Family Baggage

by Monica McInerney

  ‘Widemouth Bay.’

  ‘They’ve moved the church to the Bay?’

  ‘No, the opening credits started with you at Widemouth Bay and then went to the Widecombe-in-the-Moor church.’

  ‘That’s right, so they did. I’m sorry, but you must understand that being interviewed for a magazine article is a long way from being paraded from one part of Cornwall to the other like a prized pet.’

  ‘We’ve called you our special guest, not a prized pet.’

  ‘I’d feel like a prized pet.’

  ‘But we thought you’d jumped at it. Sophie told Lara that you accepted immediately.’

  ‘I did. I knew I’d be on holiday this month so the timing was good. I liked the idea of seeing Cornwall again.’ He smiled. ‘I also thought I’d better get in quickly, before you tracked down someone from Poldark.’

  She gave a guilty smile. ‘That isn’t quite as popular in Australia as Willoughby.’

  ‘It really is still a hit there?’

  Harriet nodded.

  ‘Amazing. I’ve had fan mail from Australia occasionally, passed on months after it’s been sent, usually. I don’t do much work with that agency any more, so I’m small fry to them these days, I suppose.’ He sounded surprisingly relaxed about it. ‘We didn’t ever expect Willoughby to take off at all, you know. My suspicion always was that it had been made as a sort of tax dodge. It was the most ramshackle production. No one seemed to know what they were doing. Not only the cast but the crew as well. Not that I complained. It was a dream first job.’

  If she wasn’t on the verge of losing him as her special guest she would be enjoying hearing all this. Her curiosity got the better of her. ‘How did you get the part?’

  He seemed just as happy to talk, crossing his long legs in front of him. ‘Three things, really. One, I was an unknown so I was cheap. Two, the way I looked. The director had a specific idea in his head and I happened to match it. And three, I was sharing a house with one of the producers. I’ve always had a sneaking suspicion that was the clincher.’ A flash of that smile again. ‘And TV back then was nothing like it is now. If anything, it was embarrassing to admit you’d done a TV show. The real actors stayed in repertory theatre.’

  ‘That’s why you went to America? To go back to stage acting?’

  ‘No, I actually got a part in a very bad soap opera over there.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really bad, do you mean? Oh yes, on every level. The writing, the sets, my acting.’

  She was surprised again at how honest he was. Where was the big ego she’d been expecting? ‘Would I have seen it?’

  ‘I hope not, for your sake. I played the heir to a huge oil fortune who was making pornographic films to bring disgrace on his family. My name was Roger Hardwick. Imagine. I’m sure the scriptwriters thought it was hilarious.’ He shook his head. ‘I was thinking about it on the flight over. If I thought Willoughby was bad … Mind you, it made for some excellent dinner party stories over the years. All soft focus and cardboard sets. I also had to wear a large fake moustache.’ He laughed again.

  ‘So no one recognises you, at least?’

  ‘No, luckily. That’s being grateful for small mercies, isn’t it?’

  She was about to ask him another question when she remembered why they were both here. ‘Mr Shawcross, perhaps we should get back down to business …’

  ‘That actually sounds like a line from that very soap.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but we really do need to sort this out. If I could just explain —’

  He held up his hand to stop her. ‘Please, Harriet, you don’t need to. There’s nothing to explain. It was a simple mix-up. I’ve had a nice flight over, a good night’s sleep, a morning swim. It’s been a pleasure to see St Ives again after all these years. So no harm done. I’m more than happy to refund you any of your expenses, and please, give my apologies to the tour group.’

  An icy feeling shot down her spine. No. He had to stay. Harriet knew Mrs Lamerton was put out enough about James and Lara not turning up. She would kill her if there was no Patrick Shawcross. ‘Please, Mr Shawcross, can’t you give it some more thought? The group have all been looking forward to it so much. They’ve been doing nothing but watch Willoughby videos for weeks in preparation.’

  ‘Really?’

  She nodded.

  ‘The poor things.’

  She blinked.

  ‘It really was a terrible program, you know,’ he said. ‘None of the plots ever made sense. There was one where the vicar’s wife was murdered, and supposedly it was the jealous gardener who did it. Yet if you traced it chronologically there was no way possible it was him.’

  She had watched that program the evening before. Series one, episode three: ‘The Case of the Green-eyed Gardener’. ‘That’s what I thought. It all tied up too neatly in the end. It would have made far more sense if it was the visiting professor, the one who had rented the holiday cottage, who had been behind it.’

  ‘Yes, exactly.’ He smiled. ‘That’s funny. I haven’t thought about that episode in years.’

  She glanced at her watch. It was getting very late. There was no time for reminiscing. She had to plunge in again. ‘Mr Shawcross, what would it take to convince you to stay? Because I’ll do whatever I can.’

  ‘Harriet, are you sure you didn’t see that soap opera I was in? You seem to be quoting it back at me, line for line. I remember a casting couch scene just like that.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. And I didn’t mean to sound —’ she searched for the word and chose the first one that came to mind, ‘racy.’

  ‘Racy?’ He laughed again, a deep, rich sound. ‘What a wonderful word. And look, you’re actually blushing. How lovely. I didn’t think anyone blushed any more. Do you know, I was at an Actors’ Equity dinner in Los Angeles last year and there wasn’t a blush or a frown to be found in the entire room. They’d all had either plastic surgery or Botox injections. Women and men.’

  ‘Really? You’ve had it yourself?’

  ‘Good God, no. You know it’s made out of a virus that causes paralysis? An actor friend of mine at home in Boston told me he is waiting for the day when all the side effects cut in and ninety-five per cent of the actors in America drop dead. “Think of the work we’ll get then, Pat,” he told me. “They’ll come begging for us. The only standing actors in the world.” ’

  ‘So you’re not working as an actor much these days?’

  ‘No, not much.’

  He didn’t seem worried about it. Her mobile phone beeped in her bag. Melissa checking up on her? The thought chilled her. She let it go to voicemail.

  He stood up. ‘I’d better not keep you. It’s been a pleasure talking to you, Harriet, but as I said, I don’t think —’

  No. She couldn’t let him go. She stood up too, glad her heels gave her some extra height. He was nearly a head taller than her as it was and she needed all the authority she could gather.

  ‘Please, Mr Shawcross. Won’t you at least come to the cocktail party tonight? I can’t tell you how much it would mean to the group. It really wasn’t their fault there was this mix-up and they’d be devastated if they didn’t get to meet you.’ She noticed something in his expression as he looked down at her. A wavering? She started talking at record speed. It seemed important to tell him everything. ‘They’ve so many questions they want to ask you. And they’re dying to show you their impersonations. Two of them want you to watch them act out their favourite bits from the series. And one of the ladies has even made you a jumper. With a little embroidered Patch on the bottom right-hand side.’

  ‘Really?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Who was Patch again?’

  ‘Your dog. The black and white dog.’

  ‘The dog?’ He frowned. ‘So who was it I had the beer with at the end of each show?’

  ‘That was George. The farmer from the adjoining property to your cottage.’

  ‘Oh yes. “That’s people, isn’t
it, George?” ’

  ‘ “Aye, Willoughby, so it is.” ’ Harriet answered without thinking. She rushed on. ‘Could you see it as a challenge to you as an actor? I could help you. Feed you all your lines. I’ve got all the videos of the show here. You could watch them all, get a refresher course.’ She gazed up at him, crossing her fingers behind her back, trying to stay calm, imagining a duck paddling madly under the water.

  His next words gave her some hope. ‘Tell me again how the tour was supposed to start?’

  She knew the itinerary by heart. ‘Tonight, officially. With a cocktail party here in the hotel so they could all meet you. Then we had trips planned for every day, to different locations from the program. The group helped us put the itinerary together. They even did a vote of which were their favourite locations.’

  ‘Oh? Which one won?’

  ‘It was a toss up between the smugglers’ cottage in episode four and the historic hotel where you first met Lady Garvan and accused her of dealing in counterfeit artwork.’

  Another puzzled look.

  ‘When you kissed her, and she slapped you and said she didn’t mess with commoners. And then you took her to bed.’

  ‘Did I? Good Lord. Did I enjoy it?’

  ‘I think so.’ The program had been surprisingly sexy for its time. Lots of groans and flashes of bare skin in that scene, before it faded to out-of-focus and then came back to them both in bed, puffing away on cigarettes.

  She had to make one more effort to convince him to stay. Her words came in a rush. ‘Mr Douglas has even bought a digital camera to take photos of you. He’s going to set up a Willoughby website for everyone when he gets home. And little Miss Talbot has hardly been able to sleep with the excitement. It’s the trip of a lifetime for everyone. Please don’t go. I’d hate to let them all down.’

  ‘Harriet, that was so heartfelt. Have you ever thought of taking up acting yourself?’

  She could see the amusement in his eyes. He wasn’t only smiling at her, she realised. He was practically laughing. She couldn’t bear it. If he’d had any idea how hard the past year had been, stuck behind her desk, doing nothing but filing, and computer work, feeling nothing but scared and a failure. This time tomorrow he’d be home in America, while she’d still be trying to explain to the tour group and James and Melissa why the trip was a disaster before it had begun. And that didn’t even begin to take into account why Lara had decided not to show up.

  She was suddenly furious. With him, with James for landing her in this mess, with Melissa for all her bullying, with Lara for disappearing, with Clive and his Big Bird remarks, all of them … ‘No, I haven’t. And never mind. I understand. I’m sorry to have brought you all the way here for nothing. If you can give me an hour or so I’ll get on to the airline and organise your flight back home to London or Los Angeles or —’ Oh, damn it, now she’d forgotten where he lived, ‘Silicon Valley, wherever it is you want to go.’

  ‘Silicon Valley? Because of the plastic surgery?’ He laughed out loud. ‘Very droll, Harriet. And please calm down. I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘You’re not?’

  ‘Apart from a strange ragbag of Willoughby locations, it seems.’

  A tremor of hope. ‘You’ll do it?’

  He put his fingers on his temples and shut his eyes.

  ‘Mr Shawcross?’

  He opened his eyes. Blue mischief looked at her. His voice was low, deep. It filled the room. ‘ “There are some mornings when I wake up and see the blue of the sea and feel the freshness of the wind and I know I’m home.” ’

  She knew the line by heart. It was from the beginning of episode one, ‘The Case of the Prodigal Postman’, setting the scene when Willoughby first returns to his home place. He had it word for word. And he’d spoken in a perfect Cornish accent.

  She couldn’t stop the big smile. ‘Oh. Oh, thank you. You won’t regret it, I promise. We’ll spoil you rotten.’ It was all she could do not to hug him.

  Back in her room five minutes later, she had to stop herself somersaulting onto the bed. She’d managed it! She’d pulled the tour back from the brink! It was going to be okay! The sound of the mobile phone interrupted her victory lap of the room. She snatched it up.

  ‘Harold? Is everything okay? I rang your mobile before and only got your voicemail.’

  It was Austin. ‘I was in doing a briefing with Mr Shawcross.’ She loved how normal it sounded.

  ‘Oh, right. And everything’s fine with him?’

  ‘Absolutely fine, yes.’ She kept her voice even, but inside she wanted to shout the words. She wanted to leap in the air and click her heels together it was so fine.

  ‘Harold, I’ve decided to come over to Bath as soon as I can, to have a word with Lara’s flatmate. I’ve checked out the airports. I’m going to fly to Plymouth first, come and see you in St Ives and then drive up to Bath. Talk to Lara’s flatmate, some people at her college, see if they’ve noticed anything out of the ordinary.’

  ‘You’re coming here?’

  ‘It’ll just be a quick visit.’

  ‘You don’t need to on my account. It’d be great to see you, but I’m fine.’

  ‘It’s no trouble. Besides, I need to pick your brains about Lara some more. She’s obviously upset about something and between the two of us we might be able to figure it out. Work out where she’s gone. Get her back on to the tour as soon as we can.’

  She sat down abruptly. ‘But what if she doesn’t want us to find her?’

  ‘What?’

  The words felt like they were bursting their way out of her. ‘What if she doesn’t want us to know where she is?’

  ‘What’s got into you? She’s our sister, Harriet. Aren’t you worried about her too?’

  ‘I suppose I’m playing devil’s advocate,’ she hedged. ‘If she did want us to know, then wouldn’t she have told us where she was going? Maybe she does just want some time on her own.’

  ‘If that’s what she’d wanted, if everything was all right, then you know as well as I do that Lara would have rung one of us, told us what arrangements she was making, kept us all up-to-date and then gone away. You know how organised she is. And she would never leave a tour group in the lurch like this. Or you, of all people. I think we need to find her, to make sure she’s okay. Then if she wants to be left alone, we’ll leave her alone.’

  ‘You, of all people.’ She had to tell him. She needed to explain to someone what had happened between her and Lara. She’d just begun to speak when she heard him have a brief conversation with someone near him.

  He came back on. ‘I have to go, Harriet. See you in a couple of days. I’ll find her, don’t worry.’

  ‘Austin, wait, please …’ She was too late. He’d already gone. Her words were left hanging in the air.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Harriet was eight years old when Lara first came to stay with the Turners. James was sent out by his mother to round up her and Austin so they could hear the news. He found Austin in the back garden of the house and travel agency, lying reading in the hammock strung between the plum tree and the clothes-line post. He gave it a push, nearly toppling Austin out onto the ground. ‘Mum wants to talk to us.’

  ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘She said it’s important.’

  ‘This is important. I’m sleeping. It’s an important activity for fourteen-year-olds. We do most of our growing while we’re sleeping, so if I interrupt the growth spurt now there’s every chance I’ll have halted it mid-cycle and I’ll never grow another inch.’

  ‘Austin, I don’t give a rats myself but Mum wants to talk to you.’

  Austin stood up and stretched. ‘When I’m a parent I’m going to let kids do whatever they want.’

  ‘And then you’ll know the torment you’ve put me through.’ Mrs Turner had come out and overheard. ‘Where’s Harriet?’

  ‘In her room.’ Austin said, yawning. ‘Locked inside her jigsaw puzzle prison.’

  ‘Go and get he
r, Austin, would you?’

  He headed inside, picking a plum on the way and throwing it, with perfect aim, at James. He found Harriet in her room, bent over a card table their father had set up for her. A cardboard box with a picture of three kittens peering out of a wicker basket was propped up in front of her. She was frowning, her black hair in little tufts from where she’d been pulling at it as usual.

  ‘Harold, Mum wants a meeting.’

  ‘I’m nearly finished.’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Help me find the middle one’s tail first. I thought I had it but it was his ear.’

  He found it within seconds, slotted it into place and she reluctantly followed him outside, bringing the lid of the puzzle with her.

  Mrs Turner waited until they were sitting down, James at the top of the table, Austin on the bench against the wall and Harriet on the chair beside her mother. ‘Thanks, Harriet. I promise you can get back to your kittens in a minute. I want to give you all some news first.’

  Harriet put up her hand. ‘Are we getting another kid?’

  ‘Child, not kid, Harriet, please. And you’re at home, darling. You don’t need to put up your hand to speak. What made you think we’re getting another child?’

  ‘Bernie at school. She said that every time her mum and dad tell them they have some news they get a new baby.’

  Mrs Turner bit back a smile. The Kellys were up to seven children already. She reached across and kissed Harriet’s head, smoothing down her tufty hair at the same time. ‘No, I’m not having a baby. But it’s a bit like that. You’re going to have a new sort of sister. An instant sister. Just for a little while.’

  Three blank faces looked at her.

  ‘Boys, do you remember Rose Robinson? My English friend from the ship? And in the hostel?’

  ‘A bit,’ James said. Austin thought he vaguely remembered her. Harriet wriggled. She didn’t like it when they spoke about the days on the ship from England or in the migrant hostel. She’d heard all the stories and almost convinced herself she could picture the early days in Australia, but they weren’t her own memories. All she knew for sure was she had been born in one of the tin huts at the migrant hostel, eight and a half months after her parents and two brothers arrived in Australia. Her mum had told her there hadn’t been time to go to the hospital. ‘You were in such a hurry to arrive, Harriet.’ ‘You should have called me Hurriet, then,’ she said. It was her first ever joke. She was really happy when everyone laughed and after that first time she said it as often as she could until Austin told her to put a sock in it. She had to ask him what ‘put a sock in it’ meant.