Postcards from the Past (17 page)

Now, Mrs Sawle looks up as the bell jangles and nods to him from her corner behind the counter where she sits hunched and wrapped in woollies, squat as an over-dressed toad.

‘Mornin’, Sir Alec. Blowy ould day, ennit?’

He agrees, they discuss the health of Hercules, tied up outside – Mrs Sawle loves dogs – and then he prowls the shelves, trying to jog his memory.

‘Newspaper,’ he mutters to himself. ‘Butter. Coffee. Must get coffee.’

He can’t help a snort of amusement as he remembers Dom’s reaction a few days earlier to the fact that he’d run out of coffee.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Alec said. ‘But I’ve got these for emergencies. Actually, I’ve become rather addicted to them.’ He showed Dom the sachet of instant coffee, dried milk and various other ingredients. ‘I call them my chemicals in a cup.’

He handed Dom the mug of frothy cappuccino and watched as he took a sip. Dom swallowed the mixture, raised his eyebrows and nodded.

‘I can see why,’ he said drily. ‘Quite a jolt to it, isn’t there?’

Now, as he collects the required items, pays Mrs Sawle for them and puts them into the old carrier bag he keeps in his coat pocket, Alec thinks about Dom. Throughout the hour or so that they spent together he had the feeling that Dom was slightly distracted. He told Alec about his grandson, who was taking up a place at the Camborne School of Mines, his daughters and their families in South Africa, and then they’d talked of the countries they’d lived in and their people and customs.

Two well-travelled old boys, both widowers, both with children living far away. Lots to talk about, yet, at the end of it, Alec knew there was still something on Dom’s mind. It puzzled him. He guessed that Dom wasn’t a man who gave away his secrets easily – and, after all, he had Billa and Ed to talk to – yet Alec was certain that something was bothering him.

As he climbs the hill, Hercules panting along behind him, he passes the vicarage and looks for Clem. The garden is tidy and well tended; there is a trampoline on the small lawn, and a football lying by the wall, but there is no sign of Clem. He’s very fond of Clem. He wishes the dear fellow would make some move towards Tilly; he longs for them to get together though he can see why they both hesitate.

‘Life’s too short,’ he mutters, breathing fast as he fumbles for his key, fitting it into the lock. ‘Shouldn’t waste it by dithering.’

Shutting the door behind him, he pauses for a moment, listening to the silence, waiting, out of habit, for Rose’s shout of greeting. Terrible loneliness engulfs him; the finality of his separation from her and the loss of companionship. He feels the tears gathering, burning behind his eyes, and tries to summon up his courage; to brace himself.

‘For goodness’ sake, don’t start,’ calls Rose sharply from the study. ‘You were always a sentimental old fool. Tears at the least little thing.’

It’s true: love, goodness, misery, all these things can move him to tears. He thinks of the deprivation he has seen: the Fellaheen of Cairo; the grinding poverty in the slums of Calcutta. How helpless he’d felt in the face of such vulnerability and weakness. He’d strived to improve things in his own small patch but his efforts were puny, pointless. Old, familiar sensations of despair and anger grip him and he struggles against them.

‘Put the kettle on,’ advises Rose, who seems now to be in the kitchen. ‘Make some decent coffee. Get a grip. And give that poor dog a drink and a biscuit.’

Alec looks down at Hercules, panting beside him on the doormat. As usual, Rose is right.

‘Come on, old chap,’ he says. ‘Best paw forward. Let’s get to it.’

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

When they set off for the Chough on Saturday morning, Harry can feel that Tilly is tense with a mixture of anxiety and excitement. Clem’s text was very positive, very upbeat:
Great idea. We’d love it.

‘Cool,’ said Harry when she told him. ‘It’ll be great.’

Now he sits beside her, watching her drive her little car through the twisty lanes. She’s a good driver: quick, neat, assured, and he feels quite at ease with her, envious of her having a car.

‘Will you have a car, Hal?’ she asks, reading his thoughts. ‘When you come back to start at CSM in September? It’s a pity you can’t stay now you’re here.’

‘Mum wanted me to have a gap year after Oxford,’ he says. ‘I think she and Dad hoped I might change my mind about studying in England again. I just wanted to get on with it but I agreed because I know that this whole mining thing is a big deal for them. They’d rather I stay in Jo’burg and join the clan. I want them to see that this is not just a spur-of-the-moment thing so I agreed to take a year out to think about it.’

‘And have you?’

‘Nope. Don’t need to. I’ve been doing some work for a big international charity Mum runs, and visiting some of the rellies who are detailed off to make law and banking sound like great career moves. So I’m off to Geneva after next weekend to stay with some cousins for Easter. We’re going skiing.’

Tilly lifts an eyebrow. ‘More bankers?’

He nods. ‘But I shan’t change my mind,’ he says serenely. ‘I shall be back in September.’

‘Will you get a car then?’

He shrugs. ‘My dad doesn’t give handouts. He believes you need to earn money to appreciate it. I’d like one. Who wouldn’t? I’ll get a holiday job if I can. Save up. I’ve got a bit of birthday money stacked up.’

‘Dom would help you buy an old banger. It would mean you could dash up from Camborne to see him more often.’

‘Probably, but I don’t want Mum and Dad to think he’s doing me favours. He’s got other grandchildren. It’s difficult, you know, when you’re doing something the family doesn’t approve of. We’re a very tight-knit clan, fingers in lots of pies, hundreds of connections and we all stick together. I’m stepping out of line and I want to show them I can do this under my own steam.’

‘I’m impressed,’ says Tilly. ‘Well, I can always scoot down to Camborne to pick you up. You can pay for the petrol.’

‘You’ll still be around?’

She glances at him, disconcerted. ‘Why not?’

‘Oh,’ he shrugs. ‘Just wondering. You said Sarah is moving soon and I don’t know what your plans might be.’

He notes with interest the colour rising in her cheeks and wonders if she’s thinking about Clem.

‘I can carry on even if she goes,’ she says. ‘Though I’m not sure I’d want to.’

‘Running the business from Mr Potts’ bedroom?’

She laughs. ‘Why not? As long as Dom doesn’t chuck me out.’

‘He won’t do that. He loves having you there. You know he does.’

Tilly pulls into the Chough’s car park and they get out.

‘It’s an awfully long time to sit about, Hal,’ she says anxiously. ‘I hope you’ll be OK.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ he assures her. ‘I’ve got a book and I’ve got some texting to catch up on. It’ll be great to chill out.’

She nods. ‘OK. See you later.’

She disappears through a back door and Harry goes round to the bar. To his surprise and delight a fire is already crackling in the wood-burner and a man is sitting at a table reading a newspaper. The landlord appears from the room behind the bar and grins at him.

‘Tilly says you’re up for some coffee,’ he says. ‘Anything special? Filter? Cafetière?’

‘Cafetière, please,’ says Harry. ‘Thanks.’

‘Newspapers on the rack behind you,’ the landlord says, and disappears.

Harry glances round, catches the eye of the man sitting beside the fire and does a double take.

‘Hi,’ he says. ‘Didn’t we meet before? Weren’t you delivering something to Mellinpons over near St Tudy?’

The man is staring at him with an odd expression, a mix of amusement and disbelief.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes, we did. My company is carrying out market research in the area. Solar power, wind farms, energy, that kind of thing. I’m staying here for a bit. Are you going to join me or are you a “newspaper in silence with your coffee” kind of man?’

Harry laughs. ‘I don’t really do silence. But I don’t want to disturb you.’

‘Christian Marr.’ He casts aside the newspaper and holds out his hand. ‘Most people call me Chris.’

Harry takes his hand. ‘Harry de Klerk.’

Chris raises his eyebrows. ‘South African? You don’t look it.’

‘I know. I live in Jo’burg but the Cornish part of my family comes from round here,’ says Harry, sitting down at the table. ‘I’m staying with my grandfather, Dominic Blake. I don’t suppose you know him? Or the St Enedocs?’

Chris shakes his head. ‘Doesn’t mean anything to me. So are you on holiday?’

They sit down together, companionably. Harry is pleased to have someone to talk to, with whom to share the next two hours. He likes the look of Chris: there is a continental touch to his tanned skin, and his black high-necked cashmere jersey and narrow jeans. The expensive-looking leather satchel hangs from the arm of his chair and he has a cosmopolitan air. He looks more like a musician or an artist than a market researcher.

Harry’s coffee arrives, and a plate of chocolate brownies. ‘On the house,’ says the landlord with a wink. ‘Enjoy.’

When Tilly puts her head round the door and smiles at Harry, Tris raises his hand to her. She comes further into the bar.

‘Good morning, Mr Marr,’ she says. ‘The flat’s all done. Come on, Hal. We’re going to have to hurry.’

Tris and Harry stand up and shake hands, and Tilly and Harry go out together.

Tris sits down again and begins to laugh quietly to himself. He simply can’t help it. Chance has given him the opportunity to sit here, talking to Dom’s grandson, Billa and Ed’s great-nephew, finding out more about them in two hours than he’s been able to discover in nearly two weeks. He’s stayed in pubs and B and Bs in a ten-mile radius of the old butter factory, resisting the temptation to move into the flat at the Chough until two days ago because he feared that it was too risky to be actually staying so close. And now he’s been given it all on a plate; the boy was so open, so artless, so trusting. How easy it’s been to get information from him. Now he knows that Billa is a widow with no children and that Ed is divorced and also childless. Dom is widowed, and his children, with their children, live in South Africa. Tilly is the daughter of an old colleague and the boy, Harry, will be leaving soon. In short, there are no tough younger members of the family to come hurrying to question and confront him when he finally turns up at the old butter factory with the will Elinor made all those years ago.

Tris begins to laugh again. He’s taken the chance and it’s paid off.

‘Good joke?’ asks the landlord as he collects the coffee things.

Tris nods but doesn’t enlarge. He orders a gin and tonic and asks to see the lunch menu. As he studies it, he broods. Harry is the thorn in the flesh; the fly in the ointment. Tris knows that he’ll have to continue to lie low until after next weekend and this might be tricky now he’s moved to the Chough. Apart from that, the coast is clear. All he has to do is wait for Harry to go.

*   *   *

Later, much later, Tilly sits at the dressing table in Mr Potts’ bedroom and thinks about the meeting with Clem and Jakey. Downstairs, Dom and Harry are playing Scrabble; arguing over every word, disputing each double or triple score letter, as they have always done since Harry was six years old.

Slowly, Tilly begins to brush her hair with long sweeps of the brush, staring at herself in the glass, thinking about Clem. It was disconcerting to see him in his jeans, Jakey in tow, like any young dad on a day out with his son. Jakey looks just like him and was very well-behaved, fun, quite at his ease with three adults. He and Harry immediately hit it off and after the fish and chips they’d gone ahead, wandering round the harbour, leaving Tilly with Clem.

Tilly puts down the brush, thinking about it. Jakey’s presence changed things. Up at the convent she and Clem approached each other as equals; two young people, attracted to each other. Today, Clem was a young father, a widower, with an important past relationship. Perhaps if she, too, were divorced, or just out of a long-standing relationship, with a child of her own, they’d be on more equal terms: but she isn’t. She’s had boyfriends, one slightly serious relationship, but she is still looking for the big one: the right man, romance, special holidays together. How does that work with a widower who has a child already?

She and Clem strolled together, still very aware of each other – all the right vibes – but as she watched Jakey dancing ahead at Harry’s side she was filled with fear. She remembered Sarah’s pejorative words and feared they might be true. Her confidence slowly ebbed from her and it was a relief to catch up with Jakey and Harry, who were talking about Newquay Zoo. Clem had promised to take Jakey to see the
Madagascar
experience and he was longing to see it.

‘It sounds brilliant,’ Tilly said, smiling at his eagerness. ‘I love the film.’

‘Well, why don’t we all go?’ suggested Harry. ‘What about this afternoon?’

Jakey, silenced by such an amazing opportunity, stared up beseechingly at Clem.

‘Well, why not?’ he answered, slightly taken aback by such a sudden proposition. ‘It’s my day off so we could go, if you’d like it?’

He glanced at Tilly – who was just as surprised as Clem at Harry’s suggestion, but grateful, too. It prolonged the afternoon and gave her the chance to try to sort out her feelings. Jakey jumped about, punching the air, utterly delighted at the prospect of such a treat. They left Tilly’s car in the car park and all went in Clem’s car, Jakey and Harry in the back, old friends now, joshing and laughing together. Clem and Tilly sat together, talking much less easily, still painfully conscious of the other. They’d been in time to watch the penguins being fed and Harry and Jakey agreed that the penguins were their favourite characters in the film. On the way back to Padstow one or the other would say: ‘Smile and wave. Smile and wave,’ and they’d shout with laughter and do high-fives.

‘It was really weird,’ she said to Harry later as they drove home together. ‘It wasn’t like going out with a boyfriend at all. I think Jakey’s an absolute darling but whatever we do it’ll be like having a chaperon with us, won’t it? Clem gets one day off a week, Saturdays, so he can spend time with Jakey, which is perfectly right. But when would Clem and I get time together? How would it work? And even if it did, then there’s that second wife thing people talk about when the first one has died so young. Like she’ll always be perfect and enshrined in blissful memories because she didn’t get the chance to grow boringly familiar or irritable or picky or jealous.’