A Cornish Summer

by Catherine Alliott

  Celia’s voice lowered suddenly, but there was no doubt she was prevailing. There were more urgent murmured entreaties from her, something about a soft bed, pillows, and finally, the stairs creaked. Their feet echoed upstairs, and then thankfully, mercifully, a door slammed. I sighed with relief. Flopped back theatrically on the seat. Then I remembered Celia’s bedroom was above us and the window was ajar and I sat bolt upright again. Ted was already looking up expectantly. He knew exactly what was going on. And he was enjoying this far too much. I got to my feet, hauling him up with me, which was not easy, a finger to my lips again. He looked mock horrified, but I ignored him. I hastened him around the side of the house, leading him to the track, and shoved his keys and wallet in his unwilling hands.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he wailed, just a touch too loudly. I hustled him right down the track, frowning in horror. We reached his car, which was out of earshot, but I still kept my voice low.

  ‘Edward, right, has to have complete privacy, in order to – you know …’

  ‘Perform?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  He chuckled. ‘Blimey. That’s a bit of a handicap.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘So – what, I’m off?’

  ‘It rather looks that way. Sorry, Ted.’

  ‘Oh. I was enjoying that.’

  ‘Yeah, me too.’

  He scratched his woolly head. ‘Really enjoying it, actually. God. Bugger Edward.’

  ‘I know.’ I waited for him to be difficult. He wasn’t.

  ‘But no, I get it.’ He shrugged. Then he lightly rested his hands on my hips. Smiled. ‘Some other time, then. My place, maybe?’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘But not tonight?’

  I hesitated. ‘I think …’

  ‘The moment has passed?’

  ‘It has rather.’

  He nodded. Grinned down at me from his great height. Then he moved his arms right around my waist and pulled me in close. Kissed me properly again. I felt about fifteen standing by the car in the dark. I cursed Celia and Edward, my surrogate parents, in the house.

  ‘It will return, though,’ he told me, getting in his car and buzzing down the window. ‘The moment. Edward’s not the only man in South Cornwall on a mission.’

  I laughed. Ted let out the handbrake and, giving me a wave, drove away. I realized I was still standing there, smiling broadly, as his car bumped along down the track, and turned out of sight.

  23

  The following day, as I was painting in the gunroom, I got a text from Peter.

  Sorry Mum. I was a bit harsh.

  I couldn’t reply quickly enough. I was all fingers and thumbs. Luckily, Roger was asleep.

  No no – I’M sorry, darling.

  I totally over-reacted.

  Let’s forget it.

  Cool.

  I pocketed my phone. Perfect. My heart lifted and soared away, like a bird, one of the gulls, in fact, outside the window, cruising up into the now-cleared air. Not only was the air clear, but the stage set and ready for Ted to perform on later, down at the Mariners, where most people gathered before they went out. Peter would certainly be there, I’d told Ted, and with the reins dropped by me he’d be much more receptive. I picked up my brush and painted on happily, regarding my sleeping beauty.

  Roger’s face was finished now and I’d wanted his body very relaxed, so I’d said he could snooze. To this end we’d rescheduled our session to after lunch.

  ‘Probably help if I drink heavily, eh, Flora?’ he’d said hopefully. ‘Put me right out.’

  ‘It’s not crucial, Roger, I just don’t want you too stiff and upright.’

  To be on the safe side he’d had a riotous picnic with Babs on board his motor boat, after a morning puttering around the estuary. In the old days the discreet little creek he favoured would have found his boat deserted later: anchor down, a darkened cabin, rocking hull. I’ve no idea if those days were gone, but when he’d crept into the house through a side door later and found me ready and waiting with my palette, he had a very wicked smile on his face. He scuttled to his chair. His bottom hit the seat just moments before the door opened again. It was Belinda.

  ‘Ah. There you are.’

  ‘Flora wants me asleep, darling. Must comply. Probably be here all afternoon.’ He shut his eyes.

  ‘You smell terrible.’

  ‘Do I? Can’t think why.’

  ‘I can. Have you seen Hugo?’

  ‘No, darling.’

  ‘He’s missing.’

  ‘Ah.’

  She shut the door.

  His eyes snapped open again. ‘Missing,’ he said grimly. ‘He’s a grown man. Bah.’

  I didn’t comment. Painted on in silence. My phone beeped a few times but I was in the zone now so I ignored it, important missive received, everything else irrelevant. I’d always been capable of shutting the world out; was delighted to, in fact, with the exception of Peter. But even then, when he was small, I’d been known, like many working mothers, to plant him like a bomb at school with a minor bug and then feign surprise when a teacher called to say he’d been sick, but they’d keep him in the san until the end of the day. Needs must.

  Roger’s shoulder was fully restored now, unbroken and mended. But I didn’t like that arm. As my sitter really did nod off, his hand relaxed its grip on the chair. Ah. Good. Now. My brush moved feverishly about the canvas. Killing it, as Peter would say.

  A few hours later I sighed and put my brush down. Unlike Celia I peaked after about four hours. When I was younger I could go back and paint all evening and most of the night, too, but these days I was spent. Also, Roger was awake and had been for some time. He was looking mutinous.

  ‘Flor-aaa!’ he roared.

  ‘Yes, yes, we’re done. Sorry, Roger, you’ve been brilliant by the way.’

  His face transformed. ‘I have, haven’t I?’ He perked up instantly, like a child. Roger was terribly easily flattered. It was actually what I was hoping to capture; that transient, childlike quality. I regarded my picture speculatively.

  ‘Can I see?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He came around eagerly. He stared at it for a while. I could tell he didn’t hate it. Eventually, he beamed.

  ‘I look as if I might steal the last jelly.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any “might” about it, Roger. I’d say you’re in the larder with the trifle.’

  He stepped closer and peered more forensically. ‘Could look a bit younger?’

  ‘Absolutely not. I’ve taken years off you as it is.’

  Not years, but one or two. It always helped. Not every single wrinkle. Not every single shred of sadness or disappointment. And these things mounted up, over the years. Less so with Roger, which was why it had been a joy to paint him. His joie de vivre, his enthusiasm, were still intact. It was the depressives who were so hard. Most people having their portraits painted at this age and stage of their lives were successful, sometimes quite grand: I’d done one or two captains of industry. But, often, when they’d sat for you for hours, for days, their faces betrayed the projected pomp and ostentation, and that was hard. I could only speak the truth and they liked happier results. ‘I look like I’m going to shoot myself!’ one brigadier had roared furiously. Six months later, he did.

  ‘Day off tomorrow,’ Roger told me gleefully. He gathered up his things from the table: a book, reading glasses, coffee cup.

  ‘Absolutely. The regatta.’

  ‘Can’t miss that! Organizing the beach sports as usual. And on the captain’s boat. What fun. Toodle-pip, Flora.’

  And out he hastened. He paused in the doorway, though, and I saw him glance furtively left and right. Then he tracked left, to the back stairs, no doubt in order to avoid his wife in some other remote corner of this huge house. Rumour had it Roger had a TV in his dressing room and liked to watch reruns of The Simpsons, roaring with laughter at Homer’s antics, a packet of digestives on his
lap, Truffle, not allowed upstairs under any circumstances, on the bed beside him, sharing. One for you, one for me.

  As I went along the corridor to the front hall, I fished my phone out and turned it on. A text on my screen read:

  Too late.

  I stopped dead. Stared at it. Tommy Rochester. Heart pounding, I walked on quickly. Shit. Bugger. I mean really shit bugger, actually. I pushed through the front door and went outside, casting about. Where was he? I went around the side of the house to the terrace.

  It was late afternoon now and the sun was casting long, extravagant shadows across the lawn. The huge cedar with its wide horizontal skirts sank a pool of darkness right up to the wide York stone terrace where I’d sometimes seen Tommy reading. I’d glanced at his abandoned book once: philosophy, which had startled me. I’d read the title upside down. Fear and Trembling by Kierkegaard. Lots of torn bits of newspapers sticking out of the top, marking places of interest. But not today. The terrace was deserted. No book, no Tommy. Perhaps everyone was still on the beach? Or actually … I turned and nipped back inside.

  The green baize door was a godsend, shielding the kitchen, and if Belinda did appear, I could always say I’d left something in the gunroom. I didn’t go there, though. Instead, I pushed through another door, without knocking. Just as I thought. Tommy was in situ. Not asleep on the sofa, and not wading through piles of papers, but with his back to me, sitting at the computer. His voice, when it came, made me jump.

  ‘What?’ he barked, swinging round in his chair. His face was ashen. It took my breath away. For a moment, I even forgot why I was there.

  ‘Oh. Um … I – I just got your text,’ I faltered.

  He stared at me as if unable to place me: certainly not remembering any text. Then it came to him.

  ‘Oh. Yeah.’ He rubbed his face vigorously with both his hands, which I’d seen him do several times of late. A regrouping gesture. ‘Sorry, Flora. Got your text too late. I already talked to him. He’s thinking about it. And I talked to Janey, too, but listen, this is kind of important. Can I catch you later?’

  He was faintly scary. Very serious. Withdrawn. Preoccupied. Similar, perhaps, to how I was when I painted. Certainly it was a side to Tommy I’d never seen. All at once, I caught a glimpse of him at work in Manhattan. In a high-rise office overlooking the city, on the phone, making powerful executive decisions: chairing meetings, giving instructions involving probably millions of dollars. Suddenly a seventeen-year-old boy’s love life and university choices seemed rather irrelevant. A bit ridiculous.

  ‘Of course,’ I said humbly. But he’d already swung round in his chair and gone back to the screen.

  I shut the door softly. Walked quietly back down the corridor, problems somewhat in perspective. And anyway, I couldn’t complain, could I? I’d gleaned a tiny morsel. Peter had apparently said he was thinking about it. Not as good as I was sure Ted could do, but better than nothing. Should I leave Ted in place? In the Mariners? Or would Peter feel besieged? Regard it as a pincer movement and smell a rat? Yes. Definitely. I sent a text to Ted to stand him down and he replied immediately: no problem, he wouldn’t mention it. I thanked him and walked on back to the cottage, wondering, as I went, why on earth more mothers didn’t go into politics, when lobbying for support, doing secret deals, and watching carefully for that special moment when they can negotiate from a position of strength, was all part of the remit.

  As I neared home I realized I was dog tired, but then I hadn’t had the best of nights. Tossing aside the local guide book Celia had thrust at me and which I could have written myself, I’d stretched out on the swing seat in the garden. Eventually, covered in cushions of the slippery, solid, uncongenial outdoor variety, I must have nodded off. I’d awoken, cold and uncomfortable, and looked at my watch. One in the morning. Since all was quiet upstairs, I’d decided it really was fine for me to go to bed, in my own room, in my own cottage. In fact, I’d jolly nearly banged my bedroom door shut in irritation, but had just managed to catch it.

  When I’d come down this morning, Celia and Edward had been having breakfast on the terrace, bathed in a rosy glow. They were holding hands over a pile of pancakes Celia had made and gazing radiantly into each other’s eyes, mission clearly accomplished. They’d barely seen me approach, but then Celia was all unctuous accommodation. She’d leaped up and pulled out a chair. Then she’d insisted on getting me a plate from inside.

  ‘We didn’t hear you come in last night,’ she’d trilled, avoiding my eye as she came back out with the plate. ‘Were you late?’

  ‘About two o’clock,’ I told her, adding an hour for good measure.

  ‘Gosh, you must have been having a good time.’ She flashed me a guilty look.

  ‘I was having the time of my life,’ I told her as she shovelled pancakes and bacon hastily on to my plate. ‘Had a very instructive tour of Tintagel Castle. Did you have a nice evening, Edward?’ I asked innocently.

  ‘The best.’ He beamed, blinking rapidly behind his spectacles. ‘Celia and I had supper at this wonderful hotel. It’s got all the toys – you know, swimming pool, sauna, gym.’

  ‘Oh, splendid.’

  ‘And we thought we’d go again tonight, didn’t we, darling? To use the – you know – facilities.’

  ‘The gym?’

  ‘Amongst other things.’

  ‘Work up a bit of a sweat before bed?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Celia shot me a warning look.

  ‘You should join one in London,’ I told her. ‘You always say it’s not your thing and you can’t bear all those narcissistic pumped-up gym bunnies, but I really think it might be.’

  ‘Edward’s already surfed the best ones,’ she told me, ignoring my sarcasm. ‘We’re going to join one in Putney, aren’t we, darling?’

  ‘We are indeed, my sweetest.’

  They’d locked fingers again over the bacon and were exchanging fond smiles. I’d squirted golden syrup on my pancake, folded it in half and headed inside.

  Now, as I arrived back after work, some hours later, and pushed open the cottage door, I blessed the hotel spa as I realized it was yet again responsible for the empty house – and a quiet night in. It seemed quite a palaver to me. Ages ago, in London, when I’d first heard of Edward’s predicament, I’d suggested to Celia that modern medicine might solve it, but she’d told me he never took a pill.

  ‘Not ever?’

  ‘Not even for a headache,’ she’d said firmly.

  ‘What – my body is a temple, type thing?’

  ‘If you like.’

  It was clearly going to become even more sanctified with all the attention it was receiving from the Thai girls, but mine was not to reason why. Instead, I had a long bath, flopped horizontally on the sofa in my dressing gown with a bowl of pasta, and let the cathode rays wash over me.

  Later, as I went to bed, I texted Peter.

  Just wondered – is Dad OK?

  Yes why?

  Granny was looking for him earlier.

  He went for a walk with Truffle and Flurry. Granny fusses.

  Didn’t she just. But I was relieved. Belinda and I didn’t have much in common, but our love for Hugo was a given. Then, on an impulse, but actually not that much of an impulse because I drafted the message three times, I texted Tommy.

  You looked pretty stressed today, sorry I interrupted. Hope all OK?

  You wouldn’t think there were three ways of saying that, would you? But I didn’t want to look too nosy, or too obviously concerned for our mutual friend. I think I hit the right note. The UN would be proud of me. The response was surprisingly quick.

  Yes all fine. I got to the bottom of it. All good. Sorry if I was short with you.

  There, see? No drama. Everything was fine. All was peachy. Indeed, for two entire minutes, my life was perfectly balanced. Naturally it was pivotal, but I’d learned to make the most of any brief beatific moment, any minuscule ray of sunshine. The sun came out completely when my phon
e beeped again. It was Ted.

  Hope you found a bed last night. Mine was rather lonely.

  I smiled. ‘Are you suggesting it’s going to get crowded?’

  Are you sexting?

  I almost dropped the phone. ‘Ha! No. God no. Night.’

  Night night.

  I smiled – blushed too, massively. But a particularly warm and delicious feeling came over me as I snuggled down under the duvet. One might almost call it a rosy glow.

  24

  The day of the regatta dawned bright and clear: the heatwave looked set to continue, but this particular morning was without the heaviness and mist of the last few days, less still and steamy, infinitely fresher. A stiff breeze swept off the sea to the estuary. In response, a myriad of colourful sails at sea and on the shore fluttered violently, so that a positive cacophony of marine noises filled the air, complete with what seemed like an above average quota of seagulls circling and calling, as if they’d rounded up a few more recruits from further down the coast for the occasion.

  To call it a regatta was pushing it, frankly. Indeed, the elderly in the village still called it The Fête, but Belinda had seen fit to expand it over the years and renamed it into the bargain. It was very much her show and, although the villagers joined in, there was a fair amount of feet-dragging and sniggering behind hands about self-designated Queen B’s misplaced aggrandisement. Unlike Falmouth, which was a week-long event with carnivals and floats, this was a tiny one-day affair, with beach sports in the morning for the children and sailing races in the afternoon. At some point during the day, the local brass band would take up position on the quay to embark on the musical programme and could happily be relied upon to provide chaotic light relief. They rarely practised, or at least not together, comprising as they did of retired businessmen and local schoolchildren, and were officiated over by a very pompous female conductor who became more and more irritated with her tuneless assembly and banged her baton furiously on her music stand as the audience dissolved. To everyone’s amusement she usually fell out with Belinda, and on one famous occasion a stand-up-knock-down had ensued over whether ‘God Save the Queen’ should have one or two verses; it was said Belinda’s ample bosom had been poked with the baton, but that may be wishful and apocryphal. Time and again a local rock band, or even a folk band, had been suggested, but Belinda wouldn’t budge: this was how it had been done in Roger’s father’s day and grandfather’s day and by golly she was not breaking with tradition now.