A Cornish Summer

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Yes. Not in London. I mean – we’re not blatant, we’re so discreet, we have children. It’s not an open secret, for their sake. Although it might be one day.’

  I was quiet. I had nothing to say on this subject. Because I couldn’t imagine it. Couldn’t imagine the confusion. Was glad the muddle wasn’t mine. I sat up a bit. A regrouping gesture.

  ‘Peter knows what’s happened,’ I told her. ‘I texted Tommy when I knew Hugo was going to be OK, and he said he’d go and find him on the beach and tell him. I worried that it should be me, but Tommy said he wanted to be sure he didn’t hear through gossip.’

  ‘He’s right.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘How did he take it?’

  ‘Shocked, obviously. And rang me immediately, but Tommy had done a good job. Had persuaded him Hugo would hate Peter to see him like this, and not to come here.’

  ‘Yes, Hugo would hate that.’

  ‘Exactly. Does Belinda know?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, and Roger. Tommy scooped us all up off the beach in his car and took us back to the house. He told me first, upstairs in the bedroom. Said it was to do with the business. And a possible scandal. He’d let Hugo tell me. Then he told the parents in the drawing room, so I wasn’t there to witness it. But I saw Roger afterwards, as I was leaving to come here, in the kitchen. He looked grey and old and shattered. He was sitting limply at the table, staring into space. Belinda was in her room. I didn’t pause to ask Tommy how she’d taken it, I don’t care, frankly. She’s always been foul to me. Oh, sweet as pie on the outside but wears you down eventually with her sly, horrid remarks. Well, I don’t have to tell you. I never want to set foot in that house again,’ she said vehemently. She glanced down at her hands. Blinked miserably. ‘Of course, I will. For Roger. For the children. You do, don’t you?’ She looked at me beseechingly.

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘You do all sorts of things for love. You have to.’ I swallowed. ‘Have you told the children?’

  ‘No. And I may not. Probably won’t. Iris has taken them to put the horses back in the fields, then they’ll be shattered and go straight to bed. Iris …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She looked so strange. Like she knew more. I’ve always wondered if Iris knew about me and Hugo.’

  I nodded. ‘Although … this – what Hugo’s done – has nothing to do with that. This is about the company, the water.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s all connected, don’t you think?’ She shifted round in her seat to look at me properly. ‘It’s about Belinda’s influence on him. She’s constantly on the phone to him, in London. I hear him talking to her in the study, he always takes the call in another room, always. And she came up to see him recently, at the house, and I listened.’ She glanced fearfully at me. ‘At the door.’

  ‘Good for you,’ I encouraged her. ‘And?’

  ‘It didn’t make sense to me. But she kept saying it was all above board, and that she’d had something checked by a lawyer, and by an independent team of accountants. That it was all fine. That all Hugo had to do was write some reports to fill in the gaps. I have no idea what she meant.’

  I nodded, my eyes widening in horror at the scale of her involvement: at the magnitude of her influence and the overplaying of her hand. I didn’t want to heap any more grief on Christina right now, didn’t want to tell her what Tommy and I knew. Hugo would tell her, of that I was sure; Tommy had laid the groundwork. It felt disloyal to tell tales. Clearly Tommy had felt the same. Fortuitously, at that moment, a nurse popped her head out of Hugo’s room.

  ‘Mrs Bellingdon?’

  Christina stood up smartly. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You can come in now. He’s awake, and he’s feeling a bit better.’

  Christina’s face cleared as if the sun had come out. She disappeared inside.

  Later, when I got back, having left Christina with Hugo and got a taxi, I texted Peter.

  I’m back. Just me down at the cottage. Celia’s out. Meet me here?

  He was down in minutes, roaring into the garden on the quad bike. He looked pale and worried as he leaped off. I went out to greet him.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘He’s fine.’

  We hugged hard. And then I’m ashamed to say I lied a bit.

  ‘Totally recovered and obviously can’t imagine why he did it, but—’

  ‘Mum, Tommy told me everything,’ he interrupted, standing back. He looked so grown up suddenly. ‘Literally everything. About the company, about what Dad did, or maybe didn’t do. He didn’t want me to hear on the grapevine. I know Ted was on to him.’

  ‘Right. Yes.’

  ‘He said he was going to let Dad tell Christina.’

  I nodded. ‘It’s happening now.’

  We went inside. We perched side by side on the sofa together, neither wanting to be even remotely disloyal to his father. Not at this moment. Not when he was lying ill, in a hospital bed. Fessing up to his wife. We stared at the slate floor.

  ‘He got in a muddle,’ I said carefully.

  Peter was no fool. ‘I think it’s more like, once he’d set a tiny stone in motion, a tiny, negligent stone, it was really hard to pick it up and stop it getting faster. To stop it rolling on and getting huge and horrific and just too bloody impossible to stop.’

  I nodded. Imagining Hugo’s fear; his panic. ‘Yes, that’s more like it. Not a muddle. More of a runaway train.’

  ‘That he was responsible for,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Yes,’ I concurred, after only a moment’s hesitation, knowing only the truth would do. ‘But one that Granny,’ I turned to look at him, ‘knew about. Possibly persuaded him into. To destroy records, massage figures …’ I looked at him to see how he’d take this.

  Peter returned my gaze. He didn’t say, ‘Granny? What would she know?’ As if she was some sweet, snowy-haired old lady. He knew. And if we were going for veracity, as quite rightly Tommy was, for full disclosure, then for heaven’s sake, Peter should know this.

  ‘It doesn’t excuse Dad,’ I said firmly. ‘But if you’re going to know everything – I want you to know this, too. Have all the facts.’

  ‘Mum,’ he said wearily, ‘she’s my grandmother. I know her. Of course I know her. I’ve spent weeks down here, every summer. Seen her with Dad. The fact that she’s a scheming, manipulative old cow who tells him what to do is not breaking news. She’s a bitch.’

  ‘Right.’ I was rather shocked. It had taken me years to finally get my head round that. Christina, too. ‘Right. Good. Well, good for you. As long as you know. As long as you’re – you know – informed.’ I got up and made us both a very large gin.

  Later that night, in bed, I lay there thinking about Belinda. About her colossal confidence, her chutzpah. She’d been ghastly to me, just as she was foul to Christina, and I’d been a girl. Christina was a girl. Belinda hadn’t even come to my wedding. Surely she should have been delighted? Welcomed me, particularly at that age and stage of Hugo’s life, with open arms? But I knew about Belinda: knew about her hubris, about her ambition. I knew that she felt she’d comprehensively cracked that nut; that fourteen-year-old one, in the bedroom, with her bare hands. She’d moved on. I believe she honestly thought that particular crisis was over. That’s what I mean by hubris. And that now she’d straightened her son out, whilst I might be fine for an initial bunk-up in the hay barn – she might even encourage it to get all that nonsense out of his head – as a wife for her son, I didn’t match up. Christina, I knew, she was happier about because Christina’s father was a surgeon and the family lived in Holland Park. But she wasn’t glamorous enough for Belinda. Didn’t dress up. Did too much sport. Had taken up rowing. Spent a lot of time in a three-woman scull down on the river, in Putney. Belinda didn’t like that. She wanted her daughter-in-law on the committee of Save the Children, floral and fragrant. Dressed up to the nines at the Chelsea Flower Show, having ladies’ lunches. Christina had ladies’ lunches. Dinners, too. I turned over and shut my ey
es. Just not the sort Belinda had in mind.

  31

  The following morning, when I woke, I instinctively reached for my phone on the bedside table. There were three messages from Ted.

  I am so sorry. Obviously feel dreadful and will of course put on hold my plans for exposure. I had no idea he’d do a thing like that.

  I sat up. My thumbs tapped back:

  It’s a long and complicated story, Ted. And not entirely your fault, you were just the catalyst. But thank you for holding off. I have an idea you won’t need to expose. Have a feeling he’ll do it himself.

  He came straight back. ‘OK. I haven’t spoken to Shona.’

  I frowned down at my screen. This was open to misinterpretation. I rang him. He answered immediately.

  ‘You mean, you haven’t told Shona in case she publishes it? I don’t think she will.’

  ‘I don’t think she will either, but there’s kind of a professional integrity, Flora. If she knows stuff, she’s duty bound to report. Otherwise her boss will say, “What, a local bigwig attempts suicide because his cover-up of his corrupt water business goes tits up? And he’s still leaking sewage and pollution over the Cornish coast? Why the fuck didn’t you report?”’

  ‘I need to speak to her. Because suppose she hears through someone else?’

  ‘Well, quite. The Bellingdons’ cleaner was on the scene soon after apparently, following a trail of sausages. The news leaked out on to the beach last night.’

  ‘Shit. I’ll ring her.’

  I did. Shona listened. She was quiet for a long moment. ‘No, I didn’t know. God, poor Hugo. He must have been desperate. And yes, Ted’s right, I should do a story, but I can sit on it for a bit. Pretend I don’t know. But Flora, it’s only a matter of time before someone on my team does know, and they won’t have the same qualms. It won’t be their godson’s father. There’s nothing I can do about that.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But don’t worry, we’re not complete sharks. Suicide attempts are not generally reported. A previous prime minister’s daughter had a go and, believe it or not, even the London mob left them in peace. The water’s a different matter, though. That’s in the public interest.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But I promise I won’t let anything go on air without letting you know, how’s that?’

  ‘Thank you, Shona.’

  ‘And you look after yourself, my love. This is his tragedy, not yours. Thank God.’

  We said goodbye. I sank back on my pillows. Through my open window I could hear Celia and Edward having breakfast in the garden below. The air had cooled slightly after the storm, but it was still warm and soft, the sky blue, the earth steamy after rain. In the distance I could see the arching spires of the orange crocosmia by the back gate, flattened by the rain, but already perking up and staging a comeback. The voices below were ostentatiously hushed as if aware of my open window, keen not to be heard. I strained my ears for a bit but eventually decided I could lurk up here no longer. Throwing on some clothes I went downstairs. They stopped talking immediately when they saw me and adopted bright smiles. Then Edward diplomatically withdrew, saying he’d make some fresh coffee. I thanked him and sat down opposite Celia.

  She squeezed my hand across the table. ‘Poor Hugo.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But Flora, it’s not your—’

  ‘Tragedy. No, I know.’

  She nodded, surprised at my sensible tone. No sobbing, no hysterics. I’d tell her the reason for that later, I determined. In London, in our studio, not here.

  ‘How’s Peter?’

  ‘He’s OK. More than OK, actually. Remarkably calm and phlegmatic.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Celia, I thought I might go back home today. I don’t need Roger any more for the portrait, so I can take it back to London. Work on it there with my photos.’

  She looked at me carefully. ‘Yes, OK. I get that. Leave the Bellingdon clan to it. And Peter will probably follow suit.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But … Ted? I thought …’

  ‘Ah. No.’ I gave a wan smile. ‘Not to be. Too principled for me, I’m afraid. Not frayed enough at the edges.’

  She nodded thoughtfully. Sipped her coffee. ‘Well, you are quite tatty.’

  ‘Aren’t I just.’

  She put her cup down carefully. Gazed into it. ‘Well, we might stay on. Ed and I. I know this probably isn’t the moment to say it, but this is the best my life has ever been.’

  She was trying hard not to show her shiny eyes above her coffee cup: to reveal that not only was her painting going well but that her love affair with Edward had rekindled beyond belief under the Cornish sun and in this coastal cottage.

  I smiled. ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘In fact, Ed and I,’ she went on, emboldened now, and I knew she was unable to stop herself, sort of bursting, ‘are thinking of maybe relocating down here. You know, for good. We love it so much.’

  ‘Oh, Cele.’ My turn to reach out and squeeze her hand.

  ‘Would you be jealous?’ She looked anxious; stricken, even.

  ‘Why?’ I said in surprise.

  ‘Well, it’s your home. Where you were brought up and I’ve found lasting happiness here, love, too and – oh. No.’ She stopped suddenly. Saw my astonished face. ‘I forgot. You’re not like me.’

  I smiled. Reached for her coffee cup and took a sip while Edward brewed me some more. ‘No. Not like you. I wouldn’t be jealous. I’d come and stay with you, lots, that would be fun. I’ll miss you in London, though.’ I looked wistfully over her shoulder.

  ‘I was thinking Mimi Hargreaves, or Jack Bolton,’ she said quickly, clearly having given it some thought. ‘They’re both desperate for studio space.’

  I smiled and nodded, trying not to show that actually, she would be a huge loss. Celia was beside me all day. She was sort of part of me. Half of me, even. At least, the working me. We were a double act, in a strange way. Morecambe and Wise, Tess and Claudia, Celia and Flora. I narrowed my eyes quizzically as if genuinely giving it some thought, not wanting to upset her.

  ‘Mimi, I think, don’t you? Last time I saw Jack he was suffering from the most spectacular narcissism. No less than twenty-two self-portraits.’

  ‘And he smashes his canvases if they upset him.’

  ‘Puts his head through them, so I’ve heard.’

  ‘Could get annoying?’

  ‘Mimi it is.’

  After breakfast, I drove up to Trewarren. I was quaking slightly at what I might find, my espadrilles unsteady on the pedals. It was already late morning because Celia had chatted on, with Edward, about their plans. Edward told me that since he worked from home anyway, freelance copywriting being his bread and butter, he could work anywhere, but he felt his playwriting would flourish down here, without the competitive stress of London. And of course there was the Minack Theatre, he’d love to get involved in that. He said they rather fancied Kynance Cove, or the hills beyond, and did I know the villages around there? I did. Maps were instantly produced; pored over. Then, just as I was leaving, Peter came by. He leaped out of a car as I went down the front path and said he was going sailing with friends for a few days, staying at their house along the coast, which I thought was a good idea: getting away.

  ‘Really? I mean, Dad …’

  ‘Will be fine, as you know. Now go.’

  It occurred to me now as I drove up to the house that I’d forgotten to ask exactly where he was going, and with whom, which was most unlike me. But I could text him later. He’d disappeared looking pleased and relieved: hopped back into a crowded car with music blaring. Away they’d sped.

  Now, as I walked up to the front door, coming round from the stable yard where I’d parked the car, leaving the boot open to accommodate the portrait, and avoiding the back in case I ran into Belinda in the kitchen, I thought how changed and different everything was. Already, it seemed to me, the house seemed to exude sadness. Mourning, even.
Perhaps it was the silence. No Truffle, opening the front door with her nose and wagging down the front steps. No Ibby and Theo playing Snap on those steps, Truffle scattering their cards as they yelped at her. No Belinda, bustling in from flower arranging at the church and letting everyone know how busy she was. No Tommy and Janey, playing backgammon on the terrace, heads bent competitively, teasing each other, Janey accusing Tommy of cheating because he won so often. And no Roger, bearing down on them, rubbing his hands as he offered them a sharpener, and what did they mean eleven-thirty was a bit early even for them: and then, as they relented, Janey and Roger knocking it back with gusto, Tommy, I knew, sipping it.

  Tommy. I didn’t want to think about him. I was glad he wasn’t on the terrace reading. He’d been so tremendously kind, so brave. He’d shown such strength of character yesterday, always taking the difficult option; it was dizzying to contemplate what I owed him. And then there’d been that extraordinary declaration on the jetty at Newlyn which I was sure he’d rather forget and which hadn’t been mentioned since, but then when, exactly, would have been the moment for that to have resurfaced? When he was axing in the lock on a fume-filled stable door? When he was breaking the sad news to your son that his father had decided he had nothing worth living for, including him? A little loving text to yours truly, perhaps? Or maybe, maybe – I stopped suddenly in my tracks, mid-thought, realizing he was right in front of me.

  He was sitting on the ancient swing rocker in the garden with Roger. The backs of both heads were visible over the swing seat, one russet, one white. Tommy was no doubt gently bolstering Roger; reassuring him that he would do everything in his power to limit the damage. Look after Hugo. I stayed still a moment. How strange. I could only see the back of Tommy’s head, and yet it rocked me. Moved me. I had to take a breath to steady myself, but then I’m like that. Easily knocked. Or was that insincere, too? An excuse? Was the truth, actually, that I hadn’t been brave enough to address my own feelings, protected myself, in case of being hurt, because he was, after all, Tommy Rochester? Just shoved it to the back of my mind? I crept into the house, ashamed.