A Cornish Summer

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Look at those,’ Babs waved her hand at them. ‘Wouldn’t look out of place in Blenheim Palace, and that sofa.’ A very formal, high-backed pink damask affair with gold fringing stood in front of the wood-burning stove. ‘And a fire in a box.’ She sniffed. ‘Is there anything uglier?’

  ‘They throw out a lot of heat and they’re frightfully economical,’ I said in some display of loyalty.

  ‘That’s what they say about sensible shoes, they’re frightfully comfortable and go on forever, but nothing beats a blazing log fire. Oh well, you’ll muddle through, I suppose.’

  ‘I think it’s amazing,’ Celia enthused, eyes shining. She went off to poke around in the little wooden kitchen at the end. ‘And the floor’s gorgeous,’ she said, gazing down at the traditional dark Cornish slate.

  ‘Yes, well, you can’t ruin that. And upstairs is better. She kept it simple, thank God.’

  We went up the stairs that led directly from the sitting room to where a bathroom and two double bedrooms, each decorated with plain white bedspreads, wooden chests of drawers, mirrors, and blue cotton rugs on the floor, were indeed simple. Celia went straight to the window, flung it open to the beach below, and leaned out. The sand was pale gold and seemed to stretch for miles beyond the dunes until it reached the sea. The blue-green water was calm and limpid as it lapped the shore. A few children paddled and a man walked his dog.

  ‘Look at that.’ She breathed in deeply, shutting her eyes.

  Babs smiled and came to suck her ciggie beside her. ‘Heaven, isn’t it? You can never tire of that. But if you’re thinking of painting on the beach down there, it gets a bit windy, and obviously it’s quite accessible since it’s only a hop and a skip over the dunes, so you might get a degree of interest. You’d be better off going down the coast path a bit to the one around the corner, down the cliff. It’s more sheltered and private. Anyway, you’ll work it out.’ She turned and headed back towards the stairs. ‘Drink? I took the precaution of bringing a bottle. I bet it flowed like glue at lunch.’

  ‘Actually, it was OK,’ Celia told her, following her down. ‘Although I could have done with a top-up. Flora was better placed, next to Roger, but Belinda seemed to be on water so I didn’t want to lunge across her for the bottle and look like a dipso.’

  ‘Oh, you poor love. Here.’ Babs was already bustling across to the kitchen, where, handily placed in the fridge, was a bottle of wine, which she opened. She reached in the cupboard for glasses. ‘Although don’t fall for that water-glass trick of Belinda’s. If you tried it, you’d find it was neat gin.’

  ‘No!’ Celia was entranced. Babs raised arched eyebrows meaningfully and nodded.

  ‘Don’t believe a thing Babs says,’ I told her hastily. ‘She’s full of stories about Belinda.’

  ‘And you grew up with her?’ Celia asked, ignoring me and encouraging the storyteller. She sat on a stool at the breakfast bar and took the glass that was offered, supping thirstily.

  ‘Well, she grew up in Truro, on a modern estate. The rest of us were round here – Iris right here, of course. The worst sort of snobs are very often those who aren’t born to it, I’m afraid. That’s one of the reasons she was against Flora marrying Hugo, because there was no money in her family.’

  ‘Oh Babs, stop it!’ I squealed. ‘Stop feeding Celia all these terrible lies. She’ll lap it all up and enjoy it far too much – she’s just like you!’

  ‘Except it’s not all fiction, as you know,’ Babs grinned. ‘And anyway, why tell the boring truth when you can tell a good lie? The other half?’ she asked Celia, wine bottle poised above her glass, which, curiously, appeared to be almost empty.

  ‘Why not,’ Celia agreed.

  ‘Anyway,’ she went on, pouring away, ‘I thwarted her by getting you to paint Roger. He’s thrilled. He can’t imagine why he didn’t think of it before.’

  ‘Oh, it was you. Hang on – and Belinda’s not thrilled?’ I said, horrified. A terrible thought struck me. ‘Did she even know?’ Babs’ face was horribly mischievous.

  ‘Oh, in the end she did,’ she said airily, stubbing her cigarette out in a rather hideous little cactus plant on the counter. ‘But by then it was all a bit of a fait accompli. You’d emailed Roger back saying you’d be delighted—’

  ‘I emailed Belinda back,’ I corrected her.

  ‘Oh well, he may have been using her email – they have kind of a family one – and then your mum said you’d rented your flat out with Airbnb, so there was no going back, and it all sort of fell into place.’

  ‘Mum told you that?’ I was surprised.

  ‘Well, you know. Something along those lines.’

  ‘Oh, you’re wicked, Babs!’ I breathed. ‘I only found a tenant – finally – on Tuesday!’

  Babs suppressed a smile, but not terribly efficiently.

  ‘Is she really dreadful? Belinda? Do you hate her that much?’ Celia clearly thought she’d found a new best friend and needed to forget incidentals and cut to the chase.

  Babs gave her glorious throaty chuckle. ‘No, I don’t hate her. I don’t feel that strongly about her – what a terrible waste of energy that would be. But I do so love to tease. And it’s so much fun, you see, because she bobs so magnificently.’ Her green eyes gleamed. ‘And isn’t that what life is all about? Having fun?’ She drained her glass and picked up her beach bag. ‘And now I must leave you girls. You’ll want to unpack and set your easels up – I can’t wait to see what you’re doing, by the way – and I’m going to walk back along the beach while the tide’s out. It’ll be turning soon. Toodle pip!’ She gave us an enormous wink and slid her bony bottom off the bar stool, elegant in her poncho and espadrilles. Swinging her basket, her little dog trotting after her, she departed. She gave us a last dinky wave.

  ‘I like her,’ Celia said, moving to the open French windows to watch her go down the garden and across the dunes. ‘She’s got style.’

  ‘I knew you would,’ I said, sipping my drink. ‘She’s another reprobate.’

  ‘And does Belinda know?’ she said, still watching her.

  ‘She must do. Mum says she must do, everyone else does. But it’s never talked about. It’s been going on for years. I mean, donkey’s years.’

  ‘Really?’ Celia turned back to me. ‘So why doesn’t he leave her and shack up with Babs, then?’

  ‘Mum says neither of them wants that. Once, perhaps, Babs might have done, but Mum thinks increasingly not, these days. Thing is, Celia, Roger is a genuinely nice man. He doesn’t want to split up the family and desert his wife, and Belinda is a thoroughly determined woman. This is all she ever wanted, being Lady Many-Acres, and she’s quite tough. Admirably tough, if you ask me. My feeling is, she knows – she’s not a bloody idiot – but she thinks, I’ll live with it. A lot of women do, you know. Some men, too, look at Lloyd George in The Crown. It’s sort of stiff upper lip and old-fashioned. And actually, for all her teasing and taunting, Babs is quite happy with the arrangement. She has a gorgeous house along the coast – you’ll see – her own life, loads of friends, Roger now and then, and countless admirers, mostly quite young, who are just that, I think: admirers. But Babs likes nothing more than sitting in the local with her colourful coterie getting thoroughly pissed and staggering home without having to cook supper for someone. She only once cooked for Roger and she was cleaning her tropical fish out at the same time. Roger pulled two fish skeletons from his beef stew, apparently. They couldn’t stop laughing.’

  ‘I love her.’

  ‘And she doesn’t want Belinda’s life, that’s for sure. Doesn’t want a huge house full of chintz and brown furniture. Bridge parties, local fêtes in the garden, the flower rota at church, pillar of the local community. The only local establishment Babs props up is the pub. They’d be lost without her.’

  ‘But did she never marry? Never have children?’

  ‘She did marry, very young, same as Mum, at twenty-one, and apparently he was gorgeous. Italian, ten years older, from
a very wealthy family and absolute heaven, Mum said. The kindest man. And adored Babs, who in those days was still pretty wild, but not such a loose cannon. With no one holding the reins she’s more out of control, and Filippo had those reins, albeit with a very light touch. They lived in fabulous splendour, mostly in Rome, but there was a family palazzo in Venice too, on the Grand Canal. But no children. Although, Mum says she did get pregnant once, but then got German measles, so – you know. She never talks about it and I’ve never asked.’

  ‘And Filippo?’

  ‘Died of cancer when she was thirty-two. Terribly young. So Babs was a very young, very beautiful widow. Loaded, too. A house in Rome, but also something here, always, where her roots were. Filippo was like that. Knew she needed it.’

  ‘God, how sad. How tragic. Was she devastated?’

  ‘Obviously. But she doesn’t talk about it.’

  ‘You mean you’ve never asked her.’

  ‘No, she doesn’t talk about it. I can sense that. She’s from a different generation. You didn’t blab everything to friends and therapists like we do now, you kept a lid on it, and I respect that. I’d rather you didn’t, Cele.’

  I could well imagine Celia, spotting Babs sunbathing on the rocks, nipping down and wanting to get to the bottom of it, and of course I couldn’t stop her.

  ‘And then along came Roger?’

  ‘Not for some time, but yes, along came Roger. They’d all grown up with her, you see. She was the pin-up girl of their generation, way out of their league in terms of beauty, style, fun – really great fun – and she’d gone for a glamorous Italian count, who luckily had also been Steady Eddy. But, suddenly, she was back. Roger was married by then, but he couldn’t resist her.’

  ‘I bet. Quite a contrast to Belinda.’

  ‘Belinda had her moments. Have a look at the wedding photo in the drawing room, she looks lovely.’

  ‘Yes, but I can imagine what sort of lovely. An icy satin gown and demure little cape over her shoulders. A ring of white flowers on her ash-blonde, tightly piled up hair …’ She trailed off, having almost perfectly described Belinda’s wedding attire, which Belinda would have scoured the social pages of Tatler for, to get it just right.

  ‘Whereas Babs …?’

  ‘Very pale blush pink, quite short, with the family tiara at a jaunty angle. There’s a photo of her coming out of the family chapel in Venice with Filippo, both roaring with laughter.’

  Celia gazed at me, rapt. ‘I’ve got the most terrific crush.’

  I smiled. ‘I know.’

  I turned to wash the glasses at the sink. I knew, too, that Babs sort of vindicated Celia’s rather rootless, nomadic existence: her refusal to find Mr Right. Her attraction to Mr Wrong, to married men, actually, or to introspective loners like the current one, Edward. But I also knew that pitching it low as Celia did, never pitching it too high, stemmed more from a fear of being hurt. And Babs wasn’t like that. She wasn’t afraid of anyone.

  ‘Come on, let’s get the stuff in from the car, then we can go for a swim.’

  Celia watched as I went outside, still deep in some romantic reverie of a few decades ago. I went back and forth to the car, but when I was halfway up the stairs, she was behind me suddenly and helped me with a heavy case to the landing.

  ‘But do you not look at her sometimes, Flora, and think, for heaven’s sake?’

  I knew where she was going with this. I turned.

  ‘You mean, for heaven’s sake, why am I still metaphorically walking across a desert with a burning cross in my hands? When there are other ways of being, of living, which don’t involve a husband and children and all that I envy, aspire to, and once had?’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t going to be quite so—’

  ‘Brutal. Yes, I get all that, Celia. And funnily enough, although we’re very different people, Babs is an inspiration to me. She’s strong, she’s brave and I have to force myself to be those things.’ I paused. Narrowed my eyes contemplatively beyond her. ‘But she’s also a minx. And I have a nasty feeling I’ve been set up here.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. But trust me, I can smell that particular Scarlet Virgin –’ I sniffed the air theatrically – ‘a mile off.’

  I smiled and sailed back downstairs, past her, through the sitting room and out to the car, for more luggage.

  4

  Hugo and I first met when we were about seventeen, at Pat Hendrick’s farm. Oh, I knew about him and had seen him around before that, everyone had, but it was the first time we actually made contact. Previously it had been rare sightings in church, on Christmas or Easter mornings, or at the Cheshires’ annual drinks party where children came, too. As far as Belinda was concerned, of course, we were obviously in the wrong camp since Mum was Babs’ best friend, so we were never invited to the Boxing Day shindig at their house, or to summer parties in the grounds. My dad shot with Roger occasionally, though, and they had mutual friends in the army and liked each other, so there wasn’t much Belinda could do about that. Belinda was actually always terribly friendly towards us on those few churchy mornings: she’d make a point of coming across and chatting to my parents, greeting me warmly, asking me what I was up to. She had her own style, whatever Babs said. And who knew if her heart was breaking inside? The older I’ve got the more I’ve sympathized with Belinda – for obvious reasons – and admired her courage. It can’t have been easy to have the whole neighbourhood know about your husband’s philandering, whispering about you in public, although Babs would say Belinda was not the victim.

  My mother wouldn’t discuss it, and whenever I brought it up in a cosy moment and asked her what Babs meant by that, she’d sigh and say it was all terribly difficult, but really there were only three people who knew the true story and she did wish Babs wouldn’t feed me snippets of gossip. To be fair this had only happened once, when I’d pumped her for information at the Cheshires’ party, one of the few occasions Babs and Belinda were in the same room.

  Hugo had been at the party as well, with his elder sister Etta, looking bored, as we all were. Awkward, too, in that in-between-age sort of way: we knew each other well enough to recognize, but not to go and talk to, being at different schools. Anyway, I’d see him there every year, tall, blond and a bit gangly, looking up from under his long fringe which he’d sweep impatiently to one side, with his father’s blue eyes, muttering to Etta occasionally, but we never actually met. Also, to be fair, we both knew a few people there of our own age, girls from the Pony Club for me, and local boys who sailed for him. So we chatted to our own set and circled each other warily at these events, only our heights and our hairstyles and our terrible complexions varying. Two young people, without dislike or suspicion, just an awful lot of issues and hang-ups and insecurities of their own.

  For my part my father had died three years earlier, when I was fourteen, and I was still emerging from that dark tunnel. He’d been in Bosnia, and although I was vaguely aware of the danger he encountered there on a daily basis, nothing could prepare me for the shock of it actually happening. There were moments when I thought I’d never survive. The initial shock, the impact, took weeks to bed in, for Mum too. It was as if we’d both been blasted into the sky by the mine ourselves, and the pain didn’t show any sign of abating.

  We’d clutched each other for days, and then un-clutched and avoided each other, before clutching back again, like magnets. We literally didn’t know what to do with ourselves. If we were together, we needed to be apart. If we were apart, a walk along the cliffs alone, we needed to fly back to each other’s side. I remember running over two miles once, through Hogan’s meadows, down the Bolithos’ track, hands trembling to open the back garden gate and race down the lawn. I remember going upstairs, weeks after, into my bedroom. Then Mum’s. Then down again to the kitchen. Then outside. Then shrieking up at the sky. ‘I don’t even know where to be!’ I’d raged. ‘I don’t know how to be!’ Mum had run out and held me and we’d
sobbed and held on tight. But tears like that were rare. Mostly we were numb. I hesitate to say this, but a terrible lingering disease at least gives some warning. This was a whole chapter, the best chapter, ripped violently from a book.

  And we were such a happy band of brothers, we three. Mum hadn’t been able to have any more after me, and though they’d briefly thought about adopting, they later told me they realized they were actually terribly happy, and lucky, so they didn’t. I think because they were so in love, one was enough.

  ‘We’re a tripod,’ Dad would say, when I was little. Or, ‘a three-legged stool’, or ‘a three-legged race’.

  ‘That’s two people,’ I’d point out.

  ‘So it is. Well, you’re the funny leg in the middle,’ he’d say, making me squeal with indignation.

  When I was even younger, he’d read me Aesop’s Fables at bedtime. Our favourite was the one about the bitchy vixen mother with all her fox cubs, who taunts the lioness, who’s only got one. Together, Dad and I would widen our eyes and chant the last line: ‘Yes, but mine is a lion!’ We’d roar and flex our claws. As he snapped the book shut and got up to go, I’d employ delaying tactics:

  ‘Ess! I’m a lioness!’

  ‘Of course you are.’ He’d smile from the doorway. ‘And, as we know, those are far more dangerous.’

  I’d giggle under the bedclothes, because we both knew there was nothing dangerous about me. I was shy, skinny and slightly built. Dad wasn’t tall, he was certainly an inch or two off six foot, but his shoulders were broad and I’d look at him and think, he is a lion. He commands a battalion. He did, too: he was a colonel. At a very young age. And I knew that gave us kudos in some quarters. Roger, for instance, always made a beeline for my father at parties, sounding him out on the current state of play in Afghanistan, the Middle East. People liked to have a genuine point of contact, a thoroughly reliable source, our man in the conflict zone, so they could later say: ‘Well, of course, Bill Penhallow says …’