Postcards from the Past (15 page)

He read everything he could find about the family and Cornwall and its mining history, and when the time was right he announced that he was going to train as a mining engineer at the Camborne School of Mines as his grandfather had before him. Nobody argued or tried to dissuade him; they’d all seen the writing on the wall.

‘He’ll come back,’ they assured each other. ‘Plenty of good mining jobs here once he’s finished in Cornwall and got it out of his system.’

Now, Harry takes his bags round to the back door, tries the handle, and then leaves his luggage in the porch. He strolls along the lane to the old butter factory, listening to the rush and tumble of water and a robin singing in the hedge. The sun is shining in its pale, cool, English way, and he exults in the freshness of the air and the slip and slide of the little chill breeze over his warm skin. He is invigorated, alive with excitement: he is home.

As he crosses the stone bridge from the lane he sees that someone is at the kitchen door and he calls out, thinking it might be Ed. The man turns at once, his hand dropping from the door handle. Harry doesn’t recognize him but smiles at him anyway. The man smiles back. He could be anything between fifty and sixty, lean and tough-looking with russet-grey curling hair. He’s carrying a leather satchel and Harry assumes he’s delivering leaflets. As he gets closer he sees the man is staring at him curiously, one eyebrow quirked almost in amusement, as if he recognizes him. He has very pale, frosty grey eyes and a tanned, deeply lined skin.

‘Hi,’ Harry says. ‘Nobody around?’

The man shrugs. ‘I’ve no idea. I was just delivering something.’

He watches as Harry opens the door and goes in, calling out, but there is no answer, no Bear coming out to greet him, and when Harry glances back the man has gone. He stands for a moment in the kitchen, wanders through into the hall and looks up and up past the galleried landing to the beams above. He loves this space, the sense of airiness and light. The ash on the old millstone hearthstone is still warm and there are two empty coffee mugs on the chest that Billa and Ed use as a table.

Harry goes back through the kitchen and stands outside, listening. He can hear the whine of a chainsaw and he sets off along the stream into the woods. Soon he sees them: the two brothers working together, taking some dead branches from a tree, the two dogs – one golden, one brown – playing together nearby. Bessie is the first to see him. Barking, tail waving, she runs to greet him, and he drops down to one knee so as to fling his arms round her while she licks his face vigorously, wriggling and whining with excitement. Bear comes to investigate at a slower gait, acknowledging this favourite member of the family with a majestic air and accepting the homage due to him as Harry strokes his head and murmurs to him.

Ed and Dom have stopped work to see what the dogs are doing, and now their shouts reach Harry and he waves. With the dogs beside him he breaks into a run towards his grandfather and his great-uncle.

‘Hi,’ he shouts back. ‘I’m back. The prodigal son has come home.’

*   *   *

Tris walks past Dom’s cottage and along the lane to his car, which is parked deep in the shadow of an ash tree. Even now he won’t hurry, though his heart beats rather faster than he likes to admit to and his breathing is uneven. He is still in shock at the sight of the boy, so like Dom when he, Tris, first met him fifty years ago.

He hears Elinor St Enedoc’s voice: ‘It’s so humiliating, Andrew. Having the boy so close. Of course, Harry never spoke of him but he supported him – them – financially. You can imagine how I felt when I first saw him.’

‘You poor darling.’ His father’s voice was tender, emollient. Then a slight pause and a change of tone: curious, prurient. ‘So what was she like, his mother?’

There was a little rustle, as if Elinor had drawn back from his father’s embrace, and her voice was sharper.

‘Oh, the usual little tart, I imagine. Out for his money, of course. Well, she’s had enough of it. When Harry died he left both the cottages in trust for the boy as well as money to pay for the rest of his education. Naturally Billa and Ed adore him.’ And again, ‘It’s just so humiliating to have Harry’s bastard living next door.’

Peeping through the crack in the door, Tris could see Elinor in his father’s arms, being comforted. He walked straight in, enjoying the slight embarrassment, the hasty drawing apart. It was like a game, seeing just how far he could push his luck. He hated the pretend life that he and his father lived but there was no choice.

‘The police would take you away from me,’ his father had told him, way back. ‘Nobody must ever know. Do you understand? It was a terrible accident but it’s too late now to do anything about it. You must promise, Tris.’

And he promised, nodding very fast, trembling a little, lest his father might lose his temper and strike him, too. He could still hear those thumps and cries and then the sudden silence. From where he crouched on the stairs, he had seen his father come out of the pretty drawing-room and look about him. He stood, rubbing his hands over his face, his shadow stretched across the hall, and then he went out quietly into the dark garden. Quick as light, Tris slipped down the stairs and into the drawing-room. His mother lay huddled, her eyes half-opened, but when he touched her, called to her in an urgent half-whisper, kissed her, she didn’t move. A patch of her blonde hair was dark and sticky, and he put out a tentative finger to touch it. He heard his father coming and quickly, quickly, he slipped behind one of the long damask curtains, wiping his fingers on the silky lining. Grunting and swearing to himself, his father edged the body into a large swathe of sacking, wrapping it, covering it, before heaving it into his arms and carrying it away. Tris had run upstairs, climbed into bed, pulled the blankets over his head: waiting for the footsteps at his bedroom door.

‘A terrible accident has happened,’ his father said, sitting on his bed. His voice was ragged, his breathing laboured, and Tris tried not to shrink away from the heavy hand on his small shoulder. ‘Maman fell and hit her head. She’s dead, Tris. Now listen. If anyone should find out the police will take you away from me so we’re going away, now, tonight, to a country where nobody will ever know and we shall say that she died of an illness. Do you understand me, Tris? You must promise.’

And he promised, nodding quickly, hearing those thumps, frightened of the look in his father’s eyes. He was just four years old.

*   *   *

Standing by the car, Tris listens to the sound of the chainsaw, hears it stop. A dog is barking and he can hear voices raised in welcome. He wonders who the boy is: a nephew, a grandson, a more distant relation? He’s taken Tris by surprise. From his vantage point across the valley he’d watched Billa drive off, seen Ed and Dom and the dogs mustering for a stint in the woods, and decided to chance his arm at getting into the old butter factory and having another look around.

Now he gets into the car, puts the satchel on the passenger seat, fits the keys into the ignition. He’s never known why it’s so important to take risks. Once, someone very close to him – one of the very few people he’d ever trusted – said that it was his way of taking control of his own life. He’d been manipulated, lied to, pushed from pillar to post, and here was an opportunity to feel in charge. Quickly he discovered how easy it was to manipulate in his turn, to frighten and influence people. It began as a game but it’s a game that has become an addiction: he needs the high that comes with testing his luck.

Even now, he’s still feeling the charge that resulted when he turned from the back door to see the boy coming towards him. Though Tris’s heart is still out of control, and he can hardly breathe, he laughs: it’s all worth it. He drives slowly, peering through the trees along the stream. He can see them now: the happy group. Standing together, the boy’s arms gesticulating, the older men watching him, the dogs weaving round them. Their body language says it all. The engine idles whilst Tris watches, the laughter fading from his eyes. How he’d longed for just such a scene as this when he was young. Someone shouting with delight as he approached, faces lighting up with joy, arms opened in welcome. The weight of the secret, the fear of the exposure, excluded true intimacy between him and his father, and the other women that his father chose found Tris an unnecessary extra. Soon the relationships broke down, or circumstances arose that made it vital to move on: the spectres from the past, or his father’s paymasters, appearing, threatening any hope of security or peace.

Still he watches. It was under this very tree that he stepped out to confront Dom all those years ago. The older boys at his school had been very happy to explain to him the meaning of the words ‘bastard’ and ‘tart’, and armed with the knowledge he opened fire at the first opportunity. ‘If you’re not one up you’re one down.’ It was his motto; his mantra. How easy it had been for his father to frighten a small boy into acquiescence; to threaten him with the prospect of an orphanage or a foster home. It was a relief to go away to school at eight; to become anonymous, to have the rough, unquestioning companionship of other little boys who – because his father always had money to spare – asked no difficult questions about the past and whose mothers were kind to him because his own mother had died when he was small. They invited him for exeats and part of the holidays. His father worked abroad, was often called away, but life had become simpler. And then the St Enedocs had come into his life.

Watching the group under the trees, Tris wonders whether his father had really fallen in love with Elinor or whether she was simply good cover for him. Either way, it had been disastrous for Tris. He’d hated coming all this way from his school in Berkshire for holidays and exeats; he’d hated having to explain this new situation to his friends. Once again, everything was being destroyed and it was clear that Billa and Ed were not inclined to welcome him with open arms. He didn’t really blame them; he could see that they wanted this disruption to their lives as little as he did. He’d seen their antagonism at once and – as was his way – he’d opened fire first. ‘If you’re not one up you’re one down.’

Round one, with the bicycle, went to him, but he was never able truly to win with Ed. Ed played by different rules. He neither complained nor attacked, he merely withdrew into that little study of his, his fortress, and pulled up the drawbridge. Occasionally he’d show Tris his treasures – those beautiful miniatures, oh, how proud Ed was of those miniatures, the tiny netsukes, the paintings – but then the door was shut again and locked. Never once was he able to get into that room alone but, even if he had, he wouldn’t have damaged those things. Even then, their delicate beauty touched a chord and he resented being treated as if he were a vandal.

Tris puts the car in gear and pulls away. As he drives past Dom’s cottage he laughs out loud at the thought of Dom receiving the carefully chosen postcard. He thought long and hard about that one, knowing exactly what would touch the spot. ‘Your mother was a whore.’ Why was it so satisfying to see the rage in Dom’s face that day so long ago in the winter woodland? Was it because his own mother had been wiped out, denied? No mourning for Tris. No grieving, no talking, no adjustment: just a deep weight of misery and loss like a stone on the heart. What wild, savage pleasure there was in hurting Dom. Yet Dom, in his own way, was in control. He, like Ed, refused to strike back, and Tris was denied any real satisfaction. Only with Billa was there any success. Billa rose to every provocation like a starving trout to a fly. How she’d loved that dog. Love, physical affection, privileges – everything denied to Tris was poured out on to that bad-tempered little terrier.

One day he’d taken Bitser for a walk, along the stream, through the woods and up on to the slopes of the moorland. It was a wild March day with the wind blowing from the west and, running in the wind with Bitser beside him, he experienced a new sensation. He felt light and free. He believed that everything could change and he could have a home again and be happy. Then the clouds rolled across the sun, great drops of rain fell, and he turned to run home. But Bitser had found a scent and was digging, he wouldn’t come when Tris called him, so he grabbed Bitser, pulled and tugged the hard, round solid little body, and Bitser turned and bit him hard. Shocked with pain, blood pouring from the wound, quite suddenly Tris was utterly desolate. The swing of spirits from joy to despair was terrible. Stumbling home in the rain, nursing his bloody hand, he looked for some kind of revenge and found it. Billa never forgave him.

Tris thinks about Billa. He doesn’t quite know why he took her mobile when he got into the old butter factory. Simply because he could, knowing it would cause irritation? How amusing it had been to drop it into the chair where he’d seen her sitting earlier. And what a shock that had been to see the little group all together at the table by the fire. Anyway, he’d taken some numbers from the phone, just in case.

As he pauses at the junction in the village and turns right up the hill, he thinks again about the group in the wood. After all, nothing has changed. The St Enedocs still have what they always had: family, love, homes, their dogs.

‘This is your last journey, Tris,’ his doctor warned him. ‘You know that, don’t you? Not much more time.’

Time for one last game, for one last roll of the dice. Tris drives to the Chough. He goes up to the little flat, carrying his satchel, and lets himself in. He pours a tumblerful of water, takes his bottle of capsules from the satchel and collapses on to the bed.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

‘If only I’d known I could have had the fatted calf ready,’ says Billa. ‘As it is, it’s going to have to be rack of lamb.’

It is a tradition, on Harry’s first night, for them all to have dinner at the old butter factory. The warm, comfortable kitchen with the great slate table is perfect for a family gathering. Ed is lighting all the candles and pouring the wine. Bear is on his sofa with Harry beside him, his heavy head on Harry’s lap. Bessie is curled on the floor at his feet. Tilly laughs at them and takes a photograph on her mobile phone.