An Endless Cornish Summer Read online

‘You’ll stay here, then, not get a little flat in town?’

  ‘I couldn’t afford a dog kennel in town,’ Rose said, with an eye-roll. ‘The cottage isn’t worth as much as you think, and besides, I love it here.’

  ‘But surely you’d like to live in the middle of the action?’ Her mother wrinkled her nose and pulled her cashmere wrap tighter. ‘Especially in the winter. It’s freezing here!’

  ‘It’s still only March, Mum. You know how bitter the wind is in the Fens this time of year.’

  ‘I’ve gone soft, being out in LA. Surely you don’t cycle to college every day?’

  ‘I can take the car if it’s really bad but cycling to work helped me get fit after the transplant and I actually enjoy it. There’s nowhere to park in Cambridge these days anyway.’

  ‘Nowhere to park your car? Not even for a lecturer?’ Her mother laughed. ‘You are quaint, Rose.’

  Quaint?

  Before Rose could protest that riding a bike was not considered eccentric in Cambridge and that she was at the very bottom of the academic food chain, her mother had embraced her. ‘I’m truly sorry we lost Mum. I loved her even though we were never that close, and I can never thank her enough for taking you on.’

  The unexpected display of emotion made Rose’s own tears spill over again and she held her mother tightly.

  ‘I’ll try to get back over here more often in future, honey,’ she said. ‘I promise. I might even get a job back in the UK. These few weeks have made me miss it – even the weather.’

  The words brought a smile to Rose’s lips as she popped into the kitchen for some kitchen roll to wipe her eyes. When she returned, her mum was turning the pages of a paperback book that Marge had been reading the morning she’d died.

  ‘I’m glad Mum didn’t have a long illness,’ she said, with a break in her voice. ‘Easier on your gran but hard on you. Such a shock.’

  Rose had thought this many times, but always came to the same conclusion. Her grandmother had died from a massive heart attack while working in her garden. Rose had found her when she’d come home from college to fetch a notebook. She shuddered at the memory of her grandmother on the cold ground though the paramedics had said it would have been almost instant.

  ‘She wouldn’t have had it any other way …’ Rose said. ‘She was clearing leaves from around the crocuses, her favourites … the first bright jewels that said spring was on its way.’

  ‘She loved that garden … Will you get a gardener in or do you have time to do it on all your holidays?’ Stella moved on swiftly, obviously keen to avoid dwelling on gloomy topics.

  ‘I have plenty to do in the “holidays”,’ Rose said patiently. ‘And I might not need a gardener because I’m thinking of renting out the cottage.’

  ‘Renting it? I thought you said you weren’t moving into town?’

  ‘I’m not, but I’ve seen a summer project I like the look of. It comes with a small grant and it would enable me to help run an archaeological project in conjunction with another university during the vacation.’ She smiled. ‘It’s a new dig at a really interesting site and it’s right up my street.’

  ‘I think that sounds like a cool idea. Give you a change of scene and a chance to meet new people,’ Stella said, by which she probably meant new men. ‘Where is this dig?’

  ‘In Cornwall,’ Rose said. ‘Down on the Lizard. It’s a great chance to do some research and learn more about the site,’ she added, squashing any idea her mother might have about her meeting someone on the dig.

  ‘Cornwall? How romantic and wild. How very Poldark.’

  ‘I doubt he’ll still be there …’ Rose said. ‘But I did think I might learn to sail. I always liked the idea. That is, if I can get the grant. I haven’t even applied yet. I haven’t had the heart since Gran died.’

  ‘I understand that, honey,’ her mother said briskly, ‘but you must move on. The most important thing is you getting away from this cottage and Cambridge. It’ll do you the world of good. Let’s face it, this whole place can be claustrophobic. I know you love it here and you’ve felt safe while you’ve been recovering but it’s time you spread your wings.’ Stella smiled. ‘Even if it is only to Cornwall … you know, your grandad loved Cornwall. He used to sail there when he was younger.’

  ‘I remember. Sort of. He took me out on a friend’s boat once but Gran didn’t come.’

  ‘She didn’t like sailing with him. She was always too seasick.’

  Rose pictured herself at the helm of a yacht, cutting through the waves. It seemed glamorous and exhilarating and so very far from the flat Fenlands of the cottage.

  ‘I think you should go,’ Stella added firmly.

  ‘Well, I still haven’t even got the grant yet and I’d need to find tenants to rent this place. I want to help someone who can’t afford accommodation in the city. Maybe some nurses or junior doctors.’

  Stella waved a hand dismissively. ‘You’ll have a stampede! When do you have to start this new project?’

  ‘I’d have to go down in May and stay until the start of the new term in late September.’

  ‘Go for it,’ her mother said, then went quiet, examining her polished nails. ‘While we’re on the subject of new starts and Grandma, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you since she died.’

  ‘What?’ Rose jumped on the comment and goose bumps prickled her skin. She’d heard that tone before. It was edged with guilt and reminded her of times her mother had had to break the news her visit home would be delayed or even cancelled. Rose had learned to live with the disappointment, but it still stung from time to time.

  ‘Your gran gave me a letter for you.’

  Rose’s cup trembled in the saucer. ‘A letter? What?’

  ‘She gave it to me at Christmas when I flew over. She told me she wanted me to keep it and give it to you if “something happened to her”. I told her not to be so silly, of course, but I was a bit worried about her.’

  ‘You never told me you were worried.’ Rose spoke slowly, reeling that her grandmother had left the letter in the hands of her mum, not Rose directly.

  ‘No, because she asked me not to and I respected her wishes.’ Stella’s voice rose in frustration, but she tempered it. ‘I was going to hand it over before the funeral, but we were both feeling so raw after Mum died, so I thought I’d wait until a calmer moment and well, this feels like it.’

  She got up and retrieved a leather tote bag from under the coffee table. From inside, she produced a pale blue envelope, the kind that no one sent now but which Rose recognised instantly as her grandmother’s favourite stationery.

  ‘I took it back to the States with me in case you found it and I’ve kept it in my bag ever since. It’s a bit shabby now.’ She handed over the slightly dog-eared envelope to Rose.

  ‘I still don’t understand why she didn’t give it to me herself …’

  ‘Because she didn’t want to worry you. I’ve no idea what’s in it. You can read it now or wait until I’m gone.’

  Rose held the letter, choked with emotion. She had to be alone to read it. ‘Do you mind if I wait a little while?’

  ‘Of course not. I have a Zoom chat with a producer planned anyway and I need to prepare,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you some space.’

  Stella left the room with a squeeze of Rose’s arm. Rose was still shocked that her mum had kept the letter a secret, but it was typical of her gran not to want to worry her. She wondered what it contained, and how she’d cope with reading the contents while her emotions were all over the place.

  Yet the voice of her gran was in her ear, telling her to be brave.

  She made another, much stronger cup of tea and took it into the little sunroom that overlooked the cottage garden. Already she knew she had to read the message right there and then. No point putting it off: her experience with her illness had taught her that it was best to seize the moment.

  After taking the letter from the envelope, she unfolded the two sheets of pape
r and read her gran’s neat hand:

  Dearest Rose,

  If you’re reading this then I’ll probably be gone – unless your mum hasn’t been able to keep it a secret, of course. That wouldn’t surprise me. Please don’t grieve too much for me. I’ve had a long and joyful life and that’s been largely because of you. I know you don’t really remember your grandad, but he’d have been so proud of you.

  It has been the biggest joy of my life to see you recover from your illness and go on to achieve your dream of being an archaeologist. I know it’s what you always longed for. My, I spent so many nights reading all those Horrible Histories books to you and trying to stop you from digging up other people’s gardens to find buried treasure.

  Rose smiled through her tears.

  The day I sat in the audience in the Senate House to watch you get your PhD was the proudest of my life. To call my granddaughter “Dr Vernon”, and see you bursting with happiness, will live with me to the end of my days.

  Of course, we’ve had some dark times too. Rose, only now can I tell you how worried I was about you, and how my whole existence would have meant nothing if you hadn’t received your transplant. I would have jumped off a cliff in a heartbeat to save you. I know your mum would have too – in fact, she told me. Even if she wasn’t able to let you know how worried she was, I promise you it was true.

  I also know that you’ve wanted to contact your donor for a long time, to thank him for the gift he gave you. I didn’t think it was a good idea at the time and I was worried it might tempt fate. That will sound silly now you’re well, but I was scared it was too soon and that things could still go wrong. I was also worried that if you didn’t hear back, you’d be hurt and disappointed.

  Well, lately, I’ve changed my mind and I think you should contact him. Time has passed and you’re ready to move on now.

  So I say you should go for it. Write to him and see if he’ll meet with you. Thank him from me, whoever he is and shake his hand. Thank him for saving your life – and making mine worth living.

  All my love,

  Gran

  XX

  It took Rose a good hour before she was ready to face her mother after reading the letter – half an hour of tears and the same again wandering in the garden, composing herself. The crocuses were past their best and the daffodils were blooming as the cycle of the year moved on. Soon there would be tulips and then the hawthorn would burst out in May … Time marched on and Gran was right: it was time to seize the moment.

  Rose went inside, hearing muffled conversation from above in the spare room where her mother was having her Zoom meeting. She’d already decided she wouldn’t show the letter to her mum, but she might tell her a little about it – but perhaps not the part about contacting her donor.

  Her mother might not understand or try to interfere or dissuade her and Rose wanted to make her own mind up without any influence.

  Without further ado, before she could chicken out, she marched into the sitting room and opened the bureau. In one of the wooden pigeonholes, she found the remaining few sheets of blue writing paper, and took them into the sunroom, where the spring sun had warmed the room. Outside, the tête-à-tête daffodils her gran had planted nodded their heads in the breeze. A more fanciful person than Rose might have imagined they were telling her to go ahead: that the time was now right.

  She picked up her pen and began to write.

  Chapter Two

  Two months later, Falford, Cornwall

  The mermaid was hanging around the boatyard again.

  Finn had seen her standing next to the slipway, looking back at the open door of the shed where he’d been working until a few minutes before. It was still quiet in Falford and the main tourist season had yet to start so he could hardly fail to notice her.

  She had her back to him, looking out across the water. Finn had spotted her when he went out to fetch a plank of larch from the planing machine. He walked a little way down the yard, sensing she was transfixed by the view over the estuary. Who wouldn’t be, when the water sparkled in the gentle breeze and the gulls scudded across the surface on this fresh May morning?

  The breeze tossed her hair across her face and she held it back from her face and turned to look straight at him.

  He fought the impulse to walk down to the slipway and speak to her, ask her why she’d been looking back at the boatshed for the past three days at various times of the day. He felt drawn to her, but wasn’t it the mermaid who was supposed to do the singing? Wasn’t it Finn and his brother who were meant to hear her, and follow her and her song into the estuary and out to sea? Shouldn’t she be sitting on a rock and combing her yellow hair or something? Her blonde locks certainly looked long enough for a mermaid.

  He tore his gaze away from her, telling himself not to be so fanciful.

  Another young woman waved at Finn; one with her hair in a ponytail and a cherry-print apron over her dungarees. Bo, who worked at the boatyard café, mimed a coffee-drinking sign.

  Finn smiled and gave her the thumbs up before striding back to the planing machine, and heaving the larch plank over his shoulder. It was heavy but he could manage it on his own – he didn’t want Joey to help him, just in case he saw the mermaid too.

  The client was expecting the gaff rigged cutter to be ready by the autumn, but if Joey had his way, it would be next Christmas. The vessel was a major commission for Morvah Marine and doing an outstanding job on it would enhance the reputation of the business further, but Joey seemed far too busy dating half the women in Cornwall to focus on the build.

  Morvah Marine was part of Falford Boatyard, which was also home to a charter company that hired out bareboats and skippered craft, and a hire centre for kayaks, paddleboards and smaller motor boats, and various long-term moorings, winter lay-up and overhauls. Both residents and visitors also kept their own craft at the pontoons and some even lived on them all year round.

  It was a bustling hub of the community and Finn loved his work, despite the constant struggle to keep it going. They needed at least one major project on the go, like the cutter, to keep them in business. Few clients had the cash to spend on a traditional wooden boat that might cost as much as a small property, and so it was vital that Morvah Marine kept its reputation by doing an outstanding job on each commission. They needed all the smaller jobs too – repairs and refits – and they prided themselves on treating those with equal care. The livelihoods of half a dozen craftspeople and apprentices depended on the business thriving.

  This sobering thought reminded Finn that his own mind should be on his work too, and not on the blonde stranger. She was probably one of Joey’s fans, or more likely, an offended ex who’d come to give him a mouthful after being left in bed, with him making promises he’d never intended to keep. On cue, a snatch of raucous laughter carried outside the shed on the fresh May breeze and Joey emerged, grinning.

  Joey met him just outside the door to the shed. ‘Where’ve you been? Doesn’t take that long to find a piece of wood, does it?’

  Finn allowed Joey to take the plank from him and rest it by the hull of the boat.

  Their mother, Dorinda, joined them, hands on hips. She pushed a lock of grey hair back under the bandana she used to keep it off her face. ‘Is that strange woman round here again?’

  Wiping his hands on a rag, Joey joined Finn by the truck. ‘She’s not that strange. Not what I’ve seen of her. She reminds me of a mermaid.’

  Finn laughed in derision. If Joey or his mother knew he’d been indulging in fantasies of the same kind, they’d think he’d gone crazy.

  Their mother walked a few yards towards the river, scanning the slipway for the stranger. ‘You know what happened when the mermaid came calling, Joey.’

  ‘No idea, but bet you’re gonna tell me.’

  ‘She lured away the young men to their deaths.’

  ‘Thanks, Mother, that’s cheerful.’

  Finn stood by, privately agreeing with Joey, but refusing to side w
ith him against their mother and cause further aggro.

  ‘Joey,’ she said with menacing sweetness. ‘When we’re at work, I’m not your mother, I’m your gaffer, and that boat won’t get finished if you stand here mooning after strange girls.’

  ‘Firstly. I’m not mooning – whatever the hell that is. Second it was Finn who was watching her. I saw him trying to get a better look.’

  ‘I wasn’t watching her,’ Finn muttered. ‘She was watching us – or watching the shed.’

  Their mother peered out. ‘Well, she’s not here now and if she turns up again, I’ll go out and ask her what she wants. This is a working environment.’

  ‘Maybe she wants a boat?’ Joey said, with a smirk. ‘Built by my own fair hands.’ He held up his hands, grimy with oil.

  ‘Then she’ll have a very long wait if you intend to spend half your time swanning around.’

  Whistling, Joey wandered back into the shed with no real sense of urgency. Their mother followed him, taking a call on her phone while gesturing to one of the boatbuilding apprentices at the same time.

  With a sigh, Finn returned to the planing machine, which was kept outside under a tarp so they could work in the fresh air. He had a lot of sympathy for Dorinda. She’d had a hard life, having to take over the management of the boatyard when her own mother had died when Dorinda was in her early twenties, leaving her and her father Billy to run the whole set-up. Not only had she taken over the financial and admin side of Morvah Marine, she’d also learned to paint boats from Billy.

  Finn’s parents had never married and Dorinda rarely mentioned their own father, considering him ‘an irrelevance’ in their lives. Finn barely remembered him. He’d left a week before Finn’s fourth birthday when Joey was still in nappies. The only legacy he’d been endowed with, according to his mum, was his dad’s dark looks.

  When Billy Morvah had retired, Dorinda had taken over Morvah Marine and weathered the storms to keep it a reasonably thriving business that had provided careers for both her sons; a trade that Finn adored and that he knew Joey loved too, though perhaps slightly less obsessively. Joey didn’t quite have Finn’s feeling of duty towards the management of the business. Finn was keen to share the burden and learn the admin side for himself, even though it was his least favourite part of the job.