Leaving Shades Page 5
‘I see. I – I think you should know that I won’t be alone. There’s someone here I’d like you to meet.’
‘Your husband will be with you?’
‘No. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you hadn’t heard. But he died three years ago.’
There had been a choked note in Christina’s tone, but Beth couldn’t respond to it with sympathy. ‘No. How on earth could I have known?’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. I’ll explain who’s with me when you arrive. It’s not right to tell you over the telephone.’
Beth was furious. She assumed Christina had called her solicitor in to advise her. Was she afraid Beth wanted her money? Damn the woman. Beth was well off. Grandma had left her the significant sum of money that would have gone to Christina, if she had deserved it. And Beth wouldn’t accept a farthing off Christina if she were struck down by poverty. ‘Very well.’ Beth had placed the receiver down.
Beth went to the window, which faced the sea and was hung with freshly laundered cotton curtains; dark blue in colour and with white wavy lines depicting the sea, they were quite faded now. She stood quietly. Then, as she did every day, she spread her hands over her stomach. The flatness of it, the emptiness of it, flooded her with grief and numbness. The baby had brought an end to her love affair with Stuart Copeland, Kitty’s married brother. The scandal of fathering an illegitimate child, of betraying his good-natured wife and two young children, would have cost Stuart everything. His marriage, his son and daughter, his home, and his position as a college principal. Beth couldn’t do that to him, but Stuart had panicked anyway and begged her not to let their affair become public. The last thing Beth had wanted was to bring heartbreak to Stuart’s wife and children. Beth prayed Kitty would never find out her shameful secret. Kitty believed in Stuart, she looked up to him, and she loved her sister-in-law and nephew and niece.
Her vision blurred as tears started to burn her eyes. She had so wanted her baby. She had looked forward to the sleepless nights, the nappy changing, the teething, the toddler tantrums, every last jot of child rearing. She had been sure Grandma would have been delighted about the baby once she had seen it. Grandma would have loved the babysitting and family outings. But fate had forced its cruel way in and denied the baby any life at all. Then the guilt and doubt reared in Beth, over the reality that she would have gladly given birth to a child that would have one day asked who its father was. Her idea to pretend to be a widow was bound to have been exposed at some point, and how her child would have suffered from the scorn and isolation of not having a legitimate name. No! Beth screamed inside her head, then she talked quietly and painfully and lovingly to her lost baby. I would have taken you abroad, to the ends of the earth, to protect you. You would have been the most precious thing in my whole life.
Drying her eyes, Beth heaved a tense sigh. She was glad she was going to Owles House. Her loss was threatening to overwhelm her. Putting Christina in her place, confronting her over the injustices she had made Beth suffer, was just what she needed to temporarily help her to forget her more recent pain.
Beth couldn’t help smirking. If the nosy locals could send a boy to cycle to this secluded holiday cottage just to see its latest holiday makers, what would they make of it when they knew about her true identity and that she was making visits to the mother who had so sorely neglected her?
Five
Kitty was lounging on a long backless bench set against the whitewashed front wall of the Sailor’s Rest pub. She was nibbling an ice-cream cone, despite feeling full and satisfied after earlier wading through a large fruit-packed saffron bun with a pot of tea, in a nearby tea shop called simply The Teashop. She had eagerly trawled her way in and out of several shops, indulging in chit-chat with every shopkeeper and assistant, but careful not to reveal where she was staying and that she had company in case she was talking to a Tresaile. Beside her on the bench were her bags of shopping, lots of fruit and a few light groceries, and summer-wear from a dear little clothes shop she had discovered in a side street. The bakers, which smelled like food paradise, had yielded her a slab-shaped yeast cake, half a dozen splits, and two enormous steak pasties that would make the perfect teatime meal. She had entered every little gift shop and bought scenic postcards and lots of trinkets, tiny Cornish piskies set on top of china thimbles, teaspoon handles, toadstools and wishing wells. And small models of Cornish fishing boats, roughly accurate to the luggers currently moored up in Portcowl’s charming stone harbour. She had bought rubber quoits, and curling lollipop-shaped rock for her nephew and niece, and tea towels printed with the Cornish coastline and place names for her sister-in-law, and a hiking stick with the Cornish badge on it for her brother, Stuart. For Beth she had got a pretty, delicately made seashell necklace. She had bought enough to happily burden herself for the walk back to Mor Penty.
So here she was sitting outside the pub, hoping to spy a Tresaile or two. She was nearly as curious about them as she was Christina Vyvyan. What were the precise reasons for Christina to have become an emotional raving drunk and then to have successfully rehabilitated herself? Why hadn’t she gone under again when her second husband died? She must have certain strengths to have stayed living in the same house where her first marriage had plunged to such destructive depths and from where she had lost her young daughter. Kitty hoped Beth would give her mother a chance. She hoped she’d get another chance herself to see Christina, and to see inside Owles House.
She was keeping on the outlook for the boy, Joe, hoping to find out exactly who he was, whether he liked it or not. She wasn’t going to be intimidated by some cheeky brat. There were several happy-go-lucky local kids playing on the quay, and numerous seaside-dressed, bright-eyed holidaymakers’ offspring, but not a peep of the enigmatic Joe. There was the inevitable squawking of scavenging, beady-eyed gulls. Holidaymakers were idly passing by and browsing the shops. Others were picnicking and frolicking in the sea and older folk were relaxing on striped deck chairs on the two small beaches situated either side of the industrial heart of the harbour. Around the curve of the quay, sitting on a bench outside their terraced, slate-roofed homes on the quay front, were an elderly woman and two young housewives, all knitting swiftly, probably fishermen’s jerseys to supplement their men’s earnings. Behind them, row after row of similar housing, quaint and weather-strong, climbed with the rise of the land. On top of the cliff sat two impressive-looking small hotels. One was the Grand Sea View Hotel; the other the Dunn Head Hotel, where Beth’s mother and grandmother had holidayed all those years ago.
Near where Kitty sat there was a chandlery and a sail-making loft. There were other lofts where the fishermen repaired their nets and made up their fines. Kitty had learned this from an old whiskery, weather-hewn, tobacco-chewing local who, with a newspaper tucked under his arm, had paused to chat and gladly answer her questions about the fishermen’s working practices. ‘Fleet’ll be out in a few days pilchard driving down off the Wolf Light, that’s a lighthouse, some way off from here, I can tell ’ee. The Wolf itself is a great tower of rock, some dangerous it is, many a vessel been lost there down the years. Used to have great big holes in ’un, and the winds and tides used to send out the most terrible weird howling. Was God’s warning to ships, till evil wreckers blocked up the holes. Well, Miss, wish I was going with ’em but age gets the better off of all. The men are making the boats ready. So the sight you see now of them luggers out in the outer harbour will be missing till nearly autumn, then it’ll be time for the dogging season. Enjoy your holiday, Miss.’ The old gent had doffed his cap to Kitty before going on his way.
Once she got back to Mor Penty, she’d offload the shopping then make a quick excursion to Boswarva Farm for fresh milk, clotted cream and lots of vegetables. She and Beth would eat well for the next day or two, unless Beth wanted to leave after her visit to Christina. Kitty hoped for the chance to stay in Portcowl for several days, to get Beth to eat in the fish restaurant, from which the whiffs of cooking were divine. She found the whole area bea
utiful and fascinating. Every time she gazed out to sea she felt a strange little tug in her heart, as if the waters were calling to her. Nothing and no one had done that to her before.
Her back, pressed against the pub wall, was getting numb and she shifted to bring relief. Then, to her mild embarrassment, she realized the ice cream was melting down over her hand and dripping on to her skirt. She was getting like a mucky child. She delved into her canvas shoulder bag and found her handkerchief. She wiped her hand but it stayed sticky. Hoping she wasn’t making a spectacle of herself she quickly devoured the ice cream before licking off her hand and wiping it dry.
Well, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was Beth. How was she getting on at Owles House? Then her thoughts turned to Stuart, the older brother she was devoted to, and his family. Her thoughts tended to be spontaneous, numerous, fleeting, deep, searching and sometimes unstoppable, as was her constancy in gaining knowledge. It was a gift to her and sometimes a torture. Sorting out her scrambled thoughts and findings she usually saw things clearly for others, which would be followed by her ruminations on the best way to tell them her solution; sometimes, of course, she decided she should keep her counsel.
She rarely found herself in a quandary concerning her own life. Kitty was content with her life, she accepted each moment as it came and she was philosophical. A hefty trust fund from both sets of her grandparents meant she was self-supporting. She had no hankering for a profession or to achieve something profound and she was thankful for it. It meant she enjoyed all the opportunities and occurrences that came her way, using the time to absorb their every single aspect, from the remarkable and the bizarre to the serene and the baffling. Kitty loved a mystery. She kept a nightly journal. Perhaps one day her experiences might make an interesting book, perhaps on the ironies of life or something. If not, it didn’t matter. If love found its way to her doorstep, so be it, otherwise she’d find something useful to do to benefit the wider world until she slipped out of her mortal flesh. It didn’t matter if she was soon forgotten. It was enough for Kitty if Stuart and his family were well and happy, and Beth too. Although how she could help Beth become really happy by putting her heartaches behind her wasn’t an easy matter. Unlike Kitty, Beth had really suffered. Kitty looked up at the calm blue sky and sent up a quick prayer that all was presently going well for her friend.
In Kitty’s bag was her camera and she had taken snaps of the luggers before drifting off on her cogitations again. One lugger was named Our Lily, perhaps after a beloved woman. Another boat was Morenwyn, softly romantic; from a mythical Cornish character? Pilgrim, a religious owner? Sea Days, really nice. Kitty roused herself. She glanced at her wristwatch. Almost midday It was time to get her last purchases and leave. She wanted to be settled back at Mor Penty before Beth returned, but she was reluctant to go. She gathered up her shopping. She shivered unexpectedly as a chilly breeze hit her bare arms. Suddenly the gentle south coast wasn’t as gentle as it had been a minute ago. There was quite a chop to the wavelets now racing in to fill up the basin of the inner harbour where rowing boats and punts lolled high and dry on their sides on the pale sand. Soon these small craft would be floating upright, gently tugging on their mooring ropes.
‘Sure you can manage that lot all by yourself?’ An amused male voice startled her. There was male laughter, male banter, and Kitty looked up at what seemed to be a whole crew of fishermen crowded before her. The men and boys, including a pair of twins, were obviously from one family, such was the similarity of their thick dark hair, high cheekbones and friendly dove-grey eyes. The man who had spoken was carrying engine parts, the others were hauling other equipment, and all were showing off their trophies of hard graft, oil-stained faded overalls and blackened, greasy hands.
‘Of course I can,’ Kitty laughed with them all. Being whipped out of the realms of her own concerns was diverting, and being so used to Stuart’s cheerful antics with his friends from their university days she wasn’t easily embarrassed by men.
‘Got far to go?’ the same fisherman asked.
‘Not really.’ Kitty couldn’t help smiling back into his confident eyes, which were set in a pleasingly weather-milled, thirtyish face. She stood up. ‘If you’ll all excuse me…’
The fishermen spread back to give her plenty of room, chuntering to each other. The confident one spoke again. ‘The name’s Rob. I’ll be in the pub tonight. Come and have a drink with me.’
‘He’s in there every night when he’s not at sea,’ one twin guffawed. ‘And watch out for he, Miss. He don’t let the waves grow high under him where the ladies are concerned.’
‘Just being friendly,’ Rob said, now feigning bashfulness with jocular sideways looks.
Jauntily raising her brows, with her bags in both hands, Kitty set off on her way, knowing the men were watching her back and the way she walked. She liked this local family. It was obvious they always had a lot of fun. She smiled impishly to herself, wording in her head how she would tell Beth about her comical encounter, and how one of the local fishermen was rather enticingly handsome.
‘Maybe I’ll find out where you’re staying and pop along for a mug of tea and a hot buttered scone,’ Rob called after her.
Kitty gasped at the blatantly suggestive remark.
She heard the men’s feet carrying on their way to the working boats. Would Rob turn round and look at her? He did. Smiling broadly he passed his burden into one strong arm and waved to her. Kitty didn’t return the wave but she allowed him a friendly smile.
Six
Beth had driven Kitty past Owles House and nearly all the way down Portcowl Hill. She had stayed in the motor car while Kitty walked away from her down to the harbour, striding energetically and turning her head in all directions to take in the views. Beth had pulled up just below a cottage near the bottom of the hill. She stayed put to take the time to still her churning emotions before turning round and driving up to Owles House. Now Kitty was gone she was on her own and felt a thousand times alone.
She wished she had the belief and courage of the biblical Daniel when he had been dropped into the lions’ den. He’d had faith because right had been on his side. Right was on hers too, but she felt God wasn’t. If she asked him for his opinion he would say, ‘Elizabeth Tresaile, I would rather have you come seeking peace and reconciliation with your mother, not revenge. I’m the One who decides when and where vengeance is due.’ Then there was the part in the best-loved prayer about forgiving others’ trespasses. But it wasn’t a simple matter to forgive someone out of hand, especially the one person who should have made you the centre of her life, instead of treating you as if you were valueless, a nuisance. When her selfish actions had caused you to be wrenched from your home and she had virtually forgotten about you, even if your loving grandmother had taken you in and afterwards given you a wonderful life.
Over the years Beth had not thought much about the way her father had treated her. As far as she remembered he hadn’t been at home much and when he was there he’d had very little to do with her. ‘Hello Elizabeth’ had been his usual greeting. Then he, a tall shadowy figure, would place a hand on top of her head. A heavy pressing weight, Beth recalled it now, remembering too that the only words he’d said to Cleo were things like, ‘Out of my way, dog!’
If Christina was there she would give him a report of Beth’s behaviour. Always good ones, Beth thought now, to prove she was an interested mother. Once she had remarked, ‘Elizabeth is doing very well at her lessons, so Miss Oakley said.’
‘I should think so too, with the money we spend on her for that vicar’s dried-up daughter,’ Philip Tresaile had barked back.
Another time, Beth had overheard her parents from the sofa where she’d been snuggled up to Cleo, a cold flannel across her brow. ‘Elizabeth fell over in the garden today. She’s got a bad bruise and a large bump on her head.’
‘Where were you? You should have been watching her! Is it too much to ask that you take care of the child?’
No! She wouldn’t allow herself to take the blame. Little children fell over every day of the week. It was all part of growing up. Grandma used to say on such occasions, ‘Well, if you didn’t fall over, darling, you’d never learn to pull yourself up again.’ And she had added kisses and cuddles. Beth drew in a deep determined breath. Well, she was up and she wasn’t going to allow herself to be beaten down again in any way. She saw one thing clearly now. Her father had not particularly cared about her. It seemed his mission in life had been to keep up the battle he and Christina had embarked on of scoring points off each other.
To help her with this second visit to Owles House, Beth tried to recall the better memories of her life at her childhood home. She had run to Mrs Reseigh, the kindly daily help, after frightening or painful incidents if her mother had been incapable through her drinking and depression. She had wished her mother was more like Mrs Reseigh, a proper mother, slightly chubby, wearing a shapeless dress, a full wraparound apron and cardigan, thick stockings and chunky shoes, her arms always ready to give cuddles, and a loud tinkling laugh to cheer her up. Mrs Reseigh had worn her chocolate-coloured hair in a scraped-up bun, rather like a teatime treat. Mrs Reseigh had been brilliant at baking. Beth had never tasted lighter scones since then.
Beth lit a cigarette. She drove a little further down the hill to the space on the verge that was wide enough for vehicles to turn round. On the way back up the hill she looked down the path that led to the cottage she had run to for help as a terrified abandoned seven-year-old. She glimpsed its name burnt into the porch top. Wildflower Cottage. An apt name and a lovely gentle old name, Beth thought, feeling a little soothed. It was one of the few properties in Portcowl that stood alone and had a large garden. Way up beyond the back garden wall she could see the cove’s allotments. To her recollections it appeared that an ordinary, hard-working, happy family had lived here. From time to time over the years she had wondered about the family who had so readily and comfortingly taken her in. She remembered the man’s voice, ‘Aw, the poor little cheeil. Have we got any sweets in the house, Posy? Don’t be frightened, my handsome. You’re safe and sound in here with us.’ The man had been a proper father, someone a little girl would feel safe with. Posy had been the mother. If only her own mother had been like Posy, who had sat Beth on her lap near the kitchen range, having first wrapped her up in a blanket, and held a cup of warm sugary milk to her lips.