Chapter 8
I am weak. Useless as a parent, a partner, and a human being.
For some reason, I can’t shake these thoughts – for the rest of the day, and even, the next few days.
In my mind, I know it’s not true. I get a man out to check the boiler and show me how to turn on the hot water.
I take the kids into Penzance and buy a Wi-Fi router and we manage to come up with some semblance of a signal.
I also call a few estate agents to find out what I need to do to get the inn on the market.
They suggest I get a survey done, in addition to clearing the place out, and go from there.
I do exactly that – book a surveyor and continue going through Victoria’s things.
After clearing the initial rubbish, the job becomes more difficult.
I end up spending hours deciding what to keep and what to donate to charity.
I’m hoping to find something to shed further light on my relationship to the Kernicks, but other than some books on local history, there’s little of interest. I vow to keep looking, but as I clear away more layers of clutter without unearthing any further information, I feel more and more frustrated with my own ignorance.
Towards the middle of the file, I discover something that gives me pause – an article from Town and Country Magazine with my photo in it.
It’s from two years ago, when I received an award for sustainability in connection with an old dairy farm that I converted into a spa and wellness centre.
I’m wearing a navy suit, and my hair is styled long.
I was proud of the award and the photo at the time, but seeing it now, I’m surprised at how young I look.
In the margin of the article, there’s a question mark written in blue pencil.
It’s the first thing I’ve found indicating that Victoria really did ‘find me’ and that the whole thing is not just a case of mistaken identity.
Encouraged, I go through the rest of the file, but find nothing relevant until I get to the last document.
It’s a hand-drawn family tree showing the Kernick line, all the way back to Maggie Donaldson and ‘Old John Dog’ Kernick.
There are children and siblings and cousins sprouting in all directions like the branches of an oak.
Written in blue pencil at the bottom is my mother’s and grandmother’s names, and mine.
But we seem to be seedlings of the main tree, because above my mother’s name is another question mark.
I stare at the forking branches for a long time, but can’t shake a sense of unease.
Clearly, Victoria did a lot of research on her ancestors, but according to this document, even she didn’t manage to find all the missing pieces of the puzzle.
Which still begs the question: why are we here?
The more time I spend in the common areas, the more I can visualise modifications that could make the space work better without altering the structure and falling foul of the listed building regulations.
Towards the end of the week, I draw up a tentative set of plans and ring three local builders to quote for the work, scheduling them to come round the following week.
While I’m busy searching for clues, clearing out the inn, and contemplating the future of the building, Connor and Bridget are mainly left to their own devices.
On the plus side, they seem happy enough.
Connor spends his time running wild exploring the coves and occasionally helping Cliff out on his boat; Bridget is usually on her phone in her room or sunbathing in the bracing cold.
To my surprise, both of them warm to Elspeth and the museum.
Bridget even agrees to help out there (sitting at the desk on her phone, mostly) for a few hours a week.
As for me, I’m glad to have a project, even if it’s temporary, lacks a client to fund it, lacks Aiden to deal with the boring bits, and is potentially even a bit mad.
But each time I tell myself that I am moving forward, a little voice whispers that it’s a lie.
Because even if I refurbish the inn and then sell it – which most certainly I need to do – then what?
Where do we go? What do I do with the rest of my life?
* * *
At least I have a plan for the weekend. When Saturday rolls around, I marshal a keen Connor and grumbling Bridget into the car to attend the local history festival in a village near Penzance.
I’ve no idea what to expect, but when a mile or so from our destination we encounter a huge queue of traffic, I’m relieved that other people also think it’s worth attending.
We limp along and eventually reach a large car park where attendants are collecting a fiver.
The traffic and the fiver put me in a bad mood, along with the fact that a lot of the people who are arriving seem to be in costume.
Pirates, wenches, ladies, Poldarks, Warleggans, Demelzas, miners and servants; we seem to be the only party poopers dressed in modern clothing.
We follow the crowds through the narrow cobbled streets to the sea front.
There, the promenade has been transformed, the atmosphere festive.
At the far end of the town, a funfair has arrived.
Connor instantly asks if we can go there, and I fob him off with a ‘maybe later’.
The square in front of the harbour is lined with stalls and vendors selling everything from turkey legs to Thai food, to toy swords and helmets, old books, local produce, and nautical paraphernalia.
It’s part jumble sale, part upscale market, and it seems like there are hundreds of people milling round, talking and laughing.
At the centre of the waterfront, a stage has been erected. When we arrive, it’s occupied by Morris dancers flouncing around with their ribbons and bells.
‘This is so lame,’ Bridget says predictably.
‘It’s local colour,’ I feel I have to point out.
When the Morris dancers finish, a man in full eighteenth-century regalia takes the mic.
I stop and stare. He’s easily one of the most gorgeous men I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Tall and lean, his dark-blond hair is tied back with a velvet ribbon beneath a gold-trimmed captain’s hat.
He’s wearing a blue frock coat with brass buttons and gold braid at the shoulders and well-fitting breeches tucked into high black boots.
His face is almost femininely handsome, his eyes deep set and sparkling as he speaks into the microphone with a strong baritone voice.
‘Welcome,’ he says. ‘As the president of the local historical society, let me be the first to say, I’m glad you’re all here.’
Maybe it’s my imagination, but he seems to look right at me. And it’s definitely my imagination that when our eyes meet, he seems to infinitesimally pause.
‘We’ve got a spectacular day planned for you,’ he recovers.
‘Don’t forget the boat parade at noon, and the jazz band at two.
Between now and then, we’ve got magicians, we’ve got singers and dancers, puppeteers, jugglers and comedians.
You can also take a cruise on a real pirate barque, the Halcyon.
’ He waves a hand out to sea where an old-time ship is berthed at the end of a long dock.
It’s a beautiful vessel with three elegant masts, a lofty crow’s nest, and acres of intricate rigging cascading down from pristine, folded-up sails.
The ship looks like it’s capable of sailing to the ends of the earth and back again.
I think of Bess coming here on a ship just like this.
The Halcyon – I assume this ship is a modern replica of the original that was wrecked in the cove during Old John Dog’s reign of terror, but it’s almost impossible to tell the difference.
‘And remember,’ the handsome emcee continues, ‘anyone not having a good time will have me to reckon with.’ He glances in my direction again. ‘And you all know who I am…’
He signals to a ragtag group of musicians seated in a semicircle just off the stage. They break into a rousing tune that I recognise as Gilbert and Sullivan. The handsome emcee struts around the stage to the music, then begins to sing.
‘Oh better far to live and die under the great black flag I fly,
Than play a sanctimonious part with a pirate head and a pirate heart.’
‘I like this one,’ I whisper to Bridget. ‘My dad played this on vinyl when I was little.’
‘It’s cheesy,’ Bridget says.
‘For, I am a Pirate King.
(He is hurrah for the Pirate King.)
And it is, it is a glorious thing to be a Pirate King…’
The clarinet lets out a raucous squeak.
‘Maybe a little,’ I concede, ‘but I doubt many women here would object to being ravished by him.’
‘Mum!’ Bridget looks genuinely shocked.
‘Just kidding,’ I say.
‘You don’t look like it.’
She’s probably right. As the song continues and the man keeps looking in my direction, a flush comes over my face. Which is just so lame…
Especially when, as the song wraps up, a ‘bevy of beautiful maidens’ (also courtesy of Gilbert and Sullivan) come to the edge of the stage and prepare to make an entrance.
It’s too much, even for me. ‘Come on,’ I say to Bridget. ‘Let’s go get some— Wait – where’s Connor?’
‘No idea.’
I let out an irritated sigh. He was right there with us. Now, as I scan the crowds, I can’t see him anywhere.
‘I don’t blame him,’ she says. ‘This music sucks.’
I could lecture her on the important place Gilbert and Sullivan holds in the lexicon of British theatre, but there’s little point, and I have more pressing concerns. ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s go look for him.’
As the maidens sing of ‘Climbing over rocky mountains’, Bridget and I push through the crowd towards the market area.
‘Let’s try the food stalls,’ I say. ‘Did he have money?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Then he can’t be far away. He’ll be wanting lunch. And ice cream.’
‘Whatever. Can we please just find him and go?’
‘Go?’ I glare. ‘We just got here.’