Chapter 4
FOUR
The flight was long, and the recovery time I spent in London was nowhere near enough to clear my jet lag.
That was followed up by a train journey to Cornwall, which took most of the day because there was a light dusting of snow.
I’d forgotten how everything seems to stop in England when there is even a hint of extreme weather.
I have no clue why, as it happens every single year.
Despite the stop-start nature of the trip, and the apparently random need to swap trains three times due to ‘adverse weather conditions’, it is a beautiful journey.
The last part of it in particular – as we make our way through Devon and Cornwall to arrive at Penzance – is gorgeous.
I stare out of the window at the white fields and the frost-coated trees, pale yellow sunlight reflecting from the rivers and streams. We work our way through the familiar places, the magical names falling from my lips – Lostwithiel, St Austell, Truro.
This corner of the world is special in so many ways, and I find myself smiling as we surge ever deeper into the county.
St Tilda, the village where I grew up, is on the far west coast of England.
The nearest places of note are St Ives, a beautiful town perched on the edge of the sea, and Lizard Point, the most southerly part of mainland England.
It’s hard to capture how dramatic the scenery is, with jagged cliff faces tumbling into the ocean, bays and beaches, never-ending vistas and a surreal quality to the light that has made it a place beloved of artists and writers.
Plus, you know, the millions of tourists who flock here all year round.
The village itself doesn’t have a train station.
It barely has a bus stop, although that of course may have changed.
Maybe these days it has two, or none at all.
So many exciting new things to discover, I think, as I wheel my luggage to the taxi rank.
A seagull promptly makes a streaky grey deposit on my suitcase, and I remind myself that it’s supposed to be lucky.
I ask the driver to take me to the village via the coastal road, even though it will take twice as long and cost twice as much.
He gives me a look through his mirror, and follows it up with a shrug that seems to say ‘well, it’s your money, love’.
I have an urge to explain that I’m not actually a crazy American tourist, but that I was born here.
I have no idea why, because it really doesn’t matter what the cab driver thinks of me.
He seems to agree, and puts on some aggressive techno music so loud my eardrums almost rupture.
It’s not the most idyllic of ways to see the coast, listening to the kind of jerky dance music that makes me think of zombies at a rave.
But even that can’t quite detract from the raw beauty of the landscape.
The waves pounding in and splashing up foam, the seabirds circling overhead, the sense of wonder that it all stirs up inside me.
I never wanted to leave this place; seeing it again, I understand why.
The drive gives me time to re-acclimatise to being here, the chance to ease myself back into what will be an environment both alien and achingly familiar.
My dad doesn’t even know I’m coming, so it also gives me the opportunity to prepare for that.
I knew that if I asked permission, he would say no – he would be too proud to admit that he needed help, and too stubborn to accept that I wanted to visit from love rather than a misguided sense of duty.
My dad’s worst nightmare is being dependent on other people.
I am simply going to turn up, and present myself as a fait accompli.
Hard to tell someone they can’t fly over from New York to stay with you when they’ve already done it.
I know it’s the right way to approach this, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy.
I had hours on the plane to think about him, and about our relationship.
I am nervous about seeing him again. As a teenager, I felt like he rejected me when he let me leave with my mum.
I was hurt and angry, for a long time, with both him and my mother.
I think I may even have accused her of kidnapping me at one point.
Since then, I have only seen him twice – both when I flew to London.
Why is that? Why didn’t I come home for summers?
Why didn’t he come to the States? Why have we kept each other at arm’s length for so long?
I guess there’s no simple answer to that question, and over the years I have found it easier to just accept it.
That was more straightforward when I was in New York, living my New York life.
Now I am here, in St Tilda, at the edge of the world.
I will see my dad soon, but first I need to take a few moments to deal with this new reality.
The cab drops me off outside the inn, and my eyes run greedily over the familiar outlines of the building.
The St Tilda Inn is at the back of the village, perched on the side of a cliff.
It dates back to the early 1700s, all whitewashed walls and imposing stone.
Some of the roof is thatched, and there is a slightly later extension as the place expanded.
The windows are all mullioned, and it is set in its own patch of emerald green land.
Dad used to keep a small kitchen garden to grow his own fruit and veg, and there are benches set up near the edge of the cliff for the more adventurous to sit on and watch the maritime world go by.
On a wild day, the spray from the waves reaches up to lay wet fingers on the grass, and you can spot seals and even whales when the season is right.
A steep path is cut into the cliff, leading down to the perfect horseshoe cove at the bottom.
It’s always been easy to imagine this place in days gone by; it looks just like something from a Daphne du Maurier story about smugglers.
A magnificent place for a moody teen to grow up.
I never yearned for nightclubs or bars, because I had all of this.
Despite the cold, I stare at the view for a few moments.
Late afternoon, winter, the sun already sliding away in a final blaze of subdued glory.
I always loved watching the sun set here, but now it takes my breath away.
The day is clear but cold, and I feel the chilled touch of the ocean breeze against my skin.
My eyes water, or maybe I’m crying – either way tears flow down my cheeks, and I feel a rush of pure emotion.
I can’t decipher quite what it is that I am feeling, but it is powerful.
The sense of being home, of being here in this amazing place.
Of confronting a past that wasn’t always easy, and a world of memories that I think I’d suppressed.
There is a lot to unravel, and it is overwhelming.
I turn back to the inn. Christmas lights are strung along the edge of the rooftops, swaying in the breeze and starting to sparkle in the dusk.
Smoke curls from the chimneys, conjuring up images of a warm, cosy fireplace.
A dense Christmas wreath hangs on the door, filled with pine cones and bright red berries.
All of the pub’s windows are lit up, and as the day darkens even more, they will shine out like beacons, calling weary travellers to the door.
Well, that’s probably how it worked in the olden days – now I guess people use booking apps instead.
I make my way around to the back of the building, where there is a door for staff.
I find a man out there in the white outfit of a kitchen worker.
He’s sitting on a plastic chair having a cigarette, his head nodding in time to music that only he can hear.
He looks up in surprise as I tap him on the shoulder, and his eyes widen when he looks up at me. ‘Shit!’ he says, dropping his smoke. ‘Is that you, Ellie?’
I stare back at him, narrowing my gaze as I try and figure out who he is. I’ve not been here in over two decades, and it is disconcerting to be recognised. ‘Um… yeah. Do I know you?’
‘Course you do!’ he says with a grin, getting to his feet. ‘Though fair’s fair, I was only four last time we met… I think you called me a dickhead and then puked up on my shoes…’
‘That sounds horribly plausible,’ I reply, feeling a blush develop.
I really was bloody awful back then. I’d like to say it was all down to my domestic situation, but I have the sneaking suspicion that I would have been awful anyway.
There was a wild streak to my nature that died out when we left. I miss it.
I stare at the man, knowing that he must be in his mid-twenties and not seeing any trace of a child I once knew.
‘It’d probably help if you imagine me covered in snot, and wearing hand-me-down clothes that were always too big for me…’ he says, a twinkle in his eye. I suddenly realise who he is and almost fall over from the surprise.
‘Sean! No, it can’t be. Sean Byrne? No way! You’re… well, you’re a lot taller for a start.’
‘Well, I was like Liam – a short-arse until I was sixteen!’
He laughs and pulls me in for a hug. I wasn’t quite expecting that, but what the hell?
Technically I’ve known him since he was born – he is the youngest of the Byrne siblings.
My friend Liam’s parents thought their baby days were behind them, but fate had other ideas.
Sean was a ‘late-in-life miracle’, arriving with a ten-year gap between the others when his mum was forty-eight.
It made us all go cross-eyed at the thought of such very, very old people still having sex.
‘I remember you getting brought home from the hospital,’ I say, looking up at him. He’s well over six foot now. ‘You were the first newborn baby I’d ever held, and frankly I thought you were disgusting. Do you still live here then? I can’t believe you still live here… what about everyone else?’