Chapter 12
TWELVE
Maggie looks about a hundred years older than when I last saw her. Most people here have aged, but in a way that makes sense and speaks of a life well lived. Maggie, though, shocks me. It’s not just the now completely grey hair, or the new wrinkles – it’s the sense of fatigue that she gives off.
I’ve arrived early to pop into the kitchens to say hello.
When I was a kid, I spent hours in these kitchens.
Maggie looks like a baker should look – warm, round, always smiling, usually covered in flour.
She smells of sugar and vanilla, and always had treats to hand.
I’d help out with her baking projects, and when I was very small I’d do it all standing on a chair next to her.
Even when I was going through my hating-the-world phase, I came here.
My mum is a good household cook, but Maggie is masterful.
Over in New York I love watching The Great British Baking Show, which Dad tells me is called Bake Off here.
It always makes me feel homesick, with its pretty pastel shades and countryside setting.
Every time I watch somebody’s showstopper fall to pieces or their cookies crumble, I remember Maggie telling me that things going wrong are all part of baking.
‘It’s an essential ingredient,’ she used to say, laughing in the face of burned malt loaf, ‘and besides, the wonky bits always taste the best!’
Today, though, she doesn’t look capable of laughing in the face of anything.
Naturally enough she already knew I was here, because this is a small village.
Not a lot happens, and all of it is news that is eagerly chewed over by the locals.
She greeted me with a big hug, but was so busy she could barely stop to chat.
She constantly apologised, even though I told her there was no need – it’s lunchtime, and you expect a café to be busy.
‘I’ll come back later,’ I say, watching as she whirls around the kitchen, refusing my offers of help. ‘When it’s not so crazy.’
‘Ha! Good luck with that. It’s always crazy… I just can’t keep up, love. I’m starting to think this whole expansion business was a mistake – the café might be new, but my knees aren’t! It’s wonderful to see you Ellie, and promise me you’ll pop in again soon, and we can have a proper chat?’
I vow that I will, and head back into the conservatory to wait for my dad.
It’s a beautiful space, soaring glass arches flooding the place with natural light, pale wooden floors, the intoxicating scents of fresh home-cooked food.
Tasteful Christmas decorations are draped from the rafters, and a chalkboard announces festive specials – lots of turkey and cranberry sauce, hazelnut hot chocolates, and steamed ginger pudding with brandy butter ice cream.
It makes me salivate. That’s all my Christmases at once.
I’m planning on doing some home-made desserts at the inn, and that menu has inspired me – I imagine little individual ramekins full of nutty whipped mousse, or lemon and ginger posset, or tiny black forest trifles…
I go into some kind of food reverie until the waitress coughs politely.
I look up in surprise. She is maybe in her late teens or early twenties, and has the beautiful auburn hair and pale skin that marks her out as a potential Byrne.
My suspicions are confirmed when she smiles and says: ‘You must be Ellie!’
‘I am indeed,’ I reply, ‘how did you guess?’
‘Well, you know what it’s like around here – it makes the headlines if someone finds an especially fat frog in their garden pond. Never mind the return of the prodigal daughter. I’m Lucy, by the way.’
‘Nice to meet you, Lucy. Which one do you belong to?’
She looks momentarily confused, but then laughs and says: ‘I’m Cormac’s daughter, for my sins. I love your accent. I think you’re probably the most glamorous person to ever set foot in St Tilda.’
Cormac. The oldest of Liam’s siblings. He always used to scare the bejesus out of me. ‘Glamorous? I don’t think so,’ I say, feigning horror. ‘There’s Cara for a start!’
‘I suppose so, but she’s my auntie so. I don’t see her as glamorous, even though I know she is. Maybe I just mean interesting… not many people seem to leave this place, but you escaped.’
‘It wasn’t so much of an escape as a forced relocation,’ I say, smiling as I see my dad outside, chatting to someone as usual. ‘When I was younger I always dreamed of getting away, but then when I did, I realised how good I had it here. Is that what you want to do? Escape?’
She looks genuinely shocked at the idea and grimaces. ‘Me? No! I like it here. I hate the big cities, can’t even tolerate St Ives. No, this is the place for me, near the rest of the savages.’
It’s a lovely thing to hear, and I wish I’d had her accepting attitude when I was younger.
I spent so much time fighting over everything that I never had a moment’s peace.
My dad approaches, and Lucy immediately gives him a hug.
She asks how he is, pulls a face when he says he’s ‘never been better’, and takes our order.
‘How are you, darling girl?’ he asks. ‘Had a pleasant morning?’
‘Yes. I, uh, bumped into Bella, Liam’s stepdaughter, down at the beach, and drove her home. Got a little tour of Rosings.’
‘Ah, the divine Bella – I adore her! She reminds me so much of you at that age. But with less eye rolling. Liam is doing a great job on that old house, isn’t he? It was such a shame seeing it slip into disrepair, used only for illicit teenage drinking sessions and ghost hunts…’
‘Ha, I always thought it was haunted! I believe Liam has invested in this place as well. It’s strange for me, catching up on all of this in one big go.’
Our coffees arrive, and he waits until Lucy has finished before he says: ‘I can imagine. But you were very insistent, dear, with both me and your mother, that you didn’t want to hear about the goings on in St Tilda, and you especially didn’t want to hear about Liam and his life.
It’s not been some big secret – it was your choice. ’
‘I know, Dad, I know,’ I say, stirring my drink so hard it sloshes over the side. ‘And truthfully, I’m a bit embarrassed about that now. It’s like I somehow got stuck behaving like a spoiled brat of a sixteen-year-old. Who’s watching the inn?’
I’m eager to change the subject, because my feelings about everything are still a little messy.
In some ways I love being here, reunited with all these people, but there is also part of me that would quite happily crawl back into obscurity and avoid all of this emotional challenge.
I mean, who likes a challenge? I know it’s something people say in job interviews, but most of us are lying.
Personally, the biggest challenge I want to face today is seeing how much steamed gingerbread pudding one woman can eat.
My father raises his eyebrows at me, clearly sensing my discomfort. I guess my dad doesn’t like a challenge either, because he doesn’t call me out on it.
‘Nobody is watching the inn,’ he says, sipping his coffee nonchalantly.
Back when we lived here, there was always someone on duty – and there was always something to do.
I know that after we left, he had an assistant manager called Edward.
Edward moved to London, as many people do, and since then Dad seems to have had a string of part-time staff.
Now, though, it is only him and Sean – and, at the moment, me.
‘There’s no need, Ellie. We don’t open the pub in the day anymore, don’t serve lunches.
All of the guests have keys, and also my phone number so they can contact me if they need me. ’
‘But… isn’t it hard? Doing it all on your own? Why don’t you get more help?’
He pauses before he answers, and I get the feeling he is weighing things up. Potentially preparing a nice lie for me. I so hope he doesn’t. Or maybe I do – what if he says: It’s been unbearable since you left and you’re the worst daughter ever?
He shakes his head and sighs. ‘Darling, I shan’t sugar-coat it – I can’t afford more help. I can’t afford Sean. I can barely afford myself.’
I’d expected the reason to be less financial, and more logistical – like he couldn’t find anyone he liked, or who ‘fit’ with the inn.
It’s not always easy finding good staff in remote areas, and he can be fussy – a leftover from his youth, when he was raised to be more discerning than your average bear.
‘Oh,’ I reply, frowning. ‘I thought business was good?’
‘I suspect I may have exaggerated that, sweetheart, because I didn’t want you to worry.
Truthfully, things have been difficult. Over the years I’ve had to take out business loans, and credit cards, and have accounts with the suppliers that needed settling.
It’s been even trickier since 2020. I’ve been keeping my head above water, but it’s been a constant balancing act, moving money from one place to another, robbing Peter to pay Paul, then Peter threatening to sue me and Paul complaining that the cheque bounced…
I’m tired of it all, Eleanor. If I’m being brutally honest, I’m tired. ’
He looks it too, right now. Even talking about this seems to be taking its toll, and his hand trembles slightly around his mug.
He is pale and hollow-faced, and sounds exhausted.
I have questions, but now is the time for comfort.
It has been good seeing him, but there is still a sense of awkwardness lurking just below the surface.
As though we have missed too much, and are both scared of opening up too quickly. I reach out and pat his fingers.
‘I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry it’s been so tough, and I’m sorry you felt the need to hide all of this from me.’