Another Life: Escape to Cornwall with this gripping, emotional, page-turning read

Gabby turned left and instead of driving down the lane to the farm she followed the narrow road that led to the coastal path and the next cove. The sun was hanging spectacularly over the sea and the day was cooling. She turned again and bumped along a track until it ended in a gate. She got out, locked the car, climbed over the gate and walked across the field until she came to a small cottage standing on its own, facing the sea.

The door stood wide open and she called Elan’s name, even though she knew exactly where he would be. She walked on across the field towards the coastal path until she saw his familiar figure sitting on his collapsible stool, painting with his back to her. He had picked a place relatively sheltered, where the cliff path started to descend down to the cove.

Gabby did not disturb him. She sat some way behind him, cross-legged, watching the sun leach and bleed into the sky, spread out like a crimson stain and then dissolve into the sea until it too was molten. She knew as soon as the sun slipped behind the horizon the last heat of the day would disappear as suddenly as the colours melted, and Elan would pack up his paints and turn for home.

She was unsure why she had suddenly felt the need to see him, but turning towards his cottage had been instinctive. He had been Nell’s friend long before Gabby came to Cornwall, and he still was, but she and Elan had the immediate rapport of the outsider and the solitary.

He was Josh’s godfather. His name was Alan Premore, but Josh had always called him Elan and the name had stuck. After his parents and Nell, Elan had been the first name Josh had mastered and Alan had, from that moment, signed his paintings Elan Premore. This was partly because he unashamedly adored Josh, but also because he had begun to exhibit seriously the year Josh was born.

Gabby loved this spare, reclusive man unconditionally, and accepted, without it ever being mentioned, that he loved her in return. He turned now and saw her as the sun set on one more day. As on many other days he had no idea that she had been sitting silently behind him. He smiled and gathered up his paints, folded the small easel.

‘Darling child, how long have you been there?’

‘Not long.’ She got up and he kissed her forehead and they made their way back to his cottage. He never asked Gabby why she came, for that might have indicated she had to have a reason, and being insular himself he understood the need to be near someone who would not question why you were there, just that you were.

As they walked back to the cottage Gabby told him about her day. Her excitement was catching and Elan had rarely seen her so animated. He was interested in the story of the figurehead and its return to St Piran.

‘John Bradbury still vicar?’ he asked.

‘Yes, he’s just the same, so is Peter. So is Councillor Rowe.’

‘Dear heavens, Gabby, hasn’t he been voted out yet?’

‘Nell says every time he’s voted off the council, he somehow gets himself voted on again.’

‘Mainly, I suspect, because no one else wants to be elected. And this Canadian, what was he like?’

‘Oh, fine. He seemed nice. I didn’t really have time to talk to him properly.’

Elan propped his things against the hall table. ‘Let’s have a drink, child, I have a cold, very good bottle of wine all ready in the fridge.’

Gabby laughed. ‘But you didn’t know I was coming.’

‘I always keep a bottle just in case you come. Pour me my tot while I open the bottle.’

Gabby reached up for his heavy tumbler and poured him a hefty whisky with a burst of soda from his archaic silver soda siphon.

‘Can you still get bits for this siphon, Elan?’

‘Just.’ He handed Gabby the glass of wine and they sat at the kitchen table in front of his ancient Rayburn. ‘Now, this Canadian historian fellow sounds interesting. Any good for an isolable painter?’

Gabby laughed. ‘What a lovely word. Afraid not. I think, well, he’s heterosexual, Elan.’

‘What a shame, I do like a transatlantic drawl.’

Elan watched Gabby’s colour change. This was surprising and he teased her gently. ‘What makes you so sure, if you didn’t talk to him properly?’

‘He … well, of course, I cannot be sure of anything, but he seemed heterosexual. Elan, could I ring Nell?’ Gabby asked, changing the subject. ‘She might be wondering where I am.’

‘Of course you can.’

Gabby got up and as she phoned Nell, Elan thought how little she had changed over the years. How young she seemed. Yet, he also sensed a buried agitation or tension in her. For the first time he glimpsed what Nell had hinted of; something crouched and waiting in Gabby. Her stillness could be unnerving, but tonight there was an intangible change in her. Her movements seemed quicker and more nervous. Perhaps it was merely the excitement of seeing the figurehead, but Elan thought not. He knew from experience he would have to wait to find out. Gabby was like a bird; startle her and she would be off, a dot on the horizon. She could perversely, casually drop small bombshells, and Elan had learnt that his reaction had to appear insouciant in order to share her rare intimacies.

Watching her chatting on the phone to Nell, he thought back to the first glimpse she had obliquely given him of her past.

‘Come on, child,’ he once urged. ‘Have another glass. I don’t drink wine and it will be wasted.’

‘No, Elan, no more. I’m hopeless, I can’t drink more than one glass, truly. You know that.’

‘But you and Shadow are walking, you haven’t got to drive. Come on, Gabby, it’s such a good wine.’

Gabby had placed her hand over her glass firmly and looking down at the table she’d said, quietly, ‘Please, Elan, don’t press me. I only ever have one glass, not because it will affect me, but because I am afraid it won’t. It is in my genes – I have to watch it.’

She had sat opposite him, avoiding his eyes. He was ashamed of his crassness in not just accepting her refusal. He had gone round the table and kissed the top of her head. With his hands on her shoulders he had apologized, promised he would never browbeat her again.

She had stood up, smiling. ‘I’ve got to go. I’m collecting Josh from Cubs.’

At the door Elan had said gently, ‘Gabby, I don’t believe for a moment you are genetically predisposed to alcohol abuse. It would certainly have manifested itself before now, so banish that thought from your head.’

‘OK.’

She was gone, over the fields at a trot away from him. He knew she would immediately regret having given him even the briefest glimpse of her past. He resolved never to be tempted to repeat to Nell anything Gabby said to him. She needed to trust him absolutely. It was not that Gabby was not close to Nell, it was that she was too close. He knew Gabby’s childhood was a taboo subject, an uncharted and forbidden landscape.

As Gabby replaced the phone now he pushed the cork back into the bottle of wine for her to take home. He watched her walk, a small, neat enigma, across his field. He stood in the open doorway and lifted his whisky glass to the navy blue sea.

‘God bless Gabby and keep her from ever having her heart broken – especially by a sodding Canadian.’

Chapter 7 (#ulink_36a6897f-1203-5d82-b83a-5ca676de72f6)

After supper, when they had cleared away the supper things and Charlie had left for the pub quiz-night, Gabby got out the folder Peter had given her containing the Canadian restorer’s report on the figurehead of Isabella, and laid out all the photographs and the better quality JPEG images of areas of damage.

She had been inspected by a Valerie Mischell, of Collections and Conservation, Museum and Heritage Services, Culture Division, City of Toronto, at the home of Mark Hannah, ‘… who discovered the figurehead and generously provided much of the following information which forms part of his research into marine shipping and wrecks of the 19th century.’

Gabby scanned the first page of the report; it would be interesting to know more about Mark Hannah and his work.

‘The purpose of the inspection is to provide information for the Victoria & Albert Museum in London … describing any obvious work that might be necessary in the opinion of the person carrying out the inspection …’

‘These are very good photographs of her,’ Nell said, coming and peering down at the array of images. ‘What an interesting face.’

They both studied the photographs. Isabella lay with a gold headpiece around her hair. Her right hand held a lily, and Nell stared down at the flowing lines of her robe and at her hands. The right hand was beautifully carved, fingers splayed, with a thin gold band on her little finger.

‘Mark said she had been cut away from the bow timbers, Nell. She is flatter in the back, and can you see, here … her left hand is damaged and has been remodelled.’

‘You’re lucky to have such a detailed report, Gabby, from someone of obvious experience. It will be of enormous help to you.’

‘If I’m given the job, Nell.’

‘The figurehead has been painted several times. Many elements have been painted with gold-coloured oil paint. Evidence of an older cream-coloured paint layer under the white coating …’ Gabby read from the report.