Читать книгу Coming Home - Fern Britton - Страница 11

Once Ella had promised not to meet their mother, Henry, Ella and Kit had a reasonably happy weekend. After a gin-fuelled sleep on the first night, Henry had quite a hangover. He lay in bed, hoping the throbbing of his head would subside enough to allow him to get up and go to the bathroom. There was a knock at his door. It was Ella carrying a mug and a foil pack of pills. She pushed the door open with her foot. ‘Are you feeling as bad as Kit?’

‘Worse,’ he groaned.

‘Gin head. Big time.’ Henry was aware of his sister approaching the bed and placing the mug and tablets on the table next to him. ‘There’s coffee and paracetamol.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, waiting for a wave of nausea to pass.

‘Full Cornish breakfast will fix you. I’ll call you when it’s ready.’

After a few minutes he managed to raise himself from the pillow and attempt the coffee. It was good. Hot and very strong. He threw the tablets into his mouth and washed them down.

There was another knock at the door. It was Kit, bleary-eyed and wearing a scruffy, short, towelling dressing gown and stubble. ‘Showed the gin who’s boss, didn’t we?’ he said, sitting on the edge of Henry’s bed, his head in his hands.

‘How much did we have?’ murmured Henry.

‘I remember opening a new bottle and then throwing it away once it was empty.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Boys,’ Ella called up the stairs, ‘breakfast is served.’

A young man’s powers of recuperation are not to be underestimated, and with the coffee and painkillers, plus Ella’s enormous fry-up, by lunchtime they were almost functioning human beings once more.

They were sitting in the garden of Marguerite Cottage, warming themselves like cats in the drowsy sunshine. ‘What shall we do this afternoon?’ Ella drawled from her deckchair. ‘Anyone fancy lunch out?’

‘Love some,’ said Kit reaching for her hand. ‘Only you had better drive as I think Henry and I would never pass a breath test.’

‘Pizza is what you need.’ Ella gathered herself and got out of the deckchair as best she could. ‘You need carbs, rehydration and some fresh air. We’ll get all that in Trevay.’

‘The old place looks very gentrified,’ Henry remarked as he watched the little town of his childhood slide past his backseat window.

‘Would you like to see what they’ve done to Granny’s house?’ Ella asked over her shoulder.

‘Sure.’

Ella pulled the car up on the corner of their old road and the three of them got out and walked up the short but steep lane to White Water. Henry stuck his head over the garden wall. ‘They’ve kept Poppa’s palm trees going,’ he said.

‘I know. I stayed here for a few weeks in the summer, remember? Our old courtyard for the sandpit and bikes has gone, though. They’ve put in a conservatory with a pond and a fountain.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Henry,’ I can just about see. There are a couple of people having a coffee in there.’

‘They’ll be the B & B guests.’

‘Double glazing and plantation shutters. Granny would think that very bourgeois,’ Henry chuckled.

‘Do you think so?’ asked Ella, standing on tiptoes to get a view. ‘I think she’d approve.’

Henry stepped back and rubbed the grit of the granite wall from his hands. ‘Memories, eh?’

‘Yep,’ said Ella.

‘I like the big window in the attic,’ said Kit. ‘Is that where your grandmother had her studio?’

Ella poked him in the ribs. ‘You painters. All the same. Where’s the best light? Can I get a tall canvas in there? Is there enough space for my paints?’

‘So it was her studio?’ asked Kit, fending off any more pokes by catching Ella’s wrists.

‘Yeah,’ said Henry. ‘Poppa had his space downstairs for his wheel and stuff, and the kiln was in the garden. That’ll be long gone now.’

‘Yeah, it is,’ said Ella. ‘Do you remember the excitement when we were allowed to open it up after a firing and find our pots?’

‘Rubbish every one of them. But Poppa always told us they were great.’ Henry smiled then rubbed his temples.

‘I think your hangover needs feeding,’ said Ella and she took Henry and Kit’s hands in her own. ‘Pizza time, boys.’

After a decent lunch, they went for a walk up to the headland and down to a small beach known only by locals and the odd inquisitive holidaymaker.

Henry picked up a slate pebble and sent it skimming across the smooth sea.

Ella counted the bounces. ‘Six. My go now.’

They watched as Ella’s stone bounced nine times before sinking beneath the water. Kit came up behind her and hugged her. ‘Not fair. You’ve been getting practice in.’

‘Poppa taught us. I think his record was twenty or something mad like that,’ she said.

Henry sat on a damp rock and looked out to the horizon. ‘We had some good summers here, didn’t we, Ells?’

She sat next to him and put her head on his shoulder. ‘Remember how good Granny was at French cricket?’

‘When she wasn’t painting,’ said Henry. ‘We’ve still got her painting books and sketchpads somewhere, haven’t we?’

‘Yeah, they’re in Clapham. The loft, I think.’ She tapped her brother’s knee with her knuckles. ‘How is Mandalay Road?’

‘Nice and quiet without you.’

She gave him a pinch. ‘I didn’t expect to be staying here in Cornwall.’ She looked over to Kit who was staring into rock pools. ‘You do like him, don’t you?’

‘I’ve known him less than a day, but I’ve managed to spill all the family secrets and get blind drunk with him. What is there not to like?’

‘He’s a nice person,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I really like him.’

Kit turned from the rock pools and looked up. ‘My ears are burning.’

‘They should be,’ laughed Henry. ‘Are your intentions towards my sister honourable?’

‘Not altogether,’ smiled Kit, walking towards them.

Henry turned to his sister. ‘And is that all right with you?’

‘Very,’ she said, catching Kit’s hand.

That evening the three of them lay sprawled around the lounge watching a movie on Netflix, full of Ella’s cottage pie that she’d had ready in the fridge. Henry was on an armchair, Kit and Ella snuggled on the sofa, when they heard a key in the lock and the familiar sound of eight dog feet, tapping on the hall floor as they rushed to the door, then a voice calling, ‘The bloody roads are full of idiots! Terrible roadworks on the A38 and I’m absolutely starving.’ A tall handsome man appeared at the door followed by two Afghan hounds that strolled in and flopped on the nearest rug. He surveyed the empty plates on the coffee table. ‘Bugger. Have you already eaten?’

Kit and Ella jumped up. ‘There’s plenty left. I’ll warm some up,’ Ella said as Kit made the introductions. ‘Adam, may I introduce you to Ella’s brother Henry? Henry, this is my cousin, Adam. He’s the landlord.’

Henry and Adam shook hands and Ella returned from the kitchen with a steaming bowl of cottage pie. ‘Darling, sit down and eat while I give Celia and Terry their supper.’

‘You’re an angel.’ He kissed Ella’s hand as she passed him, taking the dogs with her.

‘So,’ said Adam, settling into his chair and blowing on a forkful of food, ‘I’ve heard a lot about you, Henry. At last we are able to give you the once-over.’

‘I rather thought I was here to give Kit the once-over, actually,’ Henry laughed.

‘And the verdict?’ asked Adam, munching.

‘Not bad at all.’

‘We have bonded over gin and pizza,’ smiled Kit. ‘Anyone fancy a beer?’

Henry rubbed his chin. ‘My liver is feeling a lot better, so yes please.’

‘That’s the spirit.’ Kit went to the kitchen.

‘What happened last night?’ asked Adam, wiping a drop of gravy from his chin.

Henry sat back in his chair and wondered how to explain. ‘I don’t know if Ella has told you that we were brought up by our grandparents?’

Adam, concentrating on his food, nodded. ‘Yep. Your disappearing mother has featured large over the last few months. The business of tracking her down for your grandmother’s will?’

‘Well, they’ve found her,’ sighed Henry.

Adam swallowed his mouthful. ‘Is that why you got hammered last night? Well, that’s great.’

Henry stayed silent.

‘Or is it?’ asked Adam.

‘Ella thinks it’s great but I really want nothing to do with our mother, our grandmother’s money or … anything.’

Kit came back with Ella, each carrying two cold bottles of beer. Celia and Terry loafed behind them.

Adam took his beer from Ella. ‘Henry’s just told me about your mum.’

Ella looked anxious. ‘Her turning up? It’s early days and quite difficult to get our heads round, isn’t it, Henry.’

‘Not yours.’

‘Let’s not start all that again,’ said Kit.

Adam scooped up the last mouthful of cottage pie and put his plate down on the floor, pushing Terry’s inquisitive nose out of it. ‘So, Henry, you’re staying here, are you?’

‘If that’s okay with you?’

‘Oh, fine. I’m off again tomorrow, got a couple of weeks training in St Thomas’s A & E. Serious trauma stuff in case of terror attacks. You can use my room.’

Ella saw Henry’s puzzlement. ‘Adam is a doctor, Henry. A very good one.’

‘You can trust me,’ laughed Adam.

Kit grabbed the television remote and unfroze the film they had been watching. ‘Let’s forget about all that tonight.’ He picked up his beer and put his feet on Celia to tickle her tummy. ‘Tonight we relax. Cheers.’

Henry left for London after breakfast the next morning. Ella had packed a pasty and a coffee flask in a cardboard and put it on the back seat of the taxi.

‘That should keep you going.’ She leant through the front window and kissed him. ‘I love you, bro. Come back soon.’

‘As soon as I can, but the office is really busy at the moment.’

‘But the profit is good?’ Ella raised her eyebrows, mocking him.

‘Recession? What recession?’ He tweaked her nose the way he knew annoyed her. ‘The old Ruskies are still buying lumps of prime London real estate, lucky for me.’

Ella rubbed her nose crossly. ‘Drive carefully.’

‘I will, and Ella, thank you for saying you won’t see that woman.’

‘Mum.’

‘Whatever. She can come, take the money and go. She doesn’t deserve to see us.’

‘It’ll be okay.’

Kit came forward and leant on the car roof. ‘Come and see us again soon.’

‘And you look after my sister.’ Henry said. ‘She’s had enough crap in her life. She doesn’t need more.’

On the train from Bodmin, Henry’s head was full of his mother. He couldn’t forget the hurt that his grandparents had endured for all those years. He laid the responsibility of their unhappiness squarely at her door. What kind of mother would just piss off, dumping her children with parents who had only ever given her every helping hand they could? They had loved and supported her and she repaid them by running away without a backward glance. Not a note, not a phone call.

What a cow.

He had no desire to see her or listen to any pathetic excuses or apologies.

And who the bloody hell was his father? Was he the same man who fathered Ella?

Poor Ella. A girl needed her mum. Granny did her best, but even so …

On and on his thoughts went until he had exhausted his brain. Putting on his headphones he got out his laptop to watch a film he’d downloaded but he couldn’t concentrate and eventually returned to looking at the world racing past his window while he brooded.

‘So, do you like my brother?’ Ella asked, nestling in to Kit as they walked on the beach that afternoon.

‘He’s got a bee in his bonnet about your mum, hasn’t he?’ he said, putting his arm around her.

‘He remembers bits about her. Vague stuff, but I think it was nice things – and then suddenly she was gone. So, like a bereavement, he still grieves unconsciously.’

‘And what about you? Do you want to see her?’

‘I’ve promised Henry now.’

‘That doesn’t answer the question.’

‘I’m curious.’ They walked together in silence for a while before she said, ‘Yes, I’d really like to see her. I’d like to know why. What happened. Who my dad is. I’ve always wanted to know, but Granny and Poppa had a sort of unspoken thing so that we didn’t talk about her. Poppa was brokenhearted when she left and Granny bore the brunt of his grief whilst grieving herself.’

‘Must have been hard for them.’ Kit pulled her closer and kissed the top of her head. ‘How old were you again?’

‘Thirteen months. Henry was two. Not so bad for me – I have no memories, not even impressions. But Henry knew her. I mean really knew her. Had cuddles and bedtime stories and walking on the beach and playing. Somewhere in his head he must have those feelings. No wonder he’s so angry.’

Henry arrived at Mandalay Road, Clapham at the same time Kit and Ella were talking. His taxi drew up, double parked, and he paid the cabbie before hauling his weekend bag over his shoulder. He stood motionless before suddenly throwing up Ella’s pasty and coffee on the kerb outside his front door.

There were several letters on the mat as he pushed the door open. Bills and a catalogue. He picked them up and chucked them on the hall table, went into the kitchen to switch the kettle on before making himself a cup of tea. While the kettle was boiling he went up and dumped his bag on his bed and had a quick pee.

Downstairs, sitting on the sofa with his mug of tea, he looked around his home. Above the fireplace was one of his grandfather’s paintings: a small girl with red hair sitting on the quay at Trevay with a crab line in her hand. It was unusual in that this was one of the very few canvases Poppa had painted. Poppa was the Potter – Granny was the painter.

In front of him was an Indian carved coffee table. His grandfather had brought it back from a trip to Rajasthan and Henry and Ella had always had their Friday night supper of fish and chips on it, rather than at the big kitchen table. It was their treat and marked the start of their weekends.

‘Argh,’ he said angrily to the empty room. ‘I am not going to see that woman.’ The sofa sagged as he leant back into it. His grandmother’s again. She and Poppa had bought it when they first married and moved into Pencil House. A ridiculously tall, thin house that was one of the landmarks of Trevay. A place where visitors still stood and had photos taken of themselves. His own mother, born in that house, had grown up with this sofa, just as he and Ella had. He tried to imagine his mother as a child, sitting where he was sitting, having a bedtime story read to her. Being hugged by Granny or Poppa just as he and Ella had been. Well, she was not coming back to take this from him. Or the paintings. Or the table. Or the bloody wine glasses. They were his. His and Ella’s, as was every stick of furniture or cutlery in this house.