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.
Bill and Adela waited for
