Chapter 7
I walk the length of the beach and don’t find Connor.
By the time I get to the rocks at the far end, where a path leads up to the caravan park, I’m hot, tired, frantic, and have decided that I hate this place.
I phone Bridget – she won’t be keen to come back out, but maybe if we split up, we can find him.
The phone takes an age to connect, but finally, it does.
‘Bridget,’ I say. ‘Connor’s missing. I need you to help me—’
‘Calm down, Mum,’ she says, bored and annoyed, ‘he’s right here.’
‘He came back…?’ I breathe out. ‘Oh.’
‘Take the phone, stupid,’ I hear Bridget say. ‘Tell Mum that you’re not dead. I’m going for a shower.’
‘Do I have to?’ Connor says.
‘Take it!’
I hold the phone away from my ear. Neither of my kids want to talk to me. My panic deflates to irritation, but I swallow hard and keep my cool.
‘Hi, Mum,’ Connor says. ‘I’m OK. I made a friend. He’s called Med.’
‘Med?’ I say. ‘What kind of a name is that?’
‘Dunno, but it’s his name,’ he says. ‘I met him down by the caravan park.’
‘That’s good,’ I say, unable to stay angry. My son has made a friend already – surely that bodes well for extending our stay.
‘What’s for lunch?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I’m just walking back. We’ll figure it out then.’
‘OK, Mum,’ he says. ‘Love you.’ He ends the call.
‘Love you too,’ I say anyway.
Although my stomach is rumbling and I’m worried there’s not enough food left for lunch, I enjoy the walk back to the inn. There’s still no sign of Cliff’s boat at the dock – the selfish part of me hopes he isn’t sailing off into the sunset for good, at least until we’re more settled.
I say hello to a few fellow ramblers and dog walkers on the cliff path below the inn.
Maybe Elspeth was right – a pub or a tearoom could become a ‘destination’ for both tourists and locals if it was open and advertised.
I stand on the edge of the cliff above Penglas Cove and watch the water rise over the rocks and wagon grooves, seeming to bubble out of cracks and crevices underneath.
In only a few minutes, the entire area is covered over by frothing, rolling waves.
Back at the inn, it’s mayhem. Bridget is fuming, having discovered that there are no showers – only bathtubs – in the house, and that the water isn’t hot.
(Connor makes do by brushing the sand off onto the floor, and putting on a different pair of shorts and rumpled T-shirt.) I avoid a stream of obscenities only by agreeing to go down to the cellar to reset the boiler.
The doorway to the cellar is set into the wall below the stairs, opposite the kitchen. Oddly, it’s standing wide open – I didn’t notice it when I came into the house. Did Bridget go down there to try and fix the hot water? I seriously doubt it.
I go over and stare into the blackness – this must be where Cliff went to turn on the electrics. I feel for a light switch but don’t find one, so I use my phone torch to try and avoid breaking my neck.
The steps are slick and damp, the wall wet.
That can’t be a good thing, I know, but it’s one for another day.
At the bottom of the stairs, the torch reveals a garden variety cellar.
There are old paint cans, broken appliances, and a rack of gardening tools, along with an electric box on the wall next to an ancient-looking boiler.
Unfortunately, none of the boiler’s controls look familiar enough for me to brave turning it on.
I cross my fingers that Cliff or Elspeth can help, otherwise I’ll have to get someone out.
I sigh. Bridget – and the rest of us – will just have to make do.
One step forward… two steps back. That’s how my entire life feels right now.
At the back of the cellar is another dank, dark room.
This one is mostly full of beer kegs for, I assume, a once-operational bar.
The brick wall above the stack of kegs is partially collapsed, creating a void about a metre square that looks like a man-sized mousehole.
I suppose it could have been caused by subsidence – or maybe a repair that was started but never finished.
Feeling brave, I climb up onto one of the kegs and look into the void.
I can make out a glow of orange light and a smell wafts into my nose.
As I shine my light around, I see something – and scream!
There’s a leering, scraggy-haired wax pirate staring back at me.
Someone has made a hole in the wall between the cellar and the pirate cave.
‘Gosh,’ I say aloud. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re really ugly.’
Thankfully, the pirate is not real and does not answer back.
I climb out of the hole, my skin feeling crawly with cobwebs and unease.
Fixing the wall is just one of many things that will need to be done to make the place saleable – as well as clearing out those damn wax figures.
I add it to my mental list and go back upstairs, slamming the cellar door behind me.
I want to lock the door so no one trips down those stairs, and I’m sure Cliff said there was a key above the lintel.
But when I feel up there, I create a shower of dust and don’t find the key. Just one more thing…
I go into the kitchen, relieved to be above ground.
It’s way past lunchtime, but the kids will want some food, and that I can surely handle.
But when I check the stash of provisions I brought with us, I discover that we’re out of almost everything.
I was sure we had some bread and cheese left, but I find nothing.
Maybe Connor took it with him when he went out – that’s probably it.
I manage to revive Bridget’s mood by knocking on her door and asking if she wants to go to town to find a supermarket.
‘Can we stop by an estate agents?’ she says. ‘Put the place on the market like you said?’
‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘But first, let’s find somewhere to have lunch.’
‘Can we get fish and chips?’ Connor says, having overheard me. I decide not to mention the missing food.
‘Yeah – sounds good,’ is all I say.
* * *
It feels strange to be in the car again and hard to believe that we only arrived yesterday.
In the light of day, the surroundings are different than I’d expected.
Once we’re away from the sea, the land is flat with fields framed by tall hedgerows, farm buildings, the odd sign pointing to a caravan park, and (fortunately, given the incredibly narrow roads) few cars.
The nearest village turns out to be a gaggle of white-washed buildings spilling down a gap in the cliffs to a small harbour.
We park at the top (paying a whopping seven pounds for the car park) and walk down.
There are a few inns and B&Bs near the top, and as we go down further, there are shops selling rocks and fossils, sweets, fishing gear, and beach paraphernalia.
At the bottom of the main street near the harbour, there’s a small museum of local history.
I want to check it out, but Connor says he’s starving, so we keep going.
Along the front, we pass three pubs serving food, and two fish and chip shops.
‘Pick one,’ I say to Connor, who immediately chooses Oh My Cod, the tackier, greasier-looking one.
This sparks a protest from Bridget, lamenting about oil and calories, and I leave the two of them to hash it out.
I wander over to a newsagent slash post office and look at the notices in the window.
I jot down the name of a plumber and a handyman, and pick up a copy of a free newspaper from a rack outside the door.
The headline is something about an arrest of two men from St Ives in connection with drug trafficking from the continent, but it’s another story further down that catches my eye:
Locals Prepare For Annual History Festival
It turns out that we’re just in time – the festival is on Saturday, a mere four days away. I turn back to the kids to show them the article, but they’re already in a queue at the less-greasy shop (a victory for Bridget). I go over to join them.
We place our order and come away with three cod and two chips (which, Connor and I are pleased to note, have plenty of oil and grease) and look for a place to sit on the benches along the front.
None are free, so we sit on the large rocks that frame the harbour.
The tide is in and the colourful boats bob playfully on the waves.
Bridget complains of the smell of fish and seaweed and the brazen gulls that menace our lunch.
‘There’s a festival at the weekend,’ I say brightly. ‘I saw it in the local paper. There will be a mining tour, and boat rides, and some kind of pirate pageant. You know, re-enactors or something.’
‘Lame,’ Bridget says.
‘Can we go to it?’ Connor says.
I ignore my daughter and smile at my son. ‘Yes, we definitely can. It will be good to get some local colour and learn more about the history of the area.’
‘Why?’ Bridget sulks. ‘I don’t care about Cornwall. I want to go back to London.’
I am a self-diagnosed conflict-avoider and people pleaser. Usually, that means I either ignore or placate my teenage daughter. But for some reason, I just can’t let this go.
‘We are not going home to London,’ I assert. ‘There is no home.’
‘Not for you,’ she says. ‘But we can stay with Dad. That’s what we want.’
‘Is it?’ I glare at Connor.
‘Well, we’re going to see him, right?’ my son says. ‘Like, when we go back to school?’
I suppose my kids are unclear on the concept because I’ve been so wishy-washy myself. Is this move permanent? Right now, I can’t imagine it. Or… anything else.
‘You’ll see your dad,’ I say. I eat the last bite of cod and crumple up the wrapper. ‘That’s all I can say right now.’
‘You’re just so weak, Mum,’ Bridget says.
‘Yes,’ I say with a long sigh. ‘You’ve hit the nail on the head.’