The Returning Tide Read online

  The low tones of the foghorn sounded through the night air thick with moisture. It felt much later than eight o’clock. The blurred light coming from the windows of the British Beer Company welcomed them. Moisture beaded on Lara’s face and her shoulders were covered with ever-growing drops of water, which were forming a critical mass and seeping through the Harvard sweatshirt she was wearing. It wasn’t hers but one of Leo’s she’d found when clearing things out.

  ‘You OK?’ Leo threw an arm over her shoulder and marshalled her across the street and into the bar.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Liar,’ he said, and gave her a reproachful look. ‘You said you wanted to come.’

  ‘I know.’ Lara took a deep breath before she pulled open the door. ‘It’s a place I associate with Grandie, but also with Pierre.’

  ‘Mixed, I get it.’ Leo led the way and Lara watched him scan the bar to make sure the coast was clear. It wasn’t that Lara didn’t want to see Pierre at all, but right then she would rather avoid it – everything inside her was too emotionally raw.

  ‘Hey, guys. You here for the quiz?’ asked one of Grandie’s colleagues from the institute. Lara had spoken to so many of them earlier this week. She shook her head.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ the woman asked. This scientist had been one of Grandie’s many mentees over the years.

  ‘Thanks.’ Lara smiled. ‘A small IPA.’

  ‘That’s kind. I’ll have a pint of the same.’ Leo peered around to the restaurant area where tables were full of people enjoying their vacations.

  ‘Fancy joining our team?’ the woman asked after she’d placed the drinks order.

  ‘We’d only hold you back,’ said Lara. ‘Besides, Grandie always played on the opposing team, so it wouldn’t feel right.’

  The woman laughed. ‘They’ll have a tough time beating us without him on their side.’ She handed Lara a glass then one to Leo. ‘We all miss him.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Lara perched on a stool, putting a folder next to her glass.

  Leo sat beside her and cradled his beer. ‘Love this place. It always feels like home.’

  ‘True. We both put enough hours in working here.’ She looked at the bottles lining the back of the bar, remembering her first job clearing tables and Leo washing dishes.

  He picked up the folder. ‘Is that your itinerary for the trip?’

  She nodded. ‘That, plus Grandie’s diaries, photos and letters.’

  She took the folder from Leo, opened it and laid the contents carefully on the bar, making sure the surface was clean and dry. Picking up Grandie’s 1943 diary, she turned to the first entry and ran her fingers over the writing, wishing he were still here.

  November 25, 1943

  On plane to London – an odd way to spend Thanksgiving

  November 26, 1943

  Report to HQ

  ‘We know he graduated West Point in the spring of 1943 and was on a plane to London on Thanksgiving Day.’ She put the diary down, frowning. ‘Interesting that he flew. From what I remember from history class, most of the troops went on ships.’

  ‘Maybe he had a reason to reach London quickly.’

  She sighed. ‘Why didn’t we ask these questions years ago?’

  ‘I did ask about the war but he never wanted to talk about it.’

  ‘True. We know so little.’

  He nodded then sipped his beer. ‘So you fly to London.’ He looked at her e-ticket. ‘And hopefully you’ll discover more.’

  ‘Hopefully.’ She drew wiggly lines in the condensation on the side of her glass. ‘But I have so little to go on.’

  ‘You always liked puzzles.’

  ‘Yeah, jigsaws. This is a bit different.’ She lifted her glass and studied the beermat. ‘It’s funny how Cassie lives near this Helford River.’

  He nodded. ‘I bet she’s excited to see you.’

  ‘I think so.’ She took a long sip of her beer then pulled out the photo of her grandfather standing alone on a headland with an expanse of water behind him. Leo took it from her, peering at the faded writing on the back. ‘It looks like there might have been a date on it but the pencil has rubbed away.’ He handed the photo back to her. ‘I guess if you’re going to be close, that’ll make tracing his footsteps easier.’ He sorted through the photos then picked up the letters, while Lara turned to study the bar. It was all so familiar. The guest beer might change and the tourists smelled of a different brand of sunblock but the bar was a constant for her. She had had her first sous chef job here.

  ‘These letters are pretty explicit,’ he paused, ‘for the time.’ He put them back in the folder.

  ‘Agreed – it feels wrong to read them but we have nothing else.’ Lara looked at the diaries, wishing they provided an easy clue or even stated the answer outright. But from her quick study of them they were more like a travel journal, noting places and names in some sort of code. She supposed Grandie had used it more as an aide-memoire. ‘It’s so strange that there are no pictures of her.’

  ‘Do you think Grandie destroyed them?’

  ‘Possibly. Could have been too painful. Maybe there weren’t any to destroy.’

  ‘Are you OK with doing all of this?’ Leo finished his beer.

  ‘Yes.’ Lara put her empty glass down. ‘It will keep me out of trouble and out of the kitchen for a while.’ She gathered her things and as they left the bar he flung an arm across her shoulder.

  ‘You’ll find a way.’

  She snorted doubtful laughter. ‘Glad you have faith in me.’

  ‘I do.’

  They walked along the beach towards Eventide in silence as the fog began to lift. By the time they reached the house the sky was clear, with stars scattered across the black expanse. Lara just wished her future were as easy to see.

  Eight

  Windward, Mawnan Smith, Falmouth, Cornwall

  25 August 2015

  I walked to the end of the terrace and squinted into the distance. Another tanker was heading towards Falmouth. Was it coming to reside in the bay or did it have actual business to do? I hoped it was the latter. Although the bright orange and green hulls added contrast to the view on a dull day, I preferred the bay filled with moving ships and boats. On a mizzly summer morning such as this there was still activity from the small craft making their way out.

  The top of Nare Head to the south was just visible. The old air defence battery was still there, and was now used by the coastal watch. Much better to be counting basking sharks than trying to pretend to be Falmouth. But it had lured the bombers away from their real target with fake train tracks and false lights. The last time I walked that stretch of coast the ruts from the tracks were still clearly visible. Closing my eyes, I recalled them finding a 700 kilogram parachute bomb just off Durgan beach a few years ago. It seemed impossible that it had lain there untroubled for seventy or more years with countless holidaymakers swimming above it. It made an almighty blast when they set it off in the bay – explosions like that were rather spectacular to watch when there was no threat to life, unlike others I had seen and felt.

  Looking through the mist that morning, I lowered myself onto the stone wall. Why did it all feel so close right now? The key anniversaries were over and I’d survived another year. Jack had found a frame for the photo of me on VE Day and placed it in the sitting room. He seemed to think it was good for me to see the past but I ignored it, and would not talk of it. It was best to let the ghosts sleep.

  But it wasn’t the picture, or even Peta wanting to wear the veil. My war had never left me, despite my desire to forget. I’d known where the letters were and they’d never troubled me as they did now. Those years felt so close I could touch them. Turning from the bay, I looked at Windward, Grandmother’s house, built in 1911 on her family’s land. It was fortress-like in some ways, but that wasn’t surprising considering its position facing the easterly winds. My grandmother had loved the freedom this house provided her. It was hers wholly and not entailed in my gr
andfather’s estate, which Uncle Reg had inherited at the age of nine on my grandfather’s death in 1917.

  ‘Gran, you’ll get very wet if you stay out there much longer.’ Peta held out a hand, smiling. I hoped the weather wouldn’t be like this for her wedding. Accepting her help I linked my arm through hers and we went into the breakfast room where the wedding details were spread out on the table. Jack stood with a coffee cup in his hand and a frown on his face.

  ‘Wouldn’t it just be easier to live with him?’ he said.

  Peta glared at him. ‘I’m not going to bother to answer that question. Why don’t you make some fresh coffee for Gran while I show her the final seating plan?’ She picked up a plate with crumbs on it. ‘And please bring some more of that lovely cake.’

  He rolled his eyes and left while Peta pulled out a chair for me. I didn’t need to see the wedding details, but Peta never let that deter her. She’d always look at me and see more than I’d want. I’d no choice but to continually turn away from her.

  ‘So, Gran, let’s pray for decent weather so that the sides of the tepee can be up.’ She looked up from the papers on the table. ‘It would be such a shame to have a day like today when you can barely see the view.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘But even if it totally chucks it down, they promise that the tepee can take it.’

  Tepee. I pursed my mouth, looking at the picture Peta slid in front of me. It had very little resemblance to the small tepees shown in old films. This had a vast expanse and three main peaks. Good selling on their part, but I knew well what Mother Nature could hand out on this exposed bit of land. Despite being three storeys, the house sat lower into the hillside than many other houses built early in the 1900s. The ceilings were high but not as high as you would expect in an Edwardian country house. The architect had spent his summers nearby and understood the landscape with the effects of the winds. The tent company did not, of that I was sure.

  ‘I’ve sketched out the table plan and for you I’ve made sure that there is a seat with a back on it.’ She smiled at me. ‘Everyone else will be on benches.’

  I nodded. What was I supposed to say? Everyone else would be much more comfortable on chairs as well, not just an old woman.

  ‘We wouldn’t fit in a hundred people if we seated them that way.’

  I shook my head. It was uncanny how Peta could read my thoughts. Fortunately she understood that some things should remain private. For all her careless appearance she was a sensible child, but she had given Jack and me a very hard time during her teens.

  Jack carried a tray into the room. ‘Madam, your coffee.’ He bowed slightly after he had placed it on the table.

  ‘Thanks, bro.’ She winked. ‘Now, Gran, I want to make sure you’ll be sitting with people you want to talk to as opposed to people you feel you have to.’

  ‘You’ve found some, have you?’ I smiled.

  She laughed. ‘Working on it.’

  Jack chuckled as he handed her a cup.

  ‘You won’t be on the top table.’ A furrow appeared between her brows. ‘It would be too confined there. I think you would be happier closer to the open side of the tent.’

  ‘Assuming the weather is fine.’ Jack smirked and Peta hit his arm with the pencil in her hand. She moved bits of sticky yellow paper around the large diagram. ‘If I put you on the table with Victoria and Sebastian Roberts and, of course, Eddie, that would definitely give you a few people to talk to, about gardens if nothing else.

  I nodded, thinking of Eddie sitting with me at a wedding. At least he would understand. Tightness closed around my heart and squeezed, but I smiled at Peta. Her happiness was infectious.

  ‘Where are you putting me?’ Jack leaned against the table cradling his cup.

  ‘You’re not as lucky as Gran. No quick escape routes for you.’ She looked up at him. ‘You’re on the top table.’

  The colour left his face and he closed his eyes. He would do anything for Peta but I knew this was pushing him close to the limit. First she’d asked if he would give her away. Reluctantly he’d agreed. She above anyone knew what he thought about love thanks to their father’s behaviour, but she’d pushed further. She’d asked if Jack would make a speech. He’d said no, that she should pick someone else. She pointed out that there was no one else. They were family. Aside from me they only had each other. Peta had had enough sense not to ask me.

  Placing my coffee on the table, I pushed myself up. ‘I’ll leave the rest to you.’

  Peta kissed my cheek. ‘Thanks. And I don’t think I’ve said it, but thanks for letting me have the reception here.’

  ‘No thanks needed. It’s mine, so it’s yours.’ I waved my hand, dismissing her gratitude, realising that that wasn’t quite true. The house had been left to both my sister and me.

  Hampstead, London

  5 November 1943

  Dearest Half,

  My heart is broken for you and for me and for Philip’s parents. I know you will tell me that you didn’t really care for him. But I know you did. Besides, it’s simply awful. Bloody Hitler. Sorry about the language but it’s the only word that expresses my anger.

  Mother is not doing very well. Grandmother is beastly to her and I’m working longer hours. Both of them have to fend for themselves.

  I don’t know what to say. I feel you pulling in to yourself but please don’t. You have to live. I’m too tired to write anymore. I’ll post this in the morning. I want you to know I know and that you can’t hide.

  Always yours,

  Xxxx

  Throwing my sister’s letter down, I jumped down from the bunk. It was as if upon hearing of Philip’s death part of me had closed down. She was right. It was foolish to think myself in love because of a few stolen kisses. There was enough else to think about. Training was nearly finished. Soon a sparker’s badge would adorn my sleeve and we were supposed to select two locations for placement. Of course my first choice was St Merryn. I missed Cornwall – the air, the sea, the people. Although having lived in London for the six years before we went to Windward, these six months had showed me that I didn’t belong here. When in Cornwall I had never missed London and now I longed for a star-filled sky and the cry of the curlew on the evening breeze. I wanted my days to be filled with the scent of wild honeysuckle in the hedges and the smell of Mrs Tonks’s pasties coming from the kitchen at Windward ready for our picnics.

  Camilla, a fellow rating with uncontrollable curls, walked into the room. ‘We’re off to the cinema, would you like to join us?’ She smiled and her hair continued to move even though she stood still.

  I forced a smile. ‘Yes.’ I didn’t want to but Amelia was right. I had to live.

  ‘Wonderful. We’re meeting downstairs in twenty minutes.’ She disappeared from view but then popped back in. ‘Did you hear that Paula Thompson has gone?’

  ‘No.’ I frowned. ‘Dit happy?’

  She nodded. ‘See you downstairs in a few minutes.’

  To crack at this point so near the end was hard luck. So many had fallen out early. I’d been close myself a few times despite achieving the highest speed on the course. Morse had become a second language for me, sometimes overtaking English in my thoughts. It had startled me when I realised I had begun to think in dit, dit, dit, dah during daylight hours and not just in my dreams. I straightened the counterpane on my bunk and put Amelia’s letter away, knowing I needed to embrace the now – just not as zealously as she did.

  12 November 1943

  Dearest,

  You’ll never guess who was home on leave and came to visit us. Yes, it was Eddie. His mother Rebecca has been staying with us so this was where he spent his leave. He told me all about seeing you in London and how you had spoken about Philip. I know he too has taken Philip’s death badly. He’s the first and hopefully the last of our gang to die. I hate this beastly war.

  But for a few days we had the most wonderful time. His mother isn’t terribly well as you know so it fell on me to en
tertain him. Fortunately I had some leave as well. The weather has been glorious for November so he and I were off on bikes all around the area. We had a lovely evening down at the Ferryboat Inn and also went to the pictures up at Barbary’s Garage at Penwarne. There was even ice cream. Mrs Barbary used custard powder supplied by the Americans.

  You wouldn’t believe some of the changes taking place now that the Yanks are here. I can’t say what but you’ll see when you come next. The first ones to arrive in Falmouth were called Seebees but lately there are soldiers around. Even Negros. Grandmother is in an uproar because of what she heard on Wednesday at Carwinion at the working party. While the knitting needles clacked the tongues wagged. No one around here had seen a black man in person before and now there are so many. There were two major scandals. The first, it appears, is that the white soldiers don’t get on with the black ones and there was a big fall-out when they were all invited together to a social nearby in a school hall. Secondly, and even more scandalous, it appears that Ginny Smith is involved with one of the Negros. I have to say he is a handsome chap.

  Yes, I know I’m not telling you all, but it’s so hard to try and convey everything as so much has been happening since Eddie’s mother arrived here. Oh, I can hear you wanting to know more about Eddie and me. Well, yes of course I kissed him and may well have done more.

  No, I can’t lie to you. We did a lot more and it was wonderful. I think I’m in love.

  I can hear your voice telling me not to be foolish and saying not to lose my heart but it’s too late. I have said those words to myself. But I was lost the moment his eyes met mine. When he next has leave he will come down to Windward. Of course, I was heartbroken when he left and I catch my breath every time I hear a plane overhead even though I know he’s nowhere near here. If you see him, tell me … no, don’t. I don’t want to know if he’s with another woman. I’m so lost already. I’m even turning other offers away. All it took was one look. It said it all. He saw me for who I am. He hasn’t said he loves me nor have I told him. It’s too soon but yet it isn’t – for there may not be another chance. I hold close our embraces and hope that the war ends soon.