Chiswick women friends were full of showy compassion for her. Even the one or two who she knew had dallied with her husband.
‘Helen, how bloody awful for you. How will you find another man at your age?’ etc etc. They hadn’t a clue how happy and liberated she felt.
Her father had passed away ten years before. Her mother almost thirty years before, of breast cancer, when Helen was in her teens. She had no dependent children and now, no husband. She didn’t need a man to validate her existence, and what’s more, she was now financially independent. The cottage was all paid for, thanks to Gray agreeing that she had earned it looking after him (putting up with him, more like) and the children for all those years, and her father had left her his comfortable estate.
After a period of adjustment, Gray discovered he rather liked the single life too, having bought himself a swanky, minimalist Soho flat in which to do some guilt-free entertaining of the opposite sex.
A good deal is one where everybody is happy, thought Helen. And she most definitely was.
2
From her bedroom, Helen stepped out on to the small, square landing. On her left was the only other door upstairs, a second bedroom that she had converted into a bathroom. She headed down the wooden staircase, pausing by the window at the turn in the steps to look out over her wildly overgrown back garden. Like the famous gardens of Heligan, this was her own Lost Garden. Some fifty yards long and twenty wide, it was criss-crossed with mossy brick paths and rectangular flower beds, though it was hard to tell where they ended and the lawn started. Here and there she could see the orange Montbretia licking like flames in the undergrowth. Somewhere amid the tangle of Old Man’s Beard and brambles bursting with blackberries was an old privy and a couple of broken-down chicken houses.
It backed on to the graveyard of Holy Trinity Church.
‘Very quiet neighbours,’ the estate agent had joked.
It didn’t bother her at all. There was an ancient drystone wall between her and the dead and she had plans to stud it with primroses and ferns.
At the bottom of the stairs a latch door opened straight into her sitting room. The tall and deep open fireplace cradled last night’s ashes, which were still gently smouldering. She stirred the coals, added a firelighter and some kindling, then walked across to the door leading into the kitchen. The September sunshine bounced off the shiny lids of the Aga and made the red roses of the Cath Kidston curtains appear to glow. She filled the kettle, and set it on the hob. Collecting the newspaper from the front-door mat, which was at the opposite end of the kitchen from the back door, she glanced at the front page as she made her tea. Then she loaded everything onto a tray and carried it to her favourite armchair. Plump, patchworked and multicoloured, it sat by the fire and was a startling piece of modern design in her otherwise sedate interior. She added a few lumps of coal and a log to the revived flames and settled down to profligately, deliciously, waste an hour with the headlines, the crossword and her tea.
The warm drink and crackle of the fire made her eyelids droop. Soon she was dreaming that she was back in her old life; Gray had just arrived home bad tempered and hungry, demanding supper. While he poured himself a glass of wine, she rushed around preparing his favourite dishes only for him to announce: ‘I had that for lunch. Isn’t there anything else? On second thoughts, forget it. I’ll have a shower and nip to the pub …’
For the second time that morning, the phone woke her.
‘Bloody hell,’ she complained.
‘Darling, it’s me. How’s life with the pirates?’ It was Gray.
‘I’ve been pillaged several times and am waiting for the parson to bring the baccy.’
He laughed. ‘I worry about my mate, you know. I do miss you.’
‘No you don’t. What do you want?’
‘Selina is driving me mad. She’s filled my flat with her belongings and I need to get out. Can I come and see you?’ he wheedled.
‘I only have one bedroom, so you’ll have to stay in the pub up the road or the Starfish in Trevay.’
‘What do I need to do that for? I can bunk in with you. Good God, woman, I slept with you for a quarter of a century – what’s the problem?’
‘It’s the Starfish or the pub. What time is it?’
‘Eleven o’clock.’
‘Oh hell. I’m expecting Don.’
‘Don who? Don Juan? Are you having a little romantic tryst? Darling, you’ll make me jealous.’
‘You were enough to put me off men for good. Let me know when you’ve decided where you want to stay. Speak later. Bye.’
*
Upstairs, she ran a quick bath in her luxurious bathroom. Don had done a marvellous job. The Cornish understood what folk from upcountry liked. Years of accepting wealthy second-home owners into their communities meant they were acquainted with all the latest design fads. Helen would have been happy with a B&Q job, but Don soon persuaded her that what she wanted was a limestone tiled floor, huge white sink, a bath with space-age taps and a shower with a head so big its pressure was like a riot hose. This was now her favourite room in the cottage.
Don had said that he’d be with her at just after eleven to take a look at the new boiler and set the thermostat and timer, which was completely beyond her.
By 11.15 a.m. she was bathed and dressed. Her shoulder-length brown hair was still wet and her face free of make-up. She hadn’t put make-up on for days. In West London it was considered rude to be seen without it. Here it was considered rude to be seen with it.
Don eventually rolled up at 12.15 p.m.
‘Hello, Helen.’
‘Don! Hello, I expected you an hour ago.’
‘Yeah. I got here directly. By the way, do you want any bass or lobster? My mate’s going out in his boat later. I could drop it over?’
‘Well, yes. How much are they?’
‘Nothing to me, maid. Don’t worry about that.’
‘Well, thank you. Anything that’s going, please. Shall I put the kettle on?’
‘Wouldn’t say no. This colour’s lovely in ’ere, isn’t it?’
Don had his head through the door into the sitting room. Four months ago, when she first got the keys to the Gull’s Cry, she had a vague idea of chintz and Laura Ashley, but it was Don who steered her to the soft pastel emulsions and barley-coloured painted floorboards, and it was Don who pushed her into buying her patchwork armchair.
‘That’s what designers call a hero piece, that is.’
She had met Don when she first came house-hunting in Pendruggan. It had been at the end of May and she had driven her soft-top Mini through the sun-dappled lanes with the roof down. The smell of the wild garlic and salt on the breeze brought back childhood memories that had her hugging herself with joy and excitement, feeling sure that
