Читать книгу Coming Home - Fern Britton - Страница 10

Adela was Cornish to the heart. Her parents had been wealthy landowners from Bodmin, her father the quintessential country squire and her mother a beauty of her day. Adela had wanted for nothing. The only awkward thing being that they were none of the things she actually wanted. Money, comfort, beauty, beaus – all were hers for the taking. But it wasn’t what she longed for. She dreamt of being a great artist, living a rackety bohemian life in London, preferably Pimlico, which she had heard about and liked the sound of.

When she finally told them, it had caused much consternation for her parents, who had planned a husband, Anthony, handsome and untroubled by intellect with a rather lovely medieval manor house on the banks of the Tamar.

But it was not to be. At the age of eighteen she won a place at the Slade School of Art on Gower Street, Bloomsbury.

She refused her parents’ offer of a nice little flat in Baker Street and, instead, put her name down for a flat-share with any of the new, female, students she would be joining up with. She would find out who when she arrived for her first term.

Her mother, a woman with a great capacity for organisation, decided her talents would be best spent taking her only child to Truro for the day and kitting her out with a new wardrobe of fashionable dresses and accessories and, as an afterthought, paints.

Come early September her father ordered his cherished Morris 6 to be serviced, polished and refuelled and drove her up to London in what he noted was record time. Nine and a half hours. It would have been even quicker if it hadn’t been for the thick fog that had rolled over Dartmoor and a puncture on the A38.

Adela had waved him off to his club, where he would spend the night before the return journey the following day, and set about her new life with enthusiasm.

Her new flat, off Marylebone High Street, was small but clean and her flatmates were fun. There was Elsie, who was Irish and smoked, and Kina, who tied her hair with bright cotton scarves and wore boy’s jeans. She was from Jamaica and was the most exotic person Adela had ever met.

Together they shared everything, including Kina’s fashion sense. Within days Adela’s pretty dresses and gloves, were taken off their hangers and bundled into Adela’s suitcase under her single bed. Now Adela hunted the jumble sales and bric-a-brac stalls for overgrown jumpers and men’s shirts which she knotted at the waist and loose canvas trousers. For a brief moment she tried smoking too but she really couldn’t get on with it so took, instead, to drinking halves of bitter when she met fellow students in the pub.

The first year flew by and, returning to Cornwall the following summer, she was surprised by how much she had missed it.

Her mother wanted to know all the London gossip. She had none. Had she been to Harrods? No. At which restaurants had she dined? Again, none.

Had she met any nice boys as she would be delighted to invite them to tea? No, but if I do I shall let them know.

Why did she wear such shabby clothes? I like them.

Wouldn’t she like to get her hair styled? It’s fine as it is.

It was towards the end of August that Adela took herself up to the golden fields of swaying corn in order to paint the local men who were getting her father’s harvest in.

Her mother had hung string bags of bread, cheese and pasties on her handlebars and in her panniers she had placed bottles of cider to give the men a snack. When Adela had arrived, the men, stripped to their vests, had cheered and stopped work to enjoy their break. She knew most of them by sight, if not by name, as they had been getting the harvest in for as many years as she could remember.

Perching on whatever they could find, the bolder amongst them asked about her new life in London. She told them about the London pubs she visited and the life-drawing classes where the models were naked.

There was one boy, wide-shouldered and sunburnt with very blue eyes and very white teeth who lay on his shirt and listened but didn’t look at her or join in.

She had never seen him before.

When the snack was done and both thirsts and appetites quenched, Old John, her father’s stockman, called the men back to their labours.

The new boy thanked her for the food and drink and introduced himself as Bill. His hand was rough and strong in hers as she shook it. ‘Will you be here tomorrow?’ he had asked. ‘I’m not sure,’ she replied.

He smiled as he put his cap on and picked up his pitch fork. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said and strode back up the field.

‘Who’s that new boy helping with the harvest?’ she asked her father over dinner that night.

‘Aha,’ smiled her father. ‘No need to ask you which one. All the girls are after him.’

Adela looked at the asparagus on her plate and stabbed it. ‘I was just wondering.’

Her father gave a sly look to her mother and said innocently, ‘He’s a good chap, actually. I know his father. Nice man but awfully worried for the boy. He doesn’t want to join the family firm. He’s down in St Ives, working with some pottery chap. Pity.’

Adela couldn’t help but bristle. ‘Pity? Because he prefers art to business?’

Her mother leant over and touched Adela’s hand. ‘No dear, your father is mischief-making. The boy – William, I think his name is?’ She looked at her husband who nodded. ‘William, is a super chap, although a bit of a leftie.’

Adela couldn’t help but laugh. ‘We are all a bit “leftie” now, you know.’

‘We are not!’ Her father banged the table.

‘Well, I am,’ said Adela calmly.

Her mother gasped and clutched her throat. ‘Oh darling, is that why you dress like a man?’

Adela shook her head smiling. ‘No, Mother, I dress like this because it’s comfortable and practical and all my friends do the same.’

Her father took a mouthful of pork pie and mumbled, ‘I told you we shouldn’t have let her go to London.’

Her mother ignored him. ‘But, Adela, dear, if you want a husband you must at least try to look pretty.’

‘I’m not sure I want a husband.’

‘But, dear …’ Her mother was putting two and two together and making six. ‘Do you not like men?’

Adela put her knife and fork neatly on her plate and said nothing.

‘I mean,’ her mother continued, ‘it could be just a phase you’re going through. I remember at boarding school there were girls who got quite friendly but they got over it in the end.’

‘Mother, stop, you are embarrassing Father, me and yourself.’

‘Your father’s a farmer, he knows all about these things.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Don’t you, dear?’

Her father finished his wine and stood up. ‘I’m going to let the dogs out.’

‘Mother, you are terrible,’ said Adela watching her father go. ‘Now let’s clear the table.’

The next day, Adela went back to the fields and was pleased when William waved at her and was one of the first to get a glass of lemonade and slice of cheese. ‘Hello again,’ he said. ‘Are you painting today?’

Adela was putting out the bread and cheese and a few apples on to a linen cloth for the lads. ‘It’s so lovely up here, I thought I would.’

‘May I see it when you’re done?’

‘It depends.’ She smiled. ‘I hear you’re a potter?’

He took an apple and rubbed it on his trousers. ‘My father has been talking to yours, I suppose?’

Adela smiled wryly.

‘I’m an apprentice,’ said Bill, ‘down in St Ives?’

‘Ah, Bernard Leach country.’

‘I’m impressed.’ He took a chunk out of his apple. ‘Nobody here seems to have heard of him.’

‘I’m studying art at the Slade.’

‘Yes, I heard. Your father has been talking to mine.’

Adela laughed and Bill looked at her closely. ‘That explains it.’

‘Explains what?’

‘The way you look.’

She looked down at her crumpled linen smock and rolled up trousers, and said defiantly, ‘What’s wrong with the way I look?’

‘Nothing.’ He grinned. ‘I like it. You look like the type of girl who wouldn’t mind getting caught in rainstorm, or pushing a car out of a ditch.

‘Oh,’ she said disconsolately.

‘It’s a compliment, believe me.’

‘Didn’t sound like one.’

She looked down at her scruffy sandals and brown, unshaved ankles. Self-consciously she tucked them under herself.

From the top of the field she heard Old John calling the lads back to work.

‘Tell you what,’ said Bill standing up and tossing his apple core into a hedge, ‘what are you doing tonight?’

She looked at him suspiciously. ‘Why?’

‘I’m taking you out. I’ll pick you up at seven.’

She had nothing to wear. The bed was littered with half a dozen garments which she’d had for years. Amongst which was an old dress she’d had since she was fourteen that was too short and much too tight; a pretty cotton skirt with a broken zip – and a horrible taffeta bridesmaid dress she’d had to wear for her cousin’s wedding. Red faced from her bath and the putting on and taking off of so many things, she sat on the edge of the bed in despair. There was a soft knock at the door.

‘It’s Mother. Can I help?’

Adela sighed and flopped backwards on to the bed in despair. ‘Come in.’

Her mother put her head around the door. ‘I thought so. I found this. Any good?’

She was holding a Liberty-print cotton summer dress. ‘I bought it ages ago. In a sale. It’s too young for me. Too small, too. Try it.’

In the mirror, even Adela was pleased with her reflection. The dress was simple and hung a little loose on her but it was perfect. Her mother had brushed her hair into a neat ponytail and had attempted a little rouge and lipstick but Adela had been firm about saying no. Finally, her mother had stepped back. ‘You’ll do,’ she said.

From downstairs they heard the bang of the old doorknocker and her father calling up the stairs, ‘Prince Charming has arrived, Cinders.’

Bill had borrowed his father’s car and drove Adela through the lanes and down to the pretty fishing village of Trevay. His shirtsleeved arm leaning on the open window, he chatted about this and that and gradually the knot in Adela’s stomach began to loosen. As they came down the hill towards the harbour, Adela saw that the fishing boats were coming in on the tide, ready to land their catches on the quay. The sun was bouncing on the surface of the rippling sea making the light sparkle and flash.

‘I love it here,’ she said. ‘I haven’t been for ages. I could paint that sea every day.’

Bill parked the car outside the Golden Hind, picked up his jacket from the back seat and helped Adela inside.

‘What will you drink?’ he asked.

‘Half a bitter, please.’ She didn’t see his amused smile as she looked around the dark and cosy bar. ‘It’s nice in here.’

Paying the barman, he carried his pint and her half towards the door. ‘Let’s take our drinks outside.’

The sun was beginning to set and the day was losing its warmth. She shivered a little as they sat on the harbour wall across from the pub and watched the fishing boats unload.

‘Would you like my jacket?’ he asked. ‘Or I have a jumper in the car?’

‘You’ll need your jacket but the jumper would be lovely thank you.’

‘Don’t go away.’ He set off for the car, Adela watching him. He was undeniably handsome, tall and muscular with an easy smile, the sort of man, she thought, one could fall in love with. She checked herself and looked back at the boat. She was only eighteen and she and Elsie and Kina had sworn to each other that they would play the field as men did, would never settle down with the first man they met. She looked over to him again. He was leaning into the car and reaching for something on the back seat. When he reappeared, he had the jumper in his hand and looked over at her with such a look that her heart jumped a little. She quickly returned her gaze to the boats, as if the unloading of their catches was of the utmost interest. She decided that, when he came back, she would be polite and cool. She would give no indication that she might find him attractive.

Adela waited a few seconds longer then glanced in his direction to see what was keeping him.

She saw at once.

Two girls were talking to him. Two pretty girls. One had her hand on his chest as she was talking to him, the other was pulling at his hand.

Adela’s hand was shaking so much that she had to put her drink down. She looked over again. He was pointing at her and all three of them were laughing. At her? She felt her breath quicken and her cheeks redden. How could she escape?

Too late, he was coming towards her. ‘Adela, meet a couple of old friends. Barbara …’

‘Hello,’ pouted Barbara, still holding Bill’s hand.

‘And Jill.’

‘Hi,’ said Jill, giving Adela a full top to toe scope.

‘Bill …’ Adela stood. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m not feeling very well. I’ll get the bus back.’

Bill frowned. ‘Don’t be silly, I’ll drive you.’

‘No, it’s no trouble. I’ll get the bus or ring my father. I don’t want to spoil your evening.’

‘Spoil my …’ Bill was confused and exasperated. ‘We’ve only just got here.’

Jill butted in. ‘She’ll be fine on the bus. Stay with us. We’ll have a laugh.’

Adela stood fixed to the spot. Was she to be so easily shaken off?

Bill shook out his jumper and placed it around Adela’s shoulders.

‘Adela needs to go home and I shall take her.’

In the car, Adela said nothing. Her emotions were running high. She was elated that he had brushed those girls off but angry that he even knew them. Who were they? How well did he know them? Her father had said that all the girls were after him. Well, she wasn’t. This would be the first and last time she would accept a date from him.

Her eyes slid over to look at him. His profile in the dark of the car was strong but his lips were tensed as he ran his hand through his hair. He felt her gaze and looked over at her. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Okay.’

‘Are you sure it wasn’t something else?’ She wondered if he was teasing her.

‘Too much sun maybe,’ she said.

‘You don’t get sun in London?’ He was teasing her.

She turned to look out of her window and didn’t give him the courtesy of an answer.

‘I was looking forward to tonight,’ he said. ‘What did I do wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Was it the girls?’

She shook her head, refusing to look at him.

‘I grew up with them. They’re fun.’

‘Good for them.’

He slowed the car in the lane leading down to her family farm. The headlights picked out an owl on a gatepost as he brought the car to a halt and turned the engine and headlights off, then they sat without speaking. Only the gentle ticking of the engine cooling broke the silence.

‘Adela,’ he said gently.

‘Why have we stopped?’ she asked.

‘I wanted a chance to talk to you. Without interruption. We’ve got at least two hours before your parents will be expecting you back.’ He settled in his seat, his back to the driver’s door. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Feeling better?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. So talk to me.’

‘About what?’

‘Tell me about who you are and what you want out of life.’

‘I’m Adela Trip. I’m eighteen. I’m an artist and I want to make a living from my work. Is that enough?’

‘Uh huh. Do you have a boyfriend?’

She shook her head, then dared to look into his eyes. ‘Do you have a girlfriend?’

‘No. Not at the moment.’

‘Oh.’ She smiled. ‘And so who are you and what do you want to do with your life?’

‘Right now I’d like a pint and some fish and chips. That was how I had planned tonight.’

‘Sorry I messed it up,’ she said shyly.

‘I forgive you.’ He was teasing again. ‘Shall we start afresh?’

She bit her lip but managed a smile. ‘Yes please.’

‘Good.’ He turned the engine on and reversed the car. ‘We’ll go over to Pendruggan village. There’s a great pub there called the Dolphin. Proper beer, good food and quiet. Fancy it?’

From then on the evening went smoothly. Bill was an easy person to be around and Adela made him laugh with her stories of her flatmates and her tutors, two of whom were Graham Sutherland and Lucien Freud. He told her about his work with the pottery and the great Bernard Leach who was teaching him. ‘He’s a genius, Adela. I’d like you to come down and meet him.’

‘That would be lovely.’

‘Good. By the way, can you play darts? The board has just come free.’

She surprised him with her skill at darts and took a game off him straight away.

‘Have you been having lessons?’

‘Beginner’s luck,’ she laughed. ‘Or maybe I’ve spent the last year in London learning to play in our local?’

‘Right, if that’s the case,’ he picked up his darts, ‘no more Mr Nice Guy.’

The drive back to the house was very different to either of the previous drives that evening. Now they were comfortable together, the small silences between them serene and pleasant.

At the front door, she thanked him.

‘Will you be up at the harvest tomorrow?’ he asked.

‘It’s my job to bring you all your snack, isn’t it?’

‘Ah yes. That’ll be the reason you come up.’

‘Nothing else.’ She chewed her lip, hoping and fearing that he might kiss her. She tipped her head up to his and in a low voice said, ‘So. See you tomorrow?’

She half-closed her eyes and waited. He hesitated, then stepped off the front step and walked backwards towards his car.

‘Yes. See you tomorrow.’ He opened the driver’s door and bent to get in. She watched the way he folded his long legs into the seat and sat down. Being so tall, his head touched the roof. As he started the engine and the car began to pull away he leant out of the window and said, ‘Did I mention how lovely you look in that dress?’

She stood for a long time, watching his taillights grow smaller until they disappeared from sight.