‘Here’s the man,’ Morwenna announces. ‘I thought you’d forgotten. What kind of time do you call this?’ Daniel’s face clouds as he scrambles to pull back his Arran jumper sleeve for his watch. ‘Daniel, it’s a joke, love, nothing more, I’m teasing you. You know, how we were saying the other day? How we could set our watch by you. You’re never late anywhere.’
Relieved, he smiles. ‘Ahh, the joke, yes, very funny.’ He laughs.
‘It’s a cold one this morning, isn’t it? Lovely though, bright and cold, think it may be my favourite kind of day.’ Morwenna wanders out the back towards the kitchen. ‘I’ll pop the kettle on. It’ll take a while to warm up in here, I’m afraid – heating’s only just come on. Coffee? Tea? Daniel?’ She turns in the silence to find Daniel frozen behind her, staring into her handbag next to the till. His eyes fixated on an envelope sticking out amongst other paperwork, a purse, a comb and a glasses case. ‘You okay?’ she asks.
‘You have an envelope?’
Morwenna glances from Daniel to her bag. ‘Yes, brought my post and stuff with me, else I never seem to get on top of it at home. Do you know what I mean? Too many other distractions. Thought I’d sort it at lunchtime.’ She smiles. ‘Now, coffee or tea?’
‘Tea, please,’ Daniel says, still staring at the envelope.
‘Great, tea it is. Then let’s make a start, shall we? I need your help on deciding where best to put that lovely lot.’ Morwenna indicates the collection of framed watercolours, and delicately blown glass pieces rippled with colours of sunshine.
Daniel shifts his gaze. ‘Crazy,’ he says, wandering towards them. ‘These are exquisite.’ Eyes all alight. ‘Truly beautiful.’ He runs his hand over the smooth transparent surface.
‘Have you ever thought about painting, Daniel?’
‘Lots. But then I used to paint sometimes, when I complained with nothing to do, shut in the bedroom. I was sent paint and canvas.’
‘Really? Shut in your bedroom?’
‘Quiet time. When the nanny was taking her break, I used to get quiet time. Painting gave me so much comfort.’
‘I see. Well, I did wonder, you seem to know so much about it and you’re always so responsive to art. It’s a shame not to carry it on now, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Yes, I suppose it is. But…’ Daniel hesitates ‘… but I have my writing.’
‘True. True. You do, and your books. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone with as many books as you. You’ve practically enough to put together your own library, I’d say. Did you write as a child?’
‘Not really, it wasn’t allowed. Initially Father used to say I already spent far too much time in my imagination. Then, when I was older, he said I had better things to be doing. “All writers are poor, Daniel. Do something productive for a change.”’
‘Gosh, how… how insensitive of him.’
Daniel smiles. ‘Why don’t you borrow some books, Morwenna? I receive new ones each week. And I really wouldn’t mind. I’d like to share them with you.’
‘Thanks, Daniel, I just may take you up on that. So, tell me, where do these new books come from?’
‘Father. Always from Father. Seems he now approves of books. Think he’s given up on me, doesn’t bother attempting to dissuade me any more. Anything to keep me quiet again. Though he’s always approved of reading, something I did that didn’t anger him. Every Monday or Tuesday he sends them.’
‘What, and he chooses your books for you?’
Daniel laughs. ‘No, silly, of course not.’
Morwenna hands him a china mug of steaming tea. ‘I did wonder.’
‘I choose them, complete the weekly order form and email it to him.’
‘Seems like rather a lot of books, if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘No, why would I mind you saying what you think? Sometimes I don’t get through them, but I quite often read a book each day.’
‘I really must read more. I used to make more effort. Not sure what I do with myself these days.’ Morwenna giggles. ‘I don’t think the wine helps, makes my eyes so heavy at night. Still, at least your father is looking after you, sending you things you enjoy.’
‘Our bodies are our gardens, to which our wills are gardeners.’
‘Oh, my gosh, Daniel, it’s way too early for such philosophical conversation.’ She waves her hand. ‘I take it you’re making some reference to…’
‘My father’s motives?’
‘Are you?’
‘Maybe. Maybe I have little free will. Maybe I only do what he likes. The master of the house. Or maybe this is only what he thinks?’ Daniel notices Morwenna shaking her head; he’s confused her? Worried her? ‘He likes me to keep occupied. An occupancy that doesn’t require his input, other than money.’
‘Daniel, I…’
‘It doesn’t upset me. I understand it. I am not what he hoped for. I never have been. Then he felt maybe I could redeem myself with going to Cambridge. Take Rebecca’s place even. But I needed to leave before I completed my course. So I am, again, a huge disappointment.’
‘Oh, Daniel…’
‘I understand, Morwenna. I am fine with it. And…’ he smiles ‘… I have my books.’ Gently Daniel puts down his tea to pick up a watercolour, slowly stepping towards the front shop window. ‘This is magnificent,’ he says in a larger-than-life forthright voice. ‘I almost feel as though I could step right in and float away on one of those clouds.’ He turns to catch Morwenna’s eye as they both burst into laughter.
21
Morwenna
It’s the third day in October. Morwenna treads the several stone steps up to the cathedral door. It’s her wedding anniversary and Truro Cathedral is somewhere she comes to talk to John, her husband. She halts in the foyer area. Beyond the solid glass and wooden doors a pianist is playing classical music; the nave is packed with transfixed bodies. She takes a step back to read the noticeboard; it clearly states today’s piano recital. She hadn’t realised. She hovers for a while wondering whether or not she should enter, until a couple push the door open from inside. Taking the door from them, she creeps in. John loved the piano – maybe this is especially for them.
Inside she feels the heaviness, a rising of all her shut-door policy, sadness; it’s draining but also a relief. The pianist’s melody emphasising and heightening the pull of the carefully guarded emotions. The concentrated crowd sit, mesmerised, filling the central pews, as she makes her way to the right, under imposing archways with discreetly appointed uplighters. She passes the memorial to the world war veterans, dipping her head, remembering her grandfather’s service and her grandmother’s tales. FOR FREEDOM AND MERCY AND TRUTH, it reads. All those poor people coped in the most horrendous of times, so why has she failed so appallingly? To the left of the memorial is the gunmetal table, where hundreds of candles flicker and burn. All, she supposes, representing someone’s grief, someone’s prayers. Should she be allowed to light a candle too, for all her sins? She remembers the note, the one Daniel spotted, in a printed envelope left in her pigeonhole. She’s read it over and over since her lunch hour yesterday.
EVERYONE HAS THEIR SECRETS
That’s all it says, in typed, targeted words. When she first opened it she dropped her mug of coffee onto the perfect taupe carpet, reserved for the exhibition room, then spent twenty minutes attempting to soak it back up, followed by scrubbing, then wondering – who on earth? What on earth? Was the note meant for her? Of course it was.
Feeling her eyes moisten, Mo glances down at the small tea light she’s squeezing in her hand. Taking a box of matches from her handbag and setting her candle amongst the other candles, she lights it. Stepping back a couple of feet, she closes her eyes. ‘Everyone has their secrets,’ she whispers.
Wiping the tear trickling down her face, she turns her thoughts to John, her reason for being here, not to worry about some crackpot sending spurious notes. She takes a seat on a pew.
What is it about these places, John? Loo
k at silly old me, don’t I always have a cry when I come? But I feel close to you here, then it highlights my loneliness. I mean, our son, I miss him dreadfully, but he’s living his life. I have to accept this, don’t I? I have my precious friends too but they’re still not you, are they? Then, I do have Natalie, lovely Natalie. My gosh, let me tell you, she’s had her fair share of sadness too – maybe it’s this that connects us? And now there’s the issue with her father being back on the scene. Terrible, terrible business. The best thing that could have happened was for him to be locked up in prison. There’s something so solemn and hurt sitting at the backs of her eyes. But sometimes I wonder, my attachment to her, is this selfish? Am I being selfish, John? Is she becoming the surrogate child I’ve seemingly lost?
Why did you have to leave me, John? Sometimes you make me feel so cross. Then - how could I have done this to you? How could I have sent you away from me?
Morwenna sits for a little while longer, filling John in with all the latest news. She’s in no hurry, with no plans but to wander the cobbled streets of Truro. It had always been their shared dream, to live in Cornwall. Perhaps this is why there’s always a feeling. Deeply, buried, like an itch she can’t reach to satisfy. And when she stops laughing, sometimes she wants to cry.
It’s a while before she realises the pianist has stopped playing; a mass of bodies still in a melodious trance are moving around the cathedral. A buzzing of hushed, whispered voices, swallowed and drowned by the high vaulted ceiling. Standing up, she decides to leave, to blend with the crowds. Passing through the wedged-open door, she spots a familiar face across the sea of unknown faces. Nigel? Surely she’s mistaken – he was staring directly at her, so he’d have spotted her, said hello. Anyway, why would Nigel be here? Mind, he is partial to a little classical music – maybe he was here for the pianist? Back on the pavement, she flicks between faces. There’s no sign of him, she must have been mistaken
She’s a couple of hours to kill before the bus to St Ives ahead of her weekly meeting at 17:30 so decides to treat herself to a late lunch at one of the new vegan cafés, recommended by Natalie. When she and John first came to Truro for their honeymoon, there wouldn’t have been any such eateries; now they’re popping up everywhere. They fell in love with Cornwall from that first visit, staying at a farmhouse bed and breakfast in Trevellas Porth. Dead at the scene, they informed her, nothing could be done to help him unfortunately. Unfortunately? But this isn’t the entire story, is it, Morwenna?
At 17:25, Morwenna is back flurrying along the cobbles of St Ives, not wishing to be late for her meeting. She swings past the beautiful curved building protruding into the road, Mark’s other gallery, set away from the seafront, holding her breath, with no time for niceties should anyone spot her. She bundles herself at the back of a group of students, mulling in and out of the brightly clad mishmash of shop entrances, until she’s cleared the gallery’s viewing point. Minutes later she veers left away from the main bustle up towards yet another magnificent building, with its castle-like turrets and arched leaded windows. ‘St Ives Artists’, the sign reads on the front.
Approaching the doorway slightly out of breath, she takes a moment to collect herself. What has she to report this week? Each week they have new members, each week they lose members, those not yet ready to commit, their heads advising them this is the right thing to do, their hearts querying – but what will you do if not this? How will you cope? She understands each day is a battle; each day requires working through the ins and outs with the little voice goading in the background. Take the easy option, escape the pain, even for a moment or two. Casting her eyes one final time down the street, she enters through the stone doorway, shutting behind her the door into her secret world. She’s not ashamed to be here, yet, if this were really true, wouldn’t she have shared this fragment of her life with the others? Natalie at least? Shame? Denial? Fear of being judged? Is she no more than a fake? But, Morwenna reasons, people don’t always share everything. Everyone has their secrets.
Someone already knows I have mine.
EVERYONE HAS THEIR SECRETS.
22
Natalie
Perfect. Another sleepless night. Another heavy-concealer day with half my wits about me. Why, Natalie? There haven’t been any further creepy moments since the other night and, the more I think of it, I was probably overreacting, stringing together stupid, pathetic incidents. But even so, there’s this horrible clammy, dense feeling I can’t shake; it’s in my blood, running through my veins, drip-feeding all my vital organs. First, it was the letters – not that I’m a stranger to letters from my father; he’s written to me for years despite my non-response. But learning he’s now out of prison changes things – at least, it does in his eyes. Then, there’s the person who ran into me, accidentally. Deliberately? I’ve been mulling it over. There was no one else around when it happened; the pavement was hardly rammed with nowhere to sidestep me. Even if I give him or her the benefit of the doubt, and it was an accident, wouldn’t they have stopped? Realising they’d knocked someone to the floor? Something feels very wrong about it. That smell?
Don’t personalise. That’s what the book says. I picked it up from the library the other week. How to Overcome Anxiety and Depression: rule number one – do not interpret negative occurrences as personal attacks. Don’t look for your part in each and every problem. Can this be applied to being laid out flat on the pavement? It’s kind of personal, isn’t it? Okay, so if I was to argue this point, I guess it could be that whoever it was was so wrapped up in their own problems they were simply oblivious to me. All five feet seven of me. I pick up my bowl of cereal to sit at the small but perfectly adequate table. There’s a chill in the air so I plod over to the thermostat to flick on the heating. I’ll limit myself to an hour of heat, then turn it off.
Now, back to my negative incidents. Yes, what about the noises I heard the other night, here in this flat, my home? And the smell? The sweet smell? The book would advise me I’m simply overusing my imagination, making associations and jumping to irrational conclusions. The smell was probably the candle burning at the time. I glance at the glass jar sitting on the kitchen workbench: sweet pea and vanilla, yes, this would fit. The noises, they could simply be because I was already on edge, so, understandably, my hearing was in partnership with my imagination. And let’s not forget, if I hadn’t received the letter informing me the idiots had set my father free, I probably would have shrugged all these freaky scenarios off; maybe I wouldn’t have noticed the smell or the noises. Anyway, as Mark says, I’m on the first floor, only he and Mo have a spare key, I’m as safe as can ever be. But in the early hours of this morning, I was super convinced someone had broken into the flat. Shared this air with me, that I was in fact breathing in their very breath.
I shrug off the twisted thoughts, not wishing to waste any more of my day off. I’ll shower then give Daniel a knock; we’re having lunch together. I try to do this each week. Daniel never complains of being lonely but it doesn’t take a genius to work out; besides, I enjoy his company. Always good fun and so blissfully uncomplicated in a kind of convoluted manner.
From my bedroom window, I notice Nigel, later than usual, mounting his bike, trousers tucked into regulation socks. I can’t help myself and bang loudly on the glass to give him a wave. Cautiously he gazes up to me; with a half-smile he honours me with a wooden wave before pushing off and disappearing down the street. The house we share is not particularly deep and I love the way we have dual-aspect views: from my living area I have Smeatons Pier, jutting its way into the sea, dividing the busy Harbour Beach and the exclusive rock pooled cove of Bamaluz Beach. From my bedroom and dressing room, as I refer to the rather small extra box room, I have the crooked, steep walkway down to town. I chuckle to myself. Nigel’s one on his own – we don’t half have some characters living under this roof.
Don’t ask me how but a couple of hours pass before I knock on Daniel’s door, counting to five. I make it to four befor
e he swings it open, a languid grin plastered across his face. ‘Hey. You ready?’ I ask despite knowing – of course he is. Daniel is the younger brother I’d have loved. Not that I could wish my childhood on anyone else – seems as though Daniel has already endured a plenteous share of childhood issues. ‘Thought we’d make a day of it, if you’re free, Dan. I’ve nothing on this afternoon, if you fancy going for a walk or something. Or we could just people-watch.’ For lunch we’re going to the wine-bar-cum-bistro-cum-café on the seafront, where tables are warmed by outdoor heaters and you could happily lose the day watching the comings and goings. Daniel frowns. ‘It’s only a suggestion. If you’ve already made other plans…’
‘No. I mean, yes, I’d love to but I have to be somewhere else by four-thirty and I can’t be…’
‘Sure, no problem, we’ve still plenty of time. I’m out with Mark later, so I’ll need to be back anyway.’
Daniel shrugs and turns away. Sometimes I wonder if he’s not keen on Mark. Yet, as far as I know, Mark’s always been straightforward with him, offered him casual work, more to help Daniel out than anything. I follow Daniel through to his sitting-room area, overlooking the garden with glimpses of the town over the old Cornish slate wall. If I stand on my tiptoes I can see a felt-tip-penned blue line, smudged at the edges: the sea. I kind of feel guilty because my view is so much better. If I lived here this view would frustrate the life out of me, the sea being so close and yet out of reach.
‘Okay,’ Daniel says, negotiating his rucksack onto his back. ‘Sorry, Natalie, I wish I’d known. It would have been nice to spend longer with you.’
‘Silly, we’ve still most of the afternoon. I only meant I needn’t run off after lunch like I normally have to. We’ve plenty of time. Shall we?’ I nod towards the door.
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