Leaving Shades Read online

  Grandma had found out who the family were – Beth had forgotten their name – and had sent them a large box of chocolates with a beautiful summer cottage scene on the lid, and a thank-you letter. ‘That will make their Christmas,’ Grandma had said. ‘I doubt they’ve ever received anything of the like before.’

  If the same people still lived in Wildflower Cottage they would know a lot about Christina and Phil Tresaile, about the rift between Phil and his family. The same could be said for all the locals. Beth had the urge to stop the car and get out and knock on Wildflower Cottage’s door, to personally thank her rescuers, if they were still there. She wanted to meet them and get to know them. Some of the children who had been there that night would be round about Beth’s own age. What did they do now? And she recalled Mr Jewell, the gardener at Owles House. It was a pity that he was unlikely still to be alive. How wonderful it would be to see her aged friend again. She could pick his brains about the disturbing goings-on up at the property. And Beth wanted to seek out Mrs Reseigh, she must have witnessed so much at first hand.

  If she really wanted to learn the full facts about Christina Tresaile-Vyvyan, these people, and other locals – including the other Tresailes – were the best resource. They could help fit together the pieces of her emotional jigsaw. She might even gain a complete picture, and that could be the biggest help of all to her getting her life properly on track. If she didn’t attempt to get to know Christina without hostility, she might come away with false conceptions and plunge off her high horse, ending up with self-inflicted pains.

  ‘Do give Christina a chance, Beth,’ Kitty had implored her on the drive here. ‘She’s given up the evil brew. Wouldn’t you like to know why?’

  Beth did want to know why as she closed in on the entrance to Owles House. She felt a little ashamed about her dismissive remark to Christina over the death of her second husband. That had been mean. Christina must have felt hurt, she might be angry with Beth now. Beth would apologize to her first thing. She must steel herself to try to build an amiable relationship with Christina. When she had learned all she could about her, then she would know how to leave Christina behind for good.

  * * *

  From his bedroom window, Joe looked all the way down to the bottom of the drive at the wide, open gateway in the laurel and rhododendron hedging, waiting for Elizabeth Tresaile’s Ford Sedan to appear. Either the woman was disrespectfully late or she had changed her mind and wasn’t coming at all. If she did deign to present herself here, Joe would dash downstairs and out of the house, with Chaplin, in time to reach Elizabeth Tresaile before she got out of her car. He had a speech all ready for her.

  ‘You’re not welcome here! You’re a horrid woman for coming here yesterday full of indignation with my mother. She told me about it and I believe you’ve only come to punish her. I won’t have you upsetting her. My mother is a wonderful and good-natured person, and she is not well. I listened in on the upstairs phone to the call you made to her. You were rude and cruel to her when she told you that her husband, my father, had died. You’ve been very disrespectful arriving so late and making my mother more anxious. You’re beastly and nasty. My mother told me as soon as I was old enough to understand that she used to drink, and that she had a daughter, but got too ill to bring her up. She’s always regretted it. She tried to keep in touch with you but she gave up when you didn’t seem to want to know. You’re obviously here for petty revenge or to try to get your hands on this house. Well, you’ve got no right to it. My mother has left it to me in her will. You’ve got no right to me. My father was an honest, well-respected man. Yours was a truly rotten swine. You can ask your uncle the pub owner, the only Tresaile left down in the cove, about him. It’s well known he only has bad memories of him. And as for your grandmother, I believe she was nothing but beastly to my mother. My mother owes you nothing. Now clear off or I’ll set my dog on you.’

  Joe had his speech ready for Elizabeth Tresaile and he would shout it right into her face. He ached to open up his lungs and blast her, but he wasn’t going to as much as whisper a harsh word to her – if she bothered to show up, and he prayed to God she would not. He’d keep his mouth firmly shut because first he needed to know exactly why his half-sister had appeared. Then he’d know the best way to deal with her. He wasn’t top of his class for nothing. He was clever and he could be artful, like his father had been, the father he still looked up to more than anyone in the world, the father he still missed three years after his death with silent tears during the night.

  Also, hurling wrath at Elizabeth Tresaile would distress his mother too much. She was on the edge of her nerves, flurrying about getting everything ready for her daughter as if it was royalty she was expecting. In a wavering voice she’d asked Mrs Reseigh to do an extra polish in the sitting room and told her she could go home early today. ‘Now you leave everything to me, Mrs Vyvyan, and to Joe too, you know he’ll help out, the dear of him. We’ll make sure everything is ship-shape for your visitor.’ Mrs Reseigh, reassuringly motherly and now heading out of middle age, had cleaned at Owles House from the day his mother had moved in as a young bride, and she was as loyal to his mother as a batman was to his officer. She had found out where his mother had been committed after the mental breakdown and had written to her long cheery letters which, his mother often remarked to Joe, had helped her get through her recovery, to dry out from the years of alcohol abuse. Although his mother had asked Mrs Reseigh to call her Christina, Mrs Reseigh was old-fashioned and preferred formality. But that had not stopped her from slipping her arm round his mother’s waist and leading her to the kitchen. ‘Now off you go and bake that cake and biscuits that you want to. I’ll clear up after you. You’re not to worry at all, you hear me?’

  While Mrs Reseigh had been busy, singing her heart out with a medley of war favourites and hymns, and making the house smell of lavender, his mother had baked a Victoria sponge and butterscotch biscuits. ‘I know you’re not happy about this visit. But you will be polite to Elizabeth – to Beth – won’t you, Joe?’ Joe had stayed with her to help her curb her anxieties, and fetched things for her and put the used cookware into the sink of hot soapy water. ‘I’ll be polite, Mum, course I will, but I won’t let her upset you.’

  ‘I don’t think it will come to that, darling. I mean, Beth’s bound to have a few hard questions for me about the past. She’s bound to be distressed. I let her down terribly. I’ve told you how she came home from school that last day to an empty house, how scared she got. No child should have to go through that sort of thing. I’m willing to face up to my misdeeds, her understandable anger. I’ve always wanted the chance to put things right with Beth. You understand that, don’t you, Joe? You’ll always be the most important person in my life.’

  ‘I’ll be on my best behaviour, don’t worry, Mum.’

  ‘Thanks Joe.’ She had smiled through her flushed floury face. ‘You’re my rock, my reason for living.’

  However nervous his mother was, Joe was sure he matched it for her sake. Aside from her arthritis she wasn’t physically strong. The years of alcohol abuse had left her with a poor digestive system, her vital organs having taken the brunt. Her mental health was good most of the time but she could be forgetful and jittery. Simple difficulties could turn into massive problems to her if she wasn’t quickly reassured.

  ‘What should I wear, I wonder.’ This question had swiftly brought his mother to shaky agitation. Joe had gone up to her room with her. He wasn’t going to see her tossing half her wardrobe on to the bed and lamenting about the right shoes. ‘Your burnt orange dress is my favourite. You look gorgeous in it. It’ll be perfect, and a long string of pearls. A pair of black shoes will go well.’

  Twenty minutes later she had appeared on the landing, where he was waiting for her, and she was looking incredible in the embroidered dress, pale coloured stockings, low-heeled ankle-barred shoes, and the necklace, a gold slave bangle and dangling gold earrings. She had put on a little make-up in
cluding a touch of pale blue eye shadow. Her shingled hair had turned grey years ago, was almost white, and suited her. Mrs Reseigh, who had come upstairs to say goodbye, had approved of the outfit. ‘Your lady mother is a very handsome woman, young Joe,’ she’d said, clearly full of admiration. ‘Looks ten years younger than her age, she does. I’m glad to see you’re so proud of her. I wish you both luck with Miss Elizabeth.’ (Mrs Reseigh had pledged her silence as to the visitor’s identity.) Right then Joe had been bursting with pride. His mother was like a girl, shy and oh-so-hopeful. God help this Elizabeth Tresaile if she reduced his beautiful mother to tears today.

  ‘I’ll go downstairs and wait for Beth,’ his mother had said, swallowing nervously. ‘Hopefully she won’t be long now.’

  But time had gone on and on and the visitor, the scourge, was despicably late.

  Finally a motor car pulled into the drive, the right car yet the wrong car. ‘Right, Chaplin,’ Joe squared his wide shoulders, ‘we’re on guard duty. Shield and protect. If this damned woman isn’t careful she’ll get her arse kicked all the way out of Portcowl.’

  ‘I see she’s here, Mum. We’re on our way down!’ Joe and Chaplin went down the stairs in a thunder of feet and paws.

  Her tummy trembling with nerves, Christina shot back from the sitting-room window, the sudden movement hurting her bad hip. She was anxious to avoid annoying Beth by staring out at her. She ran her damp hands down over her dress. Using her walking stick she went out into the hall and patted fretfully at her hair. Had she remembered to get the tea tray ready? She thought hard, grimacing in the effort to remember. She was sure she had. She wouldn’t have left the kitchen if she had not, and Mrs Reseigh would have mentioned it anyway if she’d forgotten it. Yes, she had done the task, and she had put out the sponge cake and the best of the biscuits, which thankfully had emerged perfectly from the oven.

  Joe was there and he took her arm and tucked it through his. ‘You look brilliant, Mum. Let’s go to the steps and wait for her.’ Chaplin went round to Christina’s other side, and Christina was taken outside within this protective escort.

  With only yards left to drive Beth saw them waiting to meet her. Who was the stranger with Christina? Obviously not her solicitor. The boy was too well dressed to be a village boy. A relative of her late husband perhaps. She stopped the car where it would give her a clean sweep to turn around and leave smartly if she wanted to. She turned off the engine. Took a deep steadying breath. Picked up her clutch bag and got out of the car. And faced the welcoming committee.

  Beth strode forward then halted. The boy. She was in no doubt who he was. It was Joe, the ‘paper boy’ who had turned up at Mor Penty. To look her over, see what made her tick. See what she was up to and, if he’d felt it necessary, warn her off; the overriding seriousness marked on him at this moment made that fully apparent. If only he’d stayed until she had come up off the beach. She might have found out exactly who he was. Had Christina sent him to find out where she was staying? It was more likely, Beth felt somehow, that he’d done it without telling her of his intention and his discovery. Christina was smiling down at her, wavering smiles that she needed to keep reissuing.

  Christina raised a hand. ‘Welcome, Beth.’ Then her mind shut down on her. She didn’t know what to say or do next. Her old enemy Panic, in numbing sickening waves, was surging through her. She couldn’t do this. She was going to faint and make a scene, make the sort of drama that would make Elizabeth resent her more.

  Joe felt her trembling and heard her gasping for breath. He squeezed her arm. ‘It’s all right, Mum. I’m here. If you can’t speak, I will. And if she doesn’t like it she can leave us in peace.’

  Calling on all her acquired techniques to bring calm, while breathing deeply, Christina put herself into her ‘happy place’. It was enough for her to summon back her smile. ‘Wel-welcome, Beth. Would you like to come inside?’ She got out her oft-rehearsed invitation. ‘I’d like you to meet my son, Joseph Vyvyan. He likes to be called Joe. Joe, this is Beth, my daughter, who I’ve told you about.’

  Beth had reached the top step. Again she was brought stockstill. This boy was Christina’s son? Before the full implications of this news sank into Beth’s brain, Joe said stridently, ‘Good morning, Beth. Welcome to Owles House. Do come inside. My mum has baked a cake for you.’

  Beth glanced at him, then at Christina and then down to the dog. She felt she had been invited into the lions’ den. You’ve got right on your side, she reminded herself. Their jaws can’t hurt you. You’ll emerge unscathed. Well, physically she would, but spiritually and emotionally she might end up devastated.

  She proffered her gloved hand. ‘How do you do, Joe?’ She wasn’t going to say, ‘It’s nice to meet you, Joe.’ There was wariness and hardness at the edges of his startlingly piercing eyes. His hand seemed to come at hers and her hand was taken in a firm shake then quickly released. It was then she realized that this boy, grown-up beyond his twelve or so years, was her half-brother. Her mother had gone on to have another child – one, the facts were loud and clear, whom her mother cherished and who in turn adored her. To Beth it was like receiving a double slap across the face. She felt she was being mocked on her old doorstep.

  Joe saw her confusion. Well, she wasn’t totally a superior bitch, she had that in her favour, but she had better not bring out any self-righteous claptrap. He said politely, ‘Would you like to follow us?’ It was designed to make her feel she was very much an outsider and would stay that way.

  Christina disengaged herself from Joe. From the time of Beth’s telephone call, she had vowed she’d do all that was possible to make Beth feel comfortable, and hopefully want to be here. ‘You go on ahead with Chaplin, Joe.’ She was careful not to give him any endearments that might irk Beth. ‘I’ll walk Beth in.’

  Joe did so, with Chaplin trotting dutifully beside him. Boy and dog were on such a par they did everything together by instinct. Joe looked back over his shoulder and shot Beth more of his solemnity.

  She returned a wide smile designed to convey that she was simply a friendly soul looking up her relatives. What a thing though, to discover she had another flesh-and-blood relative in Portcowl, and one as close as a half-brother. It would take time to sink in. She could imagine Kitty’s response to the news, ‘But that’s rather wonderful really, isn’t it?’ Dear Kitty, ever the optimist and blissfully lacking experience of anything that might have shaken her life to an almost unbearable pitch.

  Her mother was wearing the same familiar warm perfume that smelled of heavenly orange blossom and creamy jasmine. It was a young, sensuous scent. Beth had loved that smell when her mother had let her sit on her lap or kissed her goodnight in bed. It was the smell she had craved on the days her mother had failed to wash or groom herself. She was well groomed now. It was a shock to realize Christina’s once peroxided hair was now actually grey. She had given up another bottle and allowed her true colour, now she was nearly forty years old, to be on show.

  Beth realized that she hadn’t yet said a word. ‘Thank you for agreeing to allow me to see you again.’

  ‘I couldn’t have been more delighted to get your call,’ Christina said enthusiastically, pleased to hear the lightness in Beth’s tone. She limped along ushering Beth into the hall. ‘I think you’ll see quite a few changes, but many things are still the same. May I enquire where Miss Copeland is?’

  ‘She’s gone down to the cove.’

  ‘I thought she might have. She seemed to enjoy the view of the sea yesterday.’

  ‘Mrs Vyvyan, before we go on, there is something I’d like to say.’

  ‘Yes Beth, what is it?’ Christina asked nervously. It was a timid, anxious question, and Joe turned and frowned darkly at Beth.

  Beth saw his warning. It made her feel small but in this instance she deserved it. It had been spiteful of her to belittle Christina over her husband’s – Joe’s father’s – death. ‘I want to apologize for my remark about your husband. I didn’t r
ealize he had passed on. What I said was inappropriate and unkind. My apology extends to you too, Joe.’

  ‘You weren’t to know,’ Christina said, giving her an understanding smile.

  Beth couldn’t tell by Joe’s blank expression if he was placated or not. She said, ‘Nevertheless, it was unnecessary of me.’

  ‘Thank you, Beth.’ Christina’s thin shoulders heaved with relief. The remark had been hurtful to her but Beth’s sincere apology gave her hope that Beth was prepared to give her a chance to atone. ‘Well, this is the hall. What do you think?’

  Beth had planned to take no notice of the house, this place of so many bad memories and the warped and terrifying images in her nightmares, yet she couldn’t help herself. She looked all around and up and down. The general effect was toned down, lighter and roomier than before. Christina’s decision to put the past behind her and start anew? The stairs straight ahead, with a second flight overhead turning back on itself, had formerly been bare mahogany but were now painted a gentle cream; a crime to the purist but not unpleasing. The constant and beautifully elaborate Georgian and Victorian furniture had been replaced by Arts and Crafts items of squarer lines. Carpets and curtains had, of course, been changed with the wear and tear of the passage of time. There were few patterns and opulent splashes now. The paintings of fully rigged sailing ships remained but the late-Victorian penchant for rural scenes had gone in favour of Stanhope Forbes Cornish harbour scenes. There was a lot of studio pottery and bronze dancing figures. In a tall cabinet a collection of eighteenth and nineteenth century Chinese snuff bottles blended in well.