A Cornish Summer

by Catherine Alliott

  I glanced at her, horrified. Janey nodded. ‘Swear to God. She said it as plain as anything at lunch the other day. And no one says, fuck off, Belinda, give the boy some space, everyone just goes a bit quieter. And a bit greyer. Toys limply with their Caesar salad. I mean, what the fuck?’ She knocked back the remains of her whisky, eyes wide.

  I nodded. Licked my lips. ‘You’re right. They are a bit … strange.’

  ‘And despite you thinking Pete’s swerved away from the family business, dear God, is she doing her best to swerve him back again.’

  ‘Belinda?’

  ‘Oh, every opportunity. Family name, family reputation, all that shit. We had a chat that night, though, in the club. He’s not doing it.’

  ‘No, I know.’ I did. Nonetheless, I was thinking about what she’d said earlier. About Peter really getting away. How it wasn’t a bad idea.

  She read my thoughts. ‘He’s his own person, Flora. Not saying he needs to get away to America – this isn’t some Brideshead, Catholic, bullshit dilemma – just saying, let him look at the options.’

  I regarded her gratefully. ‘You’re right. Of course you’re right. And thank you.’

  She grinned. She raised her glass and waggled her eyebrows. ‘You wanna thank me for not shagging him, too?’

  I smiled. Looked sheepishly at my feet. ‘God, I’m an idiot.’

  ‘No, you’re not, you’re great. In fact, I almost think you’re as great as Tommy does.’

  ‘Tommy? Oh no, Tommy and I have never got over our hate at first sight.’

  She blinked. ‘Oh, OK, guess I read that wrong. He certainly goes out of his way for the rest of this dopey family, though. He one hundred percent goes out of his way for Hugo.’

  I remembered Tommy’s face as he’d swung round from the computer in the study. I’d thought he was angry at being interrupted. And worried about what he’d seen, obviously. But now I realized. Worry was putting it mildly.

  ‘Where is Tommy? Still up at the house?’

  ‘I guess. Holed up in that godforsaken little office again. Said he had a heap of things to do, that’s why I stepped in to crew with Pete. Oh, talk of the devil!’ My son appeared. ‘Hey, listen, young Pete, if you ever need someone to yell instructions at in a beautiful pea-green in the States, I’m your girl. Or is this the new shipmate?’

  Peter had come across with Adam and was proudly introducing Janey, flushing with pride as he said her name and where she was from. I saw that Janey was right: he had indeed got a major crush, and she would indeed gently tease him out of it. Starting by calling him young Pete. So that, in time, he’d look back very fondly on that kiss, in a night club with an older woman. Maybe even wonder wistfully what might have been, had Janey not had more integrity than to lead him on. And more class, I thought, looking at her joking around with the boys. She was instantly putting them at their ease, letting them feel like men for a moment, and not boys just out of their last term at school. And why ever not, for heaven’s sake. But for once, my mind was not on my son. It was elsewhere.

  I made my way over to the cameraman who was folding his tripod away in the corner. Carefully slotting the lens cap on his huge camera. I introduced myself and told him I was a friend of Shona’s, and that I’d actually been supposed to meet her today.

  ‘Oh yeah, she said.’ It was the soundman who turned and answered. He looked apologetic on her behalf. ‘Said she was hoping to have lunch with an old mate, but she got wind of a story. And you know what she’s like.’ He sniffed the air theatrically. ‘Like a bloody bloodhound.’ He grinned. ‘We’re picking her up in about an hour, which will give us time to eat, finally.’ He shrugged. ‘Her loss.’

  ‘Oh, right. Where are you picking her up from?’

  ‘Some bar in Newlyn? The Shipwright’s Arms. She said she was meeting an American guy there.’

  26

  The Shipwright’s Arms was tucked away up a back street in Newlyn. It was an ancient pub, awash with history, right at the top of one of the steepest streets of tiny terraced houses that led up and away from the bustling fishing harbour. By rights it should have attracted every tourist in town, being seventeenth-century with low beamed ceilings and ringing with fiercely Cornish authenticity. Due to the fiercely Cornish authenticity of its owner, Gordon Pascoe, however, it didn’t. Absolutely no concessions to the twenty-first century were made in here. No mobile phones were allowed, and Gordon had eyes like a hawk. He’d turf out anyone he saw even receiving a text on one. The food was filthy. Really filthy. It was cooked by his wife, Linda, who’d been serving up the same chilli con carne or shepherd’s pie – it alternated daily – since I was a teenager. Both dishes looked like Labrador sick and tasted accordingly. Other than that it was a Ploughman’s, which should have been safe, but the butter was margarine, the bread Mother’s Pride, and the cheese cheap and processed.

  And yet. Up on the walls, yellow with tobacco stains, were banks of framed photographs, mostly of local heroes: lifeboat men, generations of fishermen who’d trawled these seas for hundreds of years, the most salty dogs imaginable. But also, weirdly, Michael Caine, Dirk Bogarde, even David Niven. Some were posing with Gordon or Linda, some just perched at the bar in the little room below. Not the front bar, no one ever sat there. Hence, if a brave tourist ever did glance in curiously, to be glared at fiercely by Gordon as he kept watch, pretending to polish glasses, but actually, indulging in his favourite pastime of scaring customers away, they wouldn’t know anyone was in there at all. Gordon only survived because he owned the pub outright and didn’t pay rent. It was what you might call a niche destination, and an extremely private place, which only someone like Shona, or me, not even the Bellingdons, I’d hazard, would know about.

  I parked easily enough, right at the bottom of the hill. Then I walked to the top of the precipitous, narrow – so narrow only one car could pass – cobbled street. Crampons were virtually required to navigate it, another effective deterrent. Obviously there was no parking outside, or indeed for a good quarter of a mile, and no pub sign hung gaily, either. Instead, painted green letters, just below the upstairs window sill, bore the legend: ‘Pascoe’s’. Gordon was Cornish but referred to himself as Celtic, and in many respects his establishment resembled an Irish pub. I could have been pushing open someone’s front door now, leading into a front parlour in a private house, albeit that of a run-down terraced cottage.

  Gordon was indeed behind the bar. His famous, fiery red hair and beard were faded almost white now: only a few traces of pale orange remained. The furious, pale blue eyes were still alert, though. He polished a glass all the quicker as he fixed me with them. It took him a moment, but then his face relaxed. That was as good as it got. He never actually smiled, it was part of the charm. He nodded in recognition as if he’d only seen me yesterday and not twenty-five years ago, and jerked his head to the little room below.

  ‘Down there.’

  ‘Thanks, Gordon.’

  ‘What’ll you have?’

  ‘Orange juice, please.’

  He looked furious.

  ‘With vodka,’ I added hastily. If people were to come into his effing pub they could effing well spend some money. And I could sip it, I reasoned. Since I was driving.

  ‘How’s your mum?’ he asked as he turned away towards the optics, which was beyond charming for this publican, so I told him she was well and would be pleased to hear of him. He swung back and glared at me. Too much conversation, clearly. I pocketed my change, collected my drink and went down to the gloomy little room below.

  I think Shona, who has the sharpest eyes and ears known to man, had already heard me above, because all I can say is that when I went down the few steps into the dark little parlour, neither she nor Tommy looked surprised to see me. Wary, yes, and tense, but not that surprised. Tommy got up and found me a chair from another table. Shona stood to hug me briefly and move her chair around to accommodate mine, but only murmured ‘Flora’ in my ear, before sitting down. She didn’t
apologize for standing me up earlier, and suddenly, having bowled over here at quite some speed, mind whirling like a dervish and in something of a high dudgeon, I didn’t know what to say. I looked at her nervously.

  ‘How was the regatta?’ she asked politely, as if it were perfectly normal for me to have driven twenty miles and walked in on her and Tommy Rochester having a private drink together in this out-of-the-way place. I rallied and played along, not quite knowing what else to do.

  ‘Oh, you know, same old. Peter and Janey came second in the Wayfarers.’ I glanced brightly at Tommy, hopefully conveying that, no, I didn’t mind that they’d sailed together, and that I’d grown up a bit, but tricky in the space of one glance. He rose to the occasion enough to say ‘good’ and gave a polite smile and contrived to look interested. Then I babbled on about Belinda, who, as usual, had queened it over everyone, and how she referred to ‘dear Shona’ these days, when she hadn’t been so dear when she was young! I laughed nervously.

  ‘Oh, I don’t care,’ Shona replied. ‘I’m as much of an opportunist as Belinda. Goes with the territory, I’m afraid.’ She fell silent and looked at Tommy. Tommy didn’t say anything. An awkward silence ensued. After a moment, I broke it.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said instinctively, glancing from one to the other. ‘I shouldn’t have come. This is clearly private. But I couldn’t help thinking …’ I tailed off hopelessly. What couldn’t I help thinking?

  ‘That it concerns you,’ finished Shona. ‘And you’re right, it does. At least – indirectly.’

  I glanced at Tommy but his eyes were averted. He looked wretched. Seemed intent on the wood grain of the table. Eventually his eyes came up to meet mine.

  ‘Hugo,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Right.’ My heart stilled a moment: then pumped frantically. ‘Oh God, what?’

  They exchanged a glance. Shona raised her eyebrows for a green light from Tommy and he nodded curtly, looking sleep deprived again, I noticed, his handsome face grey and drawn, not an ironic joke or snide remark in sight. He took a sip of what looked like bourbon. Shona took a deep breath. Looked at me squarely.

  ‘I met Ted Fleming today, as you know.’

  ‘Yes, you told me,’ I said. ‘And I saw him earlier. You interviewed him about a beach clear-up he was doing?’

  ‘Yes, well, ostensibly that was the ruse to get me out there. And we did do that interview. But what he really wanted to talk to me about was Bellingdon Water.’

  ‘Again?’ I was appalled. ‘I thought Hugo had talked to him about all that. Had a meeting up at the house, assured him they were cleaning up their act – I thought Ted was happy? Well. Satisfied, anyway.’

  ‘Up to a point. And Bellingdon are cleaning up on the Bio-Bead front, as all these independent subcontracting companies are having to, even though it doesn’t always suit them financially. But Fleming is on to something else. Bellingdon Water, and more specifically the infrastructure it provides – the pipelines, the pumps – are apparently responsible for the most sewage leaks and the most water pollution, the most fish-and-marine-life poisoning, in the entire country. Far worse than any other subcontractor providing to all the major water boards in the UK.’

  I stared at her. ‘Bollocks.’

  She shook her head. ‘True.’

  ‘It can’t be. They’ve always been so rigorous about that sort of thing, so big on the environment. Bloody hell, Roger’s got an award in his study – he’s got that wrong.’

  ‘He hasn’t got it wrong.’

  ‘But … no, rubbish, I would know. I would know, Shona.’ I clenched my fists.

  ‘No one knows. Because somebody has seen fit to cover tracks and massage the figures and lose a lot of the records.’

  My mouth dried. ‘Hugo.’

  Shona looked at Tommy. He hesitated. Cleared his throat. ‘It looks very much that way. Anecdotally there’s evidence of other senior managers in similar positions destroying evidence and the Environmental Audit Committee is on the case, and I’m afraid I can see why. There are huge gaps, Flora, huge.’

  ‘Is that why he asked you to come across?’ I looked at Tommy. ‘I mean – no, actually, why would he? If he knew there were gaping holes, surely he wouldn’t want you to see? Surely he knew you’d discover them?’ I felt sick.

  Tommy massaged his forehead with his fingertips. ‘They’ve actually been really cleverly covered up. Explanations given. Lengthy and investigative reports written. I’ve read them. Very plausible. Frost, hard winters, then sudden thaw. Natural causes, leading to pipeline leaks in Penzance, or explosions actually into the sea in Falmouth, on to beaches. But, in one case, left for eight months, Flora. In Newquay. Eight months. Well into spring and summer. Broken, badly made pipes, pumping raw sewage, straight into the harbour. Fishermen, taking their trawlers out, bringing back their catch. Ready to eat. Local kids diving off the quay, coming up with shit in their mouths.’

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t know. I mean – didn’t know until it was too late. Then tried to fix it?’

  ‘Except there’s evidence of it being reported and of him ducking it as far back as February, and it continues until October.’

  ‘But why? Why not fix it in February?’

  ‘Because he was scared of the shareholders. Scared of the millions it would take to do it, what it would wipe off the shares. Not just one pipe, but endemically, systemically, across the whole of this coastline. All Bellingdon pipes. And scared, too, of the fine from the Environment Agency, which used to be piffling, so much so that frankly companies took fines on the chin, accepted them as the price of doing business. But they’re getting much bigger. So he covered his tracks, did minor repairs and held off on colossal overhaul. At first when I looked it seemed fine, and I think that’s why he asked me to come across. To check his records, his accounts – his whitewash, if you like – and it all looked in order to me. I told him so, that it looked fine. In fact, I wondered why he’d asked me to come. I mean, he’d paid me. Or the company had. He said it was just an excuse to get me over here really, slapped me on the back, and we went sailing. Had a great day. But his mood was so changed. So … buoyant, compared to his earlier, anxious one, that it made me think. I guess it made me suspicious.’ He looked sad. ‘Not a nice thing to say about a friend. That night, I went back into the study and dug deeper. I was horrified. He had been very clever – Hugo’s no fool – but not clever enough.’

  ‘I found you on the sofa, that morning.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘You looked dreadful. Like you’d seen a ghost.’

  ‘Honey, I felt like shit.’ Tommy’s blue eyes, so unhappy, were trained on mine.

  ‘Did you tell him?’

  ‘No. Still haven’t. But, as I say, he’s no fool and I think he can tell that my mood’s changed.’

  ‘We all can.’

  ‘Yeah, quite. Mr Transparent. Belinda can tell, too.’

  ‘You think she knows?’

  ‘I do. In fact, I think he may have confided in her. Confessed. He’d never go to Roger. And she may have encouraged him. Or even –’ he hesitated – ‘persuaded him to do the cover-up. Maybe they both panicked.’ He shrugged. ‘Look, I’m just surmising. I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s a good surmise, though.’ I thought about it. About how Hugo would go to her. Always.

  ‘She keeps taking me aside and reminding me what a very old friend I am of Hugo’s, and how she knows I’ll always be there for him. Her fingers pressed into my arm, pussycat smile in place.’

  I licked my lips, which were dry. ‘What will you do?’ I breathed.

  ‘Well, I won’t cover it up, if that’s what you mean. And which I have a feeling is what Belinda wants me to do, i.e. make a better job of it than Hugo, which frankly, I could. But I obviously won’t report him, either. I’ll ask him to do that. Report himself. I’ll have that conversation. Tell him he has to fess up to the authorities.’

  ‘Before someone else goes to the Environment Agency,’ said Shona gri
mly.

  I looked at her. ‘You mean …’

  ‘Fleming.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘He is so on it,’ she interrupted, leaning across the table urgently towards me. ‘He doesn’t know exactly the scale of the underground pipe corrosion or the cover-up, but he can tell there’s something dodgy going on. Repairs are very detailed but not that expensive. Why? I know he’s trying to gain access to Bellingdon Company records, some of which are public, some clearly not. He wants to get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘And destroy the Bellingdons.’

  ‘Well, indirectly, maybe. But it’s all in the name of the environment. And whilst what Fleming is doing seems underhand to you, to most people it would seem totally justifiable.’

  It occurred to me to wonder if he’d embarked on a relationship with me to glean information, but I dismissed the thought as soon as it arrived. No. Absolutely not. It nevertheless struck me as unforgivable that he hadn’t mentioned any of this when we met earlier. Just the beach clear-up. Lying by omission. My heart began to beat fast. ‘What will happen to him? To Hugo? To the company?’

  ‘If he puts his hands up?’ asked Tommy.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Up to the sentencing council at the Environmental Audit Committee.’

  ‘Sentencing council? You mean—’

  ‘No, unlikely. If you mean prison. Certainly that’s unprecedented. But a whopping great fine, for sure. The scale of which is new. In East Anglia, two months ago, a manager who destroyed data and coerced colleagues to falsify records incurred a massive fine. It caused a horrendous fish kill. And he lost his job, obviously.’