Chapter 2 #2
‘It’s not bad, no, Dad, but it is unusual. Are you sure everything is all right with you? Where are you?’
‘Oh, I’m in the usual spot, love, in my study. Dark out there but I can see the moonlight reflecting down in the bay. The owls are calling. I can hear the waves too. A beautiful evening. How about you?’
My dad’s study is at the top of the eighteenth-century inn he still runs, and by day the little room has stunning views all across the sandy bay to the Atlantic Ocean.
Depending on the time of year it is a dazzling patchwork of glittering blue, the froth of the waves curling white onto the sand.
That sound – the waves rushing in and sucking out, or crashing against the rocks – is always linked with my childhood.
Cornwall is one of the most beautiful corners of England, and for me it is also the past. A place littered with happy memories, childhood magic and emotional landmines.
‘Well, I’m in Manhattan,’ I say, looking around at the bustling streets and the busy bars, the roads packed with traffic. ‘It’s a little different than St Tilda. I can’t hear any owls, but I’m sure there are some in Central Park. Foxes too. Are you okay?’
‘Of course I am! I’m about to turn in for the night, Eleanor, and I just had an urge to hear your voice. I forget how American you sound these days!’
‘I really don’t,’ I reply, smiling. ‘Everyone here immediately knows I’m originally British, but the last time I was in the UK, they all thought I was American.’
‘Well, isn’t that marvellous – you can fit in everywhere!’
Or nowhere, I think, because in my experience that’s been the case. I’ve never quite felt like I’ve fitted in, and it’s only recently that I’ve stopped caring about that.
‘How is work?’ I ask. ‘Lots of bookings?’
‘Oh yes, packed to the rafters. I really must retire one of these days. Maybe I shall travel to the New World and visit you, my angel.’
‘You’d be very welcome,’ I say, still unsettled by this whole conversation.
My father has never been here to visit, and I have only been back to England a few times, meeting up with him in London.
He’s never seemed comfortable with the idea of reunions, and I have often wondered if it was too painful for him – to see me briefly but to have lost me.
Or maybe I’m over-thinking it and, as he always claims, he simply doesn’t like to travel.
‘I could show you the sights. You could meet my friends.’
I am convinced that something is wrong. I am suddenly desperate for him to visit, or for me to go back to St Tilda. To be near him again.
‘Anyone special?’ he asks, casually. I have told my mum about Tyler, but not my dad. Why haven’t I told my dad? When is the last time we spoke about anything more serious than the weather and work?
‘Maybe,’ I say coyly. ‘I have a nice guy waiting for me right now, in fact.’
‘Ah. I should hope so. You’re really quite the catch. Are you happy with him, sweetheart? Do you think there’s a future in it?’
‘I am happy, yes, Dad. As for a future… well, who knows? None of us can predict that, can we?’
I’m evading the question really, not just with my father.
But also with Tyler. We are at the six-month mark.
He has been dropping hints about how much time we spend at each other’s places, and how big his house over in New Jersey is, and how much I love the dogs.
I have a suspicion he wants us to move in together, and I’m not sure how I feel about that yet.
About uprooting my life, giving up my apartment, moving across state lines.
The fact that I’m not sure tells me I’m probably not ready, so I’m ignoring his hints, and taking it day by day.
Is he special, though, like my father asks? Yes. He is definitely that.
‘Very true, my angel, very true. Right, then, Eleanor, I shall say goodnight. You do know I love you, don’t you? I fear my stiff upper lip has always got in the way of me saying that to you enough.’
Damn. There is definitely something wrong.
My dad is from an old English family who fell on hard times.
He grew up rattling around the stately home that had been in de Vere hands for centuries but had reached the point where the roof was coming in and all the land had been sold.
His family were rich in class but poor in cash, which is why he ended up working in the hotel business instead of running their country estate and organising pheasant shoots.
That was what his father did, and his before that, and various members of the de Vere clan were well-known enough to have obituaries in national newspapers.
By the time my dad, Peter, was born, only the accents, the attitude and an abundance of tweed clothing remained.
The house was eventually donated to a heritage charity, and he became the first de Vere to have to actually work for a living.
His background helped in his line of work – the plummy English voice matched with his twinkling eyes and roguish smile.
His upper-class childhood also left him with a taste for the finer things in life, and an aristocratic repulsion for talking about his feelings. That’s what is making this so scary.
‘I know, Dad. I love you too,’ I say. I’m about to press him for more but he hangs up, leaving me staring at my phone, a sense of dread settling on my shoulders. No matter how many times he said he was fine, something just didn’t ring true. It’s time to call in the cavalry.
I wave at Tyler through the window, letting him know I haven’t absconded, and he puts his arms out straight in front of him.
One fist clenched, like Superman flying.
I’m still laughing when my mum answers. She and Ethan retired to Florida a few years ago, and they live an active and sociable life that puts most people in their twenties to shame.
‘Is there anything wrong with Dad?’ I ask, without preamble.
‘Gosh, Ellie, sunshine of my life, fruit of my loins, it’s so nice to hear from you! And I’m great, thanks for asking!’
‘Sorry! I’m sorry! It’s just that he called me.’
A pause. A breath. ‘He actually called you? He never does that!’
‘I know! And he sounded… off. I can’t quite say why, but he sounded off. I’m worried.’
‘Leave it with me,’ she says soothingly, kicking straight into mega-mum mode.
‘I’m sure it’s nothing, but let me send a smoke signal to my St Tilda spies, all right?
It might take me a while, it’s late there, but I’m sure I’ll find someone awake.
No point in me calling him, he’ll just lie and say he’s fine.
He’d have been one of those people doing the tango in the Titanic ballroom as the damn thing sank.
Now, you go back to whatever it was you were doing, and try not to freak out. ’
‘Have you met me?’ I ask, trying to inject some humour into my voice.
I’m making a joke of it, but it’s true – I can over-react.
I used to be a feisty teenager with no fear of the world at all, but those days are long gone.
I wouldn’t be doing the tango on the Titanic.
I’d probably have slept in the lifeboats just in case, and you know what? That would have been a smart move.
We say our farewells and I go back inside to Tyler. ‘Everything okay?’ he asks, taking one look at my face and seeing the signs of distress.
‘I hope so,’ I reply, sipping my cocktail. ‘It was my dad, and then it was my mum, and now she’s calling her spies.’ He looks confused, which is entirely understandable. ‘So,’ I explain, ‘you know how my parents split up when I was a teenager, and we moved here when I was sixteen?’
‘I do,’ he confirms. ‘And the way you say your cute English words is one of the many things I adore about you. Go on, say it… please?’
I can’t help smiling at his pleading tone. ‘Okay, since you asked so nicely. Aubergine!’
He claps his hands together in glee. ‘Damn! I love that. You even make an eggplant sound sexy. So, what gives then, with your pop?’
‘Probably nothing. But he never calls me, you know? He sends emails. Very occasionally he texts, and sometimes I get a letter through the post. But he never calls. Said he just wanted to hear my voice, and then at the end he told me he loved me.’
‘Okay. That sounds kind of… fatherly?’
‘It does, but it’s not normal for him. It had a weird energy. Like, an end-of-the-world kind of energy. Or, and this is possible, he’d just drunk a bottle of port and felt maudlin. Now I come to think of it, his speech was a little on the slurred side.’
‘Maudlin. Port. It all sounds very Gothic. I’m sure he’s okay, babe. He was well enough to call you at least, which is a good thing?’ Tyler takes my hand in his and squeezes it reassuringly. I lose myself in his eyes for a moment, and let my mind wander back to the Man of Steel.
‘Tell me about him,’ he says. ‘Tell me about your life back then. You never talk about your childhood much.’
I gulp down some wine, almost choking. He raises an eyebrow at me. ‘That bad, babe?’
‘No. Not really. In fact, the early part was wonderful. Cornwall is wonderful – it’s this little bit of England, right on the coast, like nowhere else on earth. It has its own climate, and history, and flag… and it’s beautiful, Tyler. So beautiful. I had a pretty idyllic childhood, for most of it.’
‘You were never lonely, having no siblings?’