looked out onto the small courtyard beyond. On the washing line hung their swimsuits and trunks and beach towels. They’d be dry by morning if it didn’t rain tonight, and another day would take her further away from her daughter.
Where was Sennen?
What was she doing?
Was she well?
Was she thinking of them?
Did she miss her children?
Adela put her hand in one of the deep pockets of her cotton, sun-bleached trousers and pulled out a handkerchief. She rubbed away the drying, salty track of her tear and wiped her nose.
It was more than five years since Sennen had gone, leaving Henry and Ella in her and Bill’s care. Her heart had begun to grow a thicker tissue around the damage that had been caused, but now and again the pain caught her unawares.
Bill suffered too, although he couldn’t admit it. Or perhaps, she wondered, he didn’t have the words. There were no words big enough.
Friends had tried to empathise, well-meaning and kind.
Some of them had said harsh things about Sennen. Selfish. Cruel. Better off gone.
But the gravitational pull of the hole that was left drew Adela and Bill deeper until their fingers were clinging by the tips.
Bill arrived with two plates.
‘Here you are.’ He handed her one. Cheese, two digestive biscuits, a few slices of apple and celery. ‘Enough?’
She nodded.
‘So,’ he said, easing himself back into his chair, ‘what’s the plan for tomorrow?’
‘I thought I’d paint the courtyard walls with Ella. She wants a mermaid. She wants to glue some shells to it.’
‘Good.’ Bill carefully cut into his cheese and balanced it on his biscuit. ‘Henry and I are going to work in the studio. He’s getting very good on the wheel. We might try a jug tomorrow. Good practice.’
At bedtime that night, as Adela waited for the milk to boil for their Horlicks, she saw a spattering of rain on the window. She called out to Bill who was at the top of the stairs. ‘I’m just going to bring Sennen’s bathing costume in. It’s started to rain. I’ll bring the Horlicks up in a minute.’
Bill hesitated a moment on the stairs. Should he correct her? Remind her that the costume was Ella’s not Sennen’s? He closed his eyes and shook his head. No. He would say nothing. Remembering one of his mother’s old sayings, he murmured to himself, ‘Least said soonest mended, Bill. Least said.’ And walked slowly to the bathroom.
1993: The Night Sennen Ran Away
Down the narrow lane she ran. Down to the bus shelter. It was empty. Her pulse was thumping at the base of her throat. She looked at her watch – eleven forty-five – and checked all around her again.
‘Hiya,’ said a voice in the shadows.
Sennen jumped. ‘You scared me.’
‘My dad took ages going to bed!’
Sennen shrugged. ‘Are you nervous?’
‘A bit.’ Rosemary was Sennen’s oldest school friend. She was shivering. ‘A bit cold, too.’
Sennen checked to see if anyone had spotted them. The coast was clear.
‘Let’s do it,’ she said. ‘Come on.’
They walked up the hill and out of the village, leaving Trevay and its sleeping inhabitants behind.
At the top of the hill the two girls stopped and looked around. The moon was streaked across the low tide and the black silhouettes of the roofs and church spire were geometric and inky against the horizon.
Sennen blew out a long stream of breath.
‘You sure you’re cool about this?’ asked Rosemary.
‘Yeah.’
‘Henry and Ella will be all right?’
‘Yeah.’
The main road out of Cornwall was ahead of them. ‘Listen,’ said Sennen. ‘Car.’
A set of headlights came into view and Sennen stuck her thumb out. ‘It’s now or never.’
The car slowed and stopped. ‘Where are you going?’ asked the lone, middle-aged woman driver.
‘Plymouth, please,’ said Sennen.
‘Both of you?’ asked the woman, clocking their appearance and their rucksacks. ‘Running away?’
‘No,’ said Sennen, ‘it’s my parents. They’re in France, on holiday. Our dad’s been taken ill so we’re catching the overnight ferry to see him. Mum said to hitch. We haven’t got much money, you see.’
‘Roscoff?’ asked the woman.
Rosemary couldn’t speak but Sennen said, ‘Yeah.’
‘You’re lucky it was me who stopped, then,’ said the woman, reaching round to unlock the door to the back seat. ‘There are a lot of funny people about. Hop in.’
Sennen got into the front seat, leaving Rosemary to get in the back.
‘Thank you very much,’ said Sennen. ‘My sister and I are ever so grateful, aren’t we, Sally?’
Sennen looked around at ‘Sally’ with a cheeky grin. ‘Aren’t we?’
‘Yes. V-very,’ stammered Rosemary. ‘Thank you.’
‘Hello, Sally and …?’ said the woman looking in her wing mirror and pulling away.
‘Oh, I’m Carrie,’ said Sennen with conviction. ‘What are you doing out so late tonight?’
‘I’m a midwife. Just delivered twins. Two little boys. Identical. I’m on my way home now.’
‘That’s nice,’ said Sennen. ‘Sally and I are twins too. Not identical though.’
The journey was remarkable only for the number of stories Sennen could weave about her bond with her twin, their father’s weak heart and their mother’s enormous worry about them all. Finally, the illuminated gates of the ferry terminal were in front of them.
‘We’ll
