CHAPTER NINE

2004

Back at Penharrow, Liv helped Debs to pack away the shopping and then went into the office. Chris sat at his desk, looking preoccupied. She murmured ‘Hi’, and sat down at her own computer, not wanting to distract him. She had some new photographs to add to the website but she checked emails first: two new bookings and a nice message from a recent visitor who wanted to return in the autumn. Liv checked the diary, made notes, answered the emails. She wondered if Val had managed the laundry and done the ironing, and glanced across at Chris to see if she might ask him.

He was watching her with an expression that jolted her heart and sent the blood racing into her cheeks. Immediately he dropped his gaze to the computer screen, pretending to be absorbed, whilst Liv regained her composure.

‘Do you know if Val got the ironing done?’ she asked. Her voice sounded normal; that was good. ‘Don't want to interrupt you or anything but I can get on with it now if she didn't.’

He pursed his lips, shook his head, keeping his eyes on his screen. ‘I really don't know. She had a headache at teatime but I've been here ever since then.’

Liv got up. ‘I'll go and see.’ She went out into the yard, her heart still beating unevenly, but she didn't go into the house; she couldn't face Val just yet. Instead she went across to the laundry-room. It was clear that Val had been busy although there was still some ironing to be done. Almost thankfully, Liv switched on the iron and set to work. She felt confused and frightened; as if some mighty machine had been put in motion that could easily get out of control.

She remembered her mother's words: ‘It can be dangerous’, and her own confident assertion that there was nothing to worry about, that she would never do anything to hurt Val. But what if Val insisted on hurting herself, damaging her relationship with Chris because of her obsessive need to control? The question was: how much effect was her, Liv's, presence having on the situation between Val and Chris? Did Chris depend too much on her support and approval when Val was being tiresome?

Liv banged the iron to and fro over the sheets and pillowcases, defending herself against the charge of taking sides. It was precisely because she hadn't wanted an unequal fight that she'd spoken to Val earlier, pointing out the dangers of her behaviour. Presently, piling the laundry into the big airing cupboard, slamming the doors, Liv decided to call it a day.

She went into the annexe, poured a glass of wine and sat down at her laptop. Andy's email was such a shock that she quite forgot Chris and Val and simply stared at the screen, rereading his message.

To: Liv
From: Andy
OK I might as well tell you before someone else does. Cat has come back into my life. I know! I know! But it's rather different now than when we were all kids. Anyway, she's fun and she sends her love. Says she'll look you up when she's down in Cornwall! Can we be adult about this? Please!

Liv was filled with a mixture of anger and dread. It was absolutely out of order that Andy should allow family loyalty to be elbowed aside for the beastly Cat and she wrote at once to tell him so.

To: Andy
From: Liv
I simply can't believe I'm reading this stuff. Right up to sixth form you utterly loathed her. We all did. She was always mean and spiteful and loved getting people into trouble at school. And remember what she did to Zack. You can't be that desperate, surely!

She took her glass and went to curl up on the sofa, feeling confused and miserable, yet a small part of her remained secretly elated by Chris's expression. As usual the panoramic view calmed her: the great curve of stormy green-black sea filled the whole of the horizon, its long curling breakers racing inshore to smash themselves into arcs of flying spray against the stony, unyielding cliffs. In the face of such elemental force, her problems and anxieties seemed puny.

Nevertheless, she went eagerly back to her laptop several times during the evening to check her emails but there was no other message from Andy.

1976

The thing that is the most difficult to get used to, once they've gone, is the silence in the house. There is no sound of the twins arguing over the Lego, Charlie's scribble-talk or Julia humming to her favourite Carly Simon album while she does the ironing; no plans made over breakfast; no voices singing along with Big Ted or the Wombles; no bedtime nursery rhymes.

The dogs follow Tiggy around, puzzled by the empty rooms but pleased by the extra walks they are getting.

‘It's something to do,’ Tiggy tells Aunt Em when she comes for lunch one day. ‘I miss them all dreadfully.’

‘Julia was worried about you being alone so soon after your grandmother's death. She feared that you'd have too much time to think.’

‘She's right. I'm not quite as good at being alone as I thought I'd be.’

‘There are an awful lot of hours to be got through,’ says Em. ‘I found from four in the afternoon till seven were the longest when Archie was at sea. But of course I had no children to keep me busy, though I sometimes worked part-time. I refused to do anything that might interfere with being at home when he was on leave. It restricted me but I did quite a lot of voluntary work.’

‘I miss teaching,’ Tiggy says. ‘I've begun to see that having some kind of structure to the day is important. Children give you that. So do dogs, up to a point.’

‘When I was young,’ says Em, ‘I looked after one of my elderly aunts. In those days, just after the war, it was perfectly reasonable to expect a younger member of the family to care for an older one and, anyway, I was constantly reminded that I was very lucky that they'd been prepared to look after me and that now it was my turn to repay the debt. Being at the beck and call of a self-willed, cantankerous old woman might have been exhausting but at least I never had to worry about how long the day was.’

Tiggy laughs. ‘It sounds awful.’

‘I spent my time daydreaming. I was physically busy but the inside of my head was mine. I used to make up long dramas that went on for weeks at a time. I was the heroine, of course, and some brave but weary fighter pilot or sailor back from the war would take a major role. It was all very romantic stuff, of course.’

‘Oh, I know exactly what you mean,’ says Tiggy eagerly. ‘I was the same. I used to spend most of the holidays with my grandmother and I'd read and read – Georgette Heyer especially – and I used to make up stories about how one of those tough, strong-jawed types would find me and carry me off.’ She shakes her head. ‘It sounds a bit pathetic, doesn't it? But it worked for you, Aunt Em.’

‘Yes, it worked for me. One day I met Archie at someone's bridge party and everything changed. Poor Archie. I sometimes wonder if he knew what hit him.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, it was so fantastic, you see; my dream actually coming true at last. I threw twenty-eight years of frustrated and unrequited love at him. In some ways I can see now that I needed him to be everything I hadn't had: mother, father, siblings, lover, husband. A lesser man might easily have crumpled beneath the weight. Archie managed to handle it, probably because he had time off when he went to sea. Luckily he's a very generous man and I've learned to be more rational. Not always, though: I still get resentful sometimes when he's busy and his time is taken up for some cause when we could be together. I feel I'm still trying to catch up on everything I missed. I suppose the sad fact is that however hard you try you can never replace a happy, balanced childhood.’

‘Tom used to talk about that. His parents were killed when he was very young and he spent most of his childhood away at school, including the holidays. He told me that he was always looking for someone that he could attach himself to, whether it was other boys and their families, one of the matrons or a master. He was very lucky when he went to his second school at thirteen to have a chaplain who understood how desperate he was and what he was feeling, and this man and his family really straightened him out. He told Tom never to use his lack of family as a hook to hang his failures on. It would become a habit, he said; an excuse.’

‘That's interesting,’ says Aunt Em thoughtfully. ‘I think I see what he means. It's fatally easy to excuse a negative aspect of one's own behaviour by thinking that it's a result of not having had a normal childhood. I do it myself.’

‘Well, this chaplain said that simply being part of a family didn't necessarily guarantee a stable, happy future and that Tom must learn to see himself clearly and honestly.’

‘Not that easy,’ murmurs Aunt Em.

‘Tom talked about it often. Obviously he was trying to help me come to terms with certain things, too, but it had made a very deep impression on him.’

‘The drawback with seeing oneself clearly and honestly is that it's such a devastating experience.’ Aunt Em grins ruefully. ‘Rather shattering to the self-esteem.’

‘Ah, but the thing is that you have to be generous too. Tom made a point of that. The chaplain told him to look at yourself honestly, not with self-pity, but be able to forgive yourself – something like that, anyway. I wish I'd known him. I suppose one never knows how much is due to nature or nurture when it comes to character. Tom was great fun but he drove himself physically. He told me that he'd longed to have a family who would've come to school to see him play rugby or cricket and cheer him on like the other boys’ families did. That's what drew Tom and me together: the lack of a family. By the time we met he was much more self-confident than I was. Having been at school and university for most of his life he was very self-contained too. But we sort of recognized each other.’ She looks rather shyly at Aunt Em. ‘I had that feeling when I met you.’

Aunt Em smiles. ‘So did I. Odd, isn't it?’

‘Yes. And rather nice. Of course, Julia's family were wonderful to me. I can't tell you how I loved being with them. It's difficult to explain to Julia because it was natural for her but, though there were arguments and noise and all the hurly-burly of family life, there was none of those terrible undercurrents and tensions of my own life. It was so normal and utter heaven. And now she's rescued me again. They'll never know, any of them, what they've done for me. The trouble is, in some way it just adds to my own sense of inadequacy. One doesn't want to have to go through life being rescued.’

‘It wasn't your fault that Tom died,’ says Em. ‘That kind of tragedy can happen to anybody. At least you have his child.’

‘But can't you see that in some ways that makes it much worse? Oh, I want my baby, of course I do, but I feel that I've already set the pattern for her – or his – life and it won't be the one I always dreamed of: no father, no happy normal family. The headmistress where I taught showed me exactly how it's going to be for the future. I'm hardening myself to it a bit but you can see the reaction in people's faces, and it's not just the older ones. With some people it's simply embarrassment rather than disapproval. They can't just enthuse in the way they would if there were a father on the scene. It's like when Tom died. Nobody quite knows what to say to you so they avoid you if they can. It's very isolating.’

‘I'm so sorry,’ says Em gently. ‘You're quite right. I'm taking a very narrow view because I longed so much to have Archie's child. You get to the point when you think it would be worth anything to have a child: it becomes an obsession. All you see are pregnant women or mothers with small children and you'd sacrifice anything to be one of their number. I take your point. If there's anything we can do to help in any way you must ask.’

Tiggy smiles. ‘I might take you up on that. I spend hours wondering how I shall be able to earn a living for us both. Julia, bless her, says that she'll look after the baby while I'm working, but I'm not sure I could ask her to take on such a responsibility. Anyway, she probably only said it because the ghastly Angela was being nosy.’

Em's expression changes: her smile fades and she looks serious. ‘Angela? She's a bad girl,’ she says.

Tiggy stares at her in surprise. ‘How do you mean, bad? Julia said that she had a bit of a fling with Pete before they got together and she likes to rub it in.’

‘I don't trust her,’ says Em. ‘Angela's not the kind of woman who likes being dropped – well, nobody does, of course – and she's still trying to hurt Julia.’

‘I think Julia's afraid of her,’ says Tiggy anxiously, after a pause.

‘With good cause,’ says Em grimly.

The next day Tiggy drives herself to Tintagel, parks near the church and walks out across Glebe Cliff with the dogs. The castle has ceased to be the object of her interest; instead she is drawn to the cliffs and to the sea, though she looks back from time to time towards Tintagel Island and the dark entrance to Merlin's Cave. On this hot May day the water is clear green and dark purple, colours that remind her of a jockey's silks. Making her cautious way out between the bright-flowered gorse bushes to a little patch of smooth granite at the edge of the cliff, she finds she can look down, far down, to where the waves cream against the sheer rock face. Mesmerized, she stares downwards, inexplicably drawn to the clear aquamarine depths, feeling a little dizzy, almost light-headed: how welcoming the sea looks, how calm. It would be so simple to take that one last step into its infinite embrace.

A bird flies up, almost into her face, and she screams, moving back on to the grass, her feet slipping so that she sits down for safety and almost overbalances. She cries out again in fright, clutching at the coarse tufted grass, and the dogs bark frantically, their paws scrabbling amongst the loose stones on the slope above her. She inches back carefully, mocking herself for a fool, until she reaches safer ground where the dogs lick her face and she hugs them, trembling a little and giving herself time to recover.

Later, after a long walk along the cliffs with her eyes fixed towards the west, beyond Port Isaac Bay to The Mouls, she sits drinking coffee with the van door open to the sunshine and the dogs curled at her feet. A large black bird with red legs drifts upwards into view at the cliff's edge and she wonders if it might be a chough: perhaps it is the bird that brought her to her senses.

Tiggy shivers. Presently she turns to look across at the Norman church, with its strong square tower, and suddenly is moved to inspect it more closely. Its dramatic setting in the huge churchyard high on the cliff has already made a great impact upon her but now she decides to go inside. She shuts the dogs in the van with plenty of water and the windows partly open, and crosses to the lich-gate. There is no thatched roof to protect the coffin-bearers from the rain but she pauses for a moment with her hand on the long coffin stone and then walks slowly up to the porch.

Inside, she is instantly aware of the powerful, soul-moving atmosphere created by more than a thousand years of worship and prayer, and shaken by the sense of light and peace. Her glance takes in the massive stone font, upheld at each of its four corners by curving serpents, and at the crude heads carved between them; the figure of St Christopher with the Holy Child on his shoulder, set in a niche opposite the door; the sweep of the high arched beams above her. She makes her way up the aisle and sits down in a pew, staring at the rood screen, but taking nothing in except the need to sit for a moment and be silent.

Here, the conviction she's felt on the moors and out on the cliffs comes to her even more strongly: it seems that the deaths of Tom and her grandmother have given eternity the opportunity to break through the earthly barriers between life and death, bringing them close to her and offering courage and hope. She tries to pray for them, and for herself and her child, but no words will come – and, in the end, it seems unimportant. She is held in a silent communion in which no words are needed and presently she lights two votive candles, one for Tom and one for her grandmother, and then goes back out into the sunlit, wind-raked spaces of cliff and sea and sky.

That night Tiggy dreams again, the same dream: once again she seems to be present in the dream whilst at the same time watching what is happening. Tom is there, and Julia, and the shadowy third person who holds out the baby and says: ‘Her name is Claerwen, Clare for short.’

She wakes suddenly, just as she is stretching out her arms to take the baby, and lies huddled in the dark, trying to adjust to reality and feeling bereft. Knowing that she will not be able to go back to sleep for a while, she sits up and switches on the bedside light: nearly four o'clock. Tiggy groans, pulls on her dressing gown and pushes her feet into sheepskin moccasins. The Turk raises her head, watching Tiggy from the comfort of the bed, reluctant to stir unless it is absolutely necessary. Bella, sleeping in the old Lloyd Loom chair, stirs and stretches but makes no attempt to move.

Tiggy goes out on to the landing and down the stairs; before the kettle has boiled, both dogs arrive in the kitchen, slightly puzzled but expectant. She gives each of them a biscuit, makes tea and sits down at the table. Her gaze takes in the big, warm room, which is so similar to the kitchen in Julia's home in Hampshire and so central to family life: Charlie's high chair strung about with toys and teething rings, Andy's Fisher Price aeroplane, which has landed on the deep granite windowseat, Liv's Milly-Molly-Mandy books piled on the dresser. On the arm of the sofa lies Julia's discarded knitting: a jersey for Liv in chunky multicoloured wool, the several pieces rolled up and pierced by two thick wooden needles. On the wall by the fridge hangs a plastic notice board on which Julia jots her shopping list or special dates or things to be taken to playschool. A series of postcards tracing Pete's Mediterranean journey – Gibraltar, Toulon, Naples, Athens, Malta – are stuck round its edges. Across one corner he's written: ‘I love my Mrs B.’ At some point Julia has responded with: ‘I love you too.’

Tiggy thinks: I wish Trescairn was my house. Mine and Tom's.

The thought triggers a memory. One evening, driving through the lanes from Blisland, she pulled the van close in against the hedge and stopped so as to allow a rider on a nervous horse to approach and pass. As she sat waiting, she glanced across the escallonia hedge into the cottage garden beyond. It was a pretty garden, somewhat overgrown and neglected, though it was clear that attempts were being made to tidy it up. Bedding plants, still in their pots, stood in a row beneath the open window beside a newly dug bed, and on the small patch of worn grass a young man was busy at work, rubbing down an old pine table. The front door was open to a cosy, cluttered interior and, as Tiggy watched, a girl appeared carrying two mugs. The young man straightened up, smiling with relief and pleasure at the interruption. He took his mug and, having kissed the girl with great tenderness, they both turned to look with tremendous pride at the table. As they leaned together in the doorway, Tiggy saw that the girl was expecting a child.

She was gripped with an agonizing sense of loss: she and Tom would never share such a happy, loving moment; never build a home together for their child. The pain was so intense that, even though the horse and its rider had passed, she was unable to put the van in gear and drive on; only when she saw that the young couple had become aware of the stationary vehicle and were staring curiously did she pull herself together and drive away.

Now, remembering, she finishes her tea and wonders if she should have a biscuit: anything to distract from the memory. Another memory rises in her mind's eye: a picture of them all sitting round the table in the middle of the night and Julia missing Pete and saying: ‘Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could be four years old again and have all our problems solved by the prospect of a chocolate biscuit?’

For no particular reason, Tiggy thinks about Angela and what Aunt Em said.

‘I'm afraid of her,’ Julia admitted – and Aunt Em said, ‘With good cause.’

Tiggy's stomach tenses with anxiety and she stares at the notice board for courage.

‘I love my Mrs B.’ ‘I love you too.’

She recalls the expression on Pete's face when he gave Julia the bottle of scent, and other gestures she's witnessed since, and shakes her head: it is impossible that Pete should be unfaithful to Julia with Angela. To begin with, the two girls are so unalike. Angela is thin as a pin, always chic, with sleek black hair and eyes so dark brown they are almost black. Julia is too rushed to be smart; her thick fair hair thrust behind her ears, one of Pete's old shirts tucked into her jeans, which are always a bit tight because of finishing up the children's breakfast toast and teatime treats. There is a generous warmth about Julia that is completely missing from Angela's character.

Yet, Tiggy reminds herself, Pete fancied Angela once: they had a fling.

She is distracted from these thoughts by a subtle change: it is no longer dark and the lamp's light glows less cheerfully as the early-morning light filters in at the curtains’ edge. The Turk uncurls herself and stretches, stiff-legged, and goes to the door, followed by Bella, whose tail wags hopefully. Tiggy gets up and lets them out into the porch. She opens the back door and stands quite still, listening in delight. Flights of larks are ascending, their song bubbling up and up; and then, away to the east, beyond the black scrawled outline of Rough Tor, the sun seems to burst out of the earth, filling the world with brilliance.