on the beach, there must have been some almighty storms while I’ve been away.
At the top of one of the cliffs, I duck inside an old whitewashed huer’s hut for a break from the sun. Tankers and a cruise ship are tiny specks on the horizon as they head out into the Atlantic and I can taste salt on my lips again so I know I’m almost home. I shrug the pack off my back and stretch my spine.
The desert boots I had to borrow are caked in Cornish mud now, although I still feel self-conscious in the combats and khaki T-shirt. On the upside, the beanie hat and beard meant that I wasn’t recognised in St Trenyan. If I’d stepped into the row with the infamous Cades, they definitely would have.
Squashing down another pang of guilt, I shoulder my bag again. The path hugs the edge of the cliff, the worst of the climbs are over and I can see the black and white lighthouse on the headland in the far distance. The afternoon sun is mellowing, yet the sweat trickles down my spine. A few yards further on, I reach the milestone, which is just a lump of grey granite spattered with orange lichen. The words weathered away long before I was born but I know what it used to say, all the same.
One way lies Kilhallon Park, my home: the other leads to Bosinney House, my uncle’s house – and possibly to Isla Channing. The report in The Times said she was scouting out the locations for a new drama series and that she’d won an award for her last production. I always knew in my heart that she’d make it big, that she was too good to stay in one small place; with the likes of me. Perhaps that’s why I left in the first place, perhaps not – I’ve had too much time to reflect over the past few months.
On the other side of the valley, a group of ruined engine houses cling to the cliffs and on the moor the tower of the church looms above the trees. Some of them are almost bent double trying to escape the gales from the Atlantic.
For a second, I hesitate in the middle of the narrow path, wondering if I ought to go home to Kilhallon Park or to Bosinney House. Uncle Rory will know if Isla’s back. Luke might even be around too as it’s Good Friday. He’s an old buddy of mine and he works as an advisor for my uncle’s finance company, or rather he did when I last heard from him which was months ago now.
A young guy and his girlfriend shake their heads at me, eager to get past on the coast path which has become very narrow here due to a fresh growth of gorse.
‘Thinking of moving, mate, or will you be here all day?’ the guy says with a grunt.
‘Sorry.’ I press against the scratchy gorse and they squeeze past me, muttering something about ‘losers’.
A moment later, I’ve decided – and turning away from home, I head for Bosinney.
Oblivious to the trouble he’s caused at the cafe, Mitch trots after me along the cobbles of Fore Street. The houses and shops of St Trenyan tumble down the steep cobbled streets to the sea, their roofs and windows shimmering in the afternoon sun. A few marshmallow clouds float across the sapphire blue sky and whitecaps sparkle on the sea. Tourists ‘oh’ and ‘ah’ at the shops full of Easter eggs and gifts, hand-crafted chocolate and trendy china, and posh tea towels that cost as much as a morning’s wages. The tang of fish and chips and rich scent of coffee follow me along the street but I need to save every penny now, even more than before.
I was crimson with shame and fighting back tears as Sheila paid me the rest of the week’s wages which I know was more than I deserved. She was almost crying too which made me feel even worse, but she said there was no way she could keep me on. It turns out Mawgan Cade and her family do own the Beach Hut: they bought it when the previous owner, an old lady who’d lived in St Trenyan for eighty years, had to sell up and go into a nursing home. Mawgan hiked the rent up, which is why Sheila’s margins are now so thin.
‘Someone should do something about people like that!’ I said to Sheila, after Mawgan had left.
‘No one dares stand up to the Cades. They have their fingers in too many pies.’
Sheila offered to make excuses for me but I stopped her. In the end I knew the best thing for everyone was for me to leave the cafe as soon as possible before she was forced to sack me. But leaving my job also meant leaving the temporary shelter I’d found too.
‘Come on, boy,’ I say as Mitch sniffs around the bins by the harbourmaster’s office. I find a vacant bench with room for me and my worldly goods. The tourists tend to avoid the working end of the harbour: it’s too far from the souvenir shops and car parks and always smells of fish, but I need time to think. My stomach growls while Mitch curls up at my feet, full of pasty and sighing contentedly. At least he’s happy and, whatever happens, I’ll make sure he’s looked after. I’d let him go to a good home, rather than see him want for anything.
Rubbing my wet face with the back of my hand, I squeeze back the tears and think of happier times, hoping an idea will come. When I was a little girl, Mum used to take us for tea with my Nana Jones every Sunday afternoon. A proper Cornish tea with a brown pot under a woolly tea cosy, flowery china loaded with goodies you don’t see any more, figgy ’obbin, spicy parkin, fairings, and ‘fly pastry’ with currants. She even made a stargazy pie once but I burst into tears when I saw the little fish peeping out of the crust so she never made it again.
Talking of fish, a few yards away from me, a boat has just landed its catch. The gulls circle overhead, fighting and screaming over scraps. The tang of fresh fish fills the air.
‘Maybe they’d take me on as crew?’ I tell Mitch, who drops his muzzle onto his paws. He looks as confident about the plan as I feel.
‘Well, if we’re not going to sea, we need to find a new job and somewhere to stay. Come on,’ I say as much for my benefit as his. Mitch’s ears perk up ready for a new adventure which cheers me up a little too. ‘We’ve done it before and we can do it again,’ I say with a new determination. ‘We’ll just have to make the best of things.’
By the time I reach Bosinney House, my knee aches like crazy and a young woman I don’t recognise bars the doorway. The frilly white apron round her waist looks odd with the spray-on jeans and pink T-shirt.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ she asks, reminding me of the waitress, apart from the accent, which is definitely not Cornish but from a lot further east. Krakow? Bucharest? For some reason, she also looks scared of me. Maybe I should have had a shave.
Feeling guilty, I summon up a smile for her. ‘Hi. Is Uncle Rory at home?’
‘Uncle Rory? I do not know who you mean …’ She eyes me suspiciously and I don’t blame her. What with the attitude, the borrowed combats and the beard, she must think I’ve come to tie up and terrorise the household.
‘I mean my uncle, Mr Rory Penwith.’
She bites her lip nervously before replying. ‘Mr Penwith is here but he has guests with him.’
I should have realised that from the row of vehicles parked outside: a Range Rover, an Audi, and a couple of Mercs. Then, it dawns on me that today must be his birthday.
‘I can see that but I think he’ll find room for one more. Tell him it’s his nephew, Cal Penwith.’
She looks me up and down. ‘You are family?’
‘It may be hard to believe but I am. Can I come in? I won’t steal the silver.’
She tightens her grip on the door frame. ‘They are in the big glass room, having drinks.’
‘The orangery?’
Finally, she nods and stands aside to let me in. ‘Yes. I will take you.’
‘There’s no need. I know my way.’
Leaving my pack on the floorboards, I march past her, across the great hall and down the corridor that leads to the orangery, with the girl’s heels click-clacking