Family Baggage

by Monica McInerney

  He shrugged. ‘Who is this Shawcross bloke anyway? A local fella, is he?’

  He couldn’t have asked a more welcome question. As a chorus of voices sent information to the front of the bus about his birth in Penzance, his Irish parents, his plans for dentistry, Harriet took the opportunity to put down the itinerary and take in the scenery instead.

  Beyond the traffic and the motorway, the fields were very green, with neat, trimmed hedges around them, cows and sheep grazing, daffodils in clusters underneath trees. April was a good time to be here. The sky was blue, the air crisp. The light was softer than she was used to in Australia.

  They passed a house called Owl Cottage; farm shops selling cider, vegetables, strawberries and clotted cream; signposts for villages called Chapel Allerton, Bradley Green, Wootton Courtenay. Everything looked so English. As they drove further down the coast towards Cornwall the scenery was becoming wilder, higher cliffs and sweeping bays instead of the neat fields and small farms of Devon. Harriet was waiting for some rush of recognition, some feeling that she was in her ancestral homeland, but so far it hadn’t come. Not that her parents were from this side of the country. Her father had been born in Manchester, her mother in Leeds, with both their families coincidentally moving to Watford when they were children. They had been childhood sweethearts. They’d gone to school there, married there, and had James and Austin there, before making the decision to emigrate to Australia, where Harriet had been born.

  She had addresses if she wanted to see where her parents had lived back then. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that yet. The previous year James and Melissa had made a trip to the UK, and James had visited all the family places. He’d been planning on doing it again at the end of the Willoughby tour, as well, when he had a few spare days. It was different for him, though. He had childhood memories of Watford, even one or two schoolfriends that he’d looked up. Harriet tried to imagine standing outside the house where her parents had lived. It would be one more reminder that they were gone from her life, a reminder of all the gaps in her knowledge of them, as well. It had been a whole new hurt, a new layer to her grief, when she realised there were things about them, about her own history, that she would now never know. All those years she could have asked them about their early years in England, or why they had emigrated, or the early days in the migrant hostel, and she had never thought of it. Now they were gone, she would have given anything to ask them thousands of questions, to hear every tiny detail of their lives. She had taken the addresses from James, murmured something about thinking about it and then pushed them to the bottom of her bag.

  She wondered if Lara had made any plans to return to her own parents’ home places. Harriet didn’t know a great deal about Lara’s mother and father. She’d only met them once, when she was little. She remembered overhearing discussions about them over the years, and the yearly memorial day her mother had instigated to help Lara get over losing them so tragically like that, but it was all shadowy. She knew a few vague facts, that Mr and Mrs Robinson had left for Australia from Watford under that same ‘Ten Pound Poms’ scheme, emigrating on the same ship as her own parents, which was how they had met. She thought Lara’s father was also from Watford, but she knew Lara’s mother had been born in Ireland, then grown up in England. It meant Lara had three homelands in a way: Australia, Ireland and England …

  ‘— and she said, “Over my dead body, Colonel!” ’

  Harriet registered too late that Clive had turned on his microphone and was treating everyone to a selection of bawdy jokes. The two men in the group laughed, two of the women tittered, the others looked scandalised. Harriet managed to interrupt him just as he introduced another one about a barmaid, a bishop and a monkey.

  ‘Clive, please!’

  ‘Just sharing some of that famous English humour,’ he said, still speaking into the microphone. ‘We’re going to be together for the next five days, ladies and gentlemen, so no point standing on ceremony. Any of you have any jokes at any stage, hold up your hand and I’ll get Big Bird here to pass back the microphone and we’ll have a good old laugh together, all right?’

  She needed to lay down some ground rules, Harriet realised. Her chance came an hour later, at their first scheduled stop for the day, the cliffside village of Lynton, home to the hotel featured in several early episodes. Clive announced he was going to stay in the bus and read his newspaper. Once Harriet had led the group safely inside to the tearoom and left them exclaiming over menu descriptions of piping hot tea, warm-from-the-oven scones, homemade strawberry jam and thick clotted cream, she seized the opportunity and went back out to the bus.

  ‘Clive?’

  He was reading a newspaper, opened on a page showing a topless young woman. He didn’t look up. ‘Mmm?’

  She cleared her throat. ‘Clive, I don’t like to cause problems between us, but I am having a few difficulties with your manner.’

  ‘What manner?’

  That was it. He didn’t have any manner. ‘I think you’re being a bit informal. Interrupting. And some of your comments have been a little blue.’

  ‘The others like it. That bald fellow didn’t stop laughing. You’re too formal, that’s your problem.’

  ‘I’m in charge of the tour, I have responsibility for everyone in the group and your comments aren’t helping me.’

  ‘Just trying to lighten the load.’

  ‘Really? By singing the theme from Sesame Street each time I stand up?’

  ‘Not loudly.’

  ‘It’s a small bus. And you used the microphone.’

  ‘But you do look like Big Bird. Not that you’re big.’ He looked her up and down. ‘You’ve got a very nice figure, in fact. Pretty face, too. It’s the yellow. The yellow legs especially.’

  Harriet was going to kill Melissa as soon as she got home. And she was definitely going to stop wearing the yellow stockings. Melissa would never know.

  He swung his legs around the seat and gave her his full attention. ‘Do you change colour with each season? It being spring, you go for yellow. Do you go orange in autumn?’

  ‘No, I’m yellow all year round. Clive, please don’t change the subject. I’m serious.’

  ‘I know. As I said before, that’s half your problem. You’re the most tense person I’ve ever met. And I’ve met a lot of Australians. Lived out there myself for nearly fifteen years.’

  She thought she’d detected the trace of an Australian accent in his voice. ‘You did? Where?’

  ‘In the mines, in Western Australia. Worked as a driver in a place called Pannawonica. Picked it because the name made me laugh. Made a fortune but nearly went mad with the loneliness. And the heat. How the hell do you all stick it out?’

  ‘It’s not that hot where we live. It’s a seaside place.’

  ‘I’d have given my left ba—,’ he stopped himself just in time, flashing her his monkey smile. ‘Sorry, thought I was back in the mines for a minute there. I’d have given anything for a day by the beach back then. It was the homesickness that got me in the end. That and the minor matter of a family left back here.’ He made that snickering sound again.

  ‘You’re married?’

  ‘Yep, for my sins. One wife, two grown sons, four grandchildren. Don’t know how the missus puts up with me. She runs a B&B back in Bristol nowadays. Good company for her, I’m on the road most of the time.’ As he was talking he was wriggling around in his seat. ‘Do you know there was a study done once into whether bus drivers had fertility problems on account of all the sitting we do. No one asked me any questions, I could have told them a thing or two, though. Sheepskin is the key.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  He lifted himself up off the seat and she saw the sheepskin cover under his bottom. ‘Keeps me cool in summer, warm in winter and lets plenty of air circulate. Now then, you wanted to say something?’

  ‘Yes, Clive, before the others come back, I do need to clarify that —’

  ‘Yes, yes, that you’re
in charge. Of course you are. But it’s like that nanny business, really. The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world. The hands that drive the bus rule the tour. Har, har!’ His laugh was like a motorbike starting up.

  She wondered whether the best thing to do would be to ring the bus company and ask for a different driver. It was as if he read her mind. ‘You’re lucky you got anyone to drive this bus, you know. The most awful dose of gastro has been doing the rounds of our drivers the past few weeks. One of the drivers had it without realising. Before he knew it, he’d passed it on to the entire tour group. Imagine those pit stops!’

  That answered that, then. What would James or Lara do in this situation? It was best not to think that way. It had to be her decision. She decided to give in for the time being. Sometimes that was the best option. ‘The poor things. And you’re feeling all right?’

  ‘Couldn’t be better.’

  She swallowed again. ‘Well, I’m glad we had this chat. And if you could help me a little more, Clive.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, BB, I’ll do my best.’

  She smiled weakly and went back inside to pay for the scones.

  It was nearly three by the time they reached the second stop, the seaside town of Bude, over the Devon border into Cornwall. As they drove into the town, Harriet read from James’s prepared script: ‘Here in Bude is the grand hotel dating back to the 1790s that was used as the setting for the ballroom scene in episode two, “The Case of the Titled Temptress”. That ball was, of course, also where our dashing hero Willoughby first met the beautiful yet wily Lady Garvan, who was to prove more than his match in subsequent episodes!’

  James’s writing was getting more colourful as it went along. He’d either been getting further into the swing of it or further into a bottle of wine. It gave her a glimpse of a different James. If he hadn’t been so responsible, so obliging, so barricaded behind Melissa and her ambitions, he might have chosen a different career, she suspected. He’d always loved writing, she knew. As a teenager, when he wasn’t watching cricket, she remembered him scribbling away in notebooks, coming up with ideas for his own comedy skits or writing funny poems. But he’d been so loyal to his parents; there had never been any talk of him going to work anywhere but the travel agency. He’d been one of their hardest working guides and he worked even harder now as the general manager.

  Perhaps that was the downside of a family business, Harriet thought. It brought a guaranteed income and a job for life, but it wasn’t necessarily the job you would have chosen for yourself. Writing the notes for the itineraries was probably James’s only creative outlet these days, she realised. It explained a lot. It also helped her forgive his more colourful phrases. She read on, much more cheerfully.

  ‘An extra five minutes with Patrick Shawcross to anyone who can remember what Lady Garvan was wearing the night of the ball!’

  The subsequent discussion – it came down to a choice between an off-the-shoulder green taffeta dress or a silver sheath with long white lace gloves – kept the group occupied throughout the twenty-minute stroll through the town.

  They arrived in St Ives right on schedule. The whole bus – even Clive – fell silent as they drove down the coast road, past rows of terraced houses and hotels, tantalised by quick glimpses of blue water now and then.

  The view suddenly opened in front of them. It was a glorious sweep of bay, beaches and sea, edged by a jumble of hilly streets crammed with whitewashed and stone-fronted buildings. The late afternoon sun shone down on the long curving stretches of sand, creating sparkling spots of golden light on the blue sea. They couldn’t have timed their arrival better. There were white sails against the blue water, and along the shore line, families playing on the sand.

  Clive leaned over to her. He’d been almost well behaved since their chat, having told only one vaguely ribald joke about a goose and a nun. ‘The roads are clear enough. Do you want me to take a quick run along the seafront before we go to the hotel?’

  ‘That would be great, thanks.’

  Clive slowed the bus almost to a crawl, and they peered up cobblestoned laneways at the vivid splashes of colour from window boxes and pots of geraniums. There were art galleries, cafes, sweet shops, fish restaurants and old-fashioned seaside shops with buckets and spades, umbrellas, beach chairs and jaunty sunhats hanging outside. A sign by the road pointed to the Tate St Ives and the Barbara Hepworth Sculpture Museum.

  Harriet turned on the microphone and read from the script, editing out James’s more breathless passages as she went along. ‘Over the years many famous artists have made St Ives their home, drawn by the natural beauty and the unusual quality of the light. We’ll have plenty of time to explore over the next few days and to visit not just the cottage whose exterior was used as Willoughby’s home, but also the lighthouse featured in episodes three, ten and fifteen and the post office featured in episode six.’

  ‘Episode seven,’ Mrs Lamerton interrupted. ‘ “The Case of the Mislaid Mail”. ’

  ‘Sorry, episode seven.’ She had misread it. They’d definitely be keeping her on her toes. ‘But now let’s go to the hotel, check in and then all meet for cocktails with our special guest, Mr —’

  ‘Patrick Shawcross!’ Three of them finished her sentence for her. Someone – was it Mrs Lamerton or Miss Talbot? – even gave a cheer.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘It’s so homely,’ Harriet heard Miss Boyd say as they all filed into the hotel foyer.

  ‘My grandmother had that very same wallpaper,’ Mrs Pollard remarked.

  ‘It reminds me of that guesthouse we stayed at in Canada, Doris, do you remember it?’ Mr Douglas asked his wife. ‘It was so beautiful, with such wonderful views. The bay was still as a milkpond.’

  ‘Millpond, dear,’ she said wearily.

  The hotel was in a perfect position, right on the cliff, looking down over Porthminster Beach and across to the lighthouse. The décor was a bit old-fashioned – overly patterned carpets, a mixture of chintzy and flock wallpaper, and big baskets of artificial flowers – but the tour members were delighted.

  Mr Fidock came in from his exploring, rubbing his hands together. ‘There’s even a seaview bar, ladies and gents. Bring on happy hour!’

  The hotel staff ferried bags up and down the stairs, leaving the old gated lift free for the tour party. Harriet made sure everyone was settled in their rooms, for the time being, at least. She knew there would probably be the usual complaints about itchy bedding, dirty windows, faulty bathroom lights and/or slow-boiling kettles over the next few days, but for now everyone seemed happy. She darted up to her own room. It was one of the smaller ones at the back of the hotel, in the same corridor as Mrs Lamerton, Miss Talbot and Mrs Kempton, but looking out over the road and several other hotels rather than the beach. It was the usual arrangement – she and Clive would have the equivalent of servants’ quarters, leaving the good rooms for the tour guests.

  There’d been an awkward moment at reception, when the woman in charge asked in Mrs Lamerton’s hearing whether Lara would be checking in later.

  Harriet had lowered her voice. ‘I’ll come back to you on that, if that’s okay?’

  ‘So she might be turning up?’ Mrs Lamerton had still managed to eavesdrop.

  ‘I’m still hopeful,’ she’d said, before taking refuge in a pretend call on her mobile phone. She’d also slipped back to reception after Mrs Lamerton had gone upstairs, and asked if there was any chance of getting a TV and video machine installed in her room. It would be no problem at all, she was told. She’d have it within the hour.

  Now, in her room, she called reception again and asked to be put through to Patrick Shawcross’s room. She listened to the soft burr of the dial tone, her mind drifting as it went on and on. She jumped when it was finally answered.

  ‘Good afternoon!’

  It was an American man. A cheery American. Harriet was taken by surprise. ‘I’m sorry, I must have the wrong room.’ She hung up and dialled reception
again.

  ‘Hello, this is Harriet Turner again. Could you put me through to Mr Shawcross’s room?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ms Turner, I thought I just did. Let me try again.’

  The phone was answered quickly. ‘Good afternoon again. And let me check, yes, it’s still a beautiful afternoon.’ It was the same man.

  ‘Mr Shawcross?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Shawcross, hello. This is Harriet Turner. I’m so sorry for hanging up on you before.’ Harriet had been expecting a Cornish accent, her head so full of Willoughby episodes she was imagining a Patrick Shawcross of fifteen years ago. He’d been living in Boston for years, of course he would have picked up a bit of an American accent. Had Lara mentioned that? Then she remembered Lara hadn’t spoken to him while setting up the tour. Everything had been arranged via the French assistant in the talent agency in America, mostly by fax and email.

  ‘Hello, Harriet. That’s no problem.’

  She tried to sound as businesslike as possible. ‘I hope your room is fine, and that you had no difficulties getting here? And that you got my messages?’

  ‘I did, thank you. Everything is fine. And your basket of fruit couldn’t have been more welcoming, so thank you for that as well.’

  ‘Oh, good.’ He sounded so friendly. So normal. She took a breath and started delivering the explanatory speech she had been rehearsing all day. ‘Mr Shawcross, I need to fill you in on one or two things. There’s been a slight change in arrangements. We did fax your agents with this news, but you may have been en route already and not heard all of it. You were originally going to be travelling with my brother James, but unfortunately he had an accident, so I’ve taken over his role. My apologies also that neither Lara nor myself were able to phone and greet you last night as we expected. I’m afraid our flight was delayed, and then unfortunately Lara was unable to meet us …’ she trailed off. He didn’t need to know everything immediately, did he?