A Cornish Summer

by Catherine Alliott

  It sounded a bit as if I was canvassing him on where he might settle down with me some day, but I’m increasingly aware that I’m alone in such hypersensitivity. He certainly didn’t treat the question as a loaded one.

  ‘No, actually, not necessarily. But I do need water. Where I live now there’s a river at the bottom of the garden – that’s enough for me. You get all the wildlife: the wagtails, the kingfishers, herons, otters. I even saw a water vole the other day. I can sit there for hours.’

  ‘Sounds idyllic.’

  ‘But you prefer London?’

  ‘No, I’m very definitely a country girl. And, actually, in an ideal world I would want to be by the sea, it’s where I grew up. But Peter’s school is near London.’

  ‘But he’s left school, surely?’

  ‘Yes, but his life will be there, I can tell. He’s a clever chap. And I want to be near him.’ May as well iron out that little crease straight away: some things are non-negotiable.

  He nodded. Looked thoughtful. ‘Although London doesn’t have a monopoly on attracting clever people?’

  ‘I know. But the sort of place he’ll want to apply to does.’

  ‘Oh, OK.’ He grinned. ‘So – what? Make a pile of dosh before retiring to the Home Counties to hobby farm? Send his children to private school and take up shooting?’

  I laughed. ‘You make that sound like a bad thing.’

  He shrugged. ‘No, not necessarily. Just a trifle … formulaic.’

  I swallowed. I could explain that my own life had been anything but formulaic. That I fervently wished it had been. Wished I’d been to the right schools, that I’d had all the advantages Christina had had: played in all those lacrosse matches, been captain of the tennis team. Or at least, had the opportunity to turn it all down. And how a ridiculous part of me wondered if that was what I’d lacked, for Hugo. Polish. Once, when Christina and I had had a nerve-wracking chat at speech day at Peter’s school, she’d told me how she wished she rode, and how good Hugo said I was. I knew she was being kind and I appreciated it, even though I hated it, too; this crumb from the rich man’s table that my feet should by rights have been under. But I was interested that this was what Hugo had chosen to praise about me. Not my art, or even my mothering skills, but my prowess in the saddle. Or perhaps I was reading too much into it, as was my wont. As for ensuring a formulaic life for my son, Peter had already turned his nose up at banking, which I’m sure Ted would applaud, but with every fibre of my being I wanted to be on hand to personally supervise any future enablement. For him to be party to all the best choices, even if he refused them. And yes, Ted, this powerful maternal force, perhaps the most powerful force of all in the natural world, that world you love so much, would therefore prevent me from settling by my beloved seashore, which constantly called me back and which I so longed to call home once more.

  I shrugged. ‘I can take it or leave it, frankly,’ I told him. ‘I saw enough of the sea in my youth.’

  Our sandwiches had arrived, and I bit into mine, wiping hot cheese away as it dribbled down my chin. Ted regarded me with curiosity and I’m not entirely sure I got away with it. The lie or the mess on my face.

  But he didn’t pursue it. We chatted on. Nothing deep, just observations about how the place had changed since I’d grown up here, which was not that much actually, and a bit about some new research he was doing. When we parted, an hour or so later, him to supervise a field trip and a clear-up operation further along the coast, and me to achieve something I’d been meaning to do since I arrived in Cornwall, I thanked him again for my sandwich.

  ‘That’s the second meal you’ve bought me in two days,’ I told him as we walked towards the car park together. ‘I’m beginning to feel like a kept woman.’

  ‘Is it a role you could get used to?’

  ‘Will I need a poodle and a feather boa?’

  ‘Only if I grow a handlebar moustache and drive a Morgan, so probably not. But it does rather cast a shadow over my next question.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Well, I wondered if you’d like another meal, but I’m beginning to sound repetitive.’ He stopped by his car and scratched his head. ‘You try being a man. I don’t like bowling, and who wants to sit in a cinema where you can’t talk?’

  I smiled. ‘I could cook?’

  ‘Can you?’

  ‘Not terribly well, actually. But I’m told my fish pie is edible.’

  He smiled. ‘My favourite, as it happens. When would suit? Tomorrow? Or is that too keen? It’s just I’m around at the moment, and I’m not always.’

  ‘No, that should be fine,’ I said slowly, remembering Celia and Edward. ‘Tell you what, tomorrow, unless I text. It’s just Celia could be entertaining, too.’

  ‘Blimey, you’re both at it. Who’s Celia found?’

  I explained. ‘Jealous?’ I asked him.

  He had a shout of a laugh which involved his head being thrown back and a hoot up to the sky. I liked it.

  ‘No, Flora. If I was, she’d be making her signature dish for me.’

  ‘The arrogance!’

  ‘Oh, she made her intentions clear when I helped her down the cliff with her easel.’

  I looked incredulous. ‘You think?’

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know that. I’ll think the less of you.’

  ‘Well, we can’t have that, can we?’ I said lightly, but I knew he was right. ‘OK, put my amazement down to loyalty to my friend.’

  ‘I already did, my love.’ He grinned. ‘And I liked you for it. See you tomorrow.’

  He pulled out his car keys along with his phone and we swapped numbers: and then I turned and walked away, mostly to hide my ridiculous smile. And my high colour, which always happens when I’m having a nice time. I don’t think I’d been called ‘my love’ before. I rather liked it. Hugo had called me darling, Tim, too, and Rupert didn’t call me anything, barely even Flora. I knew, too, I’d feel a thrill of excitement when we messaged each other to confirm our plans. Knew he was making me feel about fifteen.

  I left the beach car park and walked up the long flight of steps to the cliff path, clouds racing above me, salty wind in my hair. I really wished I had shoes on, though. I paused for a moment to consider. It wasn’t far, but the grass here was coastal and spiky and my feet weren’t Cornish hard yet. I decided to persevere. But I kept to the sandy path which was gritty but manageable, and obviously kept an eagle eye out for dog poo.

  Some time later, as I rounded the bend around the headland into the estuary, I saw a familiar figure ahead, on the intersection with the bridle path. Iris was silhouetted against the bright blue sky on the large grey mare I recognized from the other day. Her reins were loose, one hand was resting on her knee and she was gazing out across the mouth of the estuary. It struck me that if I ever painted Iris, which I’d dearly like to, this was how I’d want her. In the saddle but with the sea behind her, at one with horse and nature. She saw me and turned. Waited for me to come up the hill.

  ‘That makes a fabulous tableau!’ I called, puffing a bit as I approached. ‘Very Demelza Poldark!’

  She laughed. ‘Yes, except for the Pre-Raphaelite hair, the low-cut dress and the youth. The absolute spit!’

  ‘Still, I’d love to paint you there.’

  ‘This one would never stand still for long enough,’ she said, patting the grey’s neck as she danced a bit. ‘How does anyone ever paint animals?’

  ‘They cheat and photograph them. But that’s OK, because sometimes you need props to capture someone’s personality, or at least their great loves. I always think the Queen should either be covered in corgis or on a horse. And I’d certainly need a horse, the sea and the sky, with you.’

  ‘In that case you should probably paint my brother out here, rather than inside.’ She grinned and inclined her head out to where she’d just been gazing. I followed her eyes. Out in the relatively calm waters of the estuary, a little blue boat with a green sail was slowly gliding th
rough the water, but even at this distance we could hear the shouts of laughter, the banter. I could see the boat rock occasionally as if with mirth, and practically hear the gin bottles clinking as a gingham dress and a stripy blue polo shirt toasted one another.

  I smiled. ‘It had occurred to me, actually. But the logistics are pretty impossible. Would you say that’s everything he loves most? The sea, a boat, and Babs?’

  ‘These days, yes. In the old days, no.’

  ‘Ah. Belinda would have featured?’

  ‘No, a horse would have featured.’

  I giggled. ‘That’s awful, Iris. Did he really never love her? Belinda?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he did, in his own way. Probably still does. But is it really love, if it’s that milky and diluted? I think few people are ever lucky enough to really find it, Flora. And many settle for less.’

  I was fairly sure this was why Iris had never married. Mum had always said she couldn’t brook compromise and I was silenced by the quiet authority of her words. And the confidence. You needed that, to be completely on your own. Some would say I had it, but I’d always had Peter, and I’d also had, in the past, pluperfect sense, Hugo. I’d obviously grilled Mum about Iris and had longed for her to say, ah yes, well years ago there was this dashing young hunt master/naval captain/stable girl, perhaps, who broke her heart, but she never did. Iris remained an enigma: happy with her horses, her flat above the coach house, her life. Integral to, but always separate from, the Bellingdon clan. A spectator. I wonder if she also knew that her happiness – not just contentment – unsettled people.

  ‘How is everyone back at the ranch?’ I stroked the mare’s silky, warm neck. ‘Peter OK?’ I added casually.

  ‘Gone surfing with his mates, round at Porthlemon. Quite a way. They drove up this morning to collect him. School friends, I gather.’

  ‘Oh good! Yes, that’s right, he met some of them at the pub. Good, I’m glad he’s having fun. Otherwise it’s all rather old for him up there, don’t you think?’

  Iris narrowed her eyes speculatively across the bay. She took her time to reply. ‘Oh, Peter can look after himself.’ Then she shortened her reins. ‘This one’s getting fidgety, Flora. I’d better move on. Give him my regards.’ She jerked her head further on, up the hill.

  I glanced to where she’d gestured, where I was going. ‘How did you …?’

  But when I turned back she’d already gone. I watched the flanks of her young grey mare, spooking at the rabbit holes she was being asked to navigate, with every assurance from her rider that there were no tigers in them. In a few years’ time she wouldn’t give them a second glance and would be tripping nimbly down here in the dusk, knowing exactly where to put her dainty hooves, thanks to the expert guidance she’d been given. I watched her progress for a bit then walked on.

  The tiny grey church on the headland seemed to rise out of the very ground it was forged from. Ancient and granite, it crouched there on the hillside, the exact same colour as the rabbits that hopped away the moment I approached, their white tails flashing. I went through the little iron gate and around the side to where the hillside slipped dramatically away to the sea. The gravestones, over the years, had leaned right back to accommodate the incline, some almost touching the grass behind them. This one would go that way too, one day, I realized as I crouched down beside it. For the moment, though, it was straight and strong and steady, as he had been. I gently stroked its rounded top with my fingertip. Then I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. No need to read it, imprinted as it was on my DNA, but I did anyway.

  WILLIAM HENRY PENHALLOW. KILLED IN ACTION. 1944–95. BELOVED HUSBAND OF MAGGIE AND FATHER OF FLORA. WE MISS HIM DREADFULLY.

  The funeral director had glanced up at us in surprise as he wrote this down on his pad. ‘Not – sadly missed?’

  ‘No,’ said Mum. ‘We miss him dreadfully. So that’s what I want to say. Sadly missed sounds like … I don’t know. Kind regards. Pat. Trite.’ She stiffened, as did our man behind the desk, not used to having his expressions of sympathy dismissed so. But Mum and I felt it bound the three of us together for ever. Made it quite clear who, exactly, missed him dreadfully. Others might miss him in a more general sense; in the officers’ mess, sitting on the parish council, taking Year Eleven on their annual trip to the rifle range at Bodmin, but not like we did. Not as deeply, painfully, and yes, dreadfully.

  After a while, my knees began to stiffen. Hard to know how long I’d been crouched there. I straightened up, with difficulty.

  ‘Iris sends her love,’ I told him.

  I’d told him a lot more, too, silently, when I’d been low and close. About how I thought he might be more pleased with me, these days, for moving on. About how sorry I was that the last time I’d been here, I hadn’t come to see him. How I’d been too ashamed. It had been at the height of my madness. I told him about how, maybe, just maybe, I could be here more. Talk to him more. Do a bit of both. A bit of Cornwall, a bit of London. Who knows? I could only tell my father things like this. Nonsense, you might call it, but what was in my head. Let’s face it, it was going nowhere.

  My father had habitually given far more advice than my mother: given much more of a steer. He believed, for instance, that resilience had to be cultivated, and would tell me so. When he’d died, one of the things that had shaken me most was the realization that he was no longer saying things like that, no longer telling me to step up to the plate, be brave – courage was a word he used a lot – that he was no longer attentive. Mum was there, of course, but she was more laissez-faire, relaxed. My life was going by now, unobserved. These days any form of vigilance goes by the unfashionable, derogatory word of judgement, usually by those who want to avoid its eye. But at its best, it’s about love and care. And the very best sort is so ingrained, it becomes invisible. In my heart I knew that had Dad lived, I wouldn’t have wasted so many years of my life. That he wouldn’t have let me get away with it. Not in any stern, draconian way; he might not even have said anything, but knowing his eye was upon me, I couldn’t have let it happen. Couldn’t have taken the path of least resistance.

  I knew, too, that if I’d taken that difficult route, forced myself to have more of a life, found someone else, married even, when I was still young, had more children instead of indulging my emotions, wallowing in my misery, sooner or later, everything would have been fine. He’d taught me that, as well. Taught me that if you go through the motions, force yourself, eventually the motions become real life. Without him standing by, I hadn’t done it. I’d cheated.

  I took the deepest of breaths. There were gulls circling overhead, but they weren’t calling to each other as usual and the sea was millpond still. All was strangely silent. The quiet little churchyard sounded very loud to my ears, though. I’d lost my father long ago. What I shouldn’t have lost was the courage to believe that one day someone else might love me in a similarly concerned and careful manner.

  I kissed the tips of my fingers and touched the top of his headstone, my eyes full. Then I turned and made my way back through the churchyard to the cliff path, and embarked on the long walk home.

  19

  Trewarren was bathed in sunshine when I walked up the hill towards it the following morning. Facing east, as it did, to the sea, all its windows seemed to glitter with salty satisfaction as it stood, large, square and proud at the top of the huge sweep of gravel. The front door gently opened at my crunching feet and Truffle, old and with a grey muzzle, but clearly very sound of hearing, came arthritically down the steps to meet me, waving her tail apologetically for being so slow. I fondled her ears and crooned to her. A puppy when I’d first met her years ago, she’d pranced around Peter as he took his first steps here in the garden, cheering him on as she gambolled beside him, showing him how it was done. I’d often find Peter in her basket, which she chewed ferociously, letting him take the broken wicker pieces from her mouth and then – oh Lord – have a chew himself before I’d rush and retrieve them. I woul
dn’t retrieve the boy, though: he loved it in there and I loved to see them playing together in her bed, even though Belinda said it was unhygienic. I patted her grey flecked back and she followed me slowly inside.

  The hall was cool and quiet. Only the long-case clock ticked under one of the two flights of cantilevered stairs which, having risen centrally as one, separated on to the landings. The pale-yellow walls were hung with familiar family portraits, all pioneers of Bellingdon Water. ‘Trade’, Babs would say with a smirk to Roger, who would roar with laughter. I gazed at them now. Some terrible, some very good. All male. And of course, mine of Roger would hang here one day. And, no, it didn’t daunt me. I have a lot of problems, but confidence in my work is not one of them.

  I turned down the passageway away from the formal rooms and pushed on through the green baize door at the end. More through hope than expectation I poked my head around the first room I came to but, naturally, the gunroom was empty. I carried on down to the kitchen with a slightly sinking heart. If only it would rain, or at least not be quite so spectacular weather-wise, I might corner my prey. Yvonne, Belinda’s daily, had her back to me in her apron. She had her mop out and was giving the floor what she’d call ‘a jolly good seein’ to’, so I perched in the doorway on the threshold of the wet tiles and called a loud ‘coo-ee!’ above Woman’s Hour. She turned.

  ‘Hang on!’ She flew to the counter and deftly put some pieces of newspaper down for me. I treated them like stepping stones and arrived to give her a hug. She gave her usual, nervous, infectious giggle as Truffle declined the paper and padded up.

  ‘Old dog, new tricks,’ I told her as Truffle flopped down beside Flurry, the Border terrier, in her basket.

  ‘Except she used to. I taught her once, but she thinks it’s beneath her now.’

  ‘Quite right. She’s an old lady.’

  ‘Aren’t we all.’

  We perched on stools at the island, but only one buttock each, in case Belinda came in, and I told her I’d missed her last week, and she told me she’d been on her annuals in Newquay. Seeing her sister, but she wouldn’t be going again. Too kiss-me-quick and she missed the dogs too much. I knew she meant these two, who she treated as her own. Years ago Yvonne had cleaned for friends of Mum’s in the village, but Belinda had decided she didn’t like the tittle-tattle and wanted Yvonne exclusively for herself. She threw money at it and Yvonne wasn’t stupid. But the tittle-tattle continued, only more so, since Yvonne was here every day and had more to tell. She asked about Mum and I told her she was well.