Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

Copyright © Fern Britton 2018

Cover photographs © Jan Bickerton/Trevillion Images (cottage and path); © Shutterstock.com (additional images)

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Fern Britton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007563005

Ebook Edition © June 2018 ISBN: 9780007563012

Version: 2019-03-01

Epigraph

‘A mother is always the beginning. She is how things begin.’

Amy Tan

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Prologue

Part One: Adela’s Only Love

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Part Two: Sennen Comes Home

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Part Three: Ella’s Wedding Day

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

A Year Later

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the same author

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE
Trevay, 1993

The house was still.

Her heart was hammering – she could hear it in her ears, hear her breath whistle in her nostrils.

She tried to quieten both.

In the dark of her bedroom, she strained her ears to listen for any noise in the house.

The church bell rang the half hour. Half past eleven.

She’d gone up to bed early, her mother asking her if she was feeling all right.

‘Yeah. I’m fine.’ She’d shrugged off the caring hand her mother had placed in the small of her back.

‘If you’re sure?’ Her mother let her hand rest by her hip. ‘Is it your period?’

She had hunched her shoulders and scowled at that. ‘I’m just tired.’

‘Ella and Henry had a lovely day with you on the beach,’ said her mother, bending her head to look up into her daughter’s downcast eyes. ‘You’re doing so well.’

Sennen shrugged and turned to head for the stairs. Her father came out of the kitchen. ‘Those little ’uns of yours asleep, are they?’

‘She’s tired, Bill,’ replied her mother.

‘An early night.’ Her father smiled. ‘Good for you.’ She could feel her father’s loving gaze on her back, as she ascended the stairs. She wouldn’t turn around.

‘Goodnight, Sennen,’ chirped her mother. ‘Sleep tight.’

Her parents had finally gone to bed almost an hour ago and now she picked up the heavy rucksack she’d got for her fifteenth birthday. It had been used once, on a disastrous first weekend of camping for the Duke of Edinburgh Bronze award. Even now the bone-numbing cold of one night in a tent and the penetrating rain of the twenty-mile hike the following day made her stomach clench. Back home she refused to complete any more challenges and dropped out. She used Henry as an excuse. He had just started to walk and her mother expected her to come home from school every weekend and do the things a mother should do for her child. On top of that she was expected to work hard for her exams. Why the hell would she want to learn how to read a map and cook a chicken over a campfire as well?

And then Ella came along.

Sennen had sat in the summer heat of the exam hall, six weeks from her due date, hating the kicks of her unborn child, hating being pitied by her teachers.

She rubbed a hand across her eyes and tightened the straps on the rucksack. What a model daughter she had been. Two babies by a father unknown and now she was leaving. Leaving them, her A levels, her over-indulgent liberal leftie parents who had supported her through it all – and leaving Cornwall.

She hovered on the landing outside Henry and Ella’s room. She didn’t go in. She knew she would never leave if she saw them, smelt them … She kissed her hand and placed it on their nameplates on the door. Downstairs, she tiptoed through the hall. Bertie the cat ran from under the hall table with a mew. She put her hand to her mouth to stop her startled cry then bent down to tickle him. ‘Bye, Bert. Have a nice life.’

Slowly she turned the handle of the downstairs loo and edged in carefully, making sure that the rucksack didn’t knock over the earthenware plant pot with its flourishing spider plant. Bert came with her and she had to nudge him out with her boot before closing the door behind him. The front door was too noisy to leave by.

The loo window always stuck a little and the trick was to give it a little thump with your palm. She held her breath, listened for any noise from upstairs. Nothing. She wound the small linen hand towel around her fist. It took three good pushes, each stronger than the last before the window swung open, noiselessly.

She threw the rucksack out first and then carefully climbed out after it.

She pushed the window shut and stood in the moonlit, tiled courtyard. In a corner was Henry’s little trike and in another, Ella’s beach pushchair. She had meant to take both in in case of rain, but had forgotten. She looked up to the night sky. Cloudless. It would be a dry night.

She picked her way over the sandpit, held in a wooden box that her father had made for her when she was little and now given fresh life to with a coat of scarlet paint, and made her way to the gate. The hinge creaked a little, but before it had shut itself she was already gone. Around the corner, down the lane and out to the bus stop by the harbour.

PART ONE

1

Pendruggan, 2018

Kit Beauchamp stirred the tomato soup in front of him. ‘When will your brother get here?’

Ella put her bowl down on the kitchen table and sat opposite him. ‘Why? Nervous?’

Kit looked up into Ella’s golden eyes. ‘Should I be?’

‘He’ll adore you,’ she reassured him. ‘And if he doesn’t, you’ll know about it pretty quickly.’

‘Oh blimey.’ Kit really was nervous.

Ella loved that her boyfriend was taking this meeting seriously. Her brother was the only family she had left. His opinion counted for everything. She picked up her spoon and replied, ‘Tomorrow lunchtime. He’s getting the early train down from Paddington. Should be at Bodmin by about one.’ Ella pushed curls the same colour as her soup behind her ears and dipped her spoon into the steaming bowl. She sipped and burnt her top lip. ‘Ow.’

‘Careful,’ Kit said, blowing on his own spoon.

Freckles bounced across her face as she opened her mouth to fan cool air onto her burning tongue.

Kit tore at the centre of his crusty French roll and handed her some. ‘It’ll cool you down.’ She took it gratefully.

For a couple of minutes neither spoke, quietly enjoying their simple lunch.

‘I suppose,’ frowned Kit, ‘I don’t want to make a bad impression.’

Ella giggled. ‘I think Henry is the one who needs to be more worried. He can be a total arse.’ She pulled Kit’s hand over the table and rubbed it against her cheek. ‘You’ll be the brother he never had.’

Kit let his hand trail her cheek and chin. ‘He’s very important to you, isn’t he?’

She blew on another spoonful of soup and nodded. ‘We are the last of the Tallons.’

Kit wiped the final crust of bread around his bowl. ‘Why do you think the solicitor wants to see you both?’

‘The usual, I expect. Mum has either hidden herself so well that she doesn’t want to be found, or she’s dead.’ Ella put her spoon down. Kit saw the lost child in the woman in front of him.

‘He’ll find her,’ he said with a certainty he didn’t feel.

‘I don’t know.’ Ella sighed. ‘Pass me your bowl.’

‘I’ll wash up,’ he said glancing out of the window and looking at the sky. ‘Fancy a walk? The dogs could do with one. Or are you too tired after all that vacuuming for your brother?’

Ella looked over at Terry and Celia who were lounging in their separate beds looking as disdainful as only Afghan hounds can.

‘Well, Doggies? Fancy a walk?’

Terry managed a discreet waft of his feathery tail while Celia sighed and raised an eyebrow. ‘What a pair of lazy gits,’ laughed Ella. She put her arm out to Kit as he passed on his way to the sink. ‘But can it be to Trevay? I need to pick up some steak to make pasties for Henry tomorrow.’

Henry couldn’t wait to get out of London. When the most recent solicitor’s letter had arrived last week he had managed to wangle a decent chunk of leave in Cornwall. He wasn’t too bothered about the letter. Another routine meeting. He and Ella had had so many since their grandmother had died. The problem lay with his unreliable, irresponsible mother who had left him and Ella when they were just tiny. He had been about two and Ella just over one. She’d disappeared to God knew where for God knew what whim and never come back. It had left Granny and Poppa heartbroken. Not to mention Henry, who still had vague memories of his mother. Sitting on her lap, being folded into her arms … Stop it, he told himself. Hopefully the solicitor would tell him and Ella that his mother was lost forever, or dead. Either would be fine with him. Then at last they could sort out Granny’s estate and move on with their lives.

He returned his attention to the work on his desk. Two reports to finish, three phone calls to make and a handover to his colleague on how to deal with any issues that might arise in his absence and then – he rubbed his hands gleefully – Cornwall here he came.

Ella and Kit closed the door of Marguerite Cottage and waved at their nearest neighbour, Simon Canter, the vicar of Holy Trinity Church.

‘Good afternoon,’ Simon greeted them as he walked through the churchyard. ‘Beautiful day. Enjoy it.’

‘We will,’ Ella called back.

He was right. It was a lovely day and as she waited for Kit to open up the car and load the dogs, Ella took time to absorb the moment. The Pendruggan village green with its cluster of old and new homes around it. Above her, tiny white cloud puffs floated in the bluest of skies. The smell of gorse on the wind, bringing with it the light rumble of surf on Shellsand Beach.

‘Come on. Jump in,’ said Kit, jangling the keys of his slightly aged car.

She climbed in. ‘It’s a day to be happy.’

‘It’s always a day to be happy for me,’ he replied reversing out of the short drive.

She laughed. ‘You’re always so bloody happy. It’s exhausting.’

‘I’m a glass half-full man.’

‘Don’t I know it. My healthy scepticism, hoping for the best expecting the worst, balances us perfectly.’ She waved and smiled as she spotted Queenie, owner of the village store and harbinger of all news, taking a quick fag break outside her shop. ‘Queenie, however, is on permanent standby for disaster. Like Henry.’

Kit shoved the car into first gear and set off around the village green towards Trevay. ‘So your brother’s a miserable sod, then?’

‘Yep. But he cheers up when he has beer inside him.’

‘I’m the man for that job.’

They drove in friendly silence up the dappled lane that took them past their local, the Dolphin Pub and out to the top road headed towards Trevay.

Ella had always loved this road, even as a child living in Trevay with her brother and grandparents. She unwound the window and watched as the trees and small cottages gave way to high hedges with gateways offering tantalising vistas of the sea beyond. As the road reached its highest point the trees and farms opened to acres of green fields, with the glittering Atlantic below, crashing onto the rocks of the headland that sheltered her childhood village.

The final descent into Trevay revealed the busy harbour with its working fishing fleet tied up on the low tide. How she loved this place. How she had missed it when her old family home had been sold as a bed and breakfast business.

‘Which way?’ asked Kit as they got out of the car.

‘Over to the headland?’ Ella was opening the hatchback boot and putting Celia and Terry on their leads. ‘These two can run around safely over there.’

The walk took them up the steep hill to the left of the harbour, past the Pavilions Theatre and onto the coastal path. The view from here was breathtaking. Jagged, slate-layered cliffs fell to the rolling boil of a gentle sea. Celia and Terry were unleashed and ran like cheetahs through the gold and purple of gorse and heather, forcing the shy skylarks to take to the wing and sing their beautiful song.

Kit pulled Ella towards him by the collar of her jacket and kissed her. ‘Happy anniversary,’ he said.

‘Happy anniversary, my love.’ She kissed him back. ‘How many months is it now?’

‘Five.’

She sighed. ‘Five months. The best five months of my life.’

‘And mine, sweetheart.’ He kissed her nose and they walked on hand in hand. ‘Fancy dinner out tonight? I mean five months is a hell of an anniversary, isn’t it?’

‘I’ve got to make the pasties for tomorrow. Henry will be disappointed if I don’t.’

‘Okay. How about coffee and a cake when we get back to Trevay?’

‘Done.’

They walked and talked and threw Celia and Terry their balls until all four of them were ready to go back to the car.

‘They’ll sleep well tonight,’ said Kit, shutting them in the boot.

‘We all will.’ Ella took off her jacket. ‘I’m ready for that cake too.’

The Foc’sle was an old-fashioned teashop on the quay, two doors down from the Golden Hind pub.

‘We could have a quick pint if you want?’ said Ella.

‘Much rather have a pot of tea.’ Kit perused the slightly sticky, laminated menu. ‘How about a cream tea? You need fattening up.’

‘Do I?’ She fluttered her eyelashes winsomely.

‘Yes, indeed,’ he said seriously. ‘Being as lovely as you takes up many more calories than the average person. Fact. All that smiling and thinking kind thoughts is almost aerobic.’

‘Well, in that case …’ She nudged his knee under the table with her own. ‘I can always do some exercise … at bedtime. You could join me if you wanted.’

‘Oh, Miss Tallon,’ he shrieked, pretending to be shocked, ‘Just because you are a blazing firework of a woman with marmalade curls, you think you can do what you want with me?’

Ella giggled, ‘Yes.’

‘Then I am helpless, pulled by a current so strong I can’t resist. Do what you will, but …’

She raised an eyebrow and in a deep voice said, ‘Yes?’

‘Be gentle with me.’

‘Can I help you?’ asked the middle-aged waitress with a name badge saying Sheree, who was standing over them.

Without missing a beat, Kit said, ‘Two cream teas, please.’

The pasties didn’t get made that night after all. When Ella came down in the morning the remnants of a chicken salad and a bottle and a half of wine were winking at her from the coffee table in the sitting room, reminding her of the evening they had spent curled up together, talking about everything and anything.

As she collected up the plates and stubs of candles she thought back to what they had talked about last night.

Ella wanted to talk about her plan to offer short painting courses for locals and holidaymakers. ‘The cliffs, the harbour, the church. There’s so much here for little children. We could go to the beach and find shells to paint or pebbles to paint on. That would be fun.’

‘Like your granny did for you? Revisiting your childhood?’

‘Oh.’ Ella was anxious. ‘Is that a bad thing?’

‘Not at all,’ Kit reassured her. ‘It’s lovely, and I think taking the little darlings from their parents for a couple of hours is a wonderful thing – for the parents.’

She flapped her hand and took another sip of wine. ‘What about you? When are you going to get on the cliffs and paint?’

‘I’ve got that portrait of Lindsay Cowan to finish, with her cat, dog and horse.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘She’s lovely, but what she sees as handsome, intelligent companions, I see as bloody pains in the arse. The cat is a toothless bag of bones, the dog stinks and growls at me and the horse farts and tries to bite me. But,’ he topped up his glass, ‘she pays well.’

‘When you’re done with her,’ Ella lifted her hands and began to draw in the air, ‘I want you to paint a huge canvas of a darkly rolling sea with stars twinkling and a lighthouse flashing across the waves. It’ll be perfect above the fireplace.’

‘One day,’ he put his glass down and kissed her knee, ‘that’s exactly what I shall paint for you.’

Ella’s hand was around his shoulders as he lay his head in her lap. The candlelight flickered warmly creating a cosy cocoon. ‘This is nice,’ she said sleepily.

‘We won’t be able to do this tomorrow. Your brother will be here and Adam will be back.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘And the day after, you might find out what happened to your mum.’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you think happened to her?

‘A million things. I have spent my whole life thinking about her and why she left. Sometimes I want her to come back and other times I hope she’s dead. It would be easier. I could build a picture of a mum I want. Not a phantom built from questions.’

Ella wondered if what she had said last night was true. She felt no anger towards her missing mother. Just a need to know why. She took the dirty plates and glasses from last night and stacked them into the dishwasher before putting the kettle on for a pot of morning tea. As she waited for it to boil, she tidied the rest of the sitting room, plumping cushions, opening the curtains to the early sun and picking up a chewed slipper and a rubber chicken, both toys left by Celia and Terry.

She heard both dogs yawning from their room next to the kitchen and went to let them out. Terry came out, then sat scratching like any human man under his armpits and Celia strode out as if she was wearing thigh-high boots.

‘Good morning,’ said Ella.

The Afghan hounds ignored her and, pushing through her legs towards the kitchen door, took themselves into the garden.

Leaving the back door open, knowing there were no escape routes from the garden, she took a tray of tea up to Kit.

He was propped up against his pillows, waiting for her.

‘And how is the mistress of the house today?’

Ella gave a little bob of a curtsey, and as she put the tray down and went to climb into bed, the phone rang.

‘Leave it,’ said Kit.

Ella picked it up. ‘Hello? Henry, where are you? Okay. Lovely. Can’t wait to see you.’ She smiled at a scowling Kit. ‘And Kit can’t wait, either! Bye. Love you.’

Kit watched her as she put the phone down. ‘I suppose this means I’m not going to see your ankles, Ruby?’

She grinned at him. ‘There’s always time for ankles, m’lord.’

‘Ow!’ Ella squeaked, putting the hot baking tray down quickly.

Kit, coming downstairs freshly shaved and smelling delicious, popped his head into the kitchen. ‘You okay?’

‘The tea towel was a bit thin and I burnt myself on the pasty tin.’ She ran her fingers under the cold tap. ‘I’m fine.’

‘They smell good,’ said Kit checking his watch. ‘Anything I can do?’

She looked at him over her shoulder. ‘I just want you and my brother to get on well. It would mean so much to me.’

She looked so anxious, cheeks pink from cooking, hair caught up in a bun with a pencil allowing curls to escape over her ears, and her singed fingers under the tap. Kit got a clean tea towel and went to her. ‘Here, let me dry your hand.’ He turned the tap off and gently wrapped her hand, kissing the tips of her fingers as he did so. ‘Of course I’ll like your brother. But will he like me?’

Ella began to laugh. ‘Well, he will if you take him to the pub!’

‘I think I can manage that.’

The rattle of a taxi in the drive heralded Henry’s arrival.

‘He’s here!’ Ella ran to the front door and opened it. ‘Henry!’ She charged out of the house and ran at him, smothering him in a hug and kisses. ‘I’ve missed my bro.’

‘Whoa, let me pay the driver,’ he said, disentangling himself as best he could.

As he got his bag from the back seat and handed the driver his fare, he saw a man he assumed must be Kit. He gave him a quick scan. Thirtyish. Checked shirt and shorts. Nice tan. Looked okay.

He put his bag into his left hand and extended his right. ‘You must be Kit. Henry.’

‘Henry. Good to meet you.’ It was Kit’s turn to run a discerning assessment of Henry.

Long legs. Expensive jeans and jacket. White open-necked shirt. Flash watch. But he looked okay.

Ella looped her arms through each of the boys’ and dragged them into the house. ‘Welcome to Marguerite Cottage.’

Inside the hall, Henry dropped his bag on the flagstones and looked around him. ‘Very nice, Ell’s Bell’s.’

‘Come into the garden. Tea? Coffee? I could make a jug of Pimm’s?’

Henry followed her through the lounge with Kit, and out through the double doors into the pretty garden. ‘You have landed with your bum in butter, haven’t you, Ellie? Very nice.’

‘Yes, I have.’ Ella replied, squeezing her shoulders to her ears and grinning in delight. ‘And I’ve got pasties for you. Homemade.’

‘Fancy a pint?’ asked Kit.

‘Do I?’ Henry smiled. ‘With an offer like that, if Ella doesn’t marry you, I will.’

Ella was mortified and dug Henry in the ribs. ‘Shut up.’

‘Just saying,’ he said, clutching his side. ‘Will the pasties keep for an hour?’

‘Yes. Go on. They’ll keep. I’ll take your bag up to your room. You’re in Kit’s studio. For now.’

‘I’ll take it up later. It’s heavy.’ He opened it and hauled a bulging carrier bag out. ‘Here, take this bag – it’s got a huge pile of post for you. When you left me in London I didn’t think you’d be falling in love and not coming back.’

Ella couldn’t keep a blush from her cheeks. ‘God, you are so embarrassing.’

Kit saved her. ‘Neither of us expected to fall in love, but we did. I love your sister very much.’

Henry half closed his eyes and weighed up this open declaration. ‘Good on you. Don’t muck her about or I’ll flatten you.’

‘Fair enough.’ Kit smiled. ‘Now, how about that pint? Ella, do you want to come?”

‘No thanks. You two go and get to know each other. I’ll make myself a Pimm’s and have a look through the post Henry’s brought.’

She waved the boys off with their promise to be only an hour, or so, and took the Waitrose bag of post to the garden.

Getting a glass of Pimm’s, she settled herself at the garden table and sifted through the mail.

The piles in front of her grew tediously. Catalogues. Charity requests. Bank statements. A postcard from an old school friend now living in Peru. Pension firms. Insurance firms. Funeral savings plan. And, a letter from a publisher. Months before she had written and illustrated a children’s book called Hedgerow Adventures. She had hoped that her departed granny would guide her to a fruitful contract. She opened the envelope.

Dear Miss Tallon,

Re Hedgerow Adventures

Thank you for your submission. Unfortunately this is not the sort of book we would publish. We will return the manuscript under separate cover,

Yours etc …

She sat back and blew out a long breath of frustration.

‘Granny,’ she said, ‘you got me excited for a moment. Ah well. C’est la vie.’ She picked up her Pimm’s and took a long, cool, self-commiserating mouthful.

Her phone buzzed. It was Henry.

‘Hi, Henry, is everything okay?’

‘Have you looked at your emails?’

‘No, I’ve been going through the post. So much crap …’

‘Check them now,’ he said urgently.

‘Okay, hang on.’ She put her phone on speaker and looked at the screen. There was an email waiting to be opened. ‘I’ve got it. It’s from Granny’s solicitor.’

‘Open it.’

She did so and as she read it her heartbeat began to accelerate ‘Oh. My. God,’ she whispered. ‘It can’t be true.’

‘It is true.’ Henry’s voice was gruff with anger.

Ella’s hand was shaking as she gripped the phone. Swallowing hard to stop any tears she said, ‘Our mother is alive?’

‘Yes,’ said Henry. ‘And she wants to see us.’ He was having difficulty keeping the shock from his voice. As soon as he had read the message, relaxing with a pint on the Dolphin’s oak bar and chatting to Kit, he’d excused himself and gone to the relative privacy of the pub car park to phone Ella.

He was scuffing the gravel with his shoes. ‘I can’t believe she’s got the nerve.’ He bit his lip, his face the definition of rage and pain. ‘After all these years.’ He pushed his free hand into his floppy fringe and pulled his hair. ‘She’s bloody alive. Well, I can tell you now, we are not seeing her.’

Ella sat down. ‘But she’s our mother.’

‘Ha! She lost the right to call herself that years ago.’

‘Henry, this is shock talking, we need time to think about it.’

‘No, we don’t. There’s only one reason she’d come back. Because Granny’s solicitor has told her that Granny is dead and that she is in for an inheritance. That’s all there is to it.’

Ella loved her brother very much, but she didn’t always agree with him. ‘It must have been a shock for her to hear that. Her mother dead, her father too.’

Henry snorted and ran his hands through his floppy blond hair. ‘Well, it was a bit of a shock for me too, you know, when I heard that my mum had run away. I was only two.’

‘I know.’ Ella looked at the garden she and Kit had started to plant. ‘I can’t imagine how she could leave you. She knew you. It was easier for me. I was just a baby. She didn’t have time to know me. I don’t have a clue what she was like … and that’s why I’d like to see her.’

Henry sat on the wall of the pub’s entrance, all the adrenalin leaving him. ‘I don’t know what to think. I was hoping they wouldn’t find her. Or if they did, that she had died.’

‘Don’t say that!’ Ella flopped into her squashy sofa. ‘Is Kit still with you?’

‘He’s inside. I saw the email and came out to tell you first. He doesn’t know.’

‘Come home. The pair of you. Come home now.’

Ella had been hugging herself with joy just ten minutes ago. How quickly everything can change for the worse.

Ella took Henry’s bag up to Kit’s small studio and put it next to the single bed. It was getting on for late afternoon and through the open window a blackbird was singing in the magnolia tree. Instantly anger rose in her. How dare the bloody birds be so happy while her world was turned upside down? She shut the window with a bang, making the bird fly off. Good riddance, she thought to herself.

Downstairs she heard Kit’s car pull up. She ran down and opened the front door.

Kit was looking serious, as if there had been a terrible accident and he now had the responsibility of the fallout. Which he had, she supposed.

Henry was pale and blowing out his cheeks in a childhood mannerism that always signalled upset.

‘Hi,’ she said softly.

Kit came to her immediately and put his arms around her. He felt the softness and sweetness of her incredible red curls then stood arm’s length from her, his hands on her shoulders. ‘You okay?’

She shook her head and at last felt hot tears springing to her eyes. ‘Not really.’

Kit shepherded brother and sister into the kitchen and made them sit down. ‘You both need a drink. Tea or alcohol?’

Ella settled for a cup of tea while Henry and Kit had large gin and tonics.

‘Right,’ said Kit, pulling out a chair from the table and sitting down. ‘Tell me exactly what has happened.’

Ella looked at Henry. ‘Do you want to tell him?’ she asked.

Henry shrugged in reply and looked at his hands clenching the icy glass.

She looked at Kit. ‘The solicitor has found our mother and she wants to see us.’

Kit was looking at her attentively. ‘What do you think she wants after all this time?’

‘Granny’s money,’ said Henry, flatly.

‘Or,’ said Kit trying to sound positive, ‘she might be coming because she wants to see you two, after all she hasn’t seen you for …’

‘Almost twenty-five years.’ Henry picked up his glass and drank.

Ella swallowed hard. ‘The thing is, Henry has memories of her. Nice ones, I think.’

Henry grunted.

‘They had had time to get to know each other. It was much more painful for him.’ She looked at her brother. ‘I should think.’

Henry said nothing but looked at the floor.

‘Whereas I don’t remember anything about her. I mean she left when I was only just over a year old,’ said Ella, still watching Henry. ‘That’s why I want to see her.’

Henry glared at her. ‘Really?’

Ella twiddled her fingers anxiously. ‘I want to know what she looks like. Do we look alike? What she’s been doing? Why did she leave us?’ She wiped her nose as a tear ran down her cheek. ‘Everything, really.’

Henry was angry. ‘She’s one selfish cow who doesn’t deserve to be listened to. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s lied through her teeth anyway. She might not even be our mother. Just some strange woman who thinks she could get lucky. I wouldn’t believe a word she said.’

‘But, Henry, we must try. Then decide whether we want to be friends or not.’

‘Friends? What are you talking about? She’s a madwoman. We don’t know anything about her. Correction, we know that she had two children by the time she was seventeen and she never told her own parents who the father – or fathers – were, and despite Granny and Grandad being kind and supportive to her, she ran away in the night and never looked back. What kind of person does that?’

‘A sad person?’ Ella said quietly. ‘A person who finds themselves in a really hard place at the start of their adult life and can’t cope. People run away all the time. Every day. She was not in her right mind.’

‘Why didn’t she come back?’ demanded Henry.

‘She was scared,’ Ella said. ‘Once you’ve done something like that, maybe there is no coming back.’

Henry gave a short laugh. ‘Really? Not to have any curiosity about how your children turned out? Not even to see your own parents? Who, in case you had forgotten, never recovered from the worry of what might have happened to her?’

Ella drained her cup of tea, gripped by a sudden anger at his unkindness. She scraped her chair back and took her cup to the sink. She kept her back to her brother. ‘Have you no empathy?’ There was a tea bag in the sink. She fished it out and put it into the food bin. ‘She was just a young girl, Henry. One who had got herself in a mess and she wanted to change that.’

‘By walking out and leaving her shit to be cleared up by her parents?’ sneered Henry. ‘Brilliant.’

Kit, who had been listening to all this quietly, now intervened. ‘You two getting angry with each other isn’t going to help.’

‘Oh, shut up. You know nothing about it,’ said Henry, waving his hand dismissively.

‘I know Ella,’ Kit replied calmly, ‘and I agree with her. You both need to meet this woman and find out who she really is. If you don’t like her after that, then fine. It’s over. You can all move on.’

Ella softened and, walking to Henry’s chair, put her arms around his neck and hugged him. ‘Kit’s right.’

Henry clasped his sister’s hands and pulled her closer to him. ‘It hurts …’ He spoke quietly.

‘I know,’ she said.

‘Was it me?’ His voice caught. ‘Was it my fault?’

Ella took her arms from his neck and knelt by his side. ‘How could it be your fault. You were only two. It might have been my fault. I was the final straw. A second mistake.’

Henry’s tears began to fall. He angrily wiped them away. ‘I hate her, Ellie. I don’t want to see her and I don’t want you to see her either.’ He took her upturned face in his hands. ‘Promise me you won’t see her? I couldn’t bear it.’

Ella saw the pain in her brother’s eyes and made her decision. ‘I promise I won’t see her for as long as you don’t want me too. But I can’t promise that I’ll never want to see her.’

He nodded and let his hands drop. ‘Thank you,’ he answered simply.

2

Agra, India, 2018

Sennen was nervous. More than nervous. What was going on in Cornwall? Her solicitor had promised to phone as soon as he had heard back from Ella and Henry and she’d been restless all morning. She walked to the shuttered windows of her hotel room and looked down on to the bustle of the street market. She could almost feel the heat and smell the dust through the glass. It was monsoon season, and although the clouds had now cleared, the last downpour had left deep puddles on the muddy street and in the awnings of the market stalls. She watched as a young woman in a rose-pink sari stepped out into the busy road and neatly sidestepped a couple of hungry dogs who took a sniff at her shopping, a plastic bag filled with colourful vegetables and herbs. A passing tuk-tuk beeped his horn and she waved at the driver in recognition, rows of golden bangles slipping up her arm and glinting in the hot sun.

Sennen watched as the woman continued her journey until she was no longer in view. How jealous she was of that woman.

She began pacing her hotel room once again.

What had she done?. She twisted her wedding ring and stared at the phone by the bed, willing it to ring.

The letter that had started this turmoil was next to the phone.

A letter postmarked ‘Cornwall’.

Cornwall. She’d walked away a long time ago. She thought of a quote from The Go-Between: ‘The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.’ Who wrote that? If Kafir were here he would know. Kafir … one of the most erudite men she knew. Not that she knew many men. Her life hadn’t all been roses, and right now it was just the thorns.

She sat on the bed, closed her eyes and began her private ritual of summoning Trevay in her mind’s eye and walking its narrow streets and lanes. What were the little boats in the harbour doing now? Would any of the ones she remembered still be working or were they left in the silt, their hulks rotting down to skeletons? Or perhaps they’d been dragged up to The Sheds where all boats rested, used and unused.

She could smell the seaweed and the salt.

Hear the gulls laughing.

The splash of water as children launched their crab lines into the deep harbour.

Her mother painting at her easel on the beach. Her washed-out linen shirts and faded trousers glowing in the sun.

Poppa sitting at his pottery wheel. The shiny slip of water and clay covering his hands to his elbows.

She dared, for a moment, to think about Henry but, as always, the electric nerve pain of the thought stopped her. She couldn’t even summon his face now. Or Ella’s. She had been a wicked woman. And now, with the letter from Cornwall, they had found her and would make her pay.

It had come like a ghost summoning her to her grave.

There were several old addresses written on the envelope as it had chased her around the globe, before finding her here, in India.

When she had read it, locked in her bathroom, away from any inquisition, the sense of fear had almost compelled her to run again.

The letter told her that her father had died some years ago, her mother three years ago. They had died intestate, had made no will, so she was the sole heir to the estate. The house had been sold for a good price when the solicitor, acting as trustee, had rightly thought the market was at its highest. That money was now in a high interest account and it was hers. She or her solicitor should come to Cornwall. All that needed to be done was to prove her identity and sign some forms. She didn’t even have to come to Cornwall, she could send a solicitor as her representative.

There was nothing about her children.

It took several days before she could formulate her reply. In it she expressed a desire to meet Henry and Ella and would only return to Cornwall if they wanted to see her.

The solicitor agreed to phone her when he had their answer.

She lay on the bed and allowed memories of her childhood to fill her thoughts.

She was on the beach at Shellsand Bay. Her father, nut-brown and strongly muscled, was swinging her round and round. He was smiling. His bright blue eyes twinkling in his tanned face and his deep laugh making her giggle. ‘Daddeeeee.’

‘Bill, darling, she might be sick,’ said her mother.

‘Are you going to be sick?’ he asked Sennen.

‘Noooooo,’ she giggled.

‘Would you like to come swimming with me and Mum?’

‘Yeeessssss.’

He put her down on the warm sand. ‘Get your rubber ring and we’ll look for the mermaids, shall we?’

Sennen ran to her mother. ‘Mummy, Daddy’s taking us swimming.’ She’d pulled at the slender, elegant hand of her mother. ‘Come on.’

Her father stood ready in his dark-blue swimming shorts.

Her mother smiled, ‘Of course. Let me just sort myself out.’ Adela had been painting in the small sketchbook she always carried with her, capturing the likeness of fishermen mending their nets or lobster pots piled high on the harbour or the holidaymakers napping in the sun.

‘I like that,’ said Bill peering over her shoulder at her watercolour of the beach scene in front of them. ‘Good colours.’

Adela stood up and put her hands on her husband’s bare chest. She kissed him. ‘Thank you.’

He kissed her back then held her slim body in his arms. She pressed her cheek against him and smelt the warmth of his skin.

‘I do love you,’ she said.

‘And I love you.’

Sennen bashed her mother on the back of the knees with her sand spade. ‘Come! On!’

Bill and Adela laughed and, taking Sennen in a hand each, they ran to the waves, swinging her between them. She had grown up surrounded by so much love and kindness. How could she have turned her back on them?

3

Cornwall, 1972

Adela was Cornish to the heart. Her parents had been wealthy landowners from Bodmin, her father the quintessential country squire and her mother a beauty of her day. Adela had wanted for nothing. The only awkward thing being that they were none of the things she actually wanted. Money, comfort, beauty, beaus – all were hers for the taking. But it wasn’t what she longed for. She dreamt of being a great artist, living a rackety bohemian life in London, preferably Pimlico, which she had heard about and liked the sound of.

When she finally told them, it had caused much consternation for her parents, who had planned a husband, Anthony, handsome and untroubled by intellect with a rather lovely medieval manor house on the banks of the Tamar.

But it was not to be. At the age of eighteen she won a place at the Slade School of Art on Gower Street, Bloomsbury.

She refused her parents’ offer of a nice little flat in Baker Street and, instead, put her name down for a flat-share with any of the new, female, students she would be joining up with. She would find out who when she arrived for her first term.

Her mother, a woman with a great capacity for organisation, decided her talents would be best spent taking her only child to Truro for the day and kitting her out with a new wardrobe of fashionable dresses and accessories and, as an afterthought, paints.

Come early September her father ordered his cherished Morris 6 to be serviced, polished and refuelled and drove her up to London in what he noted was record time. Nine and a half hours. It would have been even quicker if it hadn’t been for the thick fog that had rolled over Dartmoor and a puncture on the A38.

Adela had waved him off to his club, where he would spend the night before the return journey the following day, and set about her new life with enthusiasm.

Her new flat, off Marylebone High Street, was small but clean and her flatmates were fun. There was Elsie, who was Irish and smoked, and Kina, who tied her hair with bright cotton scarves and wore boy’s jeans. She was from Jamaica and was the most exotic person Adela had ever met.

Together they shared everything, including Kina’s fashion sense. Within days Adela’s pretty dresses and gloves, were taken off their hangers and bundled into Adela’s suitcase under her single bed. Now Adela hunted the jumble sales and bric-a-brac stalls for overgrown jumpers and men’s shirts which she knotted at the waist and loose canvas trousers. For a brief moment she tried smoking too but she really couldn’t get on with it so took, instead, to drinking halves of bitter when she met fellow students in the pub.

The first year flew by and, returning to Cornwall the following summer, she was surprised by how much she had missed it.

Her mother wanted to know all the London gossip. She had none. Had she been to Harrods? No. At which restaurants had she dined? Again, none.

Had she met any nice boys as she would be delighted to invite them to tea? No, but if I do I shall let them know.

Why did she wear such shabby clothes? I like them.

Wouldn’t she like to get her hair styled? It’s fine as it is.

It was towards the end of August that Adela took herself up to the golden fields of swaying corn in order to paint the local men who were getting her father’s harvest in.

Her mother had hung string bags of bread, cheese and pasties on her handlebars and in her panniers she had placed bottles of cider to give the men a snack. When Adela had arrived, the men, stripped to their vests, had cheered and stopped work to enjoy their break. She knew most of them by sight, if not by name, as they had been getting the harvest in for as many years as she could remember.

Perching on whatever they could find, the bolder amongst them asked about her new life in London. She told them about the London pubs she visited and the life-drawing classes where the models were naked.

There was one boy, wide-shouldered and sunburnt with very blue eyes and very white teeth who lay on his shirt and listened but didn’t look at her or join in.

She had never seen him before.

When the snack was done and both thirsts and appetites quenched, Old John, her father’s stockman, called the men back to their labours.

The new boy thanked her for the food and drink and introduced himself as Bill. His hand was rough and strong in hers as she shook it. ‘Will you be here tomorrow?’ he had asked. ‘I’m not sure,’ she replied.

He smiled as he put his cap on and picked up his pitch fork. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said and strode back up the field.

‘Who’s that new boy helping with the harvest?’ she asked her father over dinner that night.

‘Aha,’ smiled her father. ‘No need to ask you which one. All the girls are after him.’

Adela looked at the asparagus on her plate and stabbed it. ‘I was just wondering.’

Her father gave a sly look to her mother and said innocently, ‘He’s a good chap, actually. I know his father. Nice man but awfully worried for the boy. He doesn’t want to join the family firm. He’s down in St Ives, working with some pottery chap. Pity.’

Adela couldn’t help but bristle. ‘Pity? Because he prefers art to business?’

Her mother leant over and touched Adela’s hand. ‘No dear, your father is mischief-making. The boy – William, I think his name is?’ She looked at her husband who nodded. ‘William, is a super chap, although a bit of a leftie.’

Adela couldn’t help but laugh. ‘We are all a bit “leftie” now, you know.’

‘We are not!’ Her father banged the table.

‘Well, I am,’ said Adela calmly.

Her mother gasped and clutched her throat. ‘Oh darling, is that why you dress like a man?’

Adela shook her head smiling. ‘No, Mother, I dress like this because it’s comfortable and practical and all my friends do the same.’

Her father took a mouthful of pork pie and mumbled, ‘I told you we shouldn’t have let her go to London.’

Her mother ignored him. ‘But, Adela, dear, if you want a husband you must at least try to look pretty.’

‘I’m not sure I want a husband.’

‘But, dear …’ Her mother was putting two and two together and making six. ‘Do you not like men?’

Adela put her knife and fork neatly on her plate and said nothing.

‘I mean,’ her mother continued, ‘it could be just a phase you’re going through. I remember at boarding school there were girls who got quite friendly but they got over it in the end.’

‘Mother, stop, you are embarrassing Father, me and yourself.’

‘Your father’s a farmer, he knows all about these things.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Don’t you, dear?’

Her father finished his wine and stood up. ‘I’m going to let the dogs out.’

‘Mother, you are terrible,’ said Adela watching her father go. ‘Now let’s clear the table.’

The next day, Adela went back to the fields and was pleased when William waved at her and was one of the first to get a glass of lemonade and slice of cheese. ‘Hello again,’ he said. ‘Are you painting today?’

Adela was putting out the bread and cheese and a few apples on to a linen cloth for the lads. ‘It’s so lovely up here, I thought I would.’

‘May I see it when you’re done?’

‘It depends.’ She smiled. ‘I hear you’re a potter?’

He took an apple and rubbed it on his trousers. ‘My father has been talking to yours, I suppose?’

Adela smiled wryly.

‘I’m an apprentice,’ said Bill, ‘down in St Ives?’

‘Ah, Bernard Leach country.’

‘I’m impressed.’ He took a chunk out of his apple. ‘Nobody here seems to have heard of him.’

‘I’m studying art at the Slade.’

‘Yes, I heard. Your father has been talking to mine.’

Adela laughed and Bill looked at her closely. ‘That explains it.’

‘Explains what?’

‘The way you look.’

She looked down at her crumpled linen smock and rolled up trousers, and said defiantly, ‘What’s wrong with the way I look?’

‘Nothing.’ He grinned. ‘I like it. You look like the type of girl who wouldn’t mind getting caught in rainstorm, or pushing a car out of a ditch.

‘Oh,’ she said disconsolately.

‘It’s a compliment, believe me.’

‘Didn’t sound like one.’

She looked down at her scruffy sandals and brown, unshaved ankles. Self-consciously she tucked them under herself.

From the top of the field she heard Old John calling the lads back to work.

‘Tell you what,’ said Bill standing up and tossing his apple core into a hedge, ‘what are you doing tonight?’

She looked at him suspiciously. ‘Why?’

‘I’m taking you out. I’ll pick you up at seven.’

She had nothing to wear. The bed was littered with half a dozen garments which she’d had for years. Amongst which was an old dress she’d had since she was fourteen that was too short and much too tight; a pretty cotton skirt with a broken zip – and a horrible taffeta bridesmaid dress she’d had to wear for her cousin’s wedding. Red faced from her bath and the putting on and taking off of so many things, she sat on the edge of the bed in despair. There was a soft knock at the door.

‘It’s Mother. Can I help?’

Adela sighed and flopped backwards on to the bed in despair. ‘Come in.’

Her mother put her head around the door. ‘I thought so. I found this. Any good?’

She was holding a Liberty-print cotton summer dress. ‘I bought it ages ago. In a sale. It’s too young for me. Too small, too. Try it.’

In the mirror, even Adela was pleased with her reflection. The dress was simple and hung a little loose on her but it was perfect. Her mother had brushed her hair into a neat ponytail and had attempted a little rouge and lipstick but Adela had been firm about saying no. Finally, her mother had stepped back. ‘You’ll do,’ she said.

From downstairs they heard the bang of the old doorknocker and her father calling up the stairs, ‘Prince Charming has arrived, Cinders.’

Bill had borrowed his father’s car and drove Adela through the lanes and down to the pretty fishing village of Trevay. His shirtsleeved arm leaning on the open window, he chatted about this and that and gradually the knot in Adela’s stomach began to loosen. As they came down the hill towards the harbour, Adela saw that the fishing boats were coming in on the tide, ready to land their catches on the quay. The sun was bouncing on the surface of the rippling sea making the light sparkle and flash.

‘I love it here,’ she said. ‘I haven’t been for ages. I could paint that sea every day.’

Bill parked the car outside the Golden Hind, picked up his jacket from the back seat and helped Adela inside.

‘What will you drink?’ he asked.

‘Half a bitter, please.’ She didn’t see his amused smile as she looked around the dark and cosy bar. ‘It’s nice in here.’

Paying the barman, he carried his pint and her half towards the door. ‘Let’s take our drinks outside.’

The sun was beginning to set and the day was losing its warmth. She shivered a little as they sat on the harbour wall across from the pub and watched the fishing boats unload.

‘Would you like my jacket?’ he asked. ‘Or I have a jumper in the car?’

‘You’ll need your jacket but the jumper would be lovely thank you.’

‘Don’t go away.’ He set off for the car, Adela watching him. He was undeniably handsome, tall and muscular with an easy smile, the sort of man, she thought, one could fall in love with. She checked herself and looked back at the boat. She was only eighteen and she and Elsie and Kina had sworn to each other that they would play the field as men did, would never settle down with the first man they met. She looked over to him again. He was leaning into the car and reaching for something on the back seat. When he reappeared, he had the jumper in his hand and looked over at her with such a look that her heart jumped a little. She quickly returned her gaze to the boats, as if the unloading of their catches was of the utmost interest. She decided that, when he came back, she would be polite and cool. She would give no indication that she might find him attractive.

Adela waited a few seconds longer then glanced in his direction to see what was keeping him.

She saw at once.

Two girls were talking to him. Two pretty girls. One had her hand on his chest as she was talking to him, the other was pulling at his hand.

Adela’s hand was shaking so much that she had to put her drink down. She looked over again. He was pointing at her and all three of them were laughing. At her? She felt her breath quicken and her cheeks redden. How could she escape?

Too late, he was coming towards her. ‘Adela, meet a couple of old friends. Barbara …’

‘Hello,’ pouted Barbara, still holding Bill’s hand.

‘And Jill.’

‘Hi,’ said Jill, giving Adela a full top to toe scope.

‘Bill …’ Adela stood. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m not feeling very well. I’ll get the bus back.’

Bill frowned. ‘Don’t be silly, I’ll drive you.’

‘No, it’s no trouble. I’ll get the bus or ring my father. I don’t want to spoil your evening.’

‘Spoil my …’ Bill was confused and exasperated. ‘We’ve only just got here.’

Jill butted in. ‘She’ll be fine on the bus. Stay with us. We’ll have a laugh.’

Adela stood fixed to the spot. Was she to be so easily shaken off?

Bill shook out his jumper and placed it around Adela’s shoulders.

‘Adela needs to go home and I shall take her.’

In the car, Adela said nothing. Her emotions were running high. She was elated that he had brushed those girls off but angry that he even knew them. Who were they? How well did he know them? Her father had said that all the girls were after him. Well, she wasn’t. This would be the first and last time she would accept a date from him.

Her eyes slid over to look at him. His profile in the dark of the car was strong but his lips were tensed as he ran his hand through his hair. He felt her gaze and looked over at her. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Okay.’

‘Are you sure it wasn’t something else?’ She wondered if he was teasing her.

‘Too much sun maybe,’ she said.

‘You don’t get sun in London?’ He was teasing her.

She turned to look out of her window and didn’t give him the courtesy of an answer.

‘I was looking forward to tonight,’ he said. ‘What did I do wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Was it the girls?’

She shook her head, refusing to look at him.

‘I grew up with them. They’re fun.’

‘Good for them.’

He slowed the car in the lane leading down to her family farm. The headlights picked out an owl on a gatepost as he brought the car to a halt and turned the engine and headlights off, then they sat without speaking. Only the gentle ticking of the engine cooling broke the silence.

‘Adela,’ he said gently.

‘Why have we stopped?’ she asked.

‘I wanted a chance to talk to you. Without interruption. We’ve got at least two hours before your parents will be expecting you back.’ He settled in his seat, his back to the driver’s door. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Feeling better?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. So talk to me.’

‘About what?’

‘Tell me about who you are and what you want out of life.’

‘I’m Adela Trip. I’m eighteen. I’m an artist and I want to make a living from my work. Is that enough?’

‘Uh huh. Do you have a boyfriend?’

She shook her head, then dared to look into his eyes. ‘Do you have a girlfriend?’

‘No. Not at the moment.’

‘Oh.’ She smiled. ‘And so who are you and what do you want to do with your life?’

‘Right now I’d like a pint and some fish and chips. That was how I had planned tonight.’

‘Sorry I messed it up,’ she said shyly.

‘I forgive you.’ He was teasing again. ‘Shall we start afresh?’

She bit her lip but managed a smile. ‘Yes please.’

‘Good.’ He turned the engine on and reversed the car. ‘We’ll go over to Pendruggan village. There’s a great pub there called the Dolphin. Proper beer, good food and quiet. Fancy it?’

From then on the evening went smoothly. Bill was an easy person to be around and Adela made him laugh with her stories of her flatmates and her tutors, two of whom were Graham Sutherland and Lucien Freud. He told her about his work with the pottery and the great Bernard Leach who was teaching him. ‘He’s a genius, Adela. I’d like you to come down and meet him.’

‘That would be lovely.’

‘Good. By the way, can you play darts? The board has just come free.’

She surprised him with her skill at darts and took a game off him straight away.

‘Have you been having lessons?’

‘Beginner’s luck,’ she laughed. ‘Or maybe I’ve spent the last year in London learning to play in our local?’

‘Right, if that’s the case,’ he picked up his darts, ‘no more Mr Nice Guy.’

The drive back to the house was very different to either of the previous drives that evening. Now they were comfortable together, the small silences between them serene and pleasant.

At the front door, she thanked him.

‘Will you be up at the harvest tomorrow?’ he asked.

‘It’s my job to bring you all your snack, isn’t it?’

‘Ah yes. That’ll be the reason you come up.’

‘Nothing else.’ She chewed her lip, hoping and fearing that he might kiss her. She tipped her head up to his and in a low voice said, ‘So. See you tomorrow?’

She half-closed her eyes and waited. He hesitated, then stepped off the front step and walked backwards towards his car.

‘Yes. See you tomorrow.’ He opened the driver’s door and bent to get in. She watched the way he folded his long legs into the seat and sat down. Being so tall, his head touched the roof. As he started the engine and the car began to pull away he leant out of the window and said, ‘Did I mention how lovely you look in that dress?’

She stood for a long time, watching his taillights grow smaller until they disappeared from sight.

4

Pendruggan, 2018

Once Ella had promised not to meet their mother, Henry, Ella and Kit had a reasonably happy weekend. After a gin-fuelled sleep on the first night, Henry had quite a hangover. He lay in bed, hoping the throbbing of his head would subside enough to allow him to get up and go to the bathroom. There was a knock at his door. It was Ella carrying a mug and a foil pack of pills. She pushed the door open with her foot. ‘Are you feeling as bad as Kit?’

‘Worse,’ he groaned.

‘Gin head. Big time.’ Henry was aware of his sister approaching the bed and placing the mug and tablets on the table next to him. ‘There’s coffee and paracetamol.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, waiting for a wave of nausea to pass.

‘Full Cornish breakfast will fix you. I’ll call you when it’s ready.’

After a few minutes he managed to raise himself from the pillow and attempt the coffee. It was good. Hot and very strong. He threw the tablets into his mouth and washed them down.

There was another knock at the door. It was Kit, bleary-eyed and wearing a scruffy, short, towelling dressing gown and stubble. ‘Showed the gin who’s boss, didn’t we?’ he said, sitting on the edge of Henry’s bed, his head in his hands.

‘How much did we have?’ murmured Henry.

‘I remember opening a new bottle and then throwing it away once it was empty.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Boys,’ Ella called up the stairs, ‘breakfast is served.’

A young man’s powers of recuperation are not to be underestimated, and with the coffee and painkillers, plus Ella’s enormous fry-up, by lunchtime they were almost functioning human beings once more.

They were sitting in the garden of Marguerite Cottage, warming themselves like cats in the drowsy sunshine. ‘What shall we do this afternoon?’ Ella drawled from her deckchair. ‘Anyone fancy lunch out?’

‘Love some,’ said Kit reaching for her hand. ‘Only you had better drive as I think Henry and I would never pass a breath test.’

‘Pizza is what you need.’ Ella gathered herself and got out of the deckchair as best she could. ‘You need carbs, rehydration and some fresh air. We’ll get all that in Trevay.’

‘The old place looks very gentrified,’ Henry remarked as he watched the little town of his childhood slide past his backseat window.

‘Would you like to see what they’ve done to Granny’s house?’ Ella asked over her shoulder.

‘Sure.’

Ella pulled the car up on the corner of their old road and the three of them got out and walked up the short but steep lane to White Water. Henry stuck his head over the garden wall. ‘They’ve kept Poppa’s palm trees going,’ he said.

‘I know. I stayed here for a few weeks in the summer, remember? Our old courtyard for the sandpit and bikes has gone, though. They’ve put in a conservatory with a pond and a fountain.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Henry,’ I can just about see. There are a couple of people having a coffee in there.’

‘They’ll be the B & B guests.’

‘Double glazing and plantation shutters. Granny would think that very bourgeois,’ Henry chuckled.

‘Do you think so?’ asked Ella, standing on tiptoes to get a view. ‘I think she’d approve.’

Henry stepped back and rubbed the grit of the granite wall from his hands. ‘Memories, eh?’

‘Yep,’ said Ella.

‘I like the big window in the attic,’ said Kit. ‘Is that where your grandmother had her studio?’

Ella poked him in the ribs. ‘You painters. All the same. Where’s the best light? Can I get a tall canvas in there? Is there enough space for my paints?’

‘So it was her studio?’ asked Kit, fending off any more pokes by catching Ella’s wrists.

‘Yeah,’ said Henry. ‘Poppa had his space downstairs for his wheel and stuff, and the kiln was in the garden. That’ll be long gone now.’

‘Yeah, it is,’ said Ella. ‘Do you remember the excitement when we were allowed to open it up after a firing and find our pots?’

‘Rubbish every one of them. But Poppa always told us they were great.’ Henry smiled then rubbed his temples.

‘I think your hangover needs feeding,’ said Ella and she took Henry and Kit’s hands in her own. ‘Pizza time, boys.’

After a decent lunch, they went for a walk up to the headland and down to a small beach known only by locals and the odd inquisitive holidaymaker.

Henry picked up a slate pebble and sent it skimming across the smooth sea.

Ella counted the bounces. ‘Six. My go now.’

They watched as Ella’s stone bounced nine times before sinking beneath the water. Kit came up behind her and hugged her. ‘Not fair. You’ve been getting practice in.’

‘Poppa taught us. I think his record was twenty or something mad like that,’ she said.

Henry sat on a damp rock and looked out to the horizon. ‘We had some good summers here, didn’t we, Ells?’

She sat next to him and put her head on his shoulder. ‘Remember how good Granny was at French cricket?’

‘When she wasn’t painting,’ said Henry. ‘We’ve still got her painting books and sketchpads somewhere, haven’t we?’

‘Yeah, they’re in Clapham. The loft, I think.’ She tapped her brother’s knee with her knuckles. ‘How is Mandalay Road?’

‘Nice and quiet without you.’

She gave him a pinch. ‘I didn’t expect to be staying here in Cornwall.’ She looked over to Kit who was staring into rock pools. ‘You do like him, don’t you?’

‘I’ve known him less than a day, but I’ve managed to spill all the family secrets and get blind drunk with him. What is there not to like?’

‘He’s a nice person,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I really like him.’

Kit turned from the rock pools and looked up. ‘My ears are burning.’

‘They should be,’ laughed Henry. ‘Are your intentions towards my sister honourable?’

‘Not altogether,’ smiled Kit, walking towards them.

Henry turned to his sister. ‘And is that all right with you?’

‘Very,’ she said, catching Kit’s hand.

That evening the three of them lay sprawled around the lounge watching a movie on Netflix, full of Ella’s cottage pie that she’d had ready in the fridge. Henry was on an armchair, Kit and Ella snuggled on the sofa, when they heard a key in the lock and the familiar sound of eight dog feet, tapping on the hall floor as they rushed to the door, then a voice calling, ‘The bloody roads are full of idiots! Terrible roadworks on the A38 and I’m absolutely starving.’ A tall handsome man appeared at the door followed by two Afghan hounds that strolled in and flopped on the nearest rug. He surveyed the empty plates on the coffee table. ‘Bugger. Have you already eaten?’

Kit and Ella jumped up. ‘There’s plenty left. I’ll warm some up,’ Ella said as Kit made the introductions. ‘Adam, may I introduce you to Ella’s brother Henry? Henry, this is my cousin, Adam. He’s the landlord.’

Henry and Adam shook hands and Ella returned from the kitchen with a steaming bowl of cottage pie. ‘Darling, sit down and eat while I give Celia and Terry their supper.’

‘You’re an angel.’ He kissed Ella’s hand as she passed him, taking the dogs with her.

‘So,’ said Adam, settling into his chair and blowing on a forkful of food, ‘I’ve heard a lot about you, Henry. At last we are able to give you the once-over.’

‘I rather thought I was here to give Kit the once-over, actually,’ Henry laughed.

‘And the verdict?’ asked Adam, munching.

‘Not bad at all.’

‘We have bonded over gin and pizza,’ smiled Kit. ‘Anyone fancy a beer?’

Henry rubbed his chin. ‘My liver is feeling a lot better, so yes please.’

‘That’s the spirit.’ Kit went to the kitchen.

‘What happened last night?’ asked Adam, wiping a drop of gravy from his chin.

Henry sat back in his chair and wondered how to explain. ‘I don’t know if Ella has told you that we were brought up by our grandparents?’

Adam, concentrating on his food, nodded. ‘Yep. Your disappearing mother has featured large over the last few months. The business of tracking her down for your grandmother’s will?’

‘Well, they’ve found her,’ sighed Henry.

Adam swallowed his mouthful. ‘Is that why you got hammered last night? Well, that’s great.’

Henry stayed silent.

‘Or is it?’ asked Adam.

‘Ella thinks it’s great but I really want nothing to do with our mother, our grandmother’s money or … anything.’

Kit came back with Ella, each carrying two cold bottles of beer. Celia and Terry loafed behind them.

Adam took his beer from Ella. ‘Henry’s just told me about your mum.’

Ella looked anxious. ‘Her turning up? It’s early days and quite difficult to get our heads round, isn’t it, Henry.’

‘Not yours.’

‘Let’s not start all that again,’ said Kit.

Adam scooped up the last mouthful of cottage pie and put his plate down on the floor, pushing Terry’s inquisitive nose out of it. ‘So, Henry, you’re staying here, are you?’

‘If that’s okay with you?’

‘Oh, fine. I’m off again tomorrow, got a couple of weeks training in St Thomas’s A & E. Serious trauma stuff in case of terror attacks. You can use my room.’

Ella saw Henry’s puzzlement. ‘Adam is a doctor, Henry. A very good one.’

‘You can trust me,’ laughed Adam.

Kit grabbed the television remote and unfroze the film they had been watching. ‘Let’s forget about all that tonight.’ He picked up his beer and put his feet on Celia to tickle her tummy. ‘Tonight we relax. Cheers.’

Henry left for London after breakfast the next morning. Ella had packed a pasty and a coffee flask in a cardboard and put it on the back seat of the taxi.

‘That should keep you going.’ She leant through the front window and kissed him. ‘I love you, bro. Come back soon.’

‘As soon as I can, but the office is really busy at the moment.’

‘But the profit is good?’ Ella raised her eyebrows, mocking him.

‘Recession? What recession?’ He tweaked her nose the way he knew annoyed her. ‘The old Ruskies are still buying lumps of prime London real estate, lucky for me.’

Ella rubbed her nose crossly. ‘Drive carefully.’

‘I will, and Ella, thank you for saying you won’t see that woman.’

‘Mum.’

‘Whatever. She can come, take the money and go. She doesn’t deserve to see us.’

‘It’ll be okay.’

Kit came forward and leant on the car roof. ‘Come and see us again soon.’

‘And you look after my sister.’ Henry said. ‘She’s had enough crap in her life. She doesn’t need more.’

On the train from Bodmin, Henry’s head was full of his mother. He couldn’t forget the hurt that his grandparents had endured for all those years. He laid the responsibility of their unhappiness squarely at her door. What kind of mother would just piss off, dumping her children with parents who had only ever given her every helping hand they could? They had loved and supported her and she repaid them by running away without a backward glance. Not a note, not a phone call.

What a cow.

He had no desire to see her or listen to any pathetic excuses or apologies.

And who the bloody hell was his father? Was he the same man who fathered Ella?

Poor Ella. A girl needed her mum. Granny did her best, but even so …

On and on his thoughts went until he had exhausted his brain. Putting on his headphones he got out his laptop to watch a film he’d downloaded but he couldn’t concentrate and eventually returned to looking at the world racing past his window while he brooded.

‘So, do you like my brother?’ Ella asked, nestling in to Kit as they walked on the beach that afternoon.

‘He’s got a bee in his bonnet about your mum, hasn’t he?’ he said, putting his arm around her.

‘He remembers bits about her. Vague stuff, but I think it was nice things – and then suddenly she was gone. So, like a bereavement, he still grieves unconsciously.’

‘And what about you? Do you want to see her?’

‘I’ve promised Henry now.’

‘That doesn’t answer the question.’

‘I’m curious.’ They walked together in silence for a while before she said, ‘Yes, I’d really like to see her. I’d like to know why. What happened. Who my dad is. I’ve always wanted to know, but Granny and Poppa had a sort of unspoken thing so that we didn’t talk about her. Poppa was brokenhearted when she left and Granny bore the brunt of his grief whilst grieving herself.’

‘Must have been hard for them.’ Kit pulled her closer and kissed the top of her head. ‘How old were you again?’

‘Thirteen months. Henry was two. Not so bad for me – I have no memories, not even impressions. But Henry knew her. I mean really knew her. Had cuddles and bedtime stories and walking on the beach and playing. Somewhere in his head he must have those feelings. No wonder he’s so angry.’

Henry arrived at Mandalay Road, Clapham at the same time Kit and Ella were talking. His taxi drew up, double parked, and he paid the cabbie before hauling his weekend bag over his shoulder. He stood motionless before suddenly throwing up Ella’s pasty and coffee on the kerb outside his front door.

There were several letters on the mat as he pushed the door open. Bills and a catalogue. He picked them up and chucked them on the hall table, went into the kitchen to switch the kettle on before making himself a cup of tea. While the kettle was boiling he went up and dumped his bag on his bed and had a quick pee.

Downstairs, sitting on the sofa with his mug of tea, he looked around his home. Above the fireplace was one of his grandfather’s paintings: a small girl with red hair sitting on the quay at Trevay with a crab line in her hand. It was unusual in that this was one of the very few canvases Poppa had painted. Poppa was the Potter – Granny was the painter.

In front of him was an Indian carved coffee table. His grandfather had brought it back from a trip to Rajasthan and Henry and Ella had always had their Friday night supper of fish and chips on it, rather than at the big kitchen table. It was their treat and marked the start of their weekends.

‘Argh,’ he said angrily to the empty room. ‘I am not going to see that woman.’ The sofa sagged as he leant back into it. His grandmother’s again. She and Poppa had bought it when they first married and moved into Pencil House. A ridiculously tall, thin house that was one of the landmarks of Trevay. A place where visitors still stood and had photos taken of themselves. His own mother, born in that house, had grown up with this sofa, just as he and Ella had. He tried to imagine his mother as a child, sitting where he was sitting, having a bedtime story read to her. Being hugged by Granny or Poppa just as he and Ella had been. Well, she was not coming back to take this from him. Or the paintings. Or the table. Or the bloody wine glasses. They were his. His and Ella’s, as was every stick of furniture or cutlery in this house.

5

Bill and Adela waited for two years before they married. Adela wanted to finish her degree and Bill wanted to make sure he had enough savings to begin married life in a home of their own.

Tucked up in the chill of Adela’s Marylebone bedroom they talked of their future.

‘Do you think we can afford to start a family straight away?’ Adela had asked hopefully, her face pressed into the warmth of Bill’s chest.

‘How much do babies cost?’ he had asked.

‘Not much. I’ll ask around the family for the essentials. I’m sure my old pram is stuck in the attic somewhere. We can use the kitchen sink as a bath and I’ll feed the little mite myself so …’

She heard his laugh rumbling in his chest as he tightened his arm around her.

‘What are you laughing at?’

‘Your practicality and frugality. Most women would want brand-new everything.’

‘Well, I don’t. And I have a few books of Green Shield stamps that I’m sure would get us a cot.’

He kissed the top of her head. ‘And where would we live? This garret of yours is fine for us but it would be a squeeze for three of us. And I don’t fancy carrying the pram up and down three flights of stairs.’

‘I always imagined us going back to Cornwall,’ she said quietly. ‘My parents have spotted a tiny place in Trevay, on the harbour.’

As she lifted her head to check his reaction to this piece of news, he saw the longing in her.

‘I’m not having handouts from your parents.’

‘No, no. Nor me. And I hadn’t said anything to them about looking for something. Honestly.’

‘Then how do they know about it?’

‘My mother sent me something.’ Adela shifted herself from her arms and slipped out of bed. She tiptoed across the icy lino and reached for a newspaper stuffed into her handbag and got back to the warmth of her bed as fast as she could. ‘Here, look.’ She turned to the properties page and handed it to him. ‘There.’ She pointed.

He scanned the small advert and blurry picture.

‘What do you think?’ she asked, tucking herself around him again.

‘It’s a derelict shop.’

‘An old chandler’s, actually.’

‘But not a residential home.’

‘That’s why it’s such a good price.’

‘No indoor bathroom? No bedrooms? No kitchen and no heating? And it’ll be freezing.’

‘But, stuck between those two houses as it is, it will keep itself warm.’

He said nothing.

She pressed on. ‘Bill, it’s so pretty, and I don’t mind living in a building site and I can do lots of labouring for you. Between us we could build the home we really want.’

He held her anxious gaze. ‘You really like it?’ he said.

She nodded, her fingers crossed under the eiderdown. ‘Don’t you?’

‘Hmm,’ he said, wanting to keep her in suspense. ‘We could go down this weekend and take a look at it?’

She sat up clutching her hands to her chest. ‘Could we?’

‘Why not?’

To their delight, the second-class train compartment was empty. Bill put their small, shared suitcase up in the netted luggage rack while Adela opened up their packed lunch. ‘It’s only egg sandwiches and ginger nuts, I’m afraid,’ she said, fussing over the greaseproof-wrapped packages and passing him one. ‘Oh, and I’ve put the last of my chicken soup in the flask.’

Sitting together, watching as the smoky London scene beyond the glass began to morph into suburbia then farmland, they munched and chatted and did the Guardian crossword until, leaning their heads together, they fell asleep to the rhythm of the train.

Newton Abbot, Exeter and Plymouth sped by in a drowsy haze until the guard, in a comforting West Country voice called along the corridors, ‘Bodmin Parkway next stop. Next stop, Bodmin.’

As the bus rattled onto Trevay Harbour and came to a stop, Adela and Bill collected up their bits and jumped off.

‘There it is,’ Adela said with renewed energy, pointing at a very tall, thin building, ‘I can see the estate agent waiting.’

They hurried across the road, past the Golden Hind pub and turned left into the narrow lane where the building stood, squeezed in between its neighbours.

It was at least a hundred and fifty years old. Dressed in clapboard, its white paint peeling, it carried two floors above the front door. The estate agent greeted them.

‘Mr and Mrs Tallon, I presume? Tim Baynon.’

They all shook hands.

‘Welcome to the Old Chandlery …’ Mr Baynon began his spiel. ‘There’s been a lot of interest in the property, I can tell you.’

‘Really?’ asked Bill incredulous.

Adela glared at him and addressed the agent: ‘I’m sure. It’s absolutely gorgeous.’

Bill shot her a murderous look. And as Mr Baynon took a set of keys from his pocket and put them in the rusted lock of the warped front door, Bill pulled his wife aside and whispered, ‘Don’t act too keen. He’ll bump the price up.’

Adela tutted, and whispered back, ‘I want him to know we are serious buyers.’

She pushed past him and followed the agent, who had given the door a couple of kicks to open it, leaving a lump of damp and rotting wood on the mat, into what had been the shop.

‘As you see,’ Mr Baynon was all pomposity, ‘all the original fixtures and fittings are still intact.’

Bill looked at the empty shelves lining the walls and the shop counter covered in dust. ‘Seen better days,’ he said.

‘So much character,’ countered Adela.

Mr Baynon continued his tour into the room behind the shop which housed an old Raeburn range and a large butler’s sink. ‘And beyond is the garden.’ Grandly he lifted the latch of the old back door and showed them a patch of wasteland no bigger than a couple of wheelbarrows. ‘Sun all day.’

Adela could see that Bill was losing interest. ‘Can we see upstairs?’

A steep and narrow staircase took them up to the first floor which housed two small rooms back and front. The second floor was the same.

Adela felt certain that Bill would never agree to live here. As he and Mr Baynon chatted on the tiny landing, she walked towards the window of the uppermost front room, her heels knocking on the bare floorboards. She rubbed the dust and grime from one of the small square panes and looked out. Trevay and its harbour were laid out before her like a drawing from a child’s picture book. She tried the rusty latch and after a couple of thumps with the heel of her hand it opened. Sunlight, sea air and the call of gulls flooded the room. She almost laughed at the simple joyousness of it all.

She heard footsteps behind her, followed by Bill’s hand on her waist as he stood next to her.

She laid her head against his shoulder. ‘Someone will make this into a lovely home,’ she sighed.

‘Yes, we will,’ he answered.

She looked up at him, all alert. ‘What?’

‘I’ve put an offer in. My Baynon is going to let us know in a couple of days.’

She hugged him, then pulled away and pummelled him. ‘You bugger! I thought you hated it.’

‘Just my poker face.’

‘Oh, darling.’ She kissed him, then a horrible thought crossed her mind. ‘You didn’t offer him a stupidly low price, did you? We’ll definitely lose it if you have.’

‘I’ve offered what it’s worth to us. Which is more than it’s worth to anyone else.’

‘I love it.’ She hopped from one foot to another.

‘I love it too. It’s mad. It’s too much work. It’s totally impractical. Who buys a building that’s as tall and thin as a pencil?’

Adela laughed and leant on the filthy window sill to look out at the amazing view.

‘That’s what we’ll call it. Pencil House.’

They got the keys and moved in within three weeks. The Raeburn only needed a good service and soon warmed the house through. Bill, always good with his hands, made the old shop counter into a kitchen unit, and built a sturdy kitchen table top out of the shop’s shelves. Adela started upstairs. She swept, she washed and she painted everywhere and everything. Slowly, Pencil House was becoming a home.

At weekends they would take themselves off on bus rides, discovering seaside towns and hidden coves and simply immersing themselves in each other and life they were building.

It was about four months into their arrival that Adela began to feel sick in the mornings. The doctor confirmed her pregnancy and the following spring their daughter arrived.

Bill and Adela were as besotted with her as they were with themselves.

‘What shall we call her?’ asked Bill holding her for the first time by Adela’s hospital bed.

Adela smiled. ‘I would like to call her Sennen,’ she said.

‘Sennen?’ asked Bill, puzzled. ‘Why?’

She grinned. ‘Remember that evening on Sennen Cove last summer?’

‘Oh.’ Bill remembered. ‘When I … when we …’

She nodded. ‘Yes, darling. Your daughter was conceived on Sennen Cove.’

A few days later Bill went to collect Adela and Sennen from the hospital. He’d bought himself an ancient red Ford Anglia for the occasion. ‘Oh, Bill, it’s wonderful,’ exclaimed Adela when she saw it. ‘Can we afford it?’

‘For my wife and daughter, nothing is too much.’ He opened the door for her and got her settled with Adela wrapped in her arms.’

When they got to Pencil House he told her to stay in the car while he opened up and took the bags in, then, when he was ready, he scooped Adela, who was still cradling Sennen, into his arms and carried them both over the threshold with Adela laughing and protesting until he placed her on the sofa.

‘Welcome home.’ He bent and kissed her. ‘I am so proud of you.’

‘What on earth for?’

‘For making Sennen for us.’

‘Well, it took both of us.’

‘But you did the hard work.’ He knelt by Adela’s knee and lifted the shawl his mother had knitted from Sennen’s face. ‘Hello, my darling. We are three – and nothing and nobody will ever tear us apart.’

6

Pendruggan, 2018

At Marguerite Cottage, the day that Henry had left Pendruggan, making Ella promise not to meet their mother when or if she came back, Adam and Kit were cooking supper. Although they were cousins they were more like brothers. Adam, the elder, making suggestions as to how to dice an onion correctly and Kit arguing that the kitchen was a shared domain and if he was cooking, he’d do it his way.

Adam shrugged and started to lay the table. ‘More wine, Ella? Supper will be a while.’

He poured a good slug of rosé into her glass and she excused herself. ‘I’ll take this into the lounge, if you don’t mind?’

The boys barely looked up as they had started a ridiculous debate about whether to put chives on the new potatoes or mint.

Ella sat on the rug next to Celia and Terry and rubbed their ears. ‘Don’t tell Henry,’ she whispered, ‘but I would really like to meet my mum. I wonder what she’s like? Do you think she’d like me?’ Terry rolled over so that she could tickle his tummy. ‘You don’t have a care in the world, do you, Terry.’ She turned to Celia who was in ear-tickle ecstasy, her eyes half-shut in bliss. ‘Celia, you’re a girl. What do you think my mum is like? Is she all bad? Selfish? Feeling guilty at what she did? Or is she funny and beautiful and clever and desperate for us to forgive her? Hmm? Do you think we could be friends? I’d like that. I really, really want to know. I want to see her. Is that too bad of me?’

In Clapham, Henry had ditched his tea and started on the wine. The anger inside him was building. If that woman was thinking of coming back and playing happy families, she had another think coming. But if she did come back, at least he would have the satisfaction of her seeing that, despite the pain and the chaos she had created, he and Ella had survived and done very well without her. Who needed her? She needed to be told some home truths. She needed to face up to the carnage, the wrecked lives of her parents, God bless them. Let her come and take the money and piss off back to wherever she’d come from. He didn’t need her. Ella didn’t need her. And he’d like to say that to her face. She deserved to see what she left behind and know what it’s like to be rejected. He took another mouthful of wine and swilled it down as he picked up his phone and, in an impulse of fury, dialled Ella’s number.

Ella stopped tickling the dogs and reached around for her phone. She checked the caller ID. ‘Hi, Henry.’

‘We are going to see her.’ Henry emptied the bottle into his glass.

Ella felt her heart jump. ‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m so glad …’

‘And I am going to tell her exactly what she’s done. I am going to look her in the face and really tell her what I think of her.’

7

Trevay, 1995

Adela and Bill had taken the children to the beach. Adela loved her grandchildren dearly but she was exhausted looking after two little ones. They were growing up so quickly, she wished with all her heart that Sennen could see them. As the sun beat down on Shellsand Bay, Adela rested her eyes, just for a moment, listening to Henry’s squeals of laughter above the crashing of the waves.

‘Mama!’ shouted Henry stamping his little feet in the shallow ripples of the sea. ‘Mama!’

Sennen crouched as well as she could with her burgeoning pregnancy, and said, ‘Smile, Henry. Smile for Mummy.’ She pressed the shutter on her Kodak disposable camera just as her one-year-old son scrunched his eyes and gave her the broadest of grins. ‘That’ll be a good one,’ she said, winding the film on.

Adela and Bill were sitting a little way up the beach, using the cliff face as a windbreak. Bill was asleep, Adela was watching her daughter and grandson.

‘Darling?’ She shook Bill gently. ‘Darling?’

Bill woke up. ‘Was I dozing?’ He stretched, then put a hand to his eyes to check on Sennen and Henry. ‘Are they okay?’

‘I think so,’ said Adela. ‘She’s being rather good with him today.’

‘I think you’re being very good with both of them.’ He looked at her affectionately over the top of his Ray-Bans.

‘I do worry. She’s only just coping with Henry and now another baby on the way.’

‘It’s not quite what we were thinking of, is it?’

‘No.’ Adela steepled her fingers under her chin. ‘Every child brings joy, we know that, but …’ She shook her head. ‘I do worry.’

‘What are you worried about, Granny?’

Adela knew she’d been dreaming, but it was so real, so tangible, as she opened her eyes to see a smiling Henry standing in front of her with a crab net.

‘Did I fall asleep?’ She smiled at him.

‘Grandad wants to take me and Ella swimming but you have to come too, to help Ella because she’s not big like me.’

She reached out and stroked her grandson’s soft cheeks. ‘No, she’s not as big as you, yet. Your swimming is coming on nicely. But you will teach Ella when she’s big.’

Henry grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the nest of towels she’d created for herself against the cliffs where she and Bill always made camp.

‘Quick, Granny, or Ella and Poppa will be finished before we get there.’

Henry pulled Adela down the damp and rippled sand to the water’s edge where Bill was bouncing Ella’s toes in and out of the shallow ripples.

‘Hello, old thing.’ He smiled at her. ‘The water’s not too bad.’

‘Granny was asleep.’ Henry told Bill.

‘Was she snoring?’ asked Bill conspiratorially.

‘She was more sort of blowing air through her lips. Like Bert when he purrs.’

‘Ah yes,’ said Bill nodding his head as if Henry had given him the most important piece of information. ‘She does that.’

Adela wasn’t embarrassed. ‘Well, Poppa farts when he’s asleep.’

Henry burst into laughter. ‘Poppa Farts! Poppa Farts!’

Ella, catching the fun and laughter, stuck her bottom out and began blowing raspberries through her teeth.

‘That’s quite enough, thank you,’ said Bill, lifting Ella on to his shoulders. ‘Who wants to find the seahorses?’

‘Meeee!’ shrilled Ella holding tight to her Poppa’s ears.

‘And meeeee!’ shouted Henry running through the waves.

‘And meeeee,’ sang Adela as she skipped after them all, putting aside her post-dream sadness.

That night, after Adela had bathed Henry and Ella and dressed them in sweet-smelling pyjamas, Bill came upstairs to read the nightly story. Adela kissed the children and sat on the floor between their beds as Bill settled down with Enid Blyton’s The Magic Faraway Tree. He read one chapter and then, after much pleading, read another.

‘One more?’ asked Henry sleepily.

‘Ella is asleep. She’ll be cross if we read on without her,’ whispered Bill.

Adela stood up and gently tucked Ella and her teddy a little more cosily. Then she dropped a kiss on Ella’s sleeping forehead. ‘Night-night darling.’

Bill was settling Henry down. ‘Did you read Mummy that story?’ Henry asked, his bright blue eyes sharp with a need to know.

‘Yes,’ said Bill. ‘I did.’

‘Did she like Moon-Face best?’ Henry settled himself more deeply into his duvet.

‘Of course.’

‘Good.’

‘Sleep tight now. See you in the morning.’ Bill ran his hands through Henry’s soft hair.

‘I will.’

‘Night-night, Hen,’ said Adela kissing his head. ‘Love you.’

‘Love you too.’ Henry managed, before accepting sleep’s kidnap.

Downstairs Adela watched as Bill mixed two gin and tonics. ‘I dreamt about Sennen today. On the beach. She was being so good with Henry … so good.’

Bill clinked two cubes of ice into each glass and handed her one. ‘But she couldn’t keep it up.’

‘She tried so hard, we expected too much of her.’

Bill sat in his favourite armchair and sipped his drink. ‘Are you hungry?’

Adela swallowed the threatening tears no. ‘No.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ he said impatiently.

A tear slipped down Adela’s cheek. She raised her hand to wipe it away.

Bill shifted in his chair and after a while said, ‘Cheese and biscuits? I’ve got some nice Yarg.’

‘Okay.’

‘I’ll bring it in on a tray.’

‘Thank you.’

He left for the kitchen.

Adela looked out onto the small courtyard beyond. On the washing line hung their swimsuits and trunks and beach towels. They’d be dry by morning if it didn’t rain tonight, and another day would take her further away from her daughter.

Where was Sennen?

What was she doing?

Was she well?

Was she thinking of them?

Did she miss her children?

Adela put her hand in one of the deep pockets of her cotton, sun-bleached trousers and pulled out a handkerchief. She rubbed away the drying, salty track of her tear and wiped her nose.

It was more than five years since Sennen had gone, leaving Henry and Ella in her and Bill’s care. Her heart had begun to grow a thicker tissue around the damage that had been caused, but now and again the pain caught her unawares.

Bill suffered too, although he couldn’t admit it. Or perhaps, she wondered, he didn’t have the words. There were no words big enough.

Friends had tried to empathise, well-meaning and kind.

Some of them had said harsh things about Sennen. Selfish. Cruel. Better off gone.

But the gravitational pull of the hole that was left drew Adela and Bill deeper until their fingers were clinging by the tips.

Bill arrived with two plates.

‘Here you are.’ He handed her one. Cheese, two digestive biscuits, a few slices of apple and celery. ‘Enough?’

She nodded.

‘So,’ he said, easing himself back into his chair, ‘what’s the plan for tomorrow?’

‘I thought I’d paint the courtyard walls with Ella. She wants a mermaid. She wants to glue some shells to it.’

‘Good.’ Bill carefully cut into his cheese and balanced it on his biscuit. ‘Henry and I are going to work in the studio. He’s getting very good on the wheel. We might try a jug tomorrow. Good practice.’

At bedtime that night, as Adela waited for the milk to boil for their Horlicks, she saw a spattering of rain on the window. She called out to Bill who was at the top of the stairs. ‘I’m just going to bring Sennen’s bathing costume in. It’s started to rain. I’ll bring the Horlicks up in a minute.’

Bill hesitated a moment on the stairs. Should he correct her? Remind her that the costume was Ella’s not Sennen’s? He closed his eyes and shook his head. No. He would say nothing. Remembering one of his mother’s old sayings, he murmured to himself, ‘Least said soonest mended, Bill. Least said.’ And walked slowly to the bathroom.

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