A Cornish Summer

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘You’ve got him,’ he whispered.

  ‘I have, haven’t I?’ I agreed. No point dissembling. I had no truck with false modesty. ‘But only literally today. The face, I mean. Up until yesterday, no, only the body. But I had a bit of a breakthrough.’

  Hugo was properly smiling now, like a little boy. I loved that look: totally candid and open. ‘You’ve got everything,’ he said delightedly. ‘The naughtiness, the shrewdness, the showman, the quizzical gleam – integrity, too. Not too twinkly. It’s brilliant, Flora.’ He threw his head back and laughed, looked back down at it again, tears of mirth in his eyes. He shook his head in wonder. ‘I love it.’

  ‘Not quite there,’ I admitted, but I was quietly thrilled. ‘That shoulder …’ I peered critically. ‘Looks a bit broken …’

  ‘Well, it is,’ he told me, moving closer and peering too. ‘He broke his collarbone playing rugby at Oxford. But I know what you mean.’ He always told me the truth. ‘He’s old, but not quite that slumped.’

  ‘Exactly. But that’s fine, at least I haven’t made him too square, that’s harder to fix.’ My fingers were already itching for my brush. Now that I had the face there was so much I could improve on, but I knew from experience I needed the man there, too. Hugo helpfully turned it back for me, taking care not to touch the wet paint. He’d had some practice.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I asked him, when he’d set it straight.

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And Mum’s right. I’m on the right track, I know it. Dad thinks I’ve overexpanded but there are so many more opportunities these days that simply weren’t there for him. There’s room for business creativity, which, as you know, is my passion. What I wanted to do postgrad at Harvard.’

  But hadn’t got in. Unlike Tommy.

  ‘Whereas your dad’s skill was on the engineering side?’

  ‘Exactly. But, as Mum says, he doesn’t move with the times. And he certainly doesn’t understand the City. Dad’s fundamentally parochial – not that there’s anything wrong with that.’

  ‘No.’ I paused. ‘Was it your dad who asked Tommy to help?’

  He hesitated. ‘Sort of. I mean, he suggested it, and I said I’d think about it. And before I knew it – well, you know Dad.’ I laughed. I did. ‘And as you said earlier, a fresh pair of eyes. Two heads are better than one.’

  At what, I wondered.

  ‘I sometimes get bogged down with all the figures,’ he admitted.

  ‘Ah! Well in that case Tommy will be brilliant.’

  ‘Exactly. He loves all the forensic stuff.’ He was opening the door for me now, holding it for me to pass under his arm. As I came out I caught a glimpse of Belinda in the kitchen: waiting, watching. She turned quickly to the sink. ‘And he can’t stay long, anyway – he’s got to get back to running his own company.’

  ‘Well, quite.’

  Polite chat now, not that we’d gone deep in there. But particularly since Christina was coming down the staircase behind us with the children, both looking washed and brushed after the beach.

  ‘Darling!’ He turned. ‘I’ve just been looking at Flora’s painting. It’s terrific!’

  ‘Is it?’ Her face broke into a wide, genuine smile. ‘Oh good. I’m dying to see it, but I won’t intrude.’

  ‘Oh, I never mind,’ I told her. ‘But I might just get his shoulder under control. He’s a bit Richard the Third at the moment. I’ll show you tomorrow.’

  ‘I’d love that, thanks.’

  ‘Daddy!’ The children jumped the last few steps and threw themselves against Hugo’s legs, imploring him to look at their buckets of shells.

  ‘And crabs! Live ones, Daddy – outside!’

  Out on to the front step they dragged him, one on each hand. We all went, actually, to look. Crouching down we peered into sandy buckets, at urchins and tiny starfish. Tiger shells with spots were lined up carefully on the steps by Ibby and much admired. ‘To sell,’ she told me, looking up at me gravely. ‘Like in a shop.’ I listened to their chatter for a bit. I heard Hugo being sweet with them, promising he’d come tomorrow to look for more. Suggesting a rock pool round at Dragmar Bay where he’d always had success, as a child.

  At length I took my leave of that little family, leaving them to admire the fish skeleton Ibby retrieved right from the bottom of the bucket, covered in seaweed. Theo insisted he’d seen it first.

  ‘Did not!’

  ‘Did!’

  As I went, it occurred to me that it hadn’t been as hard to leave them to their happiness as it might have been in the past.

  Down the wide clay track to the cottage I strolled, my hands in my skirt pockets, deep in thought. The sea was glistening before me in the bay. A few small boats bobbed around but there wasn’t much wind. It wasn’t really a sailing day. It was very much a beach day, though, and having made a quick detour to the shop in the village for some fish for tonight’s supper, I took a circuitous route home, and walked back along the cliff path. As I went, my eyes tracked down. In the spot she favoured, halfway down the cliff, perched precariously but privately with her easel, was Celia, who, unlike me, still tended to paint all day, a packet of sandwiches in her bag.

  I wondered where Edward was. Apart from a few rather tense, whispered words last night in her bedroom, during which I entirely and cravenly blamed Babs for upsetting Edward, I hadn’t seen much of my friend. They’d gone out for a walk on the beach later, and I’d been in bed when they returned. At least, I’d assumed the pair of them returned, but when I’d gone down this morning, I’d seen only Celia through the kitchen window in the garden, chomping on her muesli in a desultory fashion. Perhaps he was still in bed? Or had he gone back to the B&B he’d apparently booked? Home, even? I didn’t ask because her face did not invite it. In fact, I didn’t even venture outside. Instead, grabbing a couple of bananas from the fruit bowl, I’d called a cheery good morning from the kitchen, yelled something about getting an early start, and legged it up to the house.

  I paused above her now on the cliff path. She was dabbing away minutely at her canvas, eyes flitting every second back to the sea, totally engrossed in her work and oblivious to me. I walked on.

  The next cove was almost entirely empty, but there was a reason for that. An even more hazardous climb down than Celia’s, it was not for the faint-hearted. You had to be pretty agile to attempt it, plus it took ages to achieve, and then, of course, you had to get back up again. Two people who had achieved it were Tommy and Janey. I felt a ridiculous wave of relief at seeing them together. Janey was paddling with her back to me in a yellow bikini, tanned, lithe and gorgeous. She was daring herself to go further into the freezing water, arms held aloft. Tommy, flat on his back behind her in shorts and a T-shirt, was fast asleep, by the looks of things. His skin was fair and I found myself wondering if he had cream on, something I couldn’t see him bothering with. Catching up on some shut-eye after last night, no doubt.

  Janey gave a shriek as a wave threatened to engulf her and instinctively turned her back on it. As she did, she saw me, up on the cliff top. She waved madly. Then she put her finger to her lips, tilted her head to one side and put her hands under it, like a pillow, pointing at Tommy. I nodded and smiled broadly and gave her a thumbs up in recognition. Then I pantomimed taking a hat off my head and putting it over his face. She got it immediately. She nipped out of the water, up the shore, and very gently, and rather tenderly, I thought, put his faded blue country club cap which was lying beside him over his face. He didn’t stir. Then she gave an elaborate, despairing shrug as she regarded his bare arms and legs. We’d become a pair of mime artists. Suddenly she imitated having a brainwave, finger raised in the air. Very gently, she draped a towel over his bare legs and then her own T-shirt and shorts over his arms. She stood back and admired her handiwork. I gave her a silent clap and she swept an elaborate curtsy back. I laughed softly and walked on.

  Back at the cottage, the front door was aja
r, which was odd, but not unheard of. We certainly never locked it, having nothing to steal but our phones which were on us, so I went in thinking it was probably Babs. The little sitting room was cool and dark at this time of day. As I shut the door behind me, my phone beeped with a text. I retrieved it from my pocket.

  Are you about?

  It was Peter. But as I turned from the door I simultaneously saw him through the French windows in the garden, feet up on the table, texting away.

  ‘I’m right here!’ I called through the house with a laugh, delighted. I’d been wondering when I might steal a moment with my son, and this was perfect. Celia out, just Peter and me in the garden.

  ‘Oh good!’ he called back, flashing me a quick grin but not actually pausing from texting. Clearly he had people to talk to other than me. ‘I was just about to give up.’

  I came out and planted a kiss on the top of his distracted head and ruffled his hair. He submitted docilely enough. ‘Haven’t seen you for ages!’ I told him in a scolding voice. I had, but properly was what I meant.

  ‘I know, I was just thinking the same.’ He glanced up from his text. ‘Got any food, Mum?’

  I laughed. ‘Always hungry. And yes, actually. I missed lunch so I bought some crab on the way back. Sandwich?’

  ‘Please. And more than one. I’m starving.’

  ‘Excellent.’ I sailed back inside, leaving him to his phone. I was thrilled to see Celia had got fresh bread this morning – she must have been up early. Notice how I was thrilled. I sliced and buttered away. Not just pleased, as most mothers would be. Oh yes, I caught myself out regularly. I found a lemon – which we always had for the gin, no surprise there – and loaded a tray with a pile of sandwiches, a bottle of rosé, a couple of glasses, and then, with joy, I have to tell you, in my heart, swept back outside. This was turning into a very good day. And with Ted coming for supper tonight – well. Who knows? Perhaps Shelley von Strunckel had been right after all when she’d said the sun in Uranus was going to spark a spectacular chain of events for Virgos: perhaps the wheel of fortune, which for so long had been hanging limply by its axle, would be spinning merrily before long.

  Peter had the grace to swing his legs round off the table and pocket his phone. He even took the tray from me as I sat down. He looked greedily at the pile of sandwiches.

  ‘Oh great. Thanks, Mum. Been surfing with the boys all morning.’

  I smiled indulgently as he took one and slipped a plate his way. I took one for myself and poured us both a glass of wine, by which time he was reaching for his next sandwich.

  ‘From Annie’s?’ he asked through a mouthful.

  ‘Where else?’

  He made a circle with forefinger and thumb. ‘Best crab in Cornwall. Do they still know you in there?’

  ‘Certainly they do. Well, at least Bob and Annie do. Kelly gives me a funny look as if she almost recognizes me but can’t quite place me, but then I struggle, too. She’s so changed. It’s always the same when you’ve been at school with someone then see them hundreds of years later.’

  ‘Tell me about it. I saw a boy the other day who was my head of house when I arrived and he was like – a man!’

  I laughed. ‘Well, he’d be twenty-three or so by now, which is a man.’

  ‘I suppose.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Although not really, these days, d’you think?’

  ‘No. I read in the paper the other day that childhood goes on until twenty-four, would you believe it, now that we’re all living till we’re a hundred. So you’ve got bags of time yet.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Somehow that seemed to suit both of us. ‘Which is sort of why I popped in.’

  ‘Oh? Not just desperate to see your mother?’

  ‘Well, yeah …’

  I laughed. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well … the thing is, Mum, I think I might delay Oxford.’

  I frowned. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Just by a year.’

  I stared at him. ‘But, Peter, you wrote and asked if you could have a gap year. They said no.’

  ‘I know, but I could reapply.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous! What – turn down a place at Christ Church? Have another go and risk being turned down?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’d back myself, obviously. But if not, there are other universities.’

  I couldn’t speak for a moment. Finally, I found my voice. ‘Peter, if you remember rightly, they said come now or don’t come at all!’ My voice was shrill.

  ‘That particular college, yes.’

  ‘Christ Church, Peter, Christ Church. Not any old college.’

  He looked at me calmly.

  ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘No. It is absolutely not all right, it is out of the question. I forbid it.’ I was sweating. Trembling.

  ‘You can’t. Don’t be silly.’

  I stared at him impotently. Felt sick. I also knew I was hyperventilating. I got up. Walked around the garden, arms tightly clenched, my heart pumping. I came back but couldn’t sit.

  ‘Look, Mum, I knew you’d be upset—’

  ‘After all we’ve worked for,’ I whispered, close to tears. ‘To chuck it in.’

  ‘All I’ve worked for.’ But he knew what I meant. Years of hoping I’d got it right: hoping I was keeping this clever boy on track, away from too many festivals, away from drugs. Every exam he took, pacing the kitchen, looking at the clock, thinking … he’ll be going into Maths. Now lunch. Now Spanish. And it had just been me, because Hugo had been much more relaxed, hadn’t got involved. If you asked Hugo, he’d have to think what A levels Peter had taken. Four: Spanish, Biology, Physics, History. But I’d pretend not to remember one of them, as many hovering, helicopter mothers disingenuously did.

  ‘Golly, what’s the last one?’ Brow furrowed. Indelibly planted in my brain, I’d finally retrieve it. ‘Gosh, what a mixture!’ mothers would then respond. ‘Is it?’ I’d reply innocently, as if I didn’t know. Didn’t know he was a polymath, could dip into the Sciences just as easily as the Arts. Could indeed do anything. No tutoring, thank God, because he hadn’t needed it, so I hadn’t had to lie about that as some did. ‘Just a bit of help with a local girl on a Thursday.’ The truth being every day in the Easter holidays, with a History professor. Or, at a ruinously expensive crammer, where Sandy’s eldest had gone, Peter told me. Sandy didn’t. They had no money. But somehow she’d managed it. Quietly.

  Most didn’t want to be seen to push, to be sniggered at, although one friend cheerfully told everyone she gave her son mock Oxbridge interviews every night for a week before his own interview. Having been there herself and read the same subject, she knew the form. People laughed at such a professional mother, but he got in. It was all such a race. A struggle. And with so many highly educated, highly trained circus animals performing, it was something of a lottery. Peter may well back himself but there was every chance he wouldn’t get in next year. I forced myself to be calm. To sit down again. I took a large slug of wine.

  ‘What does your father think?’

  ‘He’s pretty cool.’

  ‘He would be.’

  ‘Mum, that’s not fair.’

  ‘No, but he doesn’t take the same interest.’

  ‘Which is good. Takes the pressure off.’

  I acknowledged this. Had always thought we made a good team in this respect. So he’d told him first.

  ‘I saw him up at the house, literally just now,’ he told me, reading my thoughts. ‘Had a quick chat. He told me to think about it first. And to come down here. I told him I’d been on my way anyway when I met him.’

  ‘Right.’ I was calming down a bit. Not a lot, but a bit. Still felt sick. ‘Well, he’s right, you should think about it. I mean – last week you were going, am I right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And suddenly, just to partake in some Sloaney rite of passage, some jaunt to South East Asia to get off your head at half-moon parties—’

  ‘Full.’

  ‘To be able
to say you’ve drunk buckets of vodka on the Ganges and vomited as much as you consumed, which no doubt all your surfing mates you met at the pub are doing, Adam, Sam, whoever.’

  ‘I’m not going to Asia.’

  ‘Well, Columbia, then.’

  ‘I’m going to America.’

  ‘America.’ I stared. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m going to get a job. I want to work in New York.’

  My mouth fell open. I stared at him. Suddenly the dawn came up. The chats. The walks. The discussions. ‘Janey,’ I hissed.

  ‘Yes, OK, I’ve been talking to Janey. But I had the germ of the idea anyway.’

  ‘Liar!’ I roared.

  ‘Mum! Get a grip.’

  ‘She’s influenced you,’ I snapped. ‘Whispered in your young, vulnerable ear about the Big Apple, the buzz, the excitement, the glamour – oh, you stupid boy, Peter.’

  Peter widened his eyes. ‘This is going well.’

  ‘Well, what did you expect? Oh yes, fab idea, darling! Any old eighteen-year-old, with no experience and no connections, and no work permit, incidentally, can get a job on Wall Street, no problem at all. How naive, Peter. Did you expect me to say go for it, darling?’

  ‘No, but I expected some considered thought and talk.’ His eyes were steady. Mine were wild, I knew. And my pulse was up again. I was out of control and I knew it. Peter also knew, and he knew why.

  ‘Mum, I know this is hard. I know the single-mum stuff. You feel you’ve worked for this, too, but I’m not throwing anything away. And Janey will get me an internship, she says, that will look good on my CV. Not just a year bumming about, but a year working properly.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Well, publishing, obviously. And, to start with, where she is, but she doesn’t know empirically. Needs to make some enquiries.’