of her ringlets. The spiral was strong yet supremely soft. He gave a little tug and released it; the lock sprang back as it had been before. He did the same to another. And another. Holding Chloë’s gaze all the while. She regarded him, at first a little startled, then somewhat bashful, soon unashamedly desirous. Her heart threatened to burst right through her ribs and she was aware how immensely turned on she was. And simultaneously perplexed, yet relieved, that she was rendered immobile because of it.
‘Sorry,’ William said, coiling a lock between two fingers, ‘I just had to.’
‘Do it again,’ allowed Chloë, ‘it’s nice.’
Where has this tenderness come from – surprisingly soon, for them both, and yet so naturally? It is neither forced nor premature; not expected yet it is not a surprise. They are thoroughly at ease and yet their senses are on fire. Their souls are filled and thrilled with the portent of it all; while simple contentment flows through their veins as well.
They both believe in Fate but they credit Coincidence too.
Fate, though, must be neither hastened nor tempted; of this William and Chloë are acutely aware. Lying on her stomach on a cliff’s edge with William’s hand cupping the back of her head, Chloë realizes that the simple first kiss she had so desired from Carl can wait this time. William, she has a feeling, will not be going anywhere. And nor, for the time being, will she. She feels comfortable. In Cornwall. On the cliff. William’s hand. Her head resting lightly against it. The embrace of winter’s tired sun and heaven’s scent.
With some trepidation, William wonders if he is teetering on the edge of – no! Impossible. Or is it? Maybe she could push him right over the edge with one small gesture. Right here. This afternoon.
Do it!
No, don’t!
I’m just teetering on the edge of this cliff, that’s all.
Yes, William.
FORTY-FIVE
How tall is he? About six foot? A little taller than Fraser. Yes, about six foot. Thirty years old. Why does that seem a nice, safe age? What colour is his hair? Tawny, as in owl.
But does he like me in the way I like him?
Does he find me attractive?
Might we get it together? How might that happen? What do I have to do towards it?
Slowly, William began to occupy a great deal of Chloë’s precious day-dreaming time, and a great proportion of her night-time thoughts too. Such secret meanderings were sometimes supremely erotic; mostly, though, they were decidedly romantic. The more brazen she became in her mind’s eye, however, the more shy she became in his company. And, though she cursed herself sternly, it appeared that she was unable to rectify this. Moreover, because she presumed the strong character in her fantasies to be preferable, she felt compelled to keep the more timid version from William’s view. Thus she took on extra shifts, spent more of her spare time with Jane and, once or twice, even asked Mrs Stokes to say she was out should William phone. And yet still William accosted her thoughts. Of course he did. In desperation, after a disturbed night of highly lustful dreams and subsequent self-reproval, she phoned Fraser at the tiniest mention of dawn the next morning.
‘MacWallader! Good God, I thought you were phone-bic!’
‘I am, usually.’
‘What’s up? My letter’s in the post – I promise, I swear. Chloë? You still there?’
‘Can I come back? To Braer?’
‘What’s up?’
‘A man. I think.’
‘Hussy! I like it!’
‘Fraser?’
‘Sorry, bunny. What’s happened?’
‘Nothing. Yet.’
‘Oh? Well, is he nice?’
‘Lovely.’
‘Is he a looker?’
‘He’s pretty gorgeous. Well, I think so.’
‘Ooh! Well muscled? Tell me he bulges – oh, tell me he does!’
‘He’s fit, Fraser; athletic looking. You know, lovely in Levi’s?’
‘Wow, Chlo! I need to sit. More!’
‘He’s a potter. He lives in a picture-perfect cottage on a cliff with a goat called Barbara.’
‘MacDoubleYou. I’m gasping. Marry him. Or else I will.’
‘Can I come back, then?’
‘What? Why!’
‘Because I don’t know what to do.’
‘Do you think he rather likes you too?’
‘Hmm.’
‘Would that be an affirmative mumble?’
‘I think so.’
; ‘Well then, you most definitely can’t come back here. Well, you can – but not without him – there!’
‘Fray-zer! I need you. I don’t know what to do.’
‘I think you rather do.’
‘What do you think, Barbara?’
She’s a goat, William, and even if she does hold opinions on the matter, she is unable to tell you – or, rather, you are incapable of understanding her.
William has suddenly decided that he probably ought not to get involved with Chloë. He tries to reason that his freedom and privacy are of supreme importance in his life. He also considers whether she hasn’t become a little more guarded, somewhat cooler of late. Certainly, he hasn’t seen her so often recently. Not as often as he’d like.
Not that I’ve missed her.
Not that much.
Not much!
He tries not to acknowledge that he fears Chloë leaving Cornwall, and the chance of it, for some other country. Where there may be someone else. It is not as if there was a space in William’s life before, which Chloë has now actively filled, but he is in no doubt that if she were to go, a dull void would take her place.
And then he would be afforded only glimpses of memory. And what use would those be?
A glance of her porcelain neck.
Her incomparably soft twirls and curls, so rich and red that they radiate light. Oh, the feel of them!
Eyes mahogany, sometimes conker, lately a rich chocolate too.
The sight of her, yes, but the sound of her more so; the sound of her. She makes funny noises while she reads. She sings under her breath as she walks. And she hums with his pottery, caressing his senses and affirming his merits as a ceramicist too. But he hasn’t heard her for a while.