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

‘Perfect. Thank you for being so accommodating. By then we will hopefully have more funding and voluntary contributions coming in from interested parties. I can now appease Rowe, Penwith Council, the Heritage people, and the Cornish Historical Society. Bless you!’

Gabby laughed. ‘Does that mean …?’

‘Of course it does, Gabrielle! John and I have always been convinced you are the best person for the job. We just have to tweak terms and make it official. You’ll get a letter in a few days.’

‘I’m really looking forward to restoring her, Peter, it’s very exciting.’

‘It is, isn’t it? We are all hoping Mark Hannah comes up with more history for us. Goodnight, Gabrielle, and thanks again.’

‘YES!’ Gabby said, replacing the phone and punching the air.

‘I told you you had nothing to worry about,’ Nell said, laughing. ‘I’m off to bed.’ She nodded at the report. ‘I should remove those papers and photographs from the table. Charlie will come home and drip egg sandwich all over them.’

‘Oh, God! That wouldn’t look very professional.’

She walked to the back door with Nell. ‘Look, a new moon.’

They both looked up. It was a clear, cold night and the stars stood out like a child’s drawing on black paper.

‘Do you remember Josh and his telescope?’ Nell asked. ‘I wonder what happened to it. It was one of Elan’s extravagant presents, wasn’t it?’

Gabby felt a sudden wrench for that time again, for the simple, innocent pleasures of Josh’s childhood. ‘Josh used to get crazes on things, do you remember? Absolute passions. Then he would go on to the next thing.’

‘Don’t remind me. Do you remember the fish?’

‘Which all died, because he never took any notice of the man in the aquarium and mixed and matched them because he liked their colour or shape. Months of his pocket money eating each other up before he learnt a hard biology lesson.’

‘The fishy mess in the sink when he cleaned them out.’

‘Always at Sunday lunchtime!’

‘And the stick insects he begged for and then could not bear to touch.’

‘And the rabbits.’

‘Then the guinea pigs.’

‘He stuck to his bantams, he loved those. And the calves.’

‘And Hal. That gelding was the love of his life. I still stop in the village and he whinnies and canters over.’

‘I know. He’s a lovely character.’

‘I wonder how he’s doing. Josh, I mean. I think he’s finding Sandhurst harder, physically, than he expected.’

‘People are always saying that it’s because the young are not as fit as the last generation, but Josh has always been sporty and fit.’

Nell snorted. ‘How many late-rising youths know their way around an assault course? Or readily accept being bellowed at? Or want to trot round Dartmoor in a blizzard with a great pack on their backs? Total masochism if you ask me. Absolutely bonkers.’

Gabby began to laugh. Josh and Nell argued about the army every time he came home, but she knew perfectly well, as Josh did, he could do no wrong in Nell’s eyes.

‘Goodnight, lovie,’ Nell said, making off across the yard, watching her step in the dark.

‘’Night, Nell.’

Gabby whistled for Shadow who had scooted off into the dark. She looked up at the stars once more before shutting the door. On her way upstairs she paused and pushed Josh’s bedroom door open. Funny how a room always retained the faint smell of a person. Odd how strong a sense smell was, taking you faster than thought to a place or a person you loved.

Chapter 8

The noise from the top field was horrendous. They were tipping concrete into the foundations. Nell, who could not bear the thought of this noise continuing for months, phoned the local nursery and ordered twenty trees. If they could plant saplings as soon as possible at least they could screen the building site and maybe it would dull the sound of machinery.

She was planting succulents in the small, walled garden she and Gabby had resurrected from a decade of neglect. They had banned all livestock; no geese, hens or dogs were allowed inside their hallowed plot.

There had been no time to garden when Ted was alive, and Nell thought, not for the first time, how released she felt. Free to be herself, to express herself in ways she had never dreamt of doing when she and Ted were running the farm on a strict budget, when they had had to labour, metaphorically, side by side.

Some mornings, when Nell woke, she also felt guilty about not missing her husband more. She would stretch luxuriously across the whole double bed and lie contemplating her day, waiting for the sun to rise beyond the top field and to creep up the covers towards her face. She felt warm and spoilt and relaxed as she heard the back door of the farmhouse bang, heard Charlie whistling for Shadow and Outside Dog. Then silence would descend and she would lie waiting for the sound of Matt, the herdsman, bringing the cows down the lane and into the yard below.

The smell of them would rise up to her window, the milking machine would start up, a dog over the fields would bark in the first light. All so familiar that any small disturbance in the pattern of a morning would make Nell rise up on her elbow, ears strained for the cause of the minute change in routine. Through it all, like hugging a secret she never got tired of, the knowledge that she did not have to get up and go out into that cold darkness ever again.

She missed the farmhouse not one jot. Most of the contents had belonged to Ted’s parents; heavy Victorian furniture to fill the large rooms. When Charlie married Gabby, Nell thought with glee of her escape to the cottage. She had gone out and bought small, light, inexpensive furniture for the tiny rooms and had taken from the farmhouse only the small pieces she was fond of.

Charlie, who missed her in the house with him and had seen no reason for her to move out, had, in a rare and overt show of affection, had the cottage centrally heated for her. This, for Nell, was like being given an invaluable, never to be taken for granted, Christmas and birthday present rolled into one. She could sit restoring for many more hours and it seemed to her that she was warm for the first time in her life.

She stopped planting for a moment and looked over the grass at Gabby, who was lying on her stomach reading a huge library book on marine architecture, seemingly absorbed despite the thunderous noise of the lorries now depositing granite blocks in piles onto the once lush green field.

Sitting back on her heels Nell realized her thoughts had subconsciously formed a circular route back to Gabby. In her life with Ted there had been little female companionship, scarce time for close friendships. Gabby had not been a substitute for the daughter Nell had never had; she and Gabby did not have the intimate and critical relationship mothers and daughters often have. They had a deep, inviolable friendship and an unspoken admiration for each other which had started in that freezing cold spring when they first met.

Nell had watched, protectively, a girl who refused to be beaten by the elements or by the endless taunts of seasoned pickers. Gabby had been humbled by the sheer volume of farm work Nell had been expected to get through each and every day, as well as her restoring, all to keep the farm solvent.

They had rescued each other. Nell had plucked Gabby from the fields to help her in the barn. Help in the barn had freed Nell to restore and to talk to someone. In the days before Charlie qualified and came back to the farm, Nell could go for months without having a proper conversation with anyone.

Ted had been a man of few words. Or, Nell thought now, so long after his death, maybe he only got out of the way of using words to me. Whatever, this second part of my life is mine, and I would not change a thing.

Gabby suddenly sat up and pulled small earphones out of her ears. ‘I’m sure the earth is shuddering, Nell. I can feel it over the music. This is worse than it’s ever been. It’s unbearable.’

Charlie appeared suddenly, shutting Shadow firmly on the other side of the gate. He looked hot and fed-up.

‘I’ve been up to the site and complained about the noise. We were given a strict understanding that they would build one house at a time to limit the disturbance. I’ve got two cows calving and number four is so distressed I’ve had to bring her in and put her in the barn. I’ve had two complaints, one from the primary school and one from Tom Eddy. He says two of his sheep have aborted.’

Nell and Gabby stared at him. ‘This is serious, Charlie,’ Nell said. ‘What did the site manager say? We can’t afford to fall out with our neighbours.’

‘He assured me they’ve almost finished unloading the granite for the day and he’s sorry about the noise, but he’s only doing what he’s been instructed to do.’

‘Stuart something of Roseworthy Developments gave us a hotline number in case of any complaints.’ Gabby got to her feet. ‘Shall I get it?’

‘It’s OK, I’ve got the number in the office. I’ve told Alan to ring, he’s got more patience than I have. I’ll end up yelling down the phone. In the end, all they’ll say is that they’ve got to build the houses as fast as possible.’

‘I don’t suppose they want to alienate people either, if they can help it,’ Nell said, conscious that Charlie had chosen to sell the land cheaper and take a percentage of the profit of each house built. And each house built was way out of most local pockets.

‘What I came to ask,’ Charlie said, changing the subject, ‘is can you keep an eye on number four. She’s fine at the moment, but she could start to calve any time and I have to drive Darren to the industrial estate to pick up the tractor.’

‘Do you want a cup of tea before you go?’ Gabby asked, getting up. ‘I was just going to make one.’

‘No, I’d better get off … hey, the noise has stopped, perhaps they’ve packed it in for the day.’

‘Oh,’ Nell said. ‘Isn’t silence wonderful?’

‘Gab,’ Charlie said as she came out of the gate. ‘Don’t wait until I get back to call David out, will you? If she starts calving, she’ll need help. Her calf is going to be breech.’

Gabby linked arms with him and walked him to his car. ‘Trust me. I should know what to do by now.’

Charlie grinned. ‘I know. I’m just fond of that cow. This will be her last calf and she’s done us proud.’ He opened the car door. ‘See you at supper. I’ve got my mobile if you need me.’

‘Goodbye, hard farmer man.’

‘You can mock,’ Charlie retorted. ‘Who still cries when the fox gets one of their bantams?’

Gabby watched him hurtle down the lane. The building site was deserted, all was quiet again. She stared across the field to the sea, trying to visualize the houses. Horrible, like being invaded. Nothing would ever be quite the same again. The magic and tranquil stillness of the field was gone forever.

Nell, behind her, said, ‘I’ve ordered trees. Probably more than we need, but I think it’s important we don’t have to look at the wretched houses springing up, even if we can hear them. I’ll make a cup of tea. You check that cow of Charlie’s, Gab.’

Gabby made her way to the barn. Number four was breathing hard and she was restless, but there was no sign of her being in labour yet. Gabby scratched the cow’s head; this cow had been hand-reared and related to humans on a bovine level.

Charlie had never let Josh name the livestock. ‘They are not pets, son. Animals get sick and die. Don’t name them, don’t personalize them, because eventually they will end up on your plate.’

So Josh did not name the orphan calves, he curled up in the straw feeding them by bottle, secretly calling them by numbers. Gabby and Nell would have to proclaim loudly to each other when cooking their own stock, ‘Number six got a good price at market, Charlie says. Tom Eddy is going to breed from her.’

Josh, ears pricked, would regard the meat on his plate with suspicion.

‘Who is this?’

‘Josh!’ Charlie would say crossly. ‘I’ve told you not to name the calves. Giving them a number is exactly the same as naming them. Eat. It is probably not our meat anyway.’

‘But,’ Josh would retort indignantly, ‘if you feed them you’ve got to call them something, you can’t call them nothing …’

‘Call them cow. Eat.’

‘Mum and Nell give the bantams names.’

‘Yes, and you know what a fuss they both make when one goes missing or the fox gets into the pen. Bad enough to lose livestock without giving them damn silly names to make it worse … Women rushing around the yard squeaking … “Oh! Oh! Virginia Woolf has fallen off her perch … Dear, dear … Freda is headless … Fie, fie, Elton John has been in a fight and lost his pretty little tail feathers … ”’ Charlie had bounded around the kitchen throwing Nell’s apron over his head, giving little girly skips and talking in a falsetto.

Josh, by now hysterical with laughter, would decide he must be a man like his father and they would all sit down and happily devour number six. To be a vegetarian on a farm would have been like being evangelical in a strict Roman Catholic household.

‘I’ll be back in a while,’ she said to the cow. ‘I’m just going to check my answer-machine.’

Taking tea into her workroom she saw there were three messages. Message number one was from Josh, telling her she should get a mobile as he could never get hold of her. He sounded husky and dispirited. They were never off the parade ground. He was worried he would fail his next fitness test. He was finding out about suitable places for Charlie, Nell and Gabby to stay … if he ever passed out. He would ring again on Sunday … He was really looking forward to a weekend home.

Message number two was from Peter Fletcher.

‘Gabrielle. We considered your quote very reasonable indeed, even our mutual councillor friend. An official letter is in the post.

‘My other reason for ringing you is Mark Hannah. Before he goes back to London he’s keen to go and see the figureheads at Valhalla on Tresco. Unfortunately, I’m completely tied up with meetings next week. Forgive me if this is an imposition, Gabrielle, but would you be free to fly over on the helicopter with him? We will, of course, pick up the tab. It seems inhospitable to send him on his own when he has done so much for us. I will quite understand if you are too busy. Could you give me a ring on this number …?’

Gabby shakily put her tea down on her desk. Message number three.

‘Hi there, Gabriella. Peter gave me your number, do hope you don’t mind. He couldn’t get an answer so he left a message. Is there any chance of you having the time to accompany me to Tresco to see the figureheads? I would sure love to see them. I’d be grateful if you could let me know as I need to book my train ticket back to London …’

The sun was setting below the fields. Shadows lengthened across the stubby lawn outside. Bantams pecked the grubs in noisy little groups like fussy old women at a W.I. meeting. Gabby sat very still, pulling a thread from the hem of her tee-shirt. If she did not pick up the phone and dial his number this instant she would not be able to do it. She opened her diary to see which day she would be least missed from the farm, then, feeling sick, she picked up the phone and dialled Mark Hannah’s number.

As she waited for him to answer, the sun slid away, and despite the flushed sky, dusk descended quickly. Damp rose up from the grass and into the open window. In the kitchen behind her, Nell switched on the six o’clock news and lights sprang up suddenly, away on the far peninsula. A fleeting sadness, an ache, a sensation of being beyond the warmth of lighted windows, of being extrinsic within a house she knew and people she loved, descended on Gabby.

In the darkening room there was just her, holding a phone which was ringing out into a hotel room where a man lay on a bed with his hands behind his head, watching, as she did, evening come, with a sudden longing for home; for the smell of cooking and laughter and bottles of wine being opened, of small children being bathed. The safe embodiment of a familiar routine.

He lay still, waiting to see if the phone would ring, and when it did he could not answer it, as if frozen by the knowledge of what answering it might mean. Just as Gabby gave a shaky sigh of relief and made to replace the receiver, Mark Hannah, in one swift movement, turned and grabbed his up from the bedside table, aware as he did so of a premeditated and deliberate crossing from a place of safety, to something quite else.

In the early hours of the morning Charlie and David, the vet, fought to save number four and her calf. The cow managed after a long, painful labour to give birth to a healthy heifer, but collapsed and haemorrhaged immediately afterwards. Gabby knelt by her head, talking to the old cow and stroking her trembling limbs. Nell brought out more hot water and they put a blanket over her to try to minimize the shock of a difficult birth.

She managed to turn and nuzzle her calf to her shaky, stick-like feet and then she gave up the fight and with a tired, sad little sound the breath left her body. The calf bellowed and slid down to the floor again, nuzzling her mother for milk. They watched her suckling, then, still leaning against her mother, the calf fell asleep. Charlie rubbed her gently down with straw, admiring her.

‘That’s a good calf you’ve got there,’ David said, ‘but I’m sorry we lost the mother. Is there a cow you can try her with, rather than hand-rearing?’

‘Yes,’ Charlie said. ‘Just one. She lost a bull calf last week. She’s young and skittish, so I don’t know if she will accept this one, but I’ll certainly try her.’

They moved out of the barn into the cool dark night.

‘Come and have a drink, David,’ Nell said. ‘Gabby, go to bed, you look exhausted.’

‘Yes, go on Gab, I won’t be long.’

‘Goodnight,’ David smiled at her before the men turned to follow Nell to her cottage.

Gabby walked across the yard to the house, the image of the dying cow still with her. She knew that it did not matter how long you farmed, you never got used to losing a healthy animal.

She showered quickly, then climbed into bed and lay on her back trying to relax. She switched her small radio on low and listened to the comfortable ragbag of the World Service and tried to drift off. She wanted to be asleep before Charlie tripped exhausted up the stairs, full of Nell’s whisky.

Gabby knew the pattern of Charlie’s drinking after a long hard day. If she was still awake she could time Charlie’s clumsy movements in the dark. He would wash his hands but would be too tired to shower. He would fall into the bed beside her with a grunt of relief and either reach out for her or fall asleep in a second on his back and start to snore gently.

Gabby preferred the latter. The smell of straw and disinfectant would still cling to him, mingling with the not altogether unpleasant sweat of hard labour. With whisky blurring any moral sensibility he would mumble in her ear, push her nightdress up to her waist, part her knees roughly with his, enter her, come immediately, or, worse, complete this isolating little act with difficulty.

Gabby would lie under him, looking out through the open curtain at the night sky, detaching herself from her inert body being rammed rhythmically under his. As he rolled off her, already asleep, Gabby would feel the bleakness of the spirit confronted by the inevitable fact of its separateness from another human being. She saw in her mind the cockerel pouncing on his bantams or the bull in the field clumsily mounting a heifer.

If Gabby was aware, in the telling and unforgiving dark, that her passivity in allowing her body to be used was colluding with the act itself, she would have had to face, head on, her own facility for smoothing over all cracks to maintain the polished facade of what she believed a marriage to be.

It was easier not to confront. Charlie would not have understood the word violation, and it seemed too strong a word for something that lasted minutes and did not hurt the flesh, only left the soul in a cold, dark place. It was simpler to make some areas of her marriage off limits.

If Gabby had understood that by avoiding communicating to Charlie on any intimate level she denied him the chance of acknowledging any responsibility for the way he sometimes behaved, she would have had to own that she did not have the courage to go there. She was comfortable, on the whole, in the place she occupied, in the marriage she had. Two people who shied carefully away from emotional intimacy. And she was sure Charlie was, too.

Tonight she slept and was only dimly aware of Charlie falling into bed beside her. He patted her bottom. ‘G’night,’ he mumbled.

‘’Night,’ she mumbled back, and, feeling sudden affection, ‘Sorry about number four, Charlie.’

But Charlie was already asleep. In three hours he would have to get up for milking.

Chapter 9

Gabrielle and Mark stood before the figureheads in the peace of an early morning. The helicopter had departed with a roar back to Penzance and the only other people in the Abbey Gardens were the gardeners, unseen and silent. A spade stood upright in the soil, a robin pecked in the new-turned earth. A jacket lay folded on a bench, there was the sound of someone sweeping a path and the smell of damp blooms mixed with spearmint rose from the ground.

They had permission to go into the gardens before they opened to the little ferryboats full of tourists and gardening clubs. They walked silently, along paths that curled round vast tropical plants and beds of succulents of such colour and variety that occasionally they stopped in their tracks, awed by the sheer scale of the planting.

‘Each time I come I think of The Secret Garden,’ Gabby whispered, as if her voice might shatter the illusion of paradise. ‘There’s always a spade or a fork placed just so, yet I’ve never seen anyone working.’

Mark smiled. ‘Perhaps the gardeners are from some other world. Nothing would surprise me here. What an amazing place! There’s something mystical and timeless about being inside a walled garden.’

Rounding a corner they came upon a clearing and there before them lay Valhalla Museum, with the array of figureheads, bright against the lush undergrowth, extraordinary in their garish beauty. Mark drew in his breath, and Gabby, turning to look up at him, thought how open and un-English he was; unafraid to show his excitement.

They both stood silently admiring while the birds swooped and darted fearlessly at their feet, for there was little in these lush gardens to threaten them. They moved closer to examine the carvings. Gabby was especially interested in the faces, because on the St Piran figurehead the face and neck were going to be most difficult to restore.

‘Trophies of the sea,’ Mark murmured. ‘Each figurehead an individual offering of respect and affection, regardless of whether they were carved by a naïve seaman or a carver of distinction.’

Staring into an enigmatic wooden face with eyes that gave nothing away, Gabby thought of the figurehead carvers and of the sailors who had manned the ships and watched as their figureheads rose and plunged out of the waves, carrying them precariously to battle in the duty of a monarch.

How many lives, from the moment of carving to the moment of her ship sinking and being salvaged, did a carved face touch in so many different ways? Gabby could see in her mind’s eye a Napoleonic battle or a great storm breaking up a galleon. The sails unfurling at speed, masts falling with a great crack, like trees, and the screams of men jumping away from the sinking ship to drown in the angry waters.

There the ship would lie on the seabed, broken, its hull becoming a sad skeleton over the years as seaweed and barnacles enveloped it. Then, one day, divers would descend; the salvage men, swimming round the wreck in slow-moving sequence with waving arms and excited thumbs-up as they discovered a poignant wooden face, staring blindly upwards, the heart and soul of the dead vessel. They would bring her up from that fathomless dark to see once more the light of day and the lives of men.