Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
I wake up the next morning refreshed after the most glorious night’s sleep I have had since I arrived here.
I stretch out as much as I can in my little single bed and smile up at the ceiling.
It’s amazing what a clear eight hours of rest can do for you.
My mind and my body have finally relaxed into my new rhythms, it seems.
Plus, if I’m honest, my conversation with Liam has somehow lifted an invisible burden from my shoulders.
It seems ridiculous that something that happened so long ago could still have affected me, but I guess I’m a ridiculous person.
Now, we are friends again, and somehow everything in the world feels a little bit more right.
It’s like a missing puzzle piece has been slotted into place.
The entire Byrne family ended up decamping to the inn for the night, filling the bar with their flashing light-up Christmas sweaters and their bickering and their laughter.
Bella sat in a corner with the other teens, annoyed at being asked for ID I knew she didn’t have, but still managing to sneak a few drinks from her over-eighteen cousins and friends.
I was laughing inside each time she poured an illicit vodka into her Coke.
Ah, the joys of being a teenager – always thinking you’re getting away with something.
Liam caught my eye and smiled. It was just like old times, but with new faces.
I’m sure she’d find it hard to believe how many drinks he snuck here before he was even her age.
My dad had a marvellous time, in his element with all the company, and also with a now semi-skilled daughter to help out behind the bar.
We even video-called my mum in Florida, showing her the scenes of revelry as Brian, who loves a sing-song, serenaded her with an over-the-top version of All I Want For Christmas Is You.
She laughed so hard she had tears rolling down her cheeks.
I wonder if she misses it? There seems to be no animosity between her and Dad now, but she has never been back here.
She has stayed in touch with a few people but never returned.
She has embraced her life in the States, and been truly happy with Ethan.
He has treated her like royalty for the whole of their marriage.
So no, I think, as she waves us goodbye, she probably doesn’t miss it all that much.
Sandra stayed over for the night, and offered to do the breakfasts – so I have enjoyed a rare and luxurious lie-in.
I glance at my phone and see that it is eight thirty.
Wow. Not that much of a lie-in then, but it felt good to wake up naturally and not to the sound of an alarm.
I clamber out of bed and open the curtains.
It is a clear day, the frost shimmering on the cliff tops, the waves racing into the bay with little white toppers.
A day for being outside, bundled up, breathing the fresh air and roaming all the wild corners.
New York has plenty of green spaces, but at the end of the day it is a city.
This is very, very different, and I feel elated at being here. At the freedom of it all.
I get dressed and head downstairs, where I help my dad and Sandra with the breakfasts, and then the clear-up.
Only two rooms are now booked, by the almost-silent Mr Owen and a couple from Chicago who are visiting family for Christmas.
It’s fun to talk to somebody from my ‘other home’, and wonderful to hear how much they are loving Cornwall.
Once we’re done with work, my dad and Sandra canoodle outside the bar for a few minutes before she heads off back home.
‘You two are like a pair of teenagers,’ I say when he comes back inside. ‘Do I need to talk to you about safe sex?’
‘Good Lord, please don’t, darling! Sandra is sixty-seven; I don’t think we need worry about that!’
He looks delighted with himself, and I shake my head in amusement.
He’s obviously had a tough few years, between his financial problems and his health issues, and I am secretly delighted that he has Sandra to misbehave with.
I understand now how lonely he has been, and I also understand how damaging loneliness can be.
It’s an emotional cancer that eats away at you, keeping you isolated, preventing you from reaching out to those who might help.
It’s a condition I now suspect I’ve been grappling with for a lot of my own life.
Seeing him here, right now, grinning about his girlfriend after a fun and sociable night in the bar, warms my heart.
‘Shall we go for a walk, Ellie?’ he asks. ‘It’s a beautiful day, and we should make the most of it.’
‘You read my mind, Dad. Can we go to Kynance Cove?’
He checks the tide times, and agrees. We wrap up warm before heading out in Queen Mildred. He asks me to drive, which surprises me until he explains that he isn’t allowed behind the wheel for a month after the stroke. After that, he gets assessed to see if it’s okay.
‘Why didn’t you say earlier?’ I ask, as I head the car along the coastal road. ‘I could have done the wholesaler trips for you.’
‘Sean has been carrying out that particular duty, darling. You’ve… well, you’ve been doing quite enough. I suppose I don’t want to get used to you being here. It’s already going to be very hard when you leave.’
He gulps slightly and looks out of the window as he says this.
For all of his outward swagger and confidence, he is not a man who finds it easy to discuss emotional matters, I know.
I give him the time to recover his composure, and realise that I am feeling a touch weepy myself.
I work for a temping agency, so I can be flexible – but I will need to go back at some point.
Back to Tyler. Back to New York. Right now, I don’t want to even think about it – it makes me feel sad. I’ve only just got used to being here.
My dad puts some classical music on the radio, and we chat about trivial nonsense for the rest of the journey.
He fills me in on more village gossip, including Sean’s outrageously playboy love life, and I tell him about my little baking business.
We keep it light, we keep it casual, because we both need that.
We park up and make the climb down to Kynance Cove. It’s a stunning place, packed in summer but empty now apart from us and a solitary dog walker. His spaniel is living the dream, galloping through puddles and sniffing at seaweed. Tyler’s dogs would love it here.
The sand is almost white, the sea turquoise, the whole beach dotted with rock stacks and formations that make it feel otherworldly.
It’s like the kind of beach that adventuring hobbits would find while travelling on a quest, all twisted caves and snaking islands.
You can get trapped here by the tide, but when it’s low, all kinds of marvels are revealed.
I have always been mesmerised by this place, finding something new every single time I visit. Not to be morbid, but if ever I think about where I’d like my ashes to be scattered, it is always Kynance that comes to mind.
My father walks beside me, pointing out interesting shapes in the rocks, sheets of clinging barnacles, the rush and wash of water through gullies of sandstone. The sea birds cry and call overhead, the wind whistling around us as we explore.
We gaze out at a black archway rising from the water. ‘Tremolite. Serpentinite. Bastite,’ he says. ‘Aren’t they marvellous words, darling?’I repeat them, and smile as the breeze almost steals them from my lips. ‘They are, Dad. When did you become an expert on geology?’
‘Oh, you know, over the last couple of decades. I took a few courses in different things. Trying to keep myself busy. I can tell you rather a lot about rocks these days, and a fair bit about British butterflies too. And I have mastered the art of conversational Italian. Or at the very least, how to order wine in it.’
We walk on, and I smile even though there is a hint of sadness behind his words. Maybe this is the time, I decide. Who knows how much longer I will be here? He is not going to live forever, and I have questions I would love to know the answers to.
‘Why did it all happen, Dad?’ I ask, as we near the end of our circuit and perch ourselves on giant boulders. ‘What went wrong with you and Mum? I’m a big girl now; I can handle it.’
He stares out at the sea, and I sneak a look at his profile. The proud nose, the strong jaw. The new lines and creases.
‘It’s not you handling it that I’m worried about, dear. It’s you hating me. I don’t like to talk about it because I’m selfish, and because I have always had a pathological need to be liked.’
I open my mouth to object but quickly shut it again.
He’s actually right, even though he has phrased it harshly.
There is an element of my father that likes to perform, that likes to impress, that likes to receive applause, silent or otherwise.
He had a complicated childhood, and it’s not my job to figure him out – but yeah.
I have to simply nod and accept that one.
‘The need to be adored is part of what happened, truthfully, Eleanor. Your mother was – is – a wonderful woman. Kind, clever, funny, beautiful, loyal. She was everything a man could want. But she was also busy, bearing the pressures of running the business, of her own family, of being a parent. None of those things are negatives, but they meant that she ran low on time and energy. You were older, with a life of your own, and I was no longer the centre of your world either. Like the rather enormous baby I am, I started to feel neglected. It’s not uncommon; men can be terribly juvenile creatures at any age… ’
I raise my eyebrows. ‘Well, I can’t argue with that, Dad. Go on.’