One Cornish Summer Read online

  As gracefully as she could in a pencil skirt, she climbed the back wall. She hoped no one was watching, because by the time she’d finished, her skirt was around her waist. Things were descending from bad to worse. Her mind raced but it wasn’t getting anywhere without coffee. The aroma of a fresh brew came from her parents’ kitchen. It would be just how her father liked it, and she could only hope he wouldn’t be there waiting.

  She slipped in through the open garden door. The television was on and Kate Trevillion, her mother, stood pressing down the cafetière and reading the paper. The cat jumped down and came to weave through Lucy’s legs. Her mother looked up. Sadness deepened the lines round her eyes and the ones from her mouth to her chin. In that moment she looked not forty-nine but eighty-nine.

  ‘Dear God, Lucia Anne Trevillion.’ Her glance went to the television and back to Lucy. Then she reached into the cupboard for the white china cups that Lucy’s father preferred. Lucy thought the plain old mugs did a far better job.

  Scooping up the cat, Lucy nuzzled her nose into his ginger fur. He purred. At least someone was pleased to see her.

  ‘A married man.’ Kate set a cup and saucer down with a thud. ‘Do you still take your coffee black, or has that changed along with becoming a home-wrecker?’

  Ouch. Her mother wasn’t putting a positive spin on this one. Lucy caught her own reflection in the glass of the French windows. She looked guilty. But at least she had dumped him before they had been caught. His marriage was broken, he’d said … but now she knew differently. He was simply a typical man, a lying bastard. Her fingers clenched. She should have known better. She was an idiot and she didn’t feel sorry for him. He was getting what he deserved for lying to her, though she felt terrible for poor Sheila.

  ‘So how do you plan to get out of this mess?’ Her mother sighed onto the surface of her coffee before leaning back against the spotless white counter. Unlike Lucy’s, her coffee was laced with cream. The rich glossy surface rippled with her breath.

  ‘I don’t know.’ In the taxi, Lucy had considered her options and hadn’t found any that worked. She put the lack of choice down to the hangover and caffeine deprivation.

  ‘Nothing new in that.’ Kate pursed her lips.

  Lucy stared back at her mother. Kate was loyal, blind to her husband’s serial infidelity. Maybe Lucy was more like her father. Her mouth twisted into a scowl. That was nothing to be proud of, but given the choice, she would rather be like him than the saintly doormat her mother was.

  ‘By the look of you, you haven’t been home.’

  ‘No.’ That sounded like an admission of guilt. ‘Look, Mum, it’s not what it seems.’ As soon as the words were out of her mouth she regretted them.

  In the corner of the room, her father’s parakeet plucked out a feather, which fell to the bottom of the cage. The cat circled below. Kate tapped the bars and the bird looked at her with blank eyes.

  ‘It never is with you.’

  ‘Mum …’ Lucy’s phone rang. It was Samantha, her agent. ‘I have to take this.’ She walked into the dining room but kept away from the front windows.

  ‘What the hell were you thinking?’ Samantha asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Running her finger along the gleaming surface of the table, Lucy pictured the years of elbow grease that had created that sheen and protected the wood’s beautiful surface.

  ‘Where are you?’ Samantha’s voice was quiet, which Lucy knew from the nine years they had been working together meant that things were bad. She paced the room, then stopped dead when she heard a key in the front door. Her day was about to get worse. Her father was back. Then the landline rang. She could hear her mother’s voice rising in tone.

  ‘I’m at my parents’.’ She rubbed her temples.

  ‘You’re an idiot.’

  ‘I know.’ She picked up a bowl from the sideboard. It was a delicate thing of bone china covered in spring flowers. It had belonged to her great-grandmother. It looked so fragile, but here it was without a chip or hairline fracture some two hundred years after it had been fired.

  ‘We’ve already had two cancellations and it’s not nine o’clock yet.’

  Lucy winced. ‘Ouch.’

  ‘There will be more.’

  ‘I know.’ Lucy pressed her lips together, thinking what a fool she’d been.

  ‘Will you make a statement?’

  She frowned. Face the press? ‘Not sure.’

  Samantha sighed. ‘Why did you do it when you could have had any man? It’s not even as if Ed is good-looking.’ She paused. ‘Earnest, I’ll give you.’

  Lucy’s mouth twisted into a half-smile. ‘It’s best not to comment.’

  ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’

  Lucy drew in a deep breath, then forced herself to speak. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I hate to do it. You’re brilliant, but this isn’t going to work.’

  ‘I know.’ She bit her lip. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Next time, think. No man is worth risking your career for, believe me.’

  ‘True.’ An awkward laugh died on Lucy’s lips. ‘Should have thought of that sooner.’ She rolled her eyes.

  Samantha sighed. ‘Talk later.’

  ‘Yes.’ But both of them knew it would be a long time before anyone would consider using Lucy again. She was tainted goods.

  She hesitated in the hallway, listening to her father’s voice. Escape through the front door was impossible, and now the back door was blocked too. She would have to face the music sooner rather than later – which was her preferred option.

  Walking into the kitchen, she saw her mother step away from her father and put down her coffee cup. ‘I thought you would have grown up by now.’

  ‘You’ve had enough time to do so.’ He was a fine one to talk. Clearly he’d seen the early news and come to discuss the situation. She stared at them both. They hadn’t a clue. Unable to see what their dysfunctional life looked like from the outside. Maybe she should have photographed it for them so they would have no choice.

  The phone rang again and Kate answered, walking out of the room as she spoke.

  Shaking his head, her father said, ‘And really, a Labour minister, what were you thinking? The best you can hope for at this moment is a war, otherwise I’d say you’ll be a top news item for days.’ He glanced back down at the paper, then turned the page. Lucy glared at him. No one deserved to die for her sexual misdemeanours. She wasn’t that needy; in fact she wasn’t needy at all, which was why she had turned to a lover who offered only limited access.

  Her father seemed to work on the same premise, though occasionally he appeared in the middle of the family he had created. Pontificating was his speciality. Lucy had ceased answering back long ago. It was a waste of her breath and time. Speaking of time, she glanced at her phone. A text from Ed appeared.

  Call me asap.

  She walked into the utility room, leaving her father in full flow. She debated whether to reply to Ed or not. Nothing she could say would help.

  I don’t think that’s wise, she texted.

  It was seconds before the reply arrived.

  Bugger wise.

  She laughed. He was good at making her laugh. She would miss that.

  If you must.

  She waited for the response.

  I need you.

  Lucy held her breath. Everything inside her was curled into a tight ball. She tapped in her reply with more force than was needed.

  No you don’t. You need to apologise to your wife, then the public. Eat humble pie. Save your marriage and your career. Think of your child. Think of someone other than yourself. You do not need me.

  She didn’t write that he was a lying toad. Maybe she should have.

  I do.

  She looked at the neatly lined-up shirts hanging on the rail. Why was her mother still with her father? Was she nothing more than a laundry service? She shuddered. As beautiful and kind as her mother was, Lucy would never become like her.

  Her phone beeped again. She replied.

  You want me. You do not need me.

  The laundry room was pristine. Not an odd sock in sight.

  I love you.

  She closed her eyes. Ha. Love. Bet he said the same thing to Sheila.

  Enough. Goodbye.

  She shut off her phone. What was that about? She and Ed had been about sex and conversation but never about love. Love buggered everything, to use Ed’s expression. It made the world unbalanced, unfair even. Love made prisons, even if they were comfortable ones. The neatly starched shirts flicked in a gust of air. The front door had opened again. Leaning against the wall, Lucy took several deep breaths, thinking about his wife and the positive pregnancy test. At least that was something she’d never have to worry about. Her body had made sure of that.

  It had been quite a morning so far, but things couldn’t get any worse. She stood up straight and walked back into the kitchen, searching her mind for a plan.

  Five

  Hebe

  June 2015

  The Milky Way fills the sky above us as we walk from the pub. Once out of sight of the village, I tuck my arm through yours. Soon we are in darkness and you reach for the torch in your pocket.

  ‘Don’t.’ I touch your hand. ‘The stars will be dimmed by it.’

  You pull me close and our pace slows as we look heavenward.

  ‘There are so many stars.’

  I nod and rest my head on your shoulder, looking up. You point, and we both hold our breath as a star shoots across the sky.

  ‘Go and catch a falling
star,’ you begin.

  ‘Get with child a mandrake root …’ I pause.

  ‘Tell me where all the past years are.’ Your voice rumbles in my heart. I catch my breath and can’t remember the next line. Where are the past years?

  ‘Or who cleft the Devil’s foot.’ You chuckle, and it reassures me. ‘I love the imagery.’

  ‘Yes.’ Donne captures … captures the unexplainable, making it clear … somehow. I should know that. I should know many things, but right now I can only think of you and your warmth beside me. I must hold onto the here and now and not worry about the past or the future. Live. That’s what I should do for now.

  ‘Did you make a wish?’ you ask, scanning the dark mass above.

  I laugh, trying to remember why I would make a wish. Looking up at the swathe of stars, I remember the shooting star. ‘Yes, that I were at least twenty years younger.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be you if you were younger.’

  I frown. ‘I was still me twenty years ago.’

  ‘But the things that have happened in those twenty years have made you into the woman I love.’ You pull me closer. ‘Look, there’s another shooting star.’

  My heart sinks. I do not believe in wishes or even prayers. It is too late for all of that.

  ‘I made another wish.’

  I take a deep breath. So did I, but I cannot tell you. I wished for you to find love, love from someone worthy of you.

  We walk along the lane in silence until the cottage comes into view. I was wrong to have let you into my life all those years ago. At first I was worried about my job if someone found out. But now I know that what I have done is far worse. Having an affair with you is stopping you from living. But am I strong enough to let you go?

  ‘Thanks for your notes on the article.’ You kiss my hair as you unlock the door. ‘They made perfect sense, and you are right, of course. Donne’s use of love in the poem is multi-layered, even ambiguous, but I hadn’t looked at it in that way before.’

  I frown, trying to remember what I said or even what poem we were discussing. You stare at me, expecting a response, and I turn away.

  ‘You know, even after all this time, I still struggle to accept that God and the devil were so present in people’s lives. I remember how you tried to immerse us in the reality of that fact.’

  ‘Yes.’ I take a deep breath. That I can remember. Those facts have not disappeared. God and the devil were in almost every breath they took and every word they uttered. Devil. Your eyes are smiling.

  ‘Love, any devil else but you,’ you say.

  ‘Would for a given soul give something too.’ My heart trips, thinking of when we crossed the line. I close my eyes and I am back in my flat in London, opening the door and trying not to stare.

  *

  You stood with a bottle of wine in your hand.

  ‘I wanted to say thank you.’

  I frowned, still keeping the door partially closed, half hiding me from you. But I saw all of you, especially your bright eyes inviting me to say yes. The question wasn’t spoken, but it was there on your lips. I hesitated. ‘For what?’

  ‘The extension on this week’s assignment.’ You held out the bottle, wrapped in white tissue.

  ‘Not necessary. The research material you needed wasn’t available until next week.’

  ‘You didn’t have to.’ Turning your head, you revealed a strong profile with defined chin and straight nose. My neighbour looked at you appraisingly as she headed for the stairs. Her glance accused me, but I’m not sure of what. We were just assessing each other.

  I swallowed, then pulled the door open, revealing my jeans and man’s white dress shirt. Your glance missed nothing. I was so different here from in the classroom, where I wore my uniform of wrap dress and modest heels.

  ‘I wondered if I might ask you a few questions that we didn’t have time for earlier,’ you said, stepping across the threshold, holding the bottle out to me. If I accepted it, things would change. It was seven o’clock on a warm evening. I took the bottle. I was forty-four and I should have known better. But I was about to take a lover less than half my age, a boy who looked exactly like the one in the portrait hanging above my bed.

  By our first strange and fatal interview,

  By all desire which thereof did ensue.

  *

  I wake. Panic. Lists. What must be done? Where am I? Dawn. Birds. You. I sigh and roll closer, staring at the beams on the ceiling. My mind chases round and round. I must finish the book but I don’t know how. You. I must leave you and I must leave work. But then what? I will be alone. My breathing slows and panic subsides. Alone is good.

  Crawling out of bed, I try not to disturb you, but then smile at myself. Nothing wakes you, not even your alarm most of the time. Throwing your sweater over my nightgown, I walk to the kitchen and pull out my notebook. The doctor said lists would help. I knew they wouldn’t hurt.

  Write outline for last Thomas Grylls book, then begin research.

  I stand then go and put the kettle on before I flip the notebook over. You mustn’t see what I am writing. Somehow I have kept that secret from you just as I have kept you as my secret. I turn my notes over again once I’ve made my coffee. Underlining Thomas, I think of the portrait. I miss it. The final book is something I must finish while I’m still able. But of course I’m missing something … I tap the pencil on the paper, hoping the repeated activity will let my mind catch up and remember what it is. Nothing.

  I sip the coffee, dark and bitter. I don’t know what happened to Thomas after the restoration of Charles II. Despite my research, this has remained a mystery. My temples throb at the thought. It isn’t a secret. No one is withholding the information from me. It is lost and probably never to be found. I will have to trust myself and make up the end. Isn’t that the joy of writing fiction? I can write the end the way I want it to happen. I am God in the world I have created and I only have to abide by the historical fact where it is known.

  I hear footsteps and turn over the notes. You appear shirtless and barefoot. Lost, not quite awake. You hold out a hand and I can’t resist.

  ‘Come back to bed. It’s too early.’

  I smile, taking your hand. ‘The birds are up.’

  ‘Good for them, but I want you beside me.’

  We fall under the still warm duvet and you mumble Donne’s words. ‘Dear love, for nothing less than thee, would I have broke this happy dream.’ Your need for me is more awake than you are.

  And as you settle back into sleep, I recall the final lines of ‘The Dream’.

  Thou cam’st to kindle, goest to come; then I

  Will dream that hope again, but else would die.

  The sea stretches before us and the sun is beginning its descent. It was your idea to come and watch the sunset on the longest day of the year. You mentioned holding onto every moment. I study your profile and wonder if you know.

  ‘The landscape is so stunning, yet so industrial.’ You point to an engine house in the distance. I nod, looking down to the waves crashing below. Deep in the earth, the minerals still linger. Their rising and falling value shaped Cornwall and her people. The Grylls family owned mines here on the north coast, yet their home, Helwyn, was in the gentle valleys of the east.

  You pour mint tea from the thermos. The steam rises in the evening air. Because of my sleeplessness, you have taken me off caffeine after ten in the morning. You have seen the changes in me. Although my body isn’t showing it, the signs that my brain is ageing appear by the hour. I feel it. A few moments ago, you were talking about Cadgwith and our visit there. I looked at you blankly, I know I did. My face coloured when you mentioned mermaids. Only then did yesterday come back to me.

  *

  Teach me to hear mermaids singing

  Or to keep off envy’s stinging

  And find

  What wind

  Serves to advance an honest mind.

  Her eyes followed you to the bar. I knew what she was thinking. She saw your beauty and wondered why you were with me. I wondered the same. Yet you returned with my wine and your pint and you didn’t see her, only me. I still couldn’t believe that this was happening. I couldn’t trust my own thoughts, because when you weren’t with me, I lived with fear embedded in the pit of my belly. Looking at her, I envied her youth, her beauty.