CHAPTER 18 #2
He’d always thought that too. But now he knew that he and his father were not so different after all.
Nicholas craved the same simplicity in his life.
He too was forever pulled to the sea – which was why he had wanted to have a holiday home in Cornwall as soon as he and Rachel could afford it.
He’d chosen Godrevy because of his happy teenage memories of staying at his aunt’s place in Gwithian, of climbing the dunes, the high towans, of surfing the waves, walking towards the lighthouse on Godrevy Island.
His grandmother had grown up there, but she’d fallen in love with a fisherman from Priest’s Cove, and the rest was history.
For Rachel, of course, it was only a short car journey to the shopping and galleries of St Ives.
Which was ideal – for a holiday at least, because he remembered what she’d said about the place that first evening in the Sloop Inn.
The summer after Rachel left him he went to the cottage in Godrevy and never returned to Surrey.
The Surrey house was sold, Rachel moved to Rome and Nicholas bought a crash pad in London to make things easier when he was travelling.
The rest of the time, he stayed at Godrevy.
He sank back into Cornwall with a sigh of relief as if he had never left. Whatever it was, it was in his blood.
In the bookcase of the tourist information office, Nicholas saw something. A Bridge in Time. What was that all about? He liked bridges, always had. He flicked it open. A bridge walk. Explore the bridges of Venice and sightsee as you go. One hour – or take all day.
Well, why not?
He paid the girl behind the desk and headed for the vaporetto stop.
It was mid-afternoon but tourist Venice didn’t waste shopping time with siestas.
The shops, crammed with glittering Venetian masks, Murano glass, leather, scarves and designer clothes, were all open and people still thronged the narrow streets.
There was a queue on the floating pontoon. He joined it and consulted the map to see where he should get off. The author was clear and – he checked the front cover – she had provided a map, historical notes, the lot; it was very comprehensive, much more than a guided walk.
Did he need guiding? Celie told him recently that he’d lost his sense of direction.
But Nicholas knew the direction he was heading in – sort of.
He looked out to the horizon. There was a band of golden light outlining the blue.
He wanted to make enough money from a job that wasn’t too stressful and wasn’t boring; he enjoyed both travelling and meeting people; he admired Isabel and Giuseppe’s jewellery and it had never been a hard sell.
And he wanted to spend more time at home.
In Cornwall he could live exactly the life he wanted to live – uncomplicated.
Friends were always up for a drink and a chat, and he could go to London and see Celie whenever he chose.
He enjoyed spending time with Isobel and Giuseppe and their family in Rome, and if he was bored, he’d take a trip somewhere.
What was wrong with that for a direction? Plenty of people had a lot less.
But Celie wasn’t finished. ‘You need to get a grip, Dad,’ she’d said. Suddenly she sounded like her mother. ‘It’s been a year since you guys split. And what’s the point of pretending you and Mum were happy?’
He’d stared at her. How had she suddenly got to be so wise? Did she know that her mother had taken a lover? That her father hadn’t had what it took to keep her?
His thoughts drifted back again to that day at Cape Cornwall.
He had shown Rachel the higgledy-piggledy fishermen’s huts built on the ledge above the slipway where his dad kept his gear.
His dad’s hut was painted turquoise, the colour of the Cornish sea on a sunny summer’s day.
Beyond the huts, the chimney built on the summit of the Cape stood proud like an omen.
He led her past the brightly painted fishing boats of red, orange and yellow moored at the top of the small beach. The wind was picking up strength, but it was warm in the sun, and he knew exactly where to take her.
‘Hang on.’ She slipped off her shoes.
That was better. They reached the sheltered grey rock with the scooped-out contours, perfect for sitting in and watching the waves of the Atlantic pounding the Cornish granite. He had often sat here, watching his father heading out to sea, wondering if he would come back this time.
Nicholas touched Rachel’s arm. ‘Look at those rocks out there.’ He pointed to the jagged black rocks ahead, the Brisons, home to the gannets, gulls and cormorants.
‘What about them?’ She frowned.
‘General de Gaulle having a bath,’ he said. Once you saw them, the protrusions that formed the belly, the nose and the lips, it was hard to see the cluster of black granite simply as rocks again.
She laughed. ‘Can you swim here?’ she asked.
‘I used to when I was a kid.’ He showed her the outcrop he used to dive from into the foaming water.
‘It’s treacherous, but we did it anyway.
’ For serious swimming and surfing he and his mates had headed to Sennen Cove, whenever they could get a lift on the back of someone’s tractor or pick-up truck.
Or to Godrevy; his aunt was always happy for her great-nephew to come and stay.
‘I bet it was exciting.’ For a moment Rachel looked wistful.
She picked up a tiny black stone with a thin white stripe around it, rolled it in her palm.
Her nails were perfectly manicured, he noticed.
In fact, everything about Rachel was about as perfect as you could get.
Nicholas watched the water sheeting into a diamond waterfall off the slipway, listened to the surf crashing onto the boulders.
He could close his eyes anytime, anywhere and hear that sound.
Yes, it had been exciting, though he’d never appreciated the landscape so much as a kid.
Cape Cornwall was bleak and inhospitable in the winter; it had indeed often seemed like the end of the world to Nicholas and there were times he’d only wanted to get away from it.
But he realised now that it was about as Cornish as anywhere. And bloody wonderful.
Rachel had slipped the black pebble into his hand.
His fingers curled around it. ‘Will you marry me, Rachel?’ he said. Because what else could you say to a perfect woman? He might be young, but he knew what he wanted.
And it might have been the wind. Or it might have been the only time Rachel’s eyes had ever filled with tears. ‘Yes, Nicholas,’ she said. ‘I’ll marry you.’
The vaporetto came to a shuddering halt by the pontoon and Nicholas stepped onto the water bus.
Most people were inside – a chilly wind was blowing – but he pulled a scarf out of his bag (Celie called it his Rupert scarf; it was yellow and checked and looked rather dashing, he thought, with his grey pinstriped suit).
He wrapped it round his neck. It was invigorating being on deck.
As he watched the palaces wash by, Nicholas thought about what Celie had said.
He thought about the kind of life he wanted and what Rachel had wanted.
He could smell the musty dampness and stone that was Venice, hear the slow chugging of the engine, the water rolling against the side of the vaporetto.
He felt his body sway as it picked up the motion of the boat.
He held the rail as if to steady himself, looked out again along the horizon, to the point where the ornate buildings met the skyline, spires, domes, campaniles.
Sometimes Nicholas found himself losing sight of what was real. His marriage – which he had always thought to be real enough – had disintegrated and fallen apart. And he had crumbled with it. Just like this city.
Ponte degli Scalzi came into sight – a high, arrogant arch across the Grand Canal.
The first bridge. He flicked open the brochure to find the picture of the author.
Joanna Shepherd. Classy looking. Early to mid-thirties perhaps.
Hair a dark bob that framed an attractive face.
Half smiling. Nice eyes. A bit vulnerable looking. But who wasn’t vulnerable?
You might be surprised, she had written, at what you see. That sounded hopeful. Nicholas wanted to be surprised. Yeah. He almost longed for it.